Chapter
Three

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The Comanche were good at hiding. The war party that had taken John had ridden deep into Indian country, heading for a red-rock canyon near the Colorado River, where their women and tipis waited.

The Comanche stopped in the canyon to celebrate the theft of the fine horses and a strong boy from the ranch they had attacked. John’s captor was especially eager to have a victory dance, for the boy’s father had been a warrior himself and had fought well to keep his son. Soon they would join a much larger village, but first they would rest and drink the firewater they had stolen from a supply wagon. The wagon had been left to burn, its driver tied to one of the wheels.

John’s captor shoved him off his horse and laughed when the boy hit the ground hard. John refused to cry or show fear, remembering his father’s warnings about the Comanche.

John shuddered with the memory of these men hitting and stabbing Caleb. Was his father still alive? The memory of the awful blows made the boy want to cry much more than the abuse he suffered from the Comanche now.

John had given up trying to get his hands loose from the leather ties that bound his wrists. They were too raw to pull at the bindings any longer. His captor pulled him up and shoved him into a tipi, barking something to him in the Comanche tongue that John was sure meant that he should stay put.

He looked around inside the conical dwelling. Paintings, mostly of horses and battles, decorated the walls. The tipi was bigger than he’d expected, and cooler. He was himself mostly Indian, yet such a dwelling was not familiar to him. He wondered at the fact that his father had lived this way once. Caleb Sax had been as wild and vicious as these Comanche.

The boy closed his eyes and prayed Caleb was still alive. If he was, he would come for him. Of that John had no doubt.

Outside, drums began beating and the boy’s heart pounded. What would they do with him? So far he had been tossed around like a sack of potatoes, fed little, and given almost no water. He understood almost nothing of the Comanche language. Perhaps they intended to torture him slowly. Did they do that to twelve-year-old boys? He was already so numb from exhaustion that perhaps he would not feel the pain so much.

Again the lump rose in his throat. He missed home. Even if they didn’t kill him, he would probably never see home again, unless his father came for him. But he felt selfish hoping for that. Surely to come for him would mean certain death. But that wouldn’t stop Caleb Sax … unless the man was already dead.

Maybe he would die out here in the middle of nowhere, or at best be made a slave of his Comanche captor. He must draw on his Indian spirit now, perhaps learn to be Indian to survive. Caleb would expect that of him.

“Please come, Pa,” he whispered. He sniffed, and unwanted tears spilled down his dirty cheeks. He bent up his knees and quickly wiped them away on his pants so no Comanche would see.

* * *

The drums pounded hauntingly, while men yipped and women chanted. The sounds were chilling to Lee and Tom, who had never really lived the life of wilder Indians, but the sounds were not unfamiliar to Caleb Sax. Caleb himself was not now the man Lee and Tom had always known. He was Blue Hawk again, and he would make war against the Comanche the same way he had ridden against the Crow in vengeance for his Cheyenne wife’s death. Only now, he must rescue his son.

They had searched for over two weeks, and both the younger men knew only Caleb’s Indian instincts kept them from being seen by the Comanche. They felt baked from the sun, and their skin was sore from constant battles with spiny ocotillo bushes, cactus, and the countless other thorny, mean plants that defied anyone to come to this land. Tom’s left shirtsleeve was torn and the skin cut from catching on the long spike of a mesquite branch, and they had had more than one encounter with rattlesnakes.

Caleb’s strength and determination astounded the two younger men, who ached from too many days of almost constant riding. They were weary to the bone from too little sleep and too little food, which was always cold when they got it, because Caleb refused to build any fires for fear of being spotted by the Comanche. Both young men knew Caleb had to be hurting, but he never showed it. The man had grown visibly thinner and his eyes looked bloodshot, but a hard strength could be felt in his very presence.

The Comanche they had been trailing had finally stopped to make camp in a red-rock canyon. Whether or not John was with this party, none of them could know. Only two days before, they had come across a burned-out supply wagon, its driver’s blackened body lying slumped beside a wheel. Finding the man made Caleb ride even harder. They all worried that the next body they found might be John’s.

The three of them sat in a hollow above the canyon where the Comanche were celebrating. They were out of sight of the village and its scouts. Their horses were tethered nearby behind thick yucca bushes, the poor animals’ legs full of cuts and scratches.

