Captain Riverton was enraged. “What do you mean the footprints lead toward the cage?” Two soldiers stood nervously at attention while he shouted at them. “The prisoner’s gone, so the prints have to lead away!”
Miguel guessed that these must be the guards who had been assigned to watch Rushing Cloud. If they hadn’t spent the evening smoking and drinking so far from their prisoner, Miguel would never have been able to help his friend get away.
“That boy was tied hand and foot and locked in,” the captain bellowed. “Someone must have set him free, so why isn’t there a trail to follow?”
Captain Riverton paced angrily in front of his tent. Cookie busied himself with his breakfast tasks, keeping clear of the captain’s wrath. He adjusted the coffeepot as it burbled over the flames. Miguel added a few twigs to the fire and tried to blend in with the camp’s bustling activity, but the captain caught sight of him and stepped closer.
“What do you know about all this?” he demanded.
Miguel’s head jerked up in surprise. He pretended to be confused. “I just woke up, sir,” he said. “I only know what I just heard.” Miguel erased all expression from his face. “I might know something about the footprints, though.” The captain stared at him, and Miguel tried to look concerned but innocent. “When I was traveling with the Apaches, they never left a campsite without wiping out their prints. Maybe whoever freed the prisoner did the same thing, only he missed some.”
The captain scratched the stubble of black and gray whiskers on his unshaven chin. He glared at Miguel with more than a hint of suspicion. Then he turned back to the two sentries.
“This incompetence will not go unpunished,” he declared. “I’ll deal with you when we return to Fort Lowell.” He strode into his tent with a curt, “Dismissed!”
Cookie melted a dollop of bacon grease into a frying pan. “I bet you know a sight more than you’re letting on, eh?”
“Rushing Cloud didn’t need any help from me,” Miguel lied. “And what could I do with only one good arm?” He cautiously flattened the bulge of rattles in his pocket. “I’ll admit I’m glad he’s free, though. He didn’t do anything wrong.”
“All them Indians give me the creeps,” Cookie said, breaking two eggs into the pan at once. The fat spattered and spit in all directions. “I just hope we’ve seen the last of that one.”
Miguel was certain they had, and he couldn’t help feeling a deep sense of loss mixed with a large dose of satisfaction. He poked around the edges of the camp until it was time for the troop to move out. His shoulder pained him less today, and he realized the medic’s treatment must be working. He tried to help Cookie pack the wagon, but at the first movement, the throbbing pain returned. He let Cookie give him a hand getting onto the high wagon seat.
“Giddyap!” the cook called, snapping the reins. With a creak of wheels, the wagon lurched forward. Miguel watched the cavalry formation snaking across the desert. Bright clusters of orange poppies and tufts of feathery purple blooms spread across the sand like a welcoming parade. Tucson lay just over the horizon. As the morning stretched into afternoon, Miguel dozed, lulled by the rocking of the wagon until the distant peal of bells roused him.
Cookie was smiling. “You hear those bells? Somebody’s glad you’re back.”
As the cavalry approached the outskirts of town, the ringing seemed to echo in his chest. At the well, the women set their ollas down and ran to welcome the troops. Their rebozos streamed behind them in a blur of colors. Miguel had been away so long, but now he was home.
The wagon pulled into town, passing the whitewashed church. Father Ignacio stepped forward, reaching toward Miguel and helping him from the wagon. The clanging bells were deafening, but Miguel was grateful their noise made it difficult to talk. He wouldn’t have to explain anything to Father Ignacio, at least not yet. The priest placed his hands on Miguel’s head, murmuring a prayer. “Thanks be to God that our Miguel has safely returned to the fold.”
Miguel leaned toward the priest’s ear and said, “I’m not the same as I was before I was captured. I learned so much while I was in the desert.”
Father Ignacio nodded. “You are growing up, my son, and your world is growing larger. Soon we will talk.”
Before Miguel could respond, a crowd surged forward with Miguel’s parents in the lead. A lump caught in his throat as his mother engulfed him in her arms, sobbing, and Miguel didn’t complain when she squeezed his shoulder in her embrace.
“Mijo,” she cried. “My son!”
Papá stood close, his eyes moist. “Ah, Miguel,” he sighed, reaching out to stroke Miguel’s matted hair. “At last you are home. Gracias a diós.”
Miguel looked into his father’s eyes and felt tears spilling down his cheeks. “Papá,” he mumbled. “I didn’t understand. I am so sorry.”
