Miguel dreamed he was running across the desert, chased by Indé shooting cactus spines into his bare back. As each prickly needle pierced his skin, he flinched in pain. Miguel darted left and right, but couldn’t escape their attack. He panted with exhaustion, wondering how much longer he could keep running.
Caught between wakefulness and sleep, Miguel wondered if the pain was part of his dream—or if it was real. His eyes fluttered open, and with a rising fear, he saw two deep black eyes staring at him. The warriors had found him! This time, Miguel wouldn’t let them take him without a fight.
Seeing his open knife on the sand, he seized it and stabbed in the direction of his enemy. The glinting blade cut the air harmlessly, and the mere effort of waving it sapped Miguel’s last reservoir of strength.
Without showing the slightest fear, the person looming above him took the knife, folded it with a snap, and placed it back in Miguel’s hand. The handle felt cool against his sweaty palm.
Miguel heard a voice so soft that he wondered if he were still dreaming, “I am not your enemy,” the voice said. “I am Tohono O’odham friend.”
Miguel tried to understand where he was. Instead of the saguaro where he had stopped last night, he was in the shade of the mountain under a rocky outcropping. He reached up and felt a tattered cloth tied just above his eye. A poultice of soft leaves soothed the knife wound, and his foot was tightly bound with a blue cloth bandage.
Another strip of my clothes gone, he thought, recognizing pieces of cloth from his pants legs. An unfamiliar red neckerchief cradled his limp arm in a tight sling.
The young man eased Miguel against the rock and held a gourd of water to his mouth. Miguel gulped in desperate swallows. A faint bitter taste lingered, but as Miguel drank he felt his tight chest loosening.
“More water,” he begged.
“Drink slow,” his companion advised, holding the gourd back for a moment. When Miguel had drained the last drop of water, he studied the young man. His hair was cropped short, a gray muslin shirt was tied around his waist, and he wore baggy cotton pants tied at the waist with rope. Sandals woven from braided grass protected his feet. As far as Miguel could see, he carried no weapon. He couldn’t be Indé. But what tribe was called Tohono O’odham?
“Can you eat?” the Indian asked. He held out a stick of roasted meat, and Miguel recognized the smell of cooked rabbit. He savored the first bite, letting the fatty richness slide into his empty stomach.
Miguel saw no fire, but noticed a ring of stones piled nearby. He could feel heat radiating from them, yet there was no flame. How could anyone cook a rabbit without a fire?
“I am Rushing Cloud, son of Rain Stalker, son of I’itoi, the Creator,” said the young man. “And you?”
Miguel tensed. Father Ignacio would explain about God to such a heathen, but Miguel kept silent. If Rushing Cloud stayed with him, Miguel would find the right time to show him the truth.
“What are you called?” the young man persisted.
Miguel hesitated. Who was he now? He was the son of his father, Mateo Abrano. Was he also ben Avraham? That isn’t part of me, he determined. I won’t let it be.
He sucked in his breath. “I am Miguel,” he said simply. He chewed another mouthful of meat and soon finished every morsel on the stick. He lay back down and realized with relief that no cactus thorns bit into his back.
“Did you pull out all those spines?” Miguel asked.
His companion nodded. “I have watched you in the desert,” he explained. “At first, I was afraid—afraid you are a white enemy searching for me. Then I see you are just a boy wandering. You eat nothing. You drink nothing. I think, this boy will die soon.”
A flare of anger rose in Miguel’s chest. Even this stranger thought of him as a boy and not a man. Yet today he was thirteen, and as weak as he was, he was still alive. Still, Miguel couldn’t deny that in spite of what he had endured along the trail, he hadn’t become a man just because he had turned one year older.
Miguel was grateful for Rushing Cloud’s help, but why had he waited so long?
“You thought I would die, but you just left me alone?” Miguel demanded. “I stepped on a scorpion trying to hide because I thought you were a warrior stalking me, or a mountain lion.”
“Enemies and mountain lions do not watch,” said Rushing Cloud evenly. “They kill.” Now Rushing Cloud asked his own questions. “Why are you in the desert with no white companions? Were you with a wagon train that was attacked?”
“I was alone from the beginning,” Miguel said. Rushing Cloud waited expectantly for more.
Miguel couldn’t admit that he had run away from home without a plan. Surely he would seem worse than a child—he’d look like a fool. Rushing Cloud would never understand what Miguel had learned that night at the ranch. Now he was no longer certain what he had been running from. Was it the revelation about his family, or the shame of his tears?
“I was riding, and I—I got lost,” he stammered. “I camped for the night in a stand of cottonwoods. I thought I’d find my way home in the morning, but I was captured by a band of warriors who stole my horse and my boots. At first, I thought they were Apache, but they got angry when I said that. They called themselves Indé.”