Tom and Lee sat waiting for instructions. They watched Caleb quietly. He sat with his eyes closed, breathing deeply, remembering another time and place—another Caleb, the Sun Dance ritual and its pain, the power and pride he had felt at surviving his test of manhood. He had not felt his Indian instincts so strongly for a long time, yet the way of life of his youth was coming back so easily.

“The Comanche feel this is their land,” he told Lee and Tom after several minutes of meditation. He opened his amazingly blue eyes and studied them both. “Just as the Cherokee feel Georgia belongs to them. Everywhere such things are happening to the Indians. My white half battles with my red half. Always there is this war in my soul. I know the Indian is right in wanting to hold what is his, and it could work—Indian and white man side by side, if the white man would keep his promises. But all of us know he never does and never will. Your grandfather learned that, Lee, when he was forced to give up that government land and come to Texas.”

He sighed deeply, from terrible weariness. The man was nearly spent, but Tom knew he would never give in to his aching bones, not until he had John back.

“All of us react differently when we’re threatened,” Caleb continued. “The Comanche react by attacking the settlers and trying to scare them out. They’re angry, and they’re dying. They steal young children, partly to bring heartache to the settlers, but also to add to their own numbers. They make Indians of them and intermarry with them. John is part Indian. He could adjust. But he’s my son and I intend to get him back. Until he learns their ways, they’ll be cruel to him. And if he offends them in some way, they’ll kill him. We have to get him out.”

He took a long, polished wooden pipe from his parfleche. “We will smoke, and pray. It’s important to pray for strength. God is many things to many men. To me He is Maheo, the Great Spirit of the Cheyenne. To Lee, now a Christian, He is Jehova. To you, Tom, He is Maheo. I raised you on Cheyenne beliefs. But Jehova, Maheo, they are the same. We must be strong. And we must be swift, for John’s sake.”

He stuffed the stone bowl of the pipe and lit it, and a wonderfully sweet aroma from the smoke penetrated their nostrils. Caleb drew on the pipe, then handed it to Tom. “My first son, my beloved first son, who was all the reason I had to live for many years. Take the pipe and smoke it. Offer it high, first, to the God of the Sky, Heammawihio; then to the God of the Earth, Ahktunowihio; then to the Great Spirit, Maheo. Give the pipe then to Lee.”

Tom did as he was told. It had been a long time since he had seen his father this way. He knew there was this side to him, this very spiritual, powerful being who drew on a certain strength few men possessed. How else could Caleb Sax have survived the many losses in his life … his Indian father; the white man, Tom Sax, who had become like a father to him; his Cheyenne wife; his Cherokee wife and son; and once thinking he had also lost Sarah. Now another son was in danger. Caleb Sax was determined not to lose this one.

They all sat quietly as the pipe was offered and smoked, then handed it back to Caleb, who held it out in front of him.

“We have followed these Comanche for over two weeks,” Caleb said then. “We have found no trace of John. That means they don’t know we’re following. If they did, they would leave his dead and mutilated body for us to find, just to be cruel. It also means John is still alive. We have to be very careful. If they discover us before we get our hands on John, he’s dead.”

“So what do you want us to do, Father?” Tom asked.

Caleb took one more puff on the pipe, breathing deeply. “There are many of them—only three of us. They have not yet reached full camp. This is just a small camp on the way. If we don’t strike soon, we won’t have a chance once they reach the bigger village.” He set the pipe aside. “When I was warring against the Crow, sometimes alone, I used the element of surprise. That’s what we’ll do now. They are not expecting us now like they were a few days earlier. They think we’re too afraid to come into Comanche country to come after John. Our advantage is being Indian and knowing how they think—how to keep from being detected. We’ll make our move after dark.”

“But you don’t know if John is even in any of those tipis,” Lee said.

“I intend to find out—tonight. That drumming is a celebration. They’ll all be drunk by tonight. I’m going down and see if I can find John in any of the tipis.”

“You’re going in there alone?” Tom asked. “They’ll kill you!”

“They won’t even know I’m there. When it’s necessary I can be as invisible as the wind.”

Tom looked him over with concern, wondering how his tall, broad father intended to make himself invisible. Caleb smiled reassuringly.

“Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing. You two will wait for me. As soon as I’ve found John’s tipi, I’ll come back here and we’ll all go down together. You will wait in the shadows while I cut the tipi skins loose from stakes in the back of the tipi, enough to allow me to crawl under. My guess is John is being watched by only one man—the one who captured him. He’ll be celebrating tonight also. There might not be anyone at all inside the tipi, but if there is, I’ll kill him quickly enough—and quietly. You two keep watch. If someone approaches, or if there’s trouble, use your rifles and shout war cries. That will surprise and confuse them—I hope enough to give me time to get out with John. We’ll ride hard and fast. They’ll have trouble finding us at night. It will give us a head start. Besides that, the way they’re situated, they have to come up the path to the top of the canyon no more than two at a time. That will slow them down even more. And if we’re real lucky, they won’t bother to come at all. They still have the horses. We’ll leave them. There’s no way we can get them out of there, and John is the only thing that’s important. Between being satisfied with the horses, and their own hesitation to ride at night, we have a good chance.”

“What if we’re caught?” Tom asked Caleb.

Their eyes held. “A man’s only hope then is to be brave. The Comanche have been known to release a prisoner who refused to cry out under torture—out of respect for his courage.”

“That’s not very reassuring,” Lee put in.

“It’s the best I can offer. Just remember that once we make our move, it’s torture for all of us if we fail. So I have one order. Kill John if it looks like there’s no way out. I don’t want him to suffer, and by God, Comanche know how to make a man suffer. They have their own religious reasons, but I don’t intend for my son to be a part of their ceremonies. Understood? You’ll not be held to blame. Kill him and do it quickly.”

A lump rose in Tom’s throat. “We’ll do it.”

Caleb nodded. “First I will put on war paint for power, and the two of you will also wear the paint. Then I will go down there first. Be ready—and remember, surprise. It’s our only hope. Surprise—and move fast. Use those Indian instincts you were born with. This one’s for your sister, Lee—for Marie, God rest her soul. That’s her son down there. We lost one. We’re not going to lose this one.”

Lee nodded. “For Marie. We can do it, Caleb.”

Caleb held out his hand and the other two put theirs on top of it, feeling a certain power at touching Caleb Sax.

Sarah sat up and sipped the tea Mildred Handel brought her. The Handels were two of the many foreigners who had come to Texas to settle on vast amounts of free land, people from another world hoping to find a freedom they had never known before. None realized the dangers they were risking in coming to Texas until they were already there, and none wanted the war that now seemed imminent with Mexico.

The Handels had come to Texas four years before. Because their land adjoined Caleb’s to the southeast, Caleb had soon befriended them. He was fascinated with their foreign ways, and the Handels were fascinated by the Indian next door. Sarah was grateful for their friendly helpfulness, and for the companionship of Mildred Handel, although the two women were always too busy to visit very often.

Now Sarah lay in bed in a spare room of the Handels’ small log house. She could only pray the help left at the ranch would be able to take care of things until Caleb returned—if he returned. It was the middle of the night, and twenty days since Caleb, Tom, and Lee had ridden off. Sarah wondered how much longer she could stand the suspense, and she worried about Lynda, who also had trouble sleeping and who sat in the outer room now knitting a sweater for her unborn baby, trying to keep busy.

“Drink it all,” Mildred urged Sarah, her German accent so heavy she was sometimes difficult to understand. “You are still very weak, Mrs. Sax.”

Sarah sighed, smiling sadly at the sturdy German woman. “I’d get well faster if I knew Caleb was all right.”

“Ach! That Caleb! When he rode in here with you, I thought we were the ones being attacked—all that paint and wild look! Feel sorry for the Comanche, I say! Do not worry about Caleb Sax!”

Sarah had to smile, but it did little to alleviate the worry in her soul. “Still, there are only three of them, Mildred. And Caleb is …” Her eyes teared. “What would I do without my Caleb—now, after finding him again?”

The woman patted her hand. “You would survive. And we would help you.”

Sarah set down her cup. “You’re so kind to us, Mildred. Surely you know some of the others around here are speaking against Caleb—saying Indians shouldn’t get to own any of this land. So far there’s been no real trouble, but so many Southerners are coming into Texas, I feel it’s going to get worse.”

“It is terrible, what they say! Caleb Sax is a fine man—runs a good place—a hard worker like my Wil. We appreciate good workers, strong people. We will stick by you. Any time you need us, like now, you feel free to come to us. I am glad your husband took up my Wil’s offer to help. There might be a time when you can help us. We cannot bicker over race in a place like this, Sarah. We all need to work together to survive.”

