A clamor of unfamiliar noises disturbed Miguel’s heavy sleep. He awoke to the stifling heat of the captain’s tent, illuminated by bright sunlight against the canvas roof. His head throbbed from the clatter of pots, cursing soldiers, and wagon wheels creaking and groaning. He struggled to his feet, holding the tent pole for support.
Miguel’s stomach roiled and a sour taste, like rancid butter, rose in his throat. Lurching through the tent flaps, he fell onto his knees, vomiting until his stomach had given up every bit of breakfast.
“Considerate of you not to foul the captain’s quarters.” Miguel tried to focus on the tall boots planted in front of his face, then raised his eyes to meet those of the medic. Corporal Pinter reached down and helped Miguel to stand. Everything around him seemed to tilt from one side to another, and his stomach felt queasy.
“I told you no one ever forgets his first taste of whiskey,” the medic said with a wry smile. “How’s that shoulder?”
Miguel tried to move his arm, but a stiff canvas sling bound his shoulder tightly against his side. His elbow was fixed in a bent position, and he could barely wiggle his fingers. Sharp pains in his shoulder throbbed in time with a pulsating headache. Miguel opened his mouth to answer, but he couldn’t seem to speak.
“You’re a pale shade of green,” the corporal said. “Better sit down.” He led Miguel back into the tent and settled him on the cot. “Camp’s just about broke and we’ll still make a few miles today. Think you can handle a wagon ride?” When Miguel nodded his agreement, a new wave of dizziness washed over him.
“Drop your head between your knees,” Corporal Pinter said. Miguel leaned over, and the lightheadedness began to ease.
The medic kept talking quietly. “I’m sorry to report that we won’t make it back to Tucson today. We already lost most of the morning because we didn’t want to move you too soon.” He eased Miguel into Rushing Cloud’s shirt. “The captain sent a messenger on ahead, though, so when we arrive tomorrow, you’ll get a proper welcome.” The corporal opened the lid on a wooden bucket filled with water and dipped in a tin mug. He handed it to Miguel. “Some water will help clear your head.”
Miguel took a few sips, and the medic splashed the remaining water onto the dirt floor. Miguel’s heart raced as he watched the water soak into the dry earth, but he was too worn out to utter a word of protest.
“Okay, amigo, it’s roundup time,” the corporal said. He helped Miguel out of the tent, supporting him with one strong arm. Two sweating cavalrymen began dismantling the tent, pulling up the stakes and rolling the ropes. As Miguel moved away, he saw the aide dump out all the water that remained in the bucket.
The camp seemed swallowed up in a confusion of rushing soldiers. Men tied their tents and haversacks onto their horses and hung frying pans and tin cups from their bulging saddlebags. Several cavalrymen kicked sand over the smoking ashes from abandoned campfires. A few broken tent stakes littered the ground, and one soldier scraped the remains from a dirty plate onto a pile of rotting garbage. The shallow latrine was hastily covered with a few shovelfuls of sand. Miguel stepped carefully around horse droppings that dotted the area where the animals had been tethered, painfully aware of his bare, unprotected feet.
Wagons and horses lined up as they were ready, and the corporal guided Miguel directly to the cook wagon at the front. Three-legged iron pots were stacked inside atop sacks of flour and beans. The water barrel was attached to the back.
“Cookie will take good care of you,” said the medic. The cook who had served up breakfast a few hours earlier gave Miguel a two-fingered salute. He sported a clean shave, and his uniform was neatly brushed.
“You hungry, son?” he asked.
Miguel shook his head gingerly. His attention was drawn to a slow drip coming from the spigot on the water barrel. He cleared his throat and pointed at the barrel.
“You’re losing water,” he said, his voice raspy.
“Don’t pay it no mind,” the cook reassured him. “We’ve got enough water to float this cavalry back to Tucson.”
“Careful with that shoulder,” the medic warned the cook. The two men lifted Miguel onto the wagon seat in one swift motion. Corporal Pinter looked up at Miguel and winked. “No bronco busting or cattle roping today. I’ll check on you again after we set camp tonight.”
Miguel managed a weak smile. “I guess I will take it easy,” he said, “since my head feels like it’s been hit with a fence post and my shoulder feels like it’s on fire. But I’m almost home.”
He looked toward the horizon. If Rushing Cloud was watching, he would see that Miguel was safe. Miguel prayed that his friend was making his own way home.
The cook swung up onto the wagon seat and took the reins of the mule team in his callused hands. Miguel couldn’t stop thinking about the leaking water. The bucket from the captain’s tent that had already been wasted that morning would have been enough to last him and Rushing Cloud for days. Just like the scorpion, Miguel thought.
Miguel turned and watched the campsite fall away behind him. There wasn’t so much as a patch of sagebrush left where the tents had been pitched. An empty burlap flour sack settled into the dust, the red letters stamped on it already faded.
It seemed that the soldiers were determined to change everything around them, leaving nothing as they had found it. Rushing Cloud and the band of Apaches were content to be part of the desert, accepting what it had to offer and leaving no trace behind.
Instead of the near silence that had engulfed Miguel as the warriors moved along a trail, the army officers continually shouted orders, and the clattering wagons made a constant din. Miguel missed the soothing sound of Rushing Cloud’s prayerful singing.
In the late afternoon, as the shadows of the mule team lengthened, the captain rode along the line, barking out orders. The rattling procession drew to a halt. Mounted soldiers rode up to form a double line and dismounted.
“Are we stopping already?” Miguel asked. “There’s plenty of daylight left.”
Cookie whistled the mules to the end of the ragged line and pulled them to a halt. “It’s a heap of work to settle these boys down for the night,” he explained. “There’s the horses to be tended, tents to be pitched, and food cooked up. It’ll be dark before the last plate of beans disappears.”
