Sagebrush
A Novel By
William Wayne Dicksion
Smashwords Edition Copyright 2010 William Wayne Dicksion
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Original Copyright © 2008 by William Wayne Dicksion
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Chapter 1
The Indian Attack
Wheels turning through the virgin sod of the Great Plains, and the prairie grass brushing against the bottom of the wagon, had lulled Michael to sleep. When he awoke, he saw his mother and father sitting on the buckboard and heard them talking about the vastness of the open space. The wagon bumped and jostled as the horses pulled it over clumps of grass. He laid back and again fell asleep.
Suddenly, horses running and people yelling awakened him. He looked up and saw an arrow penetrate his father’s chest and then watched his mother being dragged from the wagon by two Indians. She was fighting them with all her might until one of them struck her with his tomahawk. She fell from the fast-moving wagon and disappeared from his sight and his life forever. Robert McBain, Michael’s father, fell backward on the floor of the wagon, the arrow still protruding from his chest. His eyes were open, but he was seeing nothing. He had died instantly. He was a skilled frontiersman and an excellent marksman, but he didn’t even get a chance to fire his gun.
The attack happened so fast that the horror of what Michael had witnessed had not yet registered in his young mind. Fear, combined with the desire to go to his mother’s aid, filled his heart. The faces of the two Indians fighting his mother were seared in his mind forever. One of them was a big man with a strong, muscular body, wearing only a loincloth. His stringy, black hair hung over his face, and he had a long, purple scar on his right cheek. The other man had a high-beak nose, with black eyes scowling from under a craggy brow. His mouth was just a thin purple slit across his face. His vicious smile showed that he was enjoying the killing. Michael would never forget those faces. The horses pulling their wagon were running frantically, and the wagon was bouncing over the heavy clumps of grass, making it impossible for Michael to stand. The Indians were in full pursuit, yelling and whooping. In panic, the horses ran across a small gully, flipping the wagon over on its back, pinning Michael and his dead father beneath it. When the wagon flipped over, the frightened horses broke free from their hitch, and ran off, dragging their harness. The Indians, wanting those horses, continued in full pursuit.
When Michael regained consciousness, he had a large lump on his head and felt sick. He had no way of knowing how long he had been unconscious, but he remembered that the attack had occurred in the late afternoon—now it was morning. He listened. It was quiet. His father lay dead only a few feet away. At first, he was too stunned to cry. He had seen his mother and father killed. He was only twelve years old and completely alone. His parents were gone, and he didn’t know what to do. They can’t be gone, he thought. But he knew they were. He would never go into the woods again with his father, or hear the sound of his mother’s voice reading to him. It was more than he could bear.
Michael cried for what seemed an eternity till his body had nothing else to give. The silence was so complete that it was overwhelming. The heat was building up inside the overturned wagon. He was hungry and thirsty, but the water barrel, which had been tied to the side of the wagon, lay in splinters. The wagon had fallen astride the small gully, leaving just enough space for Michael to squeeze through. He wiggled out, stood up, and looked around, hoping the Indians were gone. A vast plain of grass and rolling hills extended to the horizon in every direction. In the distance, a line of trees ran through the middle of a small valley. Michael thought, There must be water there. Maybe I can get a drink.
He began walking. The grass was waist high and so thick that it tangled around his legs, forcing him to struggle. The day was hot. He was lost, thirsty, hungry, and frightened. It took a long time to reach the center of the valley, but he had guessed right—a stream ran along the center. On either side, giant trees grew, with their branches hanging over the water. The stream was only a few feet wide, but it had deep pools in places. Where it ran across sand and gravel, sunlight glistened in the rippling, clear water. The water was cool, and he drank until he couldn’t drink anymore. He saw fish in the water. If I could catch those fish, and had a way to cook them, I would have something to eat. But I have no way to catch them, he thought, and no fire to cook them on.
Wild plums grew on low-hanging branches. He tasted one; it was delicious. He picked and ate plums until he felt sick. He didn’t know all of the different animals that lived in this lonely place, but he knew there were wolves, bears, and mountain lions. He had no idea what else might be out there. The plains seemed to be an endless sea of grass. Incessant wind created waves in the long, thin blades causing them to move like grasping fingers gathering the wind.
A herd of buffalo grazed in the distance; their shaggy humps stood out against the steel-gray sky. They snorted as they grazed. He didn’t know if they would harm him, and he wasn’t going near them to find out. He didn’t know what to do, and he had no one to ask, so again he began to cry. Then he realized it would do him no good to cry; his mother and father were both dead.
Michael didn’t know how far along the trail to Santa Fe the wagon train had traveled when they were attacked, but he knew that they had started from St. Louis more than two months ago, and their destination was Santa Fe, New Mexico… Originally, there had been nine wagons in the train. The people were reluctant to make the journey because nine wagons was too small a train to be traveling through hostile territory. They had been following the Santa Fe Trail, which followed the Arkansas River. Michael remembered the men saying that when they reached the headwaters of the Arkansas, the trail would then take them through Raton Pass, and then down the west slope of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains to Santa Fe. Michael also remembered hearing the men discussing a shortcut that was supposed to be an easier route.
