Chasing the Sun (3 page)

That evening, Hannah yawned and turned the lamp up in order to see her stitching a little better. She was trying to get some special things made for Christmas presents. There would be new doll clothes for Marty’s baby doll as well as a matching dress for Marty, and shirts for Andy. Andy wanted his own horse, though. If only Father . . . A heaviness clung tight to her heart. If Papa was still missing by Christmas, or worse yet, dead . . . “If he’s dead, I don’t know what we’ll do.”

She bit her lower lip and cast a glance at the loft stairs. The children were probably asleep, but she didn’t want to take a chance they might overhear her. Hannah tried hard not to fret about the matter, but there were horrible stories about the prison camps for soldiers. If they put Father in such a place, he might not be able to survive the brutal treatment.

Stop borrowing trouble
, she told herself.
Even Mr. Lockhart doesn’t know for sure what happened.
But something deep inside her told Hannah things were not good. She didn’t know if it was some sort of special intuition or perhaps even God trying to ready her for the worst of news, but she had felt this way only a few times before . . . and each time someone had died.

Her mind whirled as the weight of responsibility draped over her like a heavy mantle. There was some money to run their affairs, that much she knew. Father had hidden a small amount of gold under the floorboard in his bedroom. It wasn’t all that much, he’d told her, but in case a need arose that couldn’t be managed with the household account she’d be set. She’d given it little thought because the household funds had appeared quite sufficient. Although, Hannah had to admit, she’d never figured to head into November dependent on those monies to sustain them. She knew there was a reserve in the bank, as well. Her father had told her how to draw on the account if for any reason he was delayed. Well, now he’d been.

“But surely that’s all,” she murmured. Surely he was simply delayed.

She tried to imagine him sitting before a Union commander, explaining that his mother lay dying in Vicksburg. Who could not understand the purity of that motive? He had not gone east to fight or raise havoc against the Northern aggressors. He was merely trying to come to the aid of his mother. What decent man would do otherwise?

She suppressed another yawn and closed her eyes for a moment. The evening had cooled off nicely and Hannah relished the slight chill in the air. She hadn’t even bothered to light a fire in the hearth, nor would she. There were plenty of blankets should they get cold in the night.

In the silence she tried to pray, but the words stuck in her throat. God had been her lifeline when Hannah had been certain she’d drown in sorrow. And now, alone in the stillness of the evening, Hannah thought of the father she’d adored as a girl . . . and the shell of a man he became in the wake of loss.

Father God, I don’t mean to be such a ninny. I honor you and I honor my father. I want to be a godly woman, but I don’t understand any of this. Why did my father bother to bring us here instead of leaving us with our grandparents? It seems to me we only caused him more sorrow—more reminders of what was lost. I know that it’s to our benefit that we are here instead of in Vicksburg—especially now. But I don’t understand the road my life has taken.

She sighed and shook her head.
I want to do whatever it is you have for me to do, but I also want something more—something infinitely more personal. Is that selfish of me, God? Is it wrong to want a love of my own—a home of my own?
Guilt washed over her. She’d gone right into praying for herself and hadn’t even thought of her father’s situation.

“O God, I don’t know what has happened.” She glanced at the stairs again and fell silent.

Please deliver Father to us, Lord,
she prayed.
Keep him safe, and God, please let Father come back a happier man. Maybe this experience could help him realize what he has and that life is good. Maybe he could find joy in it again. Then we could be happy, too.

Was that too selfish of a request to pray? Did God listen to self-serving prayers?

P
ablo came running through the house, panting. The normally sedate, even shy fifteen-year-old was afire with excitement, yelling for his mother and Hannah.

Juanita looked up from where she was helping Hannah learn to weave a basket and addressed him sharply in Spanish. He rattled off an answer that Hannah couldn’t begin to keep up with.

Juanita turned to her. “There’s trouble.”

“Comanche,” Pablo said. “JD and Thomas saw them. Papa told me to come tell you. Everybody is supposed to stay in the house and close up the windows.”

Hannah felt a shiver go up her spine. “I’ll get the children.” She pushed aside the basket and jumped to her feet. Nearly tripping over her long brown skirt, Hannah barely righted herself before hurrying off to find Marty and Andy.

She climbed up the ladder and found her sister playing with her doll in the loft. It was a good place for her, Hannah decided. “Marty, you need to stay up here for the time. There might be trouble.”

The little girl came to the ladder and looked down. “Injuns?”

Her comment surprised Hannah. “Don’t call them that, but yes, there are problems with the Indians. I need to go find Andy, so you stay here. Promise me you’ll stay there.”

“I could shoot a gun,” Marty declared.

