The horizon glowed red, and Miguel watched flaming rays of sun reach into the desert sky. I’ve got to remember that the rising sun is on my right, he thought. That means we’re walking north. He looked at the mountains that loomed in the distance. He had to remember the way back in case there was any chance of escape.
Miguel’s socks snagged against the rough stones underfoot, and he was breathless from walking so fast. Yet his captors seemed to exert no energy at all, moving along without slackening their pace. Whenever Miguel slowed, he was shoved from behind. He kept looking for the warrior who had left wearing his boots, but the man hadn’t returned. I’d be able to walk faster with my boots on, he complained silently.
The sun rose overhead, heat shimmered up from the desert, and still Miguel was forced on. The shivers that had slipped up his spine during the night turned to rivers of sweat that rolled between his shoulders and soaked his shirt in the glaring midday heat.
When the sun became oppressive, the band walked in the shade of rocky outcroppings and occasionally stopped for a drink. Miguel was amazed that the men seemed to know exactly where to find a pool or a trickle of water. Now they climbed through a cluster of boulders and gathered around a shallow depression filled with clear water. Miguel was mystified. Did they often travel the same path, knowing the water was there, or had they just discovered it for the first time?
Each Indé scooped a gourdful of water, and he watched them drink while his own mouth stayed parched. They filled their gourds a second time and added a dry powder from their leather pouches. It looked like the cornmeal Carmella ground and stored in a clay jar. Miguel watched hungrily as the warriors stirred the mixture with their fingers and scooped it into their mouths.
He hadn’t eaten anything since last night’s dinner. The memory of Mamá’s Friday night meal sent pangs of hunger through his stomach, and feelings of remorse through his head.
Only after the warriors had eaten did they seem to remember Miguel’s presence. The line leader handed him a dipper and motioned to the water hole. Miguel filled the gourd and drank, feeling the icy mountain water wet his dry lips and throat. He dipped again, but before he could drink, the leader put his hand across the top of the gourd.
“Pinole,” he said, pouring some grain into the gourd. He made a stirring motion in the air with his fingers, and Miguel copied what the others had done. The loose mixture was gritty, but more filling than he expected.
Just when Miguel thought he would have a chance to rest, the line formed again and he was marched into the low foothills. Once he stumbled on some loose rocks and fell forward. Immediately, the warrior at his back pulled him to his feet and pushed him along at the same relentless pace. Miguel searched the man’s eyes for any sign of kindness, but the chiseled face before him was as expressionless as a stone.
Two warriors ahead of Miguel spoke briefly in their own language. Although Miguel was surrounded, he had never felt more alone.
The band traveled higher into the foothills, following a rough trail that wound between large rock formations. Miguel would never have realized there was a path if he had been on his own. He was traveling farther and farther from home with no way to escape.
Now Miguel hoped that his brothers and Papá had organized a search party that might rescue him. His mind swirled with thoughts of other ranchers who had been captured, always by Apache. The men of Tucson would gather quietly in the center of town and form a posse to ride off and search. They alerted the cavalry at Fort Lowell, and mounted soldiers joined the hunt. Sometimes the rescue party succeeded. More often, they brought home a bloodied body draped across a pack mule.
Miguel’s sense of helplessness deepened. How could anyone search for me? No one knows about the cottonwood trees, or even that I’ve been captured. How would they know which direction I rode? Even Miguel couldn’t say which way he had gone or how he had ended up at the stream.
A rough push from behind forced Miguel to focus on the trail in front of him. As if he were a horse prodded with sharp spurs, he trotted ahead in spite of the heat and his thirst, in spite of the stones that cut through his socks and bit into his skin. Soon shadows lengthened in the fading afternoon light. Not even the whistle of a bird broke the silence. Then, like a rock dropped into a well, the sun fell below the mountain.
Miguel was overcome with exhaustion. Maybe it would be better to be killed than take one more step, he thought. Just then, the band entered a clearing bordered by overhanging boulders. A campfire glowed beneath the shelter, and five warriors sat cooking shanks of meat. Miguel blinked, wondering if this was all a mirage.