The man telling of the shortcut said, “We could cross the Sangre de Cristos farther south and, by going that way, we won’t have to go through the pass at Raton. The shorter trail is called the Cimarron Trail. I’ve been told that the Cimarron River runs dry at times, but this is springtime, and there’s been plenty of rain. There are also stories of others who have taken the Cimarron Trail and had to fight off raiding Indians. So far, all of the Indians we’ve met along the Santa Fe Trail have been friendly, and I think that the Indians along the Cimarron will be friendly, also.”
Michael’s father, mother, and two other families decided to take the shortcut and get to Santa Fe early. The people in the six remaining wagons were not happy about them splitting up the train. They felt that a smaller number of wagons were more vulnerable to Indian attacks, and the new trail was just too risky. The people in the six remaining wagons decided to continue on the Santa Fe Trail.
The three wagons had been following the Cimarron for about two weeks when they came to a spot where the Cimarron was flowing out of the northwest… The direction they wanted to go was west. They looked again at their crude maps and noticed another river only a few days farther south that was bigger. It flowed from the west with its headwaters beginning just northeast of the town of Santa Fe.
One of the others said, “Why don’t we follow that river, since it goes right to our destination? It’s bigger, and it probably has better water.”
“Have you heard of other wagons taking that route?” a second man asked.
“No, but I’ve heard of mountain men taking that route, and they said it was good water all the way, with easy terrain for wagons.”
“We could save about two weeks by not taking that big loop to the north following the Cimarron,” the first man explained.
“Well, let’s give it a try,” the second man said. “Perhaps we’ll start a new trail.”
The three wagons turned south to intercept the new river and were en route when the Indian attack occurred. The attack had happened so suddenly, that they were caught off guard. There were so many Indians and so few people that they didn’t have a chance. It was all over in a matter of minutes.
Michael continued climbing the hill wondering what had happened to the other two wagons. A mother and father, with a boy and a girl, were in the second wagon; in the third wagon were two men and one woman. It had sounded like a large group of Indians in the raid, so they were probably also dead. It didn’t matter, because he had no way to find them, and they would have no way of knowing he was still alive. He probably wouldn’t be alive if the wagon had not hid him when it overturned.
He had to hurry. The sun was already halfway down, and he had to get back. There might be something left in the wagon that he could use, and he had to think about where he was going to sleep tonight. He dreaded going back. His father was still lying under the wagon; he would have to drag him out into the open and bury him. Then, he would have to look for his mother. He didn’t know how he could bear looking at his dead mother, but it had to be done.
He hadn’t thought to mark his trail while walking into the valley, so he was having difficulty finding his way back. Everywhere he looked, tall grass waved in the wind. Animals and birds scurried away as he passed. The land was alive!
Trees grew in the low spots with crows, blue jays, and meadowlarks sitting on their branches. Red-tailed hawks circled, watching for rodents. A large bull snake crawled through the grass right at his feet. It startled him, and he jumped. His father had told him that bull snakes were harmless, but any snake eight feet long and four inches in diameter, was frightening. They may be harmless, Michael thought, but it sure gives you a start when a snake that big crawls right by your feet!
Life was everywhere—in the air, on the ground, and in the water. Climbing through the tall grass was tiring. He wanted to sit down and rest, but he couldn’t because there were snakes, scorpions, spiders, and no telling what else in that grass. He found a gully that made the walking easier and followed it. Just before reaching the top of the hill, he found the wagon. Its wheels were sticking up in the air, reminding him of a tortoise lying on its back unable to right itself.
The opening through which he had crawled wasn’t large enough to drag his father through. A board had broken from the side of the wagon, and Michael tried to dig with it, but it didn’t work very well. His father was a big man, tall, and heavy through the shoulders. Moving him was difficult, but Michael was finally able to drag him to a suitable place to bury. First, he had to remove the grass to get to the dirt to dig the grave.
He couldn’t dig with the board, so he crawled back under the wagon to find a better tool. His father’s pistol and rifle were still lying where they had fallen, but he couldn’t dig with a gun, so he kept looking. Michael’s father hadn’t known how long it would take to accomplish his mission; therefore, he came prepared to stay a long time. When the wagon overturned, it scattered pots, pans, clothes, and dishes, breaking most of the dishes on to what had been the canvas top of the wagon.
Michael found his father’s toolbox, and in it were woodworking tools, a pick, an ax, and a shovel!
He also found a box of fishhooks and a roll of twine. The food locker still contained hardtack and beef jerky. He was hungry, but he didn’t have time to eat. Eating would have to wait until after he had buried his father. He crawled from beneath the wagon and began digging. He wanted to give his father a proper burial, so that the animals couldn’t dig him up. As the hole got wider and deeper, he had to climb into the grave to throw the dirt out. By the time he got the grave dug, the sun was setting. He wrapped his father’s head in one of his shirts. Then, because his father was so heavy, Michael had to roll him into the grave.
Michael felt that he should do something more than just bury him, but he didn’t know what to do. He loved his father. They had camped together many times and explored the mountains of Virginia. He sat with tears running down his face, remembering those wonderful times.