“You make them angry,” Rushing Cloud explained. “Apachu is what others call them. It means ‘enemy.’ They think they are Indé, The People.” He made a sound that was half sneer and half horselaugh. “As if they are the First People.”
Miguel shivered. So, they were Apache, he thought.
“Apachu raid in small bands. They hide in the desert at night. They must have been stalking travelers to steal horses and food. Then you come along and they decide to keep you instead. No fighting, no more searching, and they return to camp with a valuable catch. They think you can become a warrior like them. If not, you will work for the women in the camp—carry wood and water, do woman’s work.”
So that would have been my life, Miguel realized. If he had stayed “soft,” as Bootless Warrior called him, he would have become a slave in the Apache camp. If not, he would have trained to be like them, heading out on his own raids.
Rushing Cloud frowned. “How you got away?”
Every part of Miguel was shutting down with exhaustion. He hadn’t spoken so many words in nearly a week. His face flushed with fever, yet a wave of chills washed over him. He curled up on the ground. In a hoarse whisper he asked, “Why did you help me?”
“It is what a man must do,” Rushing Cloud said. He draped his shirt over Miguel’s shoulders, covering him with comforting warmth. “Sleep now,” he said, “for tonight we must walk far.” As Miguel drifted into sleep, he thought he heard Rushing Cloud murmur, “Scorpion has chosen you.”
* * *
Miguel awoke as dusk settled. His fever had cooled as quickly as the desert air. He sat up against the rock wall, looking for his companion. Faint music filtered toward him. Miguel looked a short distance away and saw Rushing Cloud sitting cross-legged under the open sky, his head hanging down against his chest. He sang a soft melody, filled with repeated sounds. His voice was high, each note pure and clear.
Seeming to sense that Miguel was watching him, Rushing Cloud stopped chanting and loped back to the shelter. In a barely audible voice he said, “The night comes and we must walk.” He helped Miguel to his feet.
“What were you singing?” Miguel asked. He felt stronger, although he couldn’t put any pressure on his injured foot.
“I am singing of our journey, of the way it will be. I tell I’itoi, the Creator, how he must help us. In the coolness of the night, in the shadow of the mountain, we will walk. Long will be walk, never tiring, never thirsting, like stars walking across the sky.”
Miguel was mesmerized by the sound of Rushing Cloud’s gentle voice. Yet it wasn’t a song, he realized. It was a prayer. Could a heathen’s words be called that? Father Ignacio was certain that only the prayers of the faithful were heard and answered. Still, Miguel knew that the voices of the natives had chanted to their gods long before the church began. The prayers of his Abrano ancestors had surely risen to God, as well.
Miguel lifted his eyes to the brightening moon. The last time he had asked God’s help was on the trail. He had prayed to be rescued. Would his prayers and Rushing Cloud’s both be answered? Which god was listening?
Miguel handed back the shirt, but Rushing Cloud merely tied it around his waist. He scattered the cold stones that had smoldered earlier and brushed all traces of their tracks from the sand. “We must leave no footsteps for others to follow.”
Miguel limped from the shelter, Rushing Cloud keeping a slow pace beside him. He pointed to Miguel’s foot. “Scorpion is your guardian now,” he said. “He will give you power.”
“That’s pretty generous,” Miguel said. “Being stung certainly didn’t make me feel powerful.”
“It is your own knife that has hurt you the most,” Rushing Cloud countered. “Scorpion is sending you a sharp message. He says you have power to survive in the desert with little food or water, as he does. He will help you.”
Miguel looked up at the skies again, seeing a flurry of stars. They seemed close enough to touch.
Rushing Cloud followed his gaze. “Some say scorpion watches the stars to guide his path across the desert,” he said. “If you watched them to begin your journey home, then perhaps scorpion has already guided you.”
“I only know one star,” Miguel mumbled, ashamed of his own ignorance. “I guess I’m not as smart as a scorpion.” He pointed to the brightest star in the heavens. “My father told me that one is always to the north. I know the Indé brought me north into the mountains, as the star was always ahead. I’m pretty sure I have to travel south to get back to my family’s ranch, so I’ve been trying to keep that North Star at my back.” He thought for a moment. “How do you know scorpions can read the position of the stars?”
“The elders tell it,” Rushing Cloud said.
Miguel felt a touch of annoyance. Rushing Cloud seemed so sure of everything, as if he had no doubts in his mind. Miguel suddenly realized that he was no different. Only a week ago, he had been convinced he knew everything he needed. When Papá had tried to teach him about the positions of the stars, Miguel was sure it was useless to learn. When Papá had talked about the family’s history, Miguel had never suspected that Papá had not revealed what he truly had needed to know. What could he believe in now?
