Miguel urged the horse faster, keeping pace with his galloping heartbeat. He had to get away from his family’s shocking secrets, away from the diary’s awful tale. Pale moonlight outlined the dark shapes of boulders and cactus, and the horse changed direction often to avoid obstacles in its path.
Miguel bent low over the horse’s neck, racing forward blindly until his head was emptied of all thoughts. He sensed only the deepening chill of the spring night and the feeling that he and the horse were one, whispering across the desert like the wind.
The horse’s panting disturbed the silence that engulfed him. Miguel rubbed his hand along the back of the animal’s neck, and frothy sweat slicked against his skin. He slowed to a trot, fearing the horse would collapse from exhaustion. He could tell by its swayed back that it was an old mount. Papá would never forgive me for deliberately pushing a horse too hard.
Miguel looked for a place to rest. The horse shuddered, its belly heaving between Miguel’s legs. He jerked the reins to the left and headed for a stand of cottonwood trees silhouetted against the starry sky. He didn’t remember a grove like this near the ranch. If there were cottonwoods, there was probably water too.
How far had he come? I don’t even know which direction I rode, Miguel realized. The horse had taken many turns, and he hadn’t noted any passing landmarks to help guide his way back.
The cottonwoods offered a welcoming shelter. Like the horse, Miguel was panting from the exertion of the ride. Vapor formed as their warm breath hit the air. With the sun gone, the desert was quickly growing cold. Miguel loosened his grip on the reins and slid onto the sandy soil, but the horse shied away.
“Whoa, there,” Miguel said softly. He stroked the horse’s long nose, as she snorted and pulled back. The sour odor of cat urine drifted in the air. Now Miguel understood the horse’s nervousness. A puma had visited the stream not long before and marked its territory. He hoped the big cat was not lurking in the trees. He stood still, listening for any sound, but heard only the faint rippling of a brook.
Miguel led the horse to the water, and it lowered its head to drink from the shallow stream. Miguel knelt down, holding tightly to the reins, and cupped his hand into the cold water. His hair fell toward his face as he sipped the water that trickled through his fingers. I’ve forgotten my hat, he thought with regret. He had rushed from the house without thinking. Besides protecting him, the hat would have made a useful cup.
Miguel heard a faint rustle in the scrubby bushes at the far edge of the cottonwoods. He groped along the stream bank until he found a willowy branch. If a puma was lurking in the brush, he might be able to frighten it away. He whipped the branch against a tree, and the sound cut through the air. Miguel blinked into the darkness, alert to danger. He thought he heard the sound of low breathing, and tried to peer into the underbrush.
I probably heard my own breathing or the panting of the horse, he reassured himself. Maybe the earlier noise was just a burrowing pack rat. Or was it a mountain lion, ready to spring? A shiver of fear spread down the back of his neck.
Miguel knew the horse’s energy was spent. It tossed its head and pawed the ground. Miguel couldn’t seem to calm it, but he would have to stay where he was for the night, no matter what other creature might be hidden nearby. He wasn’t likely to find another sheltered spot.
As soon as the sun rose in the morning, he would look for the Santa Catalina Mountains. The ranch was just southeast of the tallest peak. Miguel’s brothers would think their Miguelito needed an escort. If he could just get home before they headed out to search for him, they would see that he was old enough to take care of himself. He made up his mind to start before dawn.
A snapping twig made Miguel jump. He whacked the branch against the ground, but only succeeded in scaring the horse, which gave a whimpering whinny.
If there’s a rifle in the saddlebags, I can shoot if I have to. He doubted he could hit a moving puma, but even the sound of a rifle shot might be enough to scare it off.
He rummaged through the saddlebags, pulling out a pack of playing cards tied with twine, and then a medicine pouch with vials of powders and rolls of white bandages. This must be Doc Meyer’s mare, Miguel realized. He searched his memory for her name . . . Zuzi! That was it!
“Easy, Zuzi,” he murmured, and the jittery horse turned her head as if she recognized her name. “It’s going to be all right.”
Miguel was sorry he had taken Charlie Meyer’s mare. The apothecary would be worried about her, and probably angry that Miguel had been so thoughtless. Surely, Papá would give Doc Meyer another mount to ride home, and Miguel would return Zuzi in the morning. Hadn’t the apothecary said that his horse knew the way home, even if he rode her while he was asleep? All Miguel would have to do is let her lead the way.
He continued to search the bags, pulling out a leather hobble that he slipped over the horse’s forelegs. The soft loops would keep her from running off in the night without being tied up. Miguel foraged in the saddlebag again and discovered a horn-handled jackknife. The small blade wasn’t as much protection as a rifle, but it could be useful if he needed to defend himself. He dropped the knife into his left pocket. He uncinched the saddle and rubbed the horse dry with the saddle blanket, talking in soft tones. Next, he slid the harness over Zuzi’s ears, which twitched alertly, and slipped the bit from her mouth. There was little to graze on, but at least the water would hold her overnight.