He remained kneeling, crying, and praying, until the sun was just a red ball slowly moving below the horizon. The fading light colored the high, thin clouds, and the final rays glowed across the empty sky. Confused and bewildered, he looked around. A vast plain lay before him. It was hundreds of miles to the nearest settlement. Thousands of Indians, many of them hostile, stood between him and the settlement. He didn’t even know which direction to go. His only hope was to survive long enough that perhaps another wagon train might travel through, and he could join them. He was beginning to understand the hopelessness of his situation. For now, he had to put it out of his mind because it was so overwhelming.
He filled the grave with dirt and knelt, as his mother had taught him to do when he was saying his prayers. He asked God to take care of his father and mother, and to let them be together in heaven. Then he asked God to help him because he was stranded and didn’t know what to do.
He crawled back under the wagon and ate beef jerky. He needed water, but it was too far to the creek, and he wouldn’t be able to get back before dark. With night coming on, and it was getting cold. He found a couple of blankets to roll in, and used his extra clothes for a pillow, then lay down and tried to sleep. The day had been silent, but the night was filled with sounds. In the distance coyotes were howling and wolves yelping down by the creek. Night birds were calling. Mentally and physically exhausted, he fell asleep. Later in the night, he was awakened by an animal moving around outside. He had no way of knowing what kind of animal it might be or why it was prowling around the wagon. He wedged a box into the opening he had dragged his father through, hoping it would prevent whatever it was from getting to him. He sat with his feet holding the box in place; after a time, the sound went away, and he went back to sleep.
Morning light awakened him. He was desperately hungry and thirsty. It was a long walk to the creek, but he had no choice; he had to have water. His father’s canteen was lying nearby. He would take it with him to bring water back. It was too far to keep going back and forth each time he needed a drink. He followed the gully and had gone only a short way when he noticed that the grass was wet. There was no standing water, but it was very wet. He turned around and walked back, looking for the source of the water. After only a short walk, he saw water coming from a draw that entered the gully. He followed the draw and saw water seeping from between two layers of rocks.
It was just a trickle, but after digging a hole at the base of the rock, a small pool formed. The hole was taking a long time to fill, and he couldn’t wait. He had to have water! He knelt and drank like an animal. The water was a little dirty, but it was nice and cold. The pool wasn’t deep enough to fill the canteen, so he made it deeper. Enlarging the hole muddied the water, so he had to wait for the dirt to settle. The second drink was better, no dirt this time. As soon as there was enough water in the pool, he filled the canteen.
Now, he had to have something to eat.
After returning to the wagon, he found the barrel of salt pork that had been tied to the wagon. Plenty of pork was buried in the salt, and by cooking the pork, he would have oil for cooking other stuff. He had camped with his father many times and had learned survival methods. He had meat, seasoning, and water. He found flour and meal in one of the other containers. He had watched his mother cook, but he had never really paid attention to what she was doing. Now, he wished he had.
He had to make a fire. But how could he make a fire? He had no wood, no flint, and no tinder. His father had taught him many things, but he had never taught him how to make a fire without a flint stone and striker.
Thinking of his father and mother brought tears, which he quickly brushed away… It would do no good to cry. He had to get a fire built, but where are the tools for making fire? Where would Father have kept them? They weren’t in his toolbox, and they weren’t in the food locker. Maybe he had them in his pockets.
Oh, no, I can’t dig Father up to find out if he has them in his pockets. Then he remembered the secret compartment, hidden under the floorboards. After searching for a while, he found the compartment and removed the covering. The contents fell around him.
The compartment contained his mother’s books, papers, and a big leather pouch, filled with gold coins! He didn’t have time to count the coins or read the papers—he’d do that later. He needed a fire, so he continued looking for the flint stone. In another pouch, he found the stone and striker. The compartment also held an ornate knife in a scabbard. The knife was beautiful, about ten inches long, with a grip inlaid with silver. As Michael held it, he remembered his father liked to collect knives, and this one was his prized possession. The blade was made of the finest steel and shimmered as he held it. His father once said, “Who knows, Michael, maybe a pirate owned this knife before me. Imagine the stories it could tell.”
* * *
Michael’s father was the owner of a shipbuilding business and frequently took Michael with him on his cruises. Michael learned navigation, so he wasn’t completely lost—he knew where they had come from, and where they were going, but he had no way of knowing the distance either way, other than that they had been traveling for several months when the Indians attacked.
He needed a fire, but the grass was still wet from the dew. Dew hadn’t formed on the grass under the wagon—it was dry. He gathered some of the dry grass, picked up the flint stone, and then crawled out. First, he had to clear an area to build the fire. If the prairie caught fire, everything around him would burn. Using the shovel, he cleared an area, but now he had to have wood. A cottonwood tree was just over a little rise. He found plenty of deadwood beneath it, but it was too wet from the night dew. He was hungry, and he didn’t want to wait for the wood to dry; he needed a fire right now.
The board that had broken from the wagon would have to do. He used the hand ax to cut it into slivers, to use as kindling. He placed the kindling over the pile of dry grass, held the flint, and struck it with the metal striker. Sparks flew, but they didn’t land in the dry grass. He had to get the sparks to land in just the right place. It took several tries, but at last a spark landed on the dry grass, and he saw a tendril of smoke. He blew gently, and all of a sudden there was a flame! He fed more dry grass into the flame until it grew larger. He then placed pieces of the dry board into the flame, and soon they, too, were burning. He had a fire! After the fire was well established, he placed pieces of cottonwood into the fire so it would dry. It worked just as he hoped, and soon the fire was hot enough to cook.
