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Justin Bodean felt eyes on him, watching his every move. The hairs on the back of his neck shot straight out from his skin, and not because the day felt cool. The mid-summer Texas sun beat down like a hot blaze on his bare head as he walked across the open yard of packed reddish dirt from the house to the shed where they stored feed and where he slept.
Ever since he had come out west he had experienced a constant looming sense of threats everywhere. He could never, ever relax or let down his guard—some danger lurked constantly around him. He had already had to bury his father, murdered in a stagecoach robbery on the way here. The nature of the place was just as much a bother. If he wasn’t sweating, itchy, or half-feverish from the constant prickly heat then he wasn’t sure he was alive.
He slowed, felt something that niggled up on the hill that looked down onto Aunt Sara’s place, possibly a hint of movement, a glimmer of long oiled black hair. More likely, the absence of chattering birds that should have been up there made him stop where he stood. Scamp must have seen him grind to a slow halt.
“What?”
Justin wanted to point, instead nodded his head up toward where he thought he’d seen something.
“What?” Scamp repeated. He glanced upward as he carried a saddle out from the shed to put it on a fence where he could oil it and check everything on it.
“Indian. I thought I just saw an Indian.”
“You want me to sound the alarm?”
“Let me check. I want to be sure.”
“Don’t take too long. They could be down on us. Ma says a false alarm’s better than no alarm at all when it might matter most.”
“She also said something about crying wolf. I’ll just slip closer, let out a yell if it’s needed.” He looked out across the ranch, saw goats in a pasture off to the left. Button in her coveralls hoed away as she weeded the garden patch that was one of their chief sources of income. Something in his chest gave a pleasant little jump, the same he’d first felt, along with a flush of his cheeks when he’d learned she was adopted and wasn’t his cousin. Now wasn’t the time to be thinking about any of that.
“I could turn Boxo loose. She’d make short work of any Injun.” Scamp looked over to the goats’ pen.
Hearing her name, the furry-eared young little jenny perked up and came over to the rail fence. She peered out at them with those big black eyes. Her long ears stuck up, erect, alert and eager. Jennies were always better pasture guards than the jacks since they tended to be more maternal, protective. Sara had bought her from the garden money and Boxo had paid for herself already by saving goats.
Boxo poked her fluffy white nose through the fence, nostrils wide and twitching. The rest of her large head came up to Justin’s chest when next to her and was covered in thick gray hair that stuck straight out. He could see the beginning of her short black mane along the top of her neck. One hoof pawed at the ground, ready for battle. Pity the coyote that tried to get at the goats she protected, or thieving redskin for that matter.
Justin had seen her take on the first coyote bold enough to try to get at the goats. She had rushed up to the coyote, risen up on her hind legs, and hit at him with both front hooves. The coyote tried to slink around Boxo but not quickly enough. She’d spun and caught it mid ribs with both hind hooves, sailing it over the fence. She’d rushed to confront it again, but that coyote had had enough and had lowered its already drooping tail further and slipped off through the cactus and tall bending grass. By the time the others at the house heard her braying the fight was over.
“She might not come back.” Justin’s stare stayed fixed on the top of the hill. He saw nothing moving, but that meant little now. He knew to his bones that someone was up there.
“Oh, she’d come back. Those goats are all she lives for now. They’re like her children.”
“You’re probably right. But what if Indians shoot her?”
“There’s that.”
“I’ll go up for a closer look. But be ready to sound the alarm.”
“I could go with you.”
“Then who would let the others know?”
“You’re right. I’ll wait. But I’ll at least I’d better go let Button know. She’s a better shot than me if it comes to something.”
Sleeping Bear crouched behind a thick stand of prickly bushes, a couple of sapling mesquite trees to his right. He didn’t care for his birth name, wanted to earn the warrior name Road Runner because he was quick and could hide like the gray bird. That would come. He was young and any adult warrior name had to be earned. He’d feared he might be too young to come along with Bent Feather’s renegade war party, but he had stalking and watching skills and that mattered too. He didn’t think those moving about below had spotted him, but froze to wait and see. A scaly lizard came shooting out from the shadow of the nearest brush, nearly went running up his moccasin. It stopped, looked up, shot back the way it had come.
His head panned back to watch the girl working in the open. If he could whisk her away and take her back to Bent Feather and the others then they’d see. One of the young paleface boys went over to her. They talked. The girl and the boy glanced up the hill toward where he hid. He doubted they could see him. He had learned to conceal himself well. But he ducked lower. The girl put down her stick and they both moved toward the house.