Sarah nodded. “Yes, we do.”

“Ah, and that baby of yours! Such a fine-looking boy he is—so strong and healthy, too. I have never been able to give my Wil a child. It is a sad spot in my heart.”

“It must be. I’m so sorry, Mildred.”

The woman shrugged. She was forty now, but looked older, her hair starting to gray. She was a short, plump woman with a quick smile but a stern look to her face when not smiling. “There are worse things in life, I suppose, like what you are going through now—this terrible worry. It must be so terrible to love someone as you say you loved your Caleb, and then be separated from him for so long. All those years—thinking he was dead—and your daughter, too. And then finding them both. Every time I think about it, I want to cry,” Mildred carried on in a singsong pitch. “Such a story of miracles. And now you have the little baby. Life will be good for you, Sarah.”

Sarah sipped more tea, hoping it would help quell the tears. “I hope so,” she answered. She sighed deeply and swallowed. “Sometimes it seems like only yesterday when Caleb and I were little children at Fort Dearborn—and other times it seems like a century ago. We’ve both been through so much since then.”

“You never told me how it was you thought each other dead. Why don’t you tell me, Sarah? You need to talk. You are lying around thinking too much.”

Sarah smiled sadly, meeting the woman’s steady brown eyes. Mildred Handel was a wise woman, a kind woman. “It’s a long story, Mildred.”

“I have all night. I, too, am having trouble sleeping.”

Sarah looked down at the teacup, running her finger around its rim. “It would help me to talk, I suppose.” She smiled softly. “I knew Caleb as a child. That was at Fort Dearborn, where I lived with my mother and stepfather. My stepfather was also my uncle, Tom Sax, brother to my real father, Terrence Sax, who lived in St. Louis. Terrence Sax was quite wealthy. It’s a long and sad story—about my mother and the two brothers. But Tom Sax is the man she really loved, and I loved him, too. I thought of him as my father in those early years.”

She sighed deeply. “At any rate, Tom adopted Caleb into our family, and we were like brother and sister. Then my mother died, and things were getting dangerous around Fort Dearborn, what with a war brewing between England and America. I was sent to St. Louis to be with my real father.” She shook her head. “I hated it there. And I lost track of Caleb. He went west to find his Indian relatives, married a Cheyenne girl who bore his son, Tom. Then she was killed. My uncle died in an Indian raid while fleeing Fort Dearborn with the other settlers there. I had no one but my real father and stepmother in St. Louis. My father … was a pompous, arrogant man. There was no warmth and love at home. I suppose he loved me in his own way, but I’ll always hate him for what he did later to Caleb.”

She sipped some more tea. “Then Caleb left young Tom with the Cheyenne and came to look for me in St. Louis. We were both older, and the moment I opened the door and saw him standing there—” She smiled. “He was so beautiful. We both felt it right away. We weren’t children anymore. We were in love. In a way, I think we always were. We were just too young before to realize it. When he came to St. Louis I was seventeen and he was twenty.”

She looked at Mrs. Handel, who appeared fascinated with the story. “To make a long story short, father did not approve of Caleb. He always felt my uncle, Tom, had ‘stolen’ my mother from him, and Caleb was a lot like Tom—rugged, a man of the mountains, someone my father claimed could never support me properly—all the things he hated about his brother Tom. Father wanted me to marry Byron Clawson, a young man I detested. But Byron had a future, or so my father thought. He was wealthy, and to my father that meant everything.”

She set her teacup aside. “Caleb and I ran away together.” She reddened slightly. “We were young, and so much in love. We decided not to wait until we could find a preacher to marry us.” She glanced at Mrs. Handel shyly. “At any rate, in our hearts we were already married. But then I got sick, very sick. Caleb was afraid I was dying. So he took me back to St. Louis to find a doctor who could help me. The doctor told Caleb I was dead, but I had a strange sleeping sickness that only made me appear to be dead. Everything happened so fast. The doctor secretly sent a messenger for my father. He and some other men, including Byron Clawson, came after Caleb. Caleb thought I was dead, and he had no choice but to run. They would have hung him, and he had to get back to his son, who was still with the Cheyenne. Then his horse stumbled and fell on him. Caleb was unable to go on. The men caught up with him and Byron—” The name was still bitter in her mouth. “He shot Caleb in the back,” she almost hissed. “I didn’t know until years later that it was Byron who had done it. I didn’t even know Caleb had been shot at all. They told me he was killed when the horse fell on him. My father was so apologetic, told me he would have let me stay with Caleb. But I didn’t believe that and never forgave him, although I didn’t imagine he had actually let Caleb be killed. Even worse, Father had Caleb dumped off on river pirates and paid them to get rid of the body.” Sarah shifted in her bed, saddened anew by her memories.