“No. You need to stay put. It’s much too dangerous and I need to know that you are safe. Stay right there. Promise me.”

Marty’s tone betrayed her disappointment. “I promise, Hannah.”

Hannah stared up into the innocent expression. The child was full of brave notions but had no idea what they were truly up against. Back in Vicksburg they wouldn’t have had to worry about Indian attacks. Of course, if they’d remained in Mississippi, they might all be dead from the siege and battle that had killed so many others.

Hannah pushed those thoughts aside. She needed to find her brother. “Andy?” she called out, but there was no answer.

It didn’t take long to ascertain he wasn’t in the house, and Hannah realized she hadn’t seen him in some time. Why hadn’t she kept better track of him?

“Juanita, I’m going to the barn to see if Andy is there,” Hannah told her as she headed for the back door. “Marty is in the loft playing.”

“Go quickly,” Juanita encouraged. Pepita worked with her mother to secure a wooden bar across the shuttered window. “Berto will help you.”

Hannah nodded and made her way from the house. The skies were turning dusky. It would be dark before much longer. Where was her brother?

“Andy?”

Berto appeared, rifle in hand, from around the corner of the barn. “What are you doing here?”

“I can’t find Andy,” Hannah replied. “Have you seen him?”

The man frowned. “No.” He glanced around. “I get my brother and we search for him.”

“What of the Comanche? Were they close by?”

Berto nodded. “Close enough. Thomas and JD saw them about five miles away and rode back fast to tell us. There were about six Comanche warriors.”

Hannah swallowed hard and touched Berto’s arm. “Please find Andy.”

He left without another word, and Hannah turned to survey the grounds around her. The area between the house and barn was mostly hard-packed ground with little grass. The women kept a large vegetable garden to the far side of the yard and had even planted a few flowers and herbs along the front of the otherwise unadorned house. Beyond this, there were pens for the horses, a coop for chickens, the outhouse, the bunkhouse, and the small house where the Montoyas lived. In other words, plenty of places for a young boy to hide.

“Andy? Are you out here?” she called. She scanned the horizon beyond the house.

About a half mile away, there was a river lined with brush and trees. A little farther the land was cut with rocky ravines. What if he’d fallen down one of those? Hannah knew Andy loved to frequent the area. He was always asking Hannah to take them there to explore. She thought to go investigate, but Berto and Diego came running full speed from around the back of the house.

Berto took hold of Hannah and motioned wildly. “Get in the house. The Comanche are coming.”

“But we haven’t found Andy yet. We have to find my brother!” She heard the fear in her voice, and it startled her. This wasn’t just a game. The light was fading and the Comanche were closing in. Six warriors could wreak havoc on a tiny homestead. Larger numbers than theirs had faced small bands of Comanche and been wiped out.

“Berto, he must be close by. Maybe he went to the river,” Hannah suggested. “I can go see.”

“No. You go to the house, Miss Hannah. We will look for him if we can. Go now before it is too late. You and Juanita—get the rifles.”

Hannah froze. They never armed the women unless the threat was grave. She waited only a second more before heading back inside, calling for her brother the entire way. “Andy! Andy, please don’t hide from us! Come to the house right now—there’s danger!”

She paused at the door to the house. How could she seek shelter knowing the eight-year-old was still out there somewhere? Glancing skyward, she prayed as she’d never prayed before. Surely God would protect her brother. He was just a child, after all. Hannah pushed aside thoughts that other children had been lost at the hands of the savages—why should she imagine Andy to be any safer?

“God, please help us.”

“You find him?” Juanita asked, coming to her side.

Hannah turned, tears in her eyes. “No. Berto and Diego are looking for him. . . . They said—they—we’re supposed to get the rifles.”

Juanita nodded, her dark eyes fixed on the horizon. “
Sí.
I get them.”

William Barnett rubbed his right leg and grimaced. Sometimes the pain was so great, he wanted nothing more than to give up and die. His father and brother were dead—so why not him? Why had he been left behind—a cripple?

For months now he’d been recovering from the wound given him in battle. He probably should have lost the leg. The ball that hit him in the thigh had gone clear through, splintering a bit of bone on the way. The surgeon had overlooked Will’s situation at first, but Will’s own men had ministered enough care to ward off gangrene. The wound festered for some time, but little by little the leg healed and the bone reknit. Of course, it left William with a limp and a great deal of pain that the doctor told him would probably follow him throughout life.

Closing his eyes, William tried to forget the sights and sounds that continued to haunt him. War had not been his choosing, but rather his father’s and brother’s. William wanted only to remain behind and care for the family ranch, but his father determined they would go and support the Union—as a family. Berto and the hands could manage the ranch. After all, it wasn’t as if they could send cattle to market. The borders had been closed and the South was quickly depleting of supplies and money.

