Miguel huddled against the rocks. He squinted into the inky night, hoping that Rushing Cloud would return as suddenly as he had disappeared. He longed to hear the comforting sound of his friend’s voice singing up the dawn. When at last the sun eased over the horizon in a halo of orange light, Miguel knew Rushing Cloud was not coming back.
The shadow of a lone buzzard glided across the sand, and Miguel looked up to watch the bird’s dark wings floating effortlessly. The ranch hands called the bird zopilote, and said it knew every inch of its territory. The desert was Rushing Cloud’s territory, and Miguel was certain that his friend would navigate his way home as silently as the bird’s shadow.
Miguel stood and stretched, his muscles stiff from sitting in the cold. His shoulder throbbed with pain, and his mouth was parched. He had gotten used to walking at night and now he needed sleep. But the only thing that mattered was getting home. He’d walk into the cavalry encampment and let them take him the rest of the way. His time in the desert was almost over.
As the sun rose higher, Miguel spotted a sentry posted on a stand of low rocks. The guard stood out clearly against the brightening sky. If I were an Apache, that soldier would be an easy target.
Taking a few steps forward, Miguel cupped his hand around his mouth and yelled a greeting. “Ho, there!” Although his injured foot prevented him from running, he moved closer at a steady pace and the distance between him and the guard shortened. The startled sentry raised his rifle in Miguel’s direction.
Miguel stopped. “Don’t shoot!” he called.
Without lowering his rifle, the guard shouted back across the open expanse. “Identify yourself!” His deep voice echoed off the rocks, and Miguel heard the faint repetition of the last word until it faded away. “Yourself . . . your . . . self . . .”
“I’m lost,” Miguel called. “I’m trying to get back to Tucson.”
Two more armed soldiers scrambled onto the rocks, crouching down on either side of the sentry. Now three rifles aimed at Miguel’s chest. Perhaps Rushing Cloud had been right to leave. How would the guards have reacted to two strangers approaching their camp?
“Approach slowly,” the guard ordered gruffly.
Miguel thought he should raise his hands over his head to show he was unarmed, but that wasn’t possible with his injured shoulder. He might look more dangerous with one arm in the air. He exaggerated his limp, dragging his leg more than necessary so that he wouldn’t appear threatening. Still, the soldiers didn’t lower their guns.
At close range, the men eyed him warily. They stood together, their tall crowned hats pinned up on the right side and a small white plume decorating the left. It seemed a strange and useless hat to wear while riding across the desert and even stranger during guard duty. The feathery plume alone would signal a soldier’s hiding place. One young soldier, whose burly neck seemed choked by his tight blue wool jacket, shaded his eyes with his hand and scanned the desert as if there might be others hiding in wait.
“Identify yourself!” the sentry demanded again. Like his companions, his baggy blue trousers were tucked into tall leather boots folded over at the knees. Their square toes looked hard and sturdy. Miguel looked down at his dirty feet, covered with scratches and angry cuts. He couldn’t help thinking how his boots would have protected him from the scorpion’s sting.
Being stung had prevented Miguel from continuing on his own, but it had brought Rushing Cloud to help him. Miguel didn’t know if he had gained any special qualities from the scorpion, but walking the desert with Rushing Cloud at his side had given Miguel a chance to see everything around him in a different way. He had learned that the desert could provide food and water. He had seen how to survive. He had found time to think.
Miguel looked squarely at the guard. “My name is Miguel,” he said. “My father is Don Mateo Abrano. We have a horse ranch just outside Tucson.”
“Well, I’ll be hog-tied,” the sentry declared, finally dropping the rifle to his side. He turned to one of the other soldiers. “Go tell Captain we found the kid.” The messenger clambered down the rocks and rushed into the camp, his hat plume bobbing.
“We gave you up for dead, boy,” said one of the remaining soldiers. He put a strong arm around Miguel and supported him as they entered the cluster of tents and smoldering campfires. Groggy soldiers still in their long underwear stumbled from their low white tents to watch him pass.