“Oh, Sarah, what a terrible story. Such a past you have had.”

Sarah smiled at the kindhearted woman and leaned back against her pillow. “I was a long time recovering, and by then I knew I was pregnant with Caleb’s child. I needed a husband. I hated Byron Clawson, but my father forced me to marry him, telling me how disgraceful it was to be pregnant and without a husband, extolling how kind Byron was to be willing to make my baby ‘legitimate.’” She shook her head. “Byron moved with me to Washington, D.C. He was cruel, Mildred. So cruel.” The words were spoken in a near whisper. “He beat me, forced himself on me in the night. He was drunk more often than sober. Then when Lynda was born, he took her away from me—told me she had died …” Sarah broke down in tears. “He kept me so drugged after that, I never knew the truth and half the time wasn’t even aware of where I was,” she continued in a broken voice. “He put Lynda in an orphanage and later he divorced me, after discovering my father was going broke and there was no money for him to inherit. He left me a near cripple, sent me home to St. Louis. My father died shortly thereafter. I’ve never visited his grave.”

“And Caleb? How did you find him again? And your daughter?”

Sarah fingered a tie on the quilt that covered her. “Caleb lived. A woman we had known as a young girl at Fort Dearborn, Emily Stoner, lived in New Orleans then. Caleb had seen her there a year or so earlier, when he fought at the Battle of New Orleans.” She decided not to tell Mildred Handel that the woman was a prostitute. Emily had been good to Caleb, saved his life. That was all that was important.

“Caleb was nearly dead,” she went on, “but he managed to tell the men who found him to take him to Emily. She nursed him back to health, and then he went back west to get Tom, thinking me dead. We went on that way for years, thinking each other dead. Caleb met a Cherokee family on their way to Texas. He got Tom and joined them there, wanting to start a new life for himself and Tom. That’s when he met Marie, who he married several years later. They had two sons, and then Marie and one of the sons were killed in a fire after an outlaw raid. Of course you already know all about that.”

“Yes. We had only just come here when that happened. It was so sad.” Mrs. Handel patted Sarah’s arm. “Do you want more tea?” she asked.

“Yes. I think I do.”

The woman poured more from a pot, handing the cup to Sarah. “And you? What happened to you?”

“I stayed in St. Louis. My stepmother died and I stayed in the house and opened a sewing business. Then one night a young girl came looking for work. It was raining that night. She was dripping wet and looked so sad and lonely at the door. And she was so young. I had to let her in. She told me she was an orphan and later explained the man she’d been traveling with was killed in a fight over a card game on a riverboat. She got off in St. Louis, alone and afraid, knowing no one. She walked the streets looking for work. Since she had worked in a garment factory back East, I gave her a job helping me. Later she told me about a blue quill necklace that had been left with her when she was dropped off at the orphanage.”

Sarah shivered at the memory. “I’ll never forget that moment. Caleb had given me a blue quill necklace. Byron took it away from me the night Lynda was born. I asked her to show me the necklace, and we knew then—she was my daughter.”

“Oh, such a gift from God!”

Sarah’s eyes teared and she sipped more tea. “Yes,” she said quietly. “It was a miracle. Byron, too, had returned to St. Louis by then. I confronted him, much as I didn’t ever want to see him again. But I had to know for sure. He admitted Lynda did not die—that he had put her in an orphanage. We knew for sure then. Several months later, Lynda and I saw an article in the local paper about Texas, saw Caleb’s name and read that his son Tom was in St. Louis. Lynda went to see Tom and found out it was indeed my Caleb Sax.” She met Mildred’s eyes then. “You know the rest. We came to Texas.”