The warriors greeted one another with words that sounded more foreign than the German greetings Doc Meyer and the peddler had exchanged, and less understandable than the prayer Jacob Franck had chanted. He sank onto a flat rock, his socks stained with blood from his cut feet. A young Indé with a faint scar on his neck strode through the camp, and Miguel immediately recognized the man who had stolen his boots. The thief fixed a cold stare at Miguel and turned away. He had taken a different path, yet ended up at the campsite before Miguel and the band that had led him there.
He’s wearing moccasins again, Miguel realized. What has he done with my boots?
The band relaxed around the fire. None seemed tired from the long hike, and none seemed to fear discovery by a search party.
Miguel had begun to distinguish between the different men and had given each one a name that reminded him of their different attitudes. In his thoughts, he named the warrior who walked behind him and prodded him along the trail as Stone Face. Now Stone Face handed Miguel a gourd of water, and he gratefully gulped it down. His thirst was unbearable, his throat choked with dust.
Miguel chose a name for the Indé man who had taken his boots and returned without them—Bootless Warrior. The thief approached Miguel with a second dipper of water, and Miguel eyed him with suspicion. He reached cautiously for the gourd, but Bootless Warrior tipped out its contents, pouring water over Miguel’s raw, bloodied feet. A thin smile crossed his lips as Miguel gasped at the stinging pain.
The man pounded his fist against his bare chest. “Indé strong!” he taunted Miguel.
The insult stung as much as the water that ran over Miguel’s cut flesh. He didn’t need to be reminded that the warriors were stronger than he was. How long will they hold me before they decide I’m slowing them down too much? If he couldn’t keep up, they would surely kill him. Gingerly, he peeled off the wet, shredded socks and tossed them aside. They hadn’t protected him on the march and weren’t of any use.
One of the men stepped closer and spoke to Bootless Warrior. Miguel couldn’t tell where one word ended and another began. The sounds grated like stones rumbling down a mountain.
But Bootless Warrior understood perfectly. He tugged the front of Miguel’s shirt. “Give!” he commanded. Miguel didn’t want to lose his shirt, but he knew it was useless—and dangerous—to refuse. He pulled the shirt over his head, feeling the cold night air creeping up his arms and chest. A few more warriors gathered around, fingering the cotton fabric and admiring the tiny gold stars that dotted the midnight blue cloth. Then Miguel watched helplessly as Bootless Warrior sliced it with a sharp stone and distributed the strips to his companions. With a snorting laugh, he tossed the detached sleeves at Miguel’s feet.
Miguel seized the remnants and wrapped them tightly around his cut feet. Like his shredded socks, the cotton bindings wouldn’t last long. He edged closer to the fire, hugging his arms around his bare back.
Fat sizzled into the flames, and an unfamiliar odor rose from the cooking meat. Miguel’s stomach rumbled its hunger. He and his captors had eaten almost nothing all day. The warrior who led the group adjusted the horse blanket around his shoulders. Miguel thought of him as Line Leader. He leaned forward and handed Miguel a bone, thick with blackened meat. The smell was repulsive, but Miguel’s gnawing hunger overcame his reluctance. Without food, he would surely die.
Bootless Warrior glared as Miguel chewed at the tough, sinewy meat. What animal was it from? His captor seemed to guess Miguel’s question. He pointed behind some jagged boulders, and Miguel turned to see a large carcass, its bones sticking out helter-skelter. A leather saddle was tossed to the side. With horror, Miguel recognized the remains of Charlie Meyer’s horse. His stomach roiled. Was he eating Zuzi?
A wave of nausea rose into Miguel’s throat. Dropping the bone as if it were a live snake, he fell to his knees, retching into the sand. Through the pounding pulse in his ears, he heard the derisive laughter of his captors. Bootless Warrior, Line Leader, and Stone Face sneered.
Every muscle in Miguel’s body ached, and his stomach gurgled its emptiness. He crawled to a patch of sand surrounded by boulders and curled up as tightly as a fist. He fell into a fitful sleep filled with shadowy images of riderless horses galloping across the desert.