He cut pieces of salt pork and placed them in the kettle with a handful of flour, then poured water into the mixture, and set it on the fire. It took a long time to cook, but it turned into a kind of thick gruel. It didn’t look good, but he was so hungry; it tasted wonderful. After eating, he armed himself. He rigged a sling to carry the hand ax under his left arm, where he could reach it quickly. The knife and scabbard he placed on his belt. The knife and the ax would have to do—that was all he had. The guns were good, but he had no gunpowder so they were useless.
He lay under the wagon trying to figure out how to find people who would help him. He could think of nothing. The only people he knew about were Indians, and they wanted to kill him. He was going to have to make it on his own. He would have to survive, until another wagon train, or some other settlers came by.
Chapter 2
The Search for His Mother
Michael had to know what had happened to his mother, and the only way he was going to know was to go looking for her. He hoped he might find her alive, but in his heart, he knew she had been killed when that evil-looking Indian hit her with his tomahawk. Michael dreaded seeing what he felt sure he was going to see when he found her.
He put some beef jerky and hardtack in his pockets, refilled the canteen, and began retracing the tracks of the wagon. The tracks were easy to follow because the wagon had been pulled through previously undisturbed grass. The distance was greater than he thought. He felt sure that if he kept following the tracks, he would find his mother. When he came to where the tracks of horses combined with that of the wagon, he believed he had located the spot where the attack had occurred. If his mother had been killed when she was hit with the stone ax, she should be lying nearby.
A little farther along, he saw a piece of cloth and recognized it as his mother’s bonnet. It brought back memories of the last moment he had seen her, and he was overcome with grief. Seeing her bonnet made him realize just how great his loss had been. The attack had happened so suddenly that at the time he couldn’t grasp the tragedy that had unfolded before his eyes. He dropped to his knees in the tall grass, held his mother’s bonnet to his chest, and sobbed uncontrollably… Then something warned him that he was not alone.
He stopped crying and looked around. On a ridge just across a valley, he saw four Indians on horseback following the tracks of one of the other two wagons. Michael dropped into the tall grass knowing that he must not move or make a sound or he would die. The Indians were talking in a language he couldn’t understand. Two were riding the horses they had stolen from his father’s wagon! He waited until after the sounds had passed then chanced another look. They were gone—at least he couldn’t see or hear them.
If he were going to survive long enough to avenge the killing of his parents, he had to control his fear, and not cry. Right now, he had no place to run, no place to hide, and no one to go to for help. Seeing the men who had killed his parents caused anger to well up in his throat. He had to find a way to avenge the wrong they had done. He didn’t know how, but he would find a way. At that moment, he promised himself he would not cry again, until he had destroyed the men who killed his parents. He didn’t want to harm innocent people, so he had to make sure he knew what they looked like. They had no way of knowing he existed, as he had been asleep when they attacked, so they couldn’t have seen him.
He followed, staying low in the grass, with his ears tuned for the slightest sound. He saw a spot of dried blood. One of his mother’s shoes and a piece of torn clothing lay nearby. His mother’s body wasn’t there. An overpowering anger consumed him, but he wouldn’t cry. The Indians might hear him. He was just a boy and had no chance against even one full-grown man, and he would certainly have no chance against four armed Indians on horseback. It would take time to find a way to avenge this terrible wrong, but he was determined to survive and prepare for that day. He vowed that he would not let them go unpunished.
He crawled to the top of a knoll and, by peering through the grass, he saw them in a low spot just a stone’s throw ahead. They were pillaging one of the other two wagons. There had been a family of four in that wagon. Four dead bodies were lying in the grass, so he knew he could expect no help from them.
He looked at the Indians carefully. One was big and powerful with a long scar on his right cheek. The scar pulled his right eye down leaving a dark purple streak across his face. Another was a tall and thin man who moved quick and sure. This man was intent on what he was doing and reminded Michael of a vulture picking at the remains of a dead animal. This man’s identifying mark was a missing finger on his right hand. The third man was short and stocky with strong, heavy arms. He pushed his way past the other men trying to get to the spoils. He would be easy to identify—he limped, favoring his left leg. The fourth Indian had a face Michael would never forget. Everything about his face was cruel and mean. He had a high-beak-like nose with two piercing black eyes, set too close to his nose, giving him the look of a huge rat. He was the one who had struck his mother. Their horses were loaded with plunder, but they continued, looking for the other wagon.
Michael followed even more carefully now. He took care not to move the grass as he worked his way through it. It didn’t take long for the Indians to come upon the other wagon. It was still standing, but it had been partly burned. He counted the bodies of the three people. Their bodies had been too long in the sun, and the stench was terrible. The smell didn’t bother the Indians; they were scavenging without hesitation. When they had all they could carry, they climbed on the horses and rode over the hill southbound.
After watching them pillaging the wagons, Michael was sure his mother was dead. He hadn’t seen her body, but there was a lot of blood on the grass where she had fallen. He would like to have buried her, but he was not sure he would have had the strength to do it. He was relieved that he didn’t have to endure something so painful.