Mildred Handel clapped her hands. “Such a story! See what a lucky woman you have been after all? And that Caleb was lucky, too. All the time we knew him before you came here, always I saw such loneliness in those handsome blue eyes. Always we felt so sorry for that man, and angry at how some of our neighbors talk now—against the Indians who have settled here, too.” She grasped Sarah’s hand. “But no more bad things for you now, hm? God will be good to you—and He will bring back your Caleb from those Comanche.”

She released Sarah’s hand and Sarah took another swallow of tea. “You have a great deal of faith, Mildred.”

“Ah, and you are stronger than you think. Now you try to sleep. Do it for Caleb. He’d not want you sitting up and fretting this way.” She stood up and fluffed Sarah’s pillow. “Tomorrow my Wil and I are going into San Felipe. You are walking around now some. Would you like to go with us—ride in the back of the wagon and perhaps visit one shop—buy yourself a new dress for Caleb’s return, perhaps? You can show him how you are getting back your lovely shape.”

Sarah handed her the cup and put a hand to her waist, which to her was still too thick but was at least improving. “Yes. If the weather is good, maybe that would be a good idea. I need more exercise, and I’ll do anything right now that will help keep my mind off Caleb.”

James started to fuss, and Mildred lifted the baby from his cradle beside the bed, laying him next to Sarah. Sarah opened the blankets to study the tiny package. The boy was already putting fat on his knees and elbows. He drank as though the milk might run out any time and it would be his last meal. He was going to be a big, strong son. Her eyes teared again. What other kind of son would Caleb Sax father but a strong, healthy one?

“James. My beautiful James,” she said softly. She snuggled down and opened her gown so the child could suckle his midnight meal. Outside the same yellow moon shone down on the Handel ranch that was shining down on Caleb Sax, as he moved on his belly like a snake toward the Comanche camp.

“Hey, you big bull, we’ll kill us some Comanche tonight, huh?” Tom shook back his long, black hair, enjoying the feeling of being Indian.

Lee grinned and gave him a shove, the white war paint against his dark skin seeming to glow in the soft moonlight. “I will kill more than you. You think the Cheyenne are better than the Cherokee.”

“Smarter and faster.”

“You will find out, nephew.”

“I will help you when those Comanche get you in a fix, uncle.”

The two always teased each other about being uncle and nephew, even though they were nearly the same age and had grown up like brothers and were now also brother-in-laws. Both were trying to make light of what they knew was a dangerous situation, as they waited anxiously for Caleb to return.

“They won’t get me in a fix. I’ve got a wife at home with a baby in her belly,” Lee answered. “And it’s about time you started looking for a woman, Tom Sax.”

“Find me one as pretty as that sister of mine you married and maybe I will get serious. You don’t deserve her, you know.”

Lee laughed lightly. “I didn’t see you trying to stop me from marrying her.”

“That’s only because you both had such a lovesick look in your eyes I thought I would get sick myself.”

They both laughed then, but kept everything on a low key, not wanting to be heard by Comanche scouts who might be about. Their smiles faded then and their eyes held in the moonlight. Both of them wore buckskins and moccasins, clothing that blended into the surroundings.

“You think he’s all right, Tom?”

Young Tom fingered a small rock. How he loved his father—worshipped was more like it. “Sure. My father can do anything. He’s all Indian, remember? At least right now he is. You’ve heard him talk about what he did to the Crow. And he painted our faces. We will have much power now.”

“Yeah.” Lee sighed, adjusting the weapons belt he wore crossed over his chest. “Hey, don’t you sometimes wish you could have known your Cheyenne mother?”

“Sure I do.”

“I bet she was pretty.”

Tom nodded. “I think she must have been, the way father talked about her. It’s funny about feelings. Your sister Marie was not my mother, but I loved her the same as if she was. Yet there is this real mother I never knew, buried somewhere in the mountains to the north. My father has had many experiences in his life—many losses.” He swallowed. “I hope he doesn’t lose John. It would be very bad for him.”

They heard a call then, like a small night creature.

“It’s Caleb,” Lee said softly.

A moment later Caleb appeared, calling their names softly.

“Here,” Tom answered.

Caleb moved closer. “I know which tipi he’s in. They brought him out once, arguing over whether to sell or keep him. He looks tired and hungry, and his wrists look like they’re bleeding from rawhide straps, but he’s okay otherwise. The Comanche are drinking like crazy. We have to hope they don’t decide in their drunken state to torture John for fun and games. If we wait just a little longer, a lot of them will be passed out. It should be easy to get into the tipi and get John out. If we ride off fast tonight, it will take them a while to get themselves together to come after us—probably not until later in the morning. We’ll have a hell of a start on them by then.”