Behind him, far down at the bottom on this side of the hill, he heard his paint horse nicker. He turned his head, listened closely, but couldn’t read any apprehension in the sound.
As he swung his head back toward the ranch below, he saw something to his left, one of the paleface boys was easing up the hill, trying to be quiet. Sleeping Bear would show him what how not to make a sound. He eased upright and turned to head down the hill. One last glance toward the approaching boy found him stopped and staring. Their eyes locked.
As soon as Justin first spotted the lone Indian staring down at their ranch, he stopped. From here he could see down to the garden patch where Button was hoeing out weeds. He could make out her red hair but not from here the face he found so compelling. He watched Scamp go up to her. She put down the hoe and headed toward the house. If he could see her from here the Indian could.
A hot rush of anger swept up his neck to his face. To think Button had been stared at by the Indian. He thought he hadn’t made a sound. Yet, even standing still, a small limb snapped back into place behind him with the barest hint of noise, and that amid the rustle of leaves in the wind. Focused as he was on every little sound, it came to his ear as loud as the crack of a whip. He looked up. The Indian stared back at him.
The Indian didn’t seem to be carrying a long gun, just a bow slung over his shoulder and across his chest. His beaded quiver hung from a leather strip tied around his waist that acted as a belt. For the first time Justin realized he hadn’t brought a gun himself. It would have been a good idea to pause and get one before hiking up here. The Indian started to tug the bow free by pulling it over his shoulder. Justin had but two choices, and running down the hill and getting shot in the back didn’t seem the best of them. He took off and sprinted right at the Indian, saw the young buck’s eyes get big as he fumbled with the bow, one end of the bow now tangled with a turkey feather that had been hanging in his hair. He seemed to realize how fast Justin was coming, so he turned and took off down the back side of the hill at a dead run, helped by the steep pitch of the hill.
“Aiaigh!” Justin yelled, though he didn’t know why. It made the Indian move even faster.
Briars tore at Justin’s clothes as he raced down the hill. Justin knew a Comanche off his horse was unusual, and even more so to be alone. He slowed as he ran, letting the Indian gain distance. At any moment he expected to see half a dozen more mounted Comanche warriors pop out and come at him. He followed, though more slowly and carefully, stayed close enough to see the Comanche hop onto his horse and take off, working up to a gallop as soon as he could.
Now that Justin stood there, still breathing hard, he realized what a completely foolish thing he’d just done, all out of a moment of anger.
As he came up to the house, Justin looked to the usual spots. Button was on the roof with the muzzleloader, a heavy gun for her to tote up the ladder at the back of the former pueblo fort that had been turned into Sara Bolger’s house. He could just see the barrel sticking over the edge.
That would be Scamp’s shotgun sticking out of one of the narrow front windows.
Aunt Sara held the Winchester at the other gun port window.
Justin sighed.
Button climbed down from the roof, carrying the long rifle. “What were you doing? From where I was it looked like you ran right toward where we thought there were Injuns.”
“I saw only one of them. Turned out he was more scared than I was.”
“You are a blamed tomfool, Justin.” Her voice grew to a near shout. “You could’ve been killed. I’ve never heard of there being just one of them.”
“He was staring at you, Button!” Justin realized he was yelling and forced himself to speak with less force. “It made me mad.”
“So, unarmed you rushed right at what could be a whole passel of Comanche.”
“And if they’d kilt you, who would warn us then?” Scamp said.
“You were already warned.” Justin felt his face flush a warm pink.
“Now, kids. It’s over for now.” Aunt Sara stepped closer, not quite between them, but close enough to make her point. “And, yes, Justin, that wasn’t a right clever thing to do, unarmed like that. It’s the kind of thing someone fifteen might do. But if you ever want to live to be sixteen you need to take a care. Show more sense than a dern mule. There coulda been a whole bushwhacking bunch of armed renegade Injuns up there. Things like that can get you killed out here, and us along with you.”
She spun, carrying the Winchester back inside the pueblo fort. Button frowned at Justin, then followed with the muzzleloader. Even Scamp shook his head and turned his back on Justin to go inside. He felt the most alone he had since his father was killed. He had just begun to feel cozy in the home with them, and had even developed more than half a crush on Button. Now he done the blamedest fool thing and ruined all that.
He looked across the yard of packed dirt, brown going to yellow with here and there streaks of red and bits of grit and gravel. A strong breeze kicked up and sent dust devils swirling up from the ground, sweeping across in front of him to left and right, and finally right at him. Quite a bit of it flew into his partially open mouth. He spit and coughed, but didn’t complain. Blamed if he didn’t think he deserved it right now.