“I promise you a bucket of the best feed on the ranch, girl,” he whispered. “Mañana—tomorrow—as soon as we get home.”
Thoughts of Miguel’s family came rushing back. He would soon have to face Papá’s anger and the shame of what he had done. Running away had been childish, just when he wanted to be treated like a man. Papá had kept the Abranos’ secret hidden so long. Why had he told Miguel at all? Bitterness rose in his throat. His life could never be the same now that he knew his ancestors were Israelites. If only he could wipe the memory away and stop feeling its nagging ache.
Under the shelter of the trees, Miguel wrapped himself in the blanket. It was damp with the horse’s sweat, but he was too cold to be fussy. As he fought an overwhelming tiredness to stay alert, the night’s events played out in his mind like a recurring dream. It doesn’t matter about some dead ancestor, he thought. That doesn’t make me any different.
Would the church still consider him a true Catholic? He would have to tell Father Ignacio the whole story and listen to the priest’s decision. Miguel fought against tears, folding his arms tightly across his chest.
As hard as he tried, his eyes kept closing, and he dozed for minutes at a time before jerking awake. Suddenly, Zuzi whinnied in alarm. Miguel leaped to his feet. A sharp pinging sound screamed through the air as an arrow flew past Miguel’s shoulder and lodged in a tree with a loud thwack!
Indians! Miguel raced to the horse and began pulling at the hobble. His hands fumbled with the loops as Zuzi shied backward. Hurry! he urged himself. Faster! He never should have hobbled the horse, or removed her harness. He should have been ready to ride at the slightest sign of danger.
Stepping from behind the trees, a band of warriors appeared like apparitions in the night. Miguel froze at the twang of their bowstrings pulling taut. Even in the darkness he could see the arrows pointed at his chest. A hand gripped his arm, and Miguel struggled to pull free.
The rustling Miguel had heard had been the warriors, not a puma. If only he’d paid attention to Zuzi’s skittishness, he might have ridden away in time.
In a flash, he thought of the jackknife in his pocket, but what use was such a small weapon against a band of armed men? Like in the journal’s story of Aharon ben Avraham, who was defenseless against the soldiers of the Inquisition, one small knife was useless.
The warrior who held him pointed at Miguel’s boots. “Give!” he commanded.
Miguel stared into the stony face of the man towering over him. A clutch of feathered arrows protruded from a beaded leather case slung across his back. It was different from any quiver Miguel had ever seen, with two cases joined together and long fringes flowing from its edge.
He was paralyzed with fear. Without warning, the Indian cuffed Miguel sharply across the ear. The man’s long black hair moved in time with the blow, swinging beneath a white headband. Miguel fell backward, and the horse blanket dropped to the ground.
“Give!” the warrior repeated more gruffly. He kicked at the leather boots. Miguel’s face and ear stung, and he didn’t wait to be hit again. He pulled off his boots and handed them up. The men surrounding him wore tall leather moccasins. The tops were folded over below the knees. The only other clothing they wore was a cotton breechcloth wound between their legs and hanging in long folds from their waists.
Sweat beaded on Miguel’s forehead in spite of the chill. He remembered which tribe wore such distinctive moccasins and carried double quivers. “Apache,” he breathed.
“No Apache!” sneered the warrior as he tugged Miguel’s boots on in place of his moccasins. “We are Indé!” The other members of the band kept their arrows trained on Miguel. They stood silently as their companion strode off into the shadows, digging his booted feet into the soft earth.
A second Indian pulled the hobble from Doc Meyer’s horse and tossed it into the brush. He mounted the horse bareback and rode in a different direction than his companion had walked. Miguel had always believed he could outride any attackers, but now he had no horse. A cold fear settled in the pit of his stomach.
Miguel didn’t think he’d ever heard of a tribe called Indé. If these warriors weren’t Apache, maybe they would be satisfied with taking his horse and his boots. It will take me longer, but I can walk home, even if I have to do it in my socks, he consoled himself. If only they let me go.
The half light of dawn began to lighten the sky. Miguel shivered and wondered how the warriors surrounding him could travel with bare chests. Didn’t they feel the icy chill?
They lowered their bows and returned their arrows to their quivers. Then the band formed a line. The leader at the front picked up the horse blanket and after examining it admiringly, draped it around his shoulders like a trophy. Miguel felt grateful that he still had his shirt. Maybe now they’ll leave me, he thought hopefully.
The leader roughly pulled Miguel to his feet and pushed him into the middle of the line. He pointed in a different direction than the paths taken by the two warriors who had stolen Miguel’s horse and his boots.
“Walk,” a slim muscular Indian behind him ordered. This time, Miguel obeyed immediately, struggling to keep up with the swift pace.
“Where are you taking me?” he asked. His question hung in the air, unanswered. Miguel watched the narrow path in front of him. He didn’t want to tread on a prowling rattlesnake without his boots for protection. He turned his head to the warrior behind him. “Where are we going?”
“No talk!” the young man growled. Miguel marched forward, walking into the desert on an unknown trail.