“It is still risky. Are they all drinking?” Lee asked the question.

“As far as I can tell. I think if we’re quiet and quick enough, the only ones we’ll have to deal with are the two or three that might sleep in the tipi where John is kept. I can’t stress enough to either of you the fact that we must be very fast—no hesitating, understand?”

“Sure, we understand,” Tom told him. “We’ve gone against Indians and outlaws before, Father. We can do it.”

Caleb pulled a huge knife from its sheath at his waist. “And we’ve always done it on our own land—never this deep in Comanche territory. Believe me, if they weren’t drinking, they’d know we were here and we would be stretched out for a nice long death right now. Maheo is with us. He has helped us in the form of rotgut whiskey.” He put a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “You bring the horses. You’re best at keeping the animals quiet. Stop about halfway down the path and wait. Lee and I will go in. If you hear a lot of shooting and yelling, get the hell out of here, do you hear me? Don’t try to be heroic. There are too many of them and death would be better than what they would do to you. Promise me right now—both of you. If things look bad and you have a chance to get away, do it.”

Tom sighed deeply. He knew it was important to his father that they agree. “All right. I’ll get out if I have to, but I’ll by God come back with half of San Felipe!”

“I wouldn’t count on too many back there helping us. We’re Indian, remember? That’s why I didn’t bother asking for help in the first place. Lee? I want to hear your promise.”

“I promise. I’ll get out. But I’ll be carrying you and John both on my back!”

Caleb grinned. “Come on. We’ll wait a little longer. Then I’ll go in and slice open the back of John’s tipi. Lee, you follow me inside and we’ll take care of whoever is in there.” He put a hand on Lee’s arm. “Now is when you must be all Indian, Lee. This is our war now, and all our lives are at stake. It’s important that no one survive inside that tipi so that everyone thinks they’re just sleeping. That will give us a lot more time in the morning. The same goes for you, Tom. If anyone comes your way other than John, he’s dead. Understood?”

Both men nodded.

Caleb put a hand on each of their shoulders. “Maheo be with both of you. Let’s go.”

The camp was quiet, the central fire burning low. Several Comanche lay sprawled in a drunken stupor near the fire, and more were snoring in tipis.

Caleb touched his blue quill necklace and ducked low, leaving his musket behind on his horse and moving toward the camp with only a side gun and his huge knife. He and Lee crept to the bottom of the canyon, then went onto their bellies. Yes, they were Indian this night; moving stealthily, slowly, being careful where they placed hands and knees so as not to crack a twig or make scraping noises on gravel.

It seemed to take hours for them to reach the tipi where John was being kept. Caleb snaked toward it, stopped at the back and lifted the edge just slightly to peek inside. Only a few feet away he could make out a Comanche warrior lying on his back, snoring. Caleb tapped Lee on the shoulder. Then he took out his knife and rose to his knees. He looked around carefully, quickly jabbed the knife into the tipi, and ripped downward.

Everything happened fast after that. Caleb ripped all the way through to the bottom of the tipi skin, throwing back the flap and ducking inside like a shadow. Lee followed. Inside, a small fire shed just enough light to see John and two men. John’s eyes widened with joy and he started to open his mouth, but Caleb put his fingers to his lips. He moved to one of the men as Lee also moved inside, just in time to see Caleb grasp the Comanche’s chin, pull it up, and slash the man’s throat quickly and quietly.

Lee froze, surprised at the viciousness of Caleb Sax. Just then, a woman bolted up behind Lee and the second man inside the tipi stirred. Caleb knew the first danger was the second man. He noticed the woman had a lance in her hand and hoped Lee would make his move fast. But Lee just stared at her, his soft heart trying to drum up the courage to kill her.

The woman, however, was quick; she was defending her husband. She rammed the lance into Lee, just as Caleb slammed his knife with a soft thud into the second Comanche before the man could cry out. Lee stumbled backward and the woman stabbed him again. Caleb dove into her, knocking her to the ground. She started to cry out, but Caleb’s knife slashed across her throat without hesitation before she could make a sound.