He had to get back to his wagon and salvage all he could before the Indians came back. It wouldn’t be hard to find—the tracks were easy to follow.
Chapter 3
The Search for A New Home
It was still early afternoon when Michael got back to his wagon. He hadn’t eaten since morning, and he was hungry. He thought he should save the hardtack and beef jerky, so he ate the remainder of the food that was still in the black kettle. It wasn’t what he would have liked, but it helped to satisfy his hunger.
He began salvaging the things his parents had brought along. He had never lived alone, and he had no one to help or guide him. He didn’t know what to take. He would have to leave some of the stuff behind, and hoped he would be able to pick it up later. He had no gunpowder, so the guns were useless. He looked for the gunpowder, but all he found was the broken keg. Some day the guns would come in handy, so he would try to save them. If they were to remain usable, he would have to keep them oiled and dry. He wrapped them in canvas and covered the canvas with grease from the bucket his father used to grease the axles of the wagon.
He would need the hand ax, the knife, and also the flint stone and striker. He was lucky to have the iron skillet and pot in which to cook his food. There was too much stuff for him to carry. It would probably be best to bury the things he couldn’t take with him, as he didn’t want the Indians to get them. He selected just the things he would need right away, and rolled the rest in the canvas and dragged the loaded canvas to the top of a hill. He covered it with grease and buried it, hoping that by so doing, it would give him enough time to recover the things later. He took the ax, knife, flint, striker, gold coins, iron pot, skillet, fishhooks, and line. He also brought extra clothes and two wool blankets. That was all he could carry. There was no way he could hide the evidence of his having been at the wagon. He felt sure the Indians would come hunting him when they found that someone had survived. His new hiding place would have to be good.
He followed the draw to the creek, waded in the creek to prevent leaving tracks, and followed it downstream for about an hour to a spot where there was a wide tree-covered meadow on the left and a tall lime-stone cliff on the right. At this point, the creek made a right turn around the cliff and continued through a limestone canyon. A small, clear stream was running into the creek from the limestone cliff, so he placed his load on a dry, rocky ledge, and followed the small stream. It ran from under some willow trees, their branches sweeping the water. He had to crawl, to keep his head low enough to pass under the branches. He pushed the branches aside and continued to follow the stream. It was about three feet wide and a foot deep—the bed of the stream consisted of soft, white sand. Michael was pleased to see that the water flowing over the sand filled his tracks after he passed, leaving no trace of his passing. After crawling past the willows, the stream made a sharp left turn, and there he found the source of the water. It was running from a small crevice in the wall of the canyon. The small cave-like opening was hidden by the willows and by the rock formation.
Perhaps inside of that opening will be a place where I can hide, Michael thought.
He entered the cave. It looked like a perfect hiding place. He had to turn his body sideways to squeeze through the small opening, which was too small for a full-grown man. Once he got inside, he found a cavern that opened into a room about twenty feet long and ten feet wide. The top of the cave was so high that he couldn’t reach the arched ceiling. The floor was a rock ledge covered with dry sand. The cave was dry, other than where the water ran along one side. He heard a waterfall farther back, but it was so dark he could not see it. Michael thought, This is a perfect spot! I can come and go without leaving tracks. The opening is almost impossible to find; I didn’t really find it, I just stumbled onto it. This would be my new home!
It seemed his prayers had been answered. He would have to live in semi-darkness, but he had all the water he would need for drinking and bathing. He could make his bed and store his things on the dry ledge. He’d find a way to provide light when he needed it. He would go back to the wagon and get the pork that was in the barrel that would provide salt for his food and oil for cooking. He was lucky to have stumbled onto such a place, or had he been blessed?
Crawling back through the small opening, Michael went outside to where he had left his things, brought them into the cave, being careful to step only in the water and leave no footprints. He had to return to the wagon and get the rest of his stuff, but he knew exactly what he had to do. It required several trips and took him most of the day, but by the end of the day, he had nearly all of his belongings stored in the cave. The rest he re-wrapped in the canvas and again buried it on the hill. After completing this vital task, he sat down to rest. He was tired and hungry, but for the first time since he regained consciousness, he felt safe.
He bathed in the stream, washed his clothes, and laid them on the limestone ledge to dry. He gathered dry grass and wood, carried them into the cave, and built a fire, hoping the Indians wouldn’t return until tomorrow. Again, he made gruel from the meat and cornmeal. It eased his hunger, but he would have to find a way to supplement it, because he was running out of the beef jerky his mother had made.
After eating the gruel, he sat watching the fire and thinking about the last two days and wondered how long he could survive. The sadness, fear, and loneliness were almost more than he could bear.
The fire gave off enough light to see a waterfall about twenty paces back. The floor of the cave was nearly flat all the way back to the waterfall. The water fall would provide a good place to bathe.
He noticed a strange thing—the smoke from the fire wasn’t gathering in the cave. It was disappearing back into the cave, in the direction from which the stream was coming. That meant there was a draft of air coming in the opening he had crawled through, and the draft was blowing the smoke toward the back. There had to be another opening back there. He’d have to check that out tomorrow. Daylight wouldn’t light the cave, but it would help him to see the opening the smoke was escaping through. He was too tired to think about it now, so he rolled in one of the blankets, used the other blanket for a pillow, and went to asleep.