Rushing Cloud was quiet, striding through the darkness as if he were strolling down the main street in Tucson. Miguel didn’t know why, but he felt confident that Rushing Cloud would guide him home. Only a week ago, he never would have imagined that an Indian could be trusted at all.
As the night stretched on, Miguel’s hobbling progress became more and more difficult. His bandaged foot began to bleed, and he couldn’t put any weight on it. He bent his knee and placed the pressure on his heel. Soon his good leg cramped from the extra weight and the unnatural position as he limped along. Rushing Cloud got farther and farther ahead until Miguel had difficulty keeping him in sight.
“Wait,” he called softly. “I’ve got to rest.”
Rushing Cloud paused until Miguel caught up. “I will carry you,” he offered, bending down. Miguel barely hesitated before he climbed onto Rushing Cloud’s back, bracing his good arm across his companion’s chest while he held Miguel’s legs. Rushing Cloud kept a swift pace. “We must walk until the sun warms the air,” he said. “First light is already upon us.” Miguel scanned the horizon, but everything looked black.
Rushing Cloud began chanting softly. Miguel didn’t understand the words, but they began to sound familiar as the young man repeated them over and over in the same tone. He wondered if it was the same song Rushing Cloud had explained earlier. Lulled by the sound and the steady rhythm of his companion’s steps, he dozed against Rushing Cloud’s sturdy back.
When Miguel next looked up, the sun was sending its first rays of rosy light over the desert. “I’ll try to walk again,” he offered and eased himself down.
Rushing Cloud pointed to an outcropping of rocks in the distance. The yellow blossoms of a few early-blooming creosote bushes stood out like tiny candles in the shadows.
“There we will build a shelter. It will be cool against the rocks, and we will find water.” He trotted ahead.
How could Rushing Cloud be so certain that there would be water? It didn’t seem as if he had been here before. Miguel gimped along toward the shadowy boulders. Rushing Cloud was already gathering sticks and small branches and setting them across two jagged rocks that jutted out overhead. Using his right hand, Miguel began collecting dry brush to add to the shelter. Low barrel cacti crowned with waxy yellow flowers and flat prickly pear cacti clustered near scattered clumps of thick grasses. The leaves of a gnarled mesquite tree filtered shadows across the sandy soil.
“With the rocks at our backs,” Rushing Cloud explained, “no one can sneak up behind us. The brush will hide us from our enemies and from the heat of the sun.” Miguel saw that the shelter faced east. The early morning sun would not be as hot, and by afternoon when its rays were most oppressive, the sun would drop behind the rocks, leaving them in shade. Rushing Cloud seemed to know all this by instinct.
Miguel thought about the band of Apache. “I don’t think the warriors are tracking me or they would have caught up long before now,” he said. “Maybe they stayed away because you’re with me. Although, if they wanted new warriors, you’re definitely the better choice.” Like the Indé, Rushing Cloud was swift and at ease in the desert. Like them, he didn’t seem to feel the extremes of heat or cold. Miguel thought the natives were truly part of the desert, and it was part of them.
When the shelter was completed, Rushing Cloud stepped among the grasses. He found a flat stone and began to scrape at the sandy ground between the boulders.
“Where is the iron point?” he asked, and Miguel handed him the pocketknife. Without hesitation, Rushing Cloud used the blade to dig deeper. Miguel saw that the sand looked darker. As his companion widened the hole, water seeped in. “Drink,” Rushing Cloud said. They cupped their hands, grateful for the few drops of water that had been hidden just beneath the surface.
“How did you know there was water here?” Miguel asked.
“The elders tell that green grass always stands with its feet wet,” Rushing Cloud answered.
Miguel couldn’t believe that someone his own age knew so much about living in the desert. He was ashamed of his own weakness. Not so long ago, he had argued with his family and bragged about his skills. He had longed for the chance to prove his independence, but he had failed. If Rushing Cloud hadn’t helped him, his birthday might have been his last day.
The two companions pushed closer together in the cramped shelter. Looking across the brightening desert, Miguel saw another roadrunner poised on a rock. Its feathery crest spiked up and then flattened against its head. Miguel touched Rushing Cloud’s arm to show him the bird, but the young man was already studying it.
Miguel reached for a loose stone. The bird was a swift runner, but it could barely fly. This time, my aim will be better, he thought. I will show Rushing Cloud that I can take care of myself.
As he raised his hand, Rushing Cloud held Miguel’s arm down. In a barely audible voice, he murmured, “Watch.”