John was watching the scene in terror. Caleb rammed his knife into its sheath and knelt over Lee, who was shaking violently, blood pouring both from his chest and from a hideous wound between his legs.

Caleb’s heart felt ripped in half, and his eyes filled with tears. “My God, Lee …” But looking at Lee’s wounds, Caleb was too devastated to speak. Only by drawing on his deepest strength did he manage to say, “I’ll help you out of here!”

Lee reached toward him as Caleb moved away to cut the ties on John’s wrists. John quickly wrapped his arms around his father’s neck.

“It’s all right, John. There will be time for reunions later,” Caleb whispered. “We have to get out of here fast! Tom is waiting a few yards up the canyon path. You know where it is. Get outside—and be quiet as a mouse. I’ll bring Lee.”

The boy let go, his dirty face stained with tears. “I can’t leave you behind, Pa.”

“Don’t argue. Do what I tell you. Go, quickly.” He shoved the boy toward the cut in the tipi and John ducked out, crawling into the darkness to wait. The boy shook with fear that his father would not get out in time. How could he possibly make it if he had to carry Lee? Lee was as heavy as a buffalo, and badly wounded. Surely he couldn’t live.

Inside, Caleb bent over Lee to pick him up.

“No,” Lee whispered hoarsely. “I … am dying.”

“You’ll not die! Think of Lynda.” Caleb grabbed the man’s shirt. “Goddamn it, Lee, why didn’t you kill that woman? Don’t do this to me! I can’t go back without you!”

Lee’s lips twisted in a grimace of pain. “You know … I am dying.” He made a strange gasping sound and arched. “She got me … down there … Can’t go back … to Lynda … like this … Not a man …”

Caleb’s blood chilled with the horror of it. He moved his eyes over Lee’s wounds. Blood had already soaked his chest, and it was pouring from between his legs. There was no way he would survive and even if he did, the hideous wound would leave him less than a man. For someone like Lee, that would be worse than death.

“Tell … Lynda … love her so much … take care of the baby …”

“Lee, I can’t leave you here. You aren’t dead. Maybe you’re dying, but if you aren’t dead yet the Comanche will only make it worse for you.”

“Kill me.”

Caleb froze. Lee lay panting and weeping while Caleb’s mind raced. He had to get out if he was to have any chance of saving Tom and John. No man in his right mind would think Lee could possibly survive the vicious wounds from the Comanche woman’s lance.

“Kill me,” Lee repeated, a begging sound to his words. “Take care … of my Lynda … my baby.”

Now it was Caleb who hesitated. If he tried to take Lee with them, they would never move fast enough to get out of Comanche country alive, and Lee would leave a trail of blood that would bring the Comanche right to them. He was dying, but if Caleb left him and he had the misfortune of not dying quickly enough …

He leaned over Lee. “God, I love you like a son, Lee. You know that.”

“I know.” Lee actually forced a smile. “If you really love me … kill me now … quickly. Get away … Caleb … do it … for me. Thanks for letting me … have your daughter … for a little while. She made me … so happy.” He reached up with a hand that shook almost violently. He grasped Caleb’s arm. “Your God … would understand. Hurry, Caleb.”

Outside, Tom waited with the horses on a small, flat stretch of ground several yards in the distance. His heart pounded with anxiety. What had gone wrong? They should be out and running for the horses by now. Minutes seemed like hours, and his whole body felt numb with anxiety. Should he go after Caleb? He was just as able a fighter as his father and Lee. They had all fought together to protect the ranch many times over. He had killed his share of men. He could kill a few Comanche.

When a dark figure finally approached him, Tom ducked into the shadows until he could clearly see that it was Caleb carrying a quietly crying John. A chill moved down Tom’s spine. Caleb plunked John onto Lee’s horse and quickly mounted his own. “Let’s go! There’s no time to waste.”

“Where’s Lee?” Tom asked.

“Dead,” Caleb said flatly. “Let’s get going. I’ll explain later.”

He rode off, leading John on Lee’s horse and leaving no time for more questions.

A horrible sorrow swept through Tom. Lee dead! It couldn’t be. Not Lee. Not big, strong, strapping Lee. He wanted to go back for the body—something, anything. But he knew without asking that there was no time, and a dead body would slow them down. He mounted his horse and headed carefully up the rocky pathway. Riding away was the hardest thing he had ever done in his life.

Lee! They were leaving Lee behind.