His father believed the defense of the Union was every man’s responsibility. It wasn’t a war about slaves or individual ways of life—it was about preserving what had been so fiercely won not even a hundred years earlier. America—their country, their United States—deserved faithful protection.

William frowned. The war had taken his father and brother, and Texas had taken his mother. There was nothing left now, except a piece of land they had all once loved.

He was headed back to that land now. William knew he was nearly there; he should arrive just after dark at his current pace.

It hadn’t been easy. After being wounded, William had been transported upriver to a Union hospital. It was there that he had done most of his recovering. It had taken weeks to heal enough to get back up on his feet, and even longer to feel capable of heading home. And then there was the war itself—as a former Union soldier crossing the lines to head south, he’d been at the mercy of both sides. That was why he’d done most of his traveling at night, sticking to the shadows. He’d followed the rivers, staying close to the shorelines and trees to avoid being seen. He’d learned as a boy to live off the land, but that had been prior to his injuries. Trying to hunt or fish with his lame leg hadn’t been easy.

He’d wisely cut across Indian Territory for the last part of the journey. It seemed odd that the risk he faced with the Kiowa and Comanche should be less than that from white soldiers, but so far he’d managed quite well. The farther west and south he went the safer he felt. He wasn’t sorry to leave the war behind and could only hope it wouldn’t follow him to Texas.

Easing up to look over the edge of the rocks, William felt a sense of peace at the empty landscape to the east. He was nearly home. This ravine made an adequate hiding place in which he could stay out of sight and rest until darkness could cloak him. Hopefully, he’d make it back to the ranch in time for supper.

He smiled at the thought of Juanita’s cooking. She made the finest spicy pork and rice. Her tortillas and
frijoles
were the best to be had. William had longed for such meals since leaving Texas. He’d missed the ranch and the people who’d acted as family to him over the last twelve years.

Picking up his few things, William struggled to his feet and moved on. The river wasn’t wide or deep, but it afforded him water and pointed the way home. That alone was worth everything. William longed so much for the comforts of home. The war and its sufferings had been his existence for so long now. It seemed to have lasted a lifetime, instead of just years. Things would be different now, he promised himself. He would put the war behind him and forget the horrors he’d experienced.

His fervent hope was that the war would soon end. Gettysburg and Vicksburg had caused even the staunchest Southern supporter to reassess the war, but then a win at Chickamauga had encouraged their dreams of winning yet again. And so the cycle of destruction continued. . . . But it had to end soon. It just had to.

Winding through the narrow cracks and crannies, William thought of his life and what he would do now. He could imagine his mother telling him to pray, but prayer seemed almost foreign to him now. If God cared, He certainly had a strange way of showing it. For all of his life, or at least a good portion of it, William had trusted that God was good and that He cared for His children. William’s mother had always believed it to be true and her stalwart faith had sustained her younger son. Now, after living through her death and the ravages of war, William knew he could no longer rely on his mother’s faith.

A noise up ahead caught William’s attention. Familiarity with the land had caused him to let down his guard. Crouching low, William leaned heavily on his left leg and balanced himself against a rock as he brought up his rifle.

“Come on now,” William heard a child say. “Don’t be afraid.” And then he heard the unrelenting distress of a longhorn.

He edged forward and flattened himself on the ground. Creeping closer, William could see a small towheaded boy working to free a young steer from where it was caught in the brush. The animal was more than a little agitated, and William feared the boy could be harmed.

“You shouldn’t have come out here,” the boy chided the beast.

William smiled at the comment. The little guy was certainly determined. William decided to lend a hand and started to straighten when another sound above them caught his attention. He pressed back against the rock and waited. He saw the legs of the horse before catching sight of the rider: a Comanche warrior. And from the looks of him he wasn’t full grown—maybe no more than sixteen.

It was easy to see that the Comanche had spotted the little boy. He moved his horse closer to the edge of the ravine and pulled back on his bow. William quietly maneuvered his rifle to take aim. He didn’t want to have to kill the young warrior, but he couldn’t allow him to take the life of the child.

Before he could pull back the hammer, however, something spooked the horse. William rose up just enough to see the boy glance overhead. His eyes widened in fear. William thought to rush to the child, but everything seemed to happen at once. The pony reared and bucked wildly, sending the young Comanche off the back and over the ravine. Crashing to the bottom below, the boy lay motionless—his left arm bent under him at an awkward angle.

William stood, but not before the blond-headed boy moved away from the steer and went to the unconscious warrior’s side.

Squatting down, the boy shook the shoulder of the silent figure. William kept his rifle on the warrior. He’d seen Indians play dead before. The boy hadn’t noticed William.