The camp tents stretched in parallel rows, giving Miguel the feeling that he was walking down a narrow street. Wispy smoke wafted from the remains of last night’s cooking fires like snuffed beacons. In the center of the camp, horses were tethered to wooden stakes driven into the ground. Some of the animals lifted their heads and tossed their long manes. Miguel was sure they had been purchased from his family’s stock. Abrano horses were direct descendants of the mounts used by the Spanish conquistadors, and they seemed to carry themselves with a fierce pride, as if they knew their lineage.
Miguel had felt a sense of pride about his family’s heritage too. Now doubts had seeped into his mind. He had to admit that Aharon ben Avraham had shown tremendous courage in spite of all that had happened to him. He had tried to keep his faith, even when faced with death. He had overcome great tragedy to build a new life, passing on his beliefs at great risk.
If the scorpion can share his strengths through his sting, Miguel thought, couldn’t my ancestor’s story give me the courage see my own life in a new way?
The row of tents ended at a covered supply wagon that created a barricade. “Wait here,” ordered the soldier who had helped Miguel into camp. He entered a tent set up at the end of the line. It was far larger than the others, and a canopy extended from the front.
The tent wasn’t nearly as interesting as the food cooking nearby. A gray-haired soldier leaned over a black iron frying pan, and Miguel’s mouth watered at the smell of sizzling bacon. A barrel of water sat atop the wagon back, and a few drops dripped from a wooden spigot. Miguel was about to ask for a drink when the cook and the soldiers nearby suddenly snapped to attention and gave a stiff salute as a tall, barrel-chested man stepped out of the tent. Miguel thought the man’s shoulder patches identified him as an officer, but if not, his crisp uniform and ramrod posture certainly did.
“Come in, son,” he said, holding the tent flap open. “I’m Captain Riverton.” He stepped inside behind Miguel and addressed the guard. “Fetch the medic,” he ordered, and the soldier hurried away.
The tent was high enough for Miguel and the captain to stand comfortably. It was sparsely furnished with a wooden table and two low stools, a leather trunk, and a cot whose blankets were pulled taut. The captain pointed to one of the three-legged stools, and Miguel sat down, grateful to rest his foot.
“I don’t know how you arrived here,” the captain marveled. “We tracked you to a cottonwood stand, but then we lost your trail. Our scout guessed that you had been taken by Apache, and he knew their tricks. We picked up the trail again heading into the mountains and thought we’d catch up with you in a day or two, but then the trail went cold. We searched for two more days and, finally, gave you up for lost.” The captain smiled. “It’s been a full nine days now, and here you are! You’ve shown us all up for fools by finding us, instead of us finding you. You’re a pretty resourceful chap to escape from a band of Apaches and make your way across the desert alone.”
“I wasn’t alone,” Miguel blurted out. “You see, I—”
“Breakfast, sir,” the cook interrupted, setting two plates of steaming food on the worn tabletop. Miguel stared at the fried eggs, crisp bacon, and pan biscuits heaped on each plate. He picked up the fork that was stabbed into the biscuit and felt his hand trembling. Everything felt strange and different, even holding a fork. The aroma of the food made Miguel realize how desperately hungry he was. The cook carefully set two mugs of steaming coffee beside the plates and left.
“Grizzled eggs and Rio coffee,” the captain declared. “Not much of a welcome home meal, but I reckon your mother will remedy that soon enough.” Miguel was so thirsty that he took a deep swallow of the coffee and shuddered at its bitterness. “There’s no room for luxuries like sugar on the trail,” the captain apologized in a voice loud enough for the soldiers outside to hear. Then, with a wink, he quietly retrieved a small metal canister from his trunk and poured a stream of coarse brown sugar into each of their cups. He buried the canister under a shirt in the trunk and closed the lid.
“So,” the captain said in a friendly manner, “I’m interested to hear that you had some help on the way back.” His smile seemed frozen. “Who were you with out there?”