* * *
When he awoke, a faint light was coming in through the opening of the cave. It was morning. He dressed, and cautiously ventured out. He had to find food. He had enjoyed the wild plums and hoped to find more. He was in luck. After only a short search, he found an abundance of wild plums, and he also found ripe blackberries. He removed his hat and filled it with the delicious fruit.
On his way back, a cottontail rabbit jumped up from where it was hiding and ran to a new hiding place under a bush just ahead. The rabbit had been well hidden and Michael wouldn’t have seen it at all if it had not moved. He laid his hat down, quietly picked up a rock, took careful aim, and threw the stone with all his might. Again, luck was with him. The rock hit the rabbit and knocked it unconscious. He picked it up, held its hind legs in one hand, and struck a blow behind the ears with the edge of his other hand, breaking its neck. He had been taught to do that by his father. Now all he had to do was skin and clean the rabbit.
He was elated. He had fresh meat. He would fry the rabbit, using the oil and salt from the pork. He would also fry some bread by making a mixture of cornmeal and flour. He cooked a good meal of fried rabbit and cornbread, and then ate plums and berries for dessert. He felt much better about his chances of survival. After eating, he cleaned his pans with sand and rinsed them in the clear running water.
Last night he had a bath and slept well, and this morning he wore fresh, dry clothes. He was not so frightened anymore and ready for the new day. First, he had to explore his cave and find out where the smoke was going. He wanted to make sure his cave was secure and that he was not going to be found by the Indians should they locate another opening to his hiding place.
Wrapping dry grass around a stick and tying it together with cloth, he made a torch. Then he soaked it in grease, and lit it from the fire that he had used to cook his meal. He followed the smoke into the dark cave. The waterfall was only about fifty feet back from the main room. The cave was high enough that he could walk upright. He passed the waterfall and noticed that the water was running over a white limestone ledge creating a perfect pond. As he proceeded farther back, he found places where the water tumbled over other ledges of limestone. While following the stream, he saw several small rooms. One of these rooms would be a good place to store the things I had wrapped in canvas and buried on the hill. The things would be close, should I ever need them.
After traveling about two hundred feet, the cave was still large enough for him to walk upright with plenty of room to spare. He was concerned about getting lost and was just about ready to turn back when he noticed where the smoke was escaping. He saw light coming through a crevice at the top of the cave. A portion of the cave had fallen in, leaving boulders he could climb to reach the small opening. Michael noticed that the stream continued on beneath the surface, and the water was too clear to be contaminated by surface water; therefore, it had to be an underground stream, possibly continuing underground for many miles, but he had found what he was looking for and felt no need to follow the stream any farther.
He had to climb over limestone rocks and ledges to get to the opening. It was too small to squeeze through, so he used his knife and ax to increase the size, making it just large enough to wiggle through. He made his way outside and found himself on top of the limestone that formed the canyon. The top of the cave was rough with many layers of limestone in tumbled confusion. Large boulders were scattered around, making it possible to remain concealed should anyone be looking. From this vantage point, he could see for miles. He spread his arms wide and felt he had the whole world to himself.
The water that drained from the rolling hills surrounding the vicinity, where the Indian attack had occurred, had made the creek he followed to his cave. After the stream ran past the opening to his cave, it cut its way through the limestone and eroded a canyon that wandered on through the deep valley to the southeast. The terrain on both sides was rough, with many smaller canyons and gullies leading off to either side. Large trees grew in the canyons. It would be difficult to ride a horse through it.
Michael was enjoying the scenery when he realized that at this position he was silhouetted against the sky to anyone in the valley below. He dropped to his knees and crawled to the edge of the cliff, taking care to remain concealed among the boulders. Looking over the edge, he saw the canyon where the opening to his cave was located. It was about a hundred feet below and two hundred feet away. He could see up the creek to where he had entered the water, when he was carrying his belongings to his new home. After he had watched for a while, he saw four Indians riding horses, coming down the hill from the direction of the wagon. When they reached the spot where he had entered the creek, they paused. They were tracking him, and they were taking no chances of losing his trail. After examining the spot where he had entered the stream, two of them rode up the creek and two rode down. They realized that the person they were following had hidden his tracks by wading in the water, but they didn’t know if he had gone up or downstream. The Indians had had a lifetime of practice tracking animals, and they were good at what they were doing.
Michael was concealed on the ledge, and he had a good view of the valley. He watched the two Indians that had come down the stream getting closer and closer. If they found the opening to his cave, they still wouldn’t be able to enter, because they were too big to squeeze through. But if they found a way to enter, they would see his things and continue hunting him. If they found him, he would have no chance at all. His fate would be determined by what happened in the next few minutes. He was frightened and wanted to run, but there was no place to run to. He was almost afraid to breathe. The men rode right on by. He heaved a big sigh as he watched them ride down the canyon, still looking for signs of where he left the water.
The riders who had gone upstream returned to where Michael had entered the water. Apparently, they decided he had not gone that way. They stopped where they had separated from the other two who had gone downstream. Michael felt sure that that meant that the others would be returning.
