sure he can. But if he doesn’t come home, how are we going to know he caught up to them and something else bad hasn’t happened? That whole place is infested with some of the vilest people to ever walk the earth.”
“Now who’s assuming?” Eli asked.
Rachel climbed down from the fence. “You know what? Forget I asked. I’ll go find him myself,” she said as she turned toward the barn, fuming. She wasn’t really surprised by Eli’s hesitation. Elias hated conflict and he fancied himself a scholar after going back East to college, thinking he’d leave ranch life behind. He got his degree, but then he floundered around for a couple of years until their father derailed the money train and he was forced to come home.
“Stop, Rachel,” Eli shouted.
Rachel whirled around. “What? You change your mind?”
“You’re not riding off by yourself.”
Rachel stomped back toward the corral. “I will if you won’t. I swear, Eli, you’re ’bout the biggest coward I ever seen.”
“Think what you will, but this is not an issue of bravery or cowardice. It’s simply an issue of time.” Eli sighed and looked off in the distance a moment before turning back to look at Rachel. “What if Seth arrives back home after I leave? I could spend all afternoon searching for something that isn’t there.”
“Well, Eli, I reckon a grown man could follow the trail of seven men and a boy on horseback.”
“Touché.” Eli looked down at the ground and nudged a dirt clod with the toe of his boot. As tall as Percy at six-two, Eli was much thicker and heavier, having gotten a good dose of his father’s genes. Not to be outdone, his mother had contributed her fair share, too, giving Eli her red hair and blue eyes and, with it, the pale skin that was so susceptible to the sun. Eli never left the house without his hat and kept his lower face shaded with a well-groomed beard and mustache. He looked up at his sister and said, “Perhaps I’ll ride out for a look.”
“Not by yourself. I don’t want to have to send someone out to look for you, too,” Rachel said.
Eli shot her an angry look. “I’m a fine navigator but I suppose Winfield Wilson could accompany me.”
“Good choice. One of you needs to be able to shoot a gun and Win can shoot the wings off a fly. Plus, he can read sign almost as good as Wilcox.”
“Your assumption that gunplay might be involved is based on what exactly?”
“I have no idea what you’re liable to run into but having Win along would ease my mind some. In fact, it’d probably be a good idea if you left your pistol home and took that scattergun of yours. Not much aimin’ involved with that one.”
Eli’s cheeks reddened with anger. “I’ll decide which weapons are best to take. And, I have to say, you are vastly underestimating my shooting abilities.”
“Maybe so but I’m not goin’ to stand here and argue your pistol prowess, Eli. Seth’s already been gone too long.”
CHAPTER 7
Forbidden from riding north into Indian Territory, Seth was now traveling in unfamiliar lands. It wasn’t much different from his side of the river—it had the same flat terrain, the same gnarly branched blackjack trees bunched along the creek banks, and the same tall clumps of blue grama grass—but what made this side different was the fact that he was now trespassing on land owned by the Indians. And when he thought about that, his heart rate accelerated a bit. He soon gave up on trying to remember any of the landmarks and focused his full attention on following the trail left by his father’s group. It wasn’t a difficult task because the tracks were still relatively fresh. The few times he had trouble were when the group ahead hit a patch of rocky ground or had crossed a creek and drifted downstream before riding back out. But with a little practice he was able