“We’ve both had time to think about what we could have done differently,” Papá said. “Now we will have time to make things right.”
Esteban and Ruben, like two sides of a coin, pushed through the crowd. Esteban was dressed in black finery, and Ruben wore neat work clothes powdered with red desert dust.
“Welcome home, hermano. We missed our brother, Miguel!” Ruben hoisted Miguel high onto his shoulder. The crowd cheered and Miguel gazed down into the faces before him—squinting ranchers with their bonneted wives, weathered campesinos in white shirts and pants, and Tohono O’odham women balancing burden baskets against their backs. His glance lingered on the faces of the native women. Perhaps one day they might give him news of his friend.
Luis and Berto pushed through the crowd. They whistled and waved to get Miguel’s attention. He had worried about whether his friends would turn against him if they learned about his Jewish ancestors. Now he knew that if Berto’s ideas didn’t change, Miguel couldn’t be his friend. Miguel had also been afraid of what Father Ignacio might say. All those worries were in the past.
The sea of people parted as Ruben paraded down the street and set Miguel down in front of the apothecary shop. Charlie Meyer shook Captain Riverton’s hand and stepped up onto the wooden walkway. He raised his arms and the crowd fell silent.
“This is a day of celebration for all of us. We thank the Almighty and the US Cavalry for bringing home our son, Miguel Abrano.” The people sent up a loud cheer.
One day soon I will tell Doc Meyer about how little the cavalry did, Miguel thought, and I will tell him about Rushing Cloud.
He stepped closer to Doc Meyer. With a trembling voice, he said, “Zuzi is gone. Can you forgive me?”
Charlie Meyer’s dark eyes narrowed into slits. “You’ll work this off, yah?”
Miguel’s head drooped. “I’ll do whatever it takes to pay you back,” he promised. “I can sweep the store as soon as my shoulder heals, and dust the shelves. I’ll deliver packages too.”
The apothecary bent closer, and Miguel breathed in the familiar scent of pipe tobacco. He lifted Miguel’s chin. “It’s a tease I am making,” he said. “After all, who can worry about an old horse as long as you are safely home? Zuzi’s life was nearly over, but yours is just beginning.”
Jacob Franck stood just behind Doc Meyer, twisting his round hat in his hands. His hair was neatly cut, and without even looking Miguel knew there had been no horns hiding beneath the peddler’s hat. He still wore his long black coat, and his beard sprung out in all directions.
“So brave and strong you are,” Señor Franck praised him.
“Not so much as I thought,” Miguel said, “but maybe more than I used to be.” The peddler hadn’t changed at all, but Miguel realized he saw him differently.
Señor Franck cleared his throat and shifted his feet nervously. “I am sorry if I am making so many troubles because of my reading,” he apologized. “Maybe I shouldn’t be here.”
“Oh, no,” Miguel said quickly. “I hoped you’d still be in Tucson.” He reached out to shake the peddler’s hand, feeling its warmth. “Some time before you leave, I—I, that is, would you read the diary to me? I want to hear the whole story this time. I really do. And I’ll listen.” Maybe he would tell the peddler about Rushing Cloud too.
“Your Papá and I have been working on that book every day,” he said. “You can help us write it out in Spanish.”
Doc Meyer put his arm around Jacob Franck. “I’m not letting him leave,” he announced. “Right here he is staying—in a store right next to mine. Now and then a little cards we’ll play and keep up our German. We don’t want to forget everything about the Old Country!”
The peddler nodded. “No more housewives waiting months for buttons and blankets. And no more lonely traveling!”
Esteban rode up on his horse, leading the pepper-gray yearling. “We missed your birthday, but we didn’t forget,” he said. “We knew you had your eye on this one, and Papá says it’s time you had your own horse to care for. Hopefully, he’ll know the way home if you ever get lost.”
Miguel reached up and stroked the horse’s neck, and it tossed its long gray mane. They were both descendants of the conquistadors. Miguel would train and care for it until they could race across the desert like the clouds.
Papá gave him a boost into the saddle. The horse pawed the ground, and Miguel leaned forward and whispered, “Easy, Rushing Cloud.” The horse perked up its ears. “Yes, that’s your name now—Rushing Cloud.”
Miguel was certain that his friend’s village was welcoming him back too. His family would be proud of how strong and brave Rushing Cloud had been to leave the mission school and cross the desert alone. Well, almost alone, he thought.
He looked out across the crush of people. How good it was to hear the voices of his family and friends. Before him, the many faces of Tucson melted into one.