Afraid to move, he waited for what seemed a very long time. Then, just when he turned to re-enter the hole, he saw the two Indians who had gone downstream riding up the hill only a few hundred yards away. He lay still until they all disappeared. Needing something to conceal the opening, he found small sagebrush, and then wiggled into the hole, feet first, pulling and wedging the sagebrush into the hole, thus concealing the opening. It would be mere chance should anyone find the back entrance to his cave. From the outside, it would look like sagebrush was growing in the crevice of the rock. Moreover, the sagebrush would not block the flow of air needed to vent the smoke from his fires. The smoke would not be visible after traveling the long distance through the cave, and then the sagebrush would scatter the smoke even more, making it nearly impossible to detect from the outside. When he opened the hole to get out, all of his diggings had fallen inside, leaving nothing that could be seen from the outside.
His eyes had been exposed to the outside light, and the cave seemed even darker. His torch had gone out. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the darkness and the shapes in the cavern were becoming visible. He started working his way back through the cave. Deeper into the cave, the darkness was so complete that he had to feel, crawling to prevent stumbling into a crevasse, as he followed the flow of the water. Before long, he heard water running over the rock ledges. He was careful to stay on the same side of the stream, remembering the way he had climbed. But it seemed as though he had been following the stream a long way, and he was getting concerned.
What if I should get lost? he thought. His heart was pounding and realized that there was no choice but to continue. At last, a light appeared below him. He was less frightened now that he was getting close to his destination.
A feeling of triumph came over him when he reached the room chosen for his new home. The Indians won’t come looking for him here again. He had seen them returning to their camp, carrying the plunder from ransacking his family’s wagon. I hope they haven’t found the things I buried.
Michael spent the remainder of the day gathering fruits and nuts. He made torches from pitch from the pine trees. The torch he had made to search for the second opening had worked all right, but torches made from pitch would burn longer and gave off more light. Other than for the small amount of light that filtered in through the opening to his cave during daylight, the torches and his campfire were his only light. He formed the pitch into balls, placed the balls on the ends of sticks, and then pushed the sticks into the ground, forming standing torches. He could have all the light he wanted; plenty of pitch-bearing trees were available near his cave.
Night came, and Michael wished he had someone to talk to. He heard the night animals and wondered if any of them used his cave for a den. What would he do if an animal challenged him for the right to use it? He would have to learn what kinds of animals made what kinds of sounds, and then he would recognize danger.
He bathed in the waterfall, had something to eat, and then looked through his mother’s books by torch light. One was a book of instructions on how to tan leather, another on how to preserve meat and fruit by drying it in the sun, or over a fire. These books contained knowledge that he was going to need if it became necessary for him to live a long time in this wild land. After reading for a while, he rolled up in his blankets and went to sleep. He had spent his first day in his new ho me. How many more would he have to spend before he could find a way to escape from the people hunting him and find his way back to civilization?
Fear was his constant companion. Michael kept busy and tried not to think about being alone.
At first light, he took the shovel back to the wagon and dug up the things he had buried. Fortunately, the Indians hadn’t found it. It required several trips to carry all the things he had stored.
He worked all day recovering the trove, carrying it to his cave, and storing it. By the time he had completed the task, it was getting dark. He again prepared a meal of fried bread, salt pork, fruits, and nuts. Then he crawled outside and sat on the rock ledge in front of his cave, enjoying the sunset and watching all the little animals playing in the meadow across the stream from his cave.
The large trees in the meadow created a park-like appearance. Under the trees, the ground was nearly bare. The shade of the giant trees covered the ground so completely that no sunlight could get through and no vegetation could grow. Off to the northeast, he saw a smaller creek running into and joining the one that ran in front of his cave. These streams ran together only a short distance below the opening to his cave and met at the beginning of the limestone canyon.
It was a beautiful place; the evening was warm, with a soft breeze blowing. High, thin clouds reflected the rays of the setting sun, and the pink light reflecting from the clouds illuminated the trees in the meadow giving it a magical glow. Under any other circumstance, it would have been a wonderful thing to see, but now it only made him more aware of how alone he really was. He wished he had someone to share it with, someone to talk to, someone to tell him what to do. He had no one with whom to share his thoughts, his hopes, and his concerns. There was no one, just the animals, and they couldn’t talk.
The next morning he began going through the things he had recovered. He didn’t know the value of the gold coins—they were of Spanish mint. They were heavy, and there were more than a hundred of them. At least, when he found his way out of his predicament, he would have money.
Among the papers was his mother’s Bible and nine other books. One was the book of instructions he had started to read last night, on how to do the things a person might need to do while living on the frontier. Where he and his family had lived, on the coast of Virginia, people made their living doing the tasks mentioned in the book. The book gave instructions on how to make gunpowder and how to make the lead shots for the guns.
How to make gunpowder—a lot of good that would do me. I don’t have the material for making gunpowder. The ingredients are charcoal, potassium nitrate, and sulfur. I could make the charcoal, but how do I get potassium nitrate, or sulfur? I have no way to make these now, but maybe someday I’ll have a use for it.