Now that Miguel was so close to home, a lump rose in his throat at the thought of seeing his parents again. He was ashamed to face them and at the same time realized how much he missed them. He hoped he would be able to find the words to make them understand how the past days had changed him. He felt as if the boy Miguel had walked and walked until he disappeared.
Rushing Cloud would say that Miguel was still the same inside, but now he saw everything around him with new eyes. When Miguel first heard the opening pages of the diary, he had felt anger and shame. Now he had a sense of calm and a willingness to listen.
“Come on,” Cookie said, helping Miguel down from the wagon. “Find yourself a spot out of the way, and I’ll fix you some supper along with the captain’s.” He chuckled. “That means your beans get some salt pork in them.”
Miguel leaned against the wagon wheel and watched the cook stoke a fire and hang black pots of beans from an iron frame. All the soldiers were busy with their own chores and started their own cooking fires. Through the smoky haze, the camp rose out of the desert like a mirage. Men lined up at the water barrel, and Miguel cringed as water splashed into the sand each time the spigot opened or closed.
After the cook had served the captain his dinner, he filled two more plates and balanced one on Miguel’s lap. Miguel scooped up the spicy beans with pieces of blackened corn bread.
Cookie looked at the burnt edges of the pale yellow bread. “May not be perfect,” he said, “but it sure beats hardtack.”
“It tastes good to me,” Miguel said. “It’s a heap better than an empty stomach and lots better than horsemeat.”
“I can’t figure how those Indians can eat a horse.” Cookie spit into the sand. “They’re savages.” Miguel was startled by the cook’s hateful words.
“I guess it’s all a matter of what you’re used to,” he said carefully. “My friend Rushing Cloud said that at the mission school, the native kids hated the food. They weren’t used to it, and it made them sick.” The cook grunted. Before his journey, Miguel might have accepted Cookie’s opinion, but not anymore. The Apache ate what was available, and they were satisfied with little.
Miguel thought of how easily Jacob Franck accepted people who were different from him. The peddler accepted the native people and got along with them. He hadn’t tried to convince the Abranos that his religion was better, or that anyone had to accept his faith to be his friend. It was Miguel who had felt the need to convert nonbelievers in order to accept them.
Miguel shouldn’t have judged Señor Franck so quickly. The way the peddler dressed or wore his beard didn’t make him a demon. Neither did his prayers, simply because they sounded strange to Miguel.
Miguel was restless after sitting on the wagon for so long. That night he wandered around the camp. Tough new skin had grown over the soles of his feet, and he forgot that he had no boots. He looked around the campsite, trying to take his mind off the throbbing pain in his shoulder. He hoped the medic knew what he was doing.
A small group of cavalrymen sat around a small fire while one soldier played a lively tune on a harmonica. They beckoned to him, and Miguel stood at the edge of the ragged circle. The men clapped and hummed along until the harmonica player took a break, wiping off the silver instrument with his neck scarf. Some of the men rolled cigarettes, and one offered Miguel a mug of coffee.
“No, thanks,” he said. “My stomach isn’t sure what it wants to do with the beans and corn bread I just ate. If I add that Rio coffee, I’m afraid it’s going to decide it doesn’t want any of it!”
The men chuckled. The harmonica player lifted the instrument back to his lips, and Miguel recognized the song. Some of the men started to sing the words to “Shenandoah.” The song was filled with longing, and Miguel felt more homesick than ever. He was so close to home, and yet it seemed so far off.
Suddenly, there was a commotion at the far end of camp. A cavalryman rode in as a crowd of soldiers swarmed around. In the flickering firelight, Miguel saw that the rider was leading a bare-chested Indian. His hands were tied in front of him, and he was tethered to the saddle horn with a long rope. Miguel stretched to get a better look, and the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach came roiling back. Even from a distance, he knew that the prisoner was Rushing Cloud.
Miguel tried to push through the crush of men. “Rushing Cloud!” he called, but his friend stared straight ahead. He was bruised and dirty, as if he’d been in a scuffle. The mounted soldier drew to a halt in front of the captain, who was seated on a stool outside his tent, puffing on a clay pipe.
The soldier dismounted and stood at attention, giving the captain a crisp salute. “I knew you said there might be an Indian following the Abrano boy, sir, so I kept my eyes open. I found this one sneaking behind some bushes while I was patrolling the perimeter. I think he’s an Apache scout.”
The captain rose from his chair. “Beef up the guard,” he said to his aide. “If he’s one of the warriors that had captured Don Mateo’s son, he won’t be alone.” The aide moved down the line, calling out certain men by name.
Miguel pushed into the clearing in front of the tent. “He’s no Apache,” he blurted out. “He’s my friend, Rushing Cloud. Untie him!”
The captain scowled. “I think the whiskey is still affecting your judgment, so I’m willing to excuse your interference this time. Don’t let it happen again.”
“But Captain Riverton, this is the person who saved me out in the desert. I told you about him, remember? How can he be an Apache, when he’s wearing sandals instead of moccasins? Look at his hair—it’s short! He’s wearing pants like you and me! No Apache warrior would be traveling without a double quiver of arrows and a bow. And he speaks perfect English!” Miguel faced his friend. “Talk to him, Rushing Cloud.” Miguel’s plea was ignored. Rushing Cloud remained silent, staring straight ahead.
“Set up the cage,” the captain ordered, “and see that his hands and feet are tied. I’ll deal with him in the morning.” There was a flurry of sharp salutes from the soldiers as Rushing Cloud was led roughly away.
“Don’t hurt him!” Miguel shouted. He turned to the captain and felt all the strength leave his body. “He saved my life,” he said, his voice sounding like a whimper. “He’s my friend.”
“Get some sleep, son,” Captain Riverton said sternly. “You’ve got a lot to learn about Indians.”