In the collection were books about history, mathematics, geography, and English literature. There would be plenty of time to read the books, and there was information in them that might help him to survive. At least, they would help pass the time. These books were his mother’s treasures, and he would cherish them always.
He read his father’s papers. One of them explained the reason they were going to Santa Fe. It was a document of title to fifty percent ownership of a ranch in New Mexico. The other paper was a letter written by a man named Don Diego to his granddaughter Señorita Juanita Diego, explaining who Robert McBain was, and why he was coming to her aid. Don Diego explained that he had been on his way to Santa Fe to help her when privateers sank the Spanish galleon he was a passenger on.
The letter also explained how he had been floating for days in the ocean clinging to debris. Robert McBain rescued him and took him into his home. He and his wife cared for him and tried to restore him to health, but he had been in the water too long. Realizing he could not recover, he asked Robert to act in his behalf and help his granddaughter save the land. The papers and the letter were signed: Don Antonio Fernando Hidalgo Diego. There was also a letter signed by Robert McBain, swearing a solemn pledge, that he would do everything in his power to prevent Juanita from losing her right to the land.
Father is dead now, so this obligation has fallen upon my shoulders, and I’ll try to keep the pledge. I know that is what Father would want me to do. First, though, I’ve got to survive, and my chances of surviving don’t look too good right now … But if I do survive, the first thing I’ve got to do is to avenge the killing of my mother and father.
Continuing looking through the things, he found an eight-place setting of silver knives, forks, and spoons. He also came across a box of family pictures, a book of family records, two unbroken crockery containers with lids, and a few other kitchen tools. He stored them away in a dry chamber deeper in his cave.
Chapter 4
Learning the Way
Michael pledged that each day he would gather food and store it for when he might not be able to obtain food. He knew that if he didn’t do everything he possibly could he would never survive long enough to fulfill his father’s pledge.
He developed a routine so that everything that needed to be done would get done. He began each day by cleaning his cave and making sure there was nothing left on the outside to indicate that his cave was occupied. When his morning chores were completed, he went out to explore his surroundings and gather whatever he needed.
There was no shortage of food. The creek abounded with fish, so he learned different methods for catching them. He used the fishhooks and line he had recovered from the wagon, and for bait, he placed grasshoppers and night crawlers on fishhooks and tied a small rock onto the line. The rock caused the bait to sink into the water. He then used a piece of dry wood as a float and tied it to the line, to allow the bait to sink into the water to the depth he wanted. When a fish was caught on the hook, the floating wood would bob up and down, letting him know that he had a fish on the line. He cleaned the fish with his knife, then took them to his cave, and fried them.
As time went by, Michael learned by trail and error the best way to cook fish. On most days, he did things simply and just roasted the fish over the fire. Sometimes he baked the fish by wrapping it in a leaf, then packing the whole thing in wet clay and laying it in the fire until it was cooked. After the fish was cooked, he peeled away the layers of leaf and dried clay, and he had a delicious baked fish.
He watched to see where the prairie chickens and wild turkeys would go to roost at night. Then it was easy to go to their roosting place, and catch the ones he wanted, while they were sleeping.
He caught animals and prepared them for cooking before he brought them back to his cave, to prevent leaving evidence that someone was living in the cave. He left the remains of the cleaned animals for the scavengers. In that way, none of the animal went to waste, and he kept the forest clean. To an Indian who might see where he had cleaned the animal, it would look like a predator had caught and eaten the catch.
When he chased a rabbit, it would usually run into a hollow log or a hole in the ground. By cutting a green stick that had a forked tip, he could reach into the hole, and by pressing the stick against the rabbit’s hide, give the stick a twist. It would catch in the rabbit’s hide, and he could pull it out. Then all he had to do was clean and cook it, and he had his meal for the day.
Herds of elk, deer, antelope, and buffalo roamed the plains. These animals were more difficult to catch, but just one of them provided a lot of meat, so he didn’t have to catch many. He used a similar technique for catching and killing the larger animals that he used for catching the birds. He watched to see where the herd would lie down to sleep, then creep into the herd, cut the jugular vein of the yearling he wanted, and then wait until morning. When the other animals moved away, he would go to the animal he had slain and claim his prize. He would then remove its hide, take only the portions he wanted, wrap them in the hide, and carry his hard-earned prize back to his cave.
Sometimes, he had to compete with predators for the animal he had killed. The smell of fresh blood sometimes attracted wolves or coyotes. He had to frighten them away to prevent them from taking what he had worked so hard to earn. After taking his kill back to the cave, he cooked a meal from the fresh meat. The rest, he cut into long, thin strips, and smoke-dried it over a fire, so the meat wouldn’t spoil. This was called jerking. Making jerky was a slow process, but if he did it right, and stored in a dry place, it would remain good for a long time. In this way, he was able to store a supply of meat for winter.
He tracked wild pigs and found ways to catch them. He had to learn to catch, prepare, and cook them. He got the oil he needed by rendering the fat, but catching wild pigs was dangerous. His father had told him that a wild boar is as dangerous as a bear. It took Michael a long time to learn how to catch the pigs, while avoiding the dangerous boars. He had to be wary of other dangerous animals, such as coyotes, wolves, bears, bobcats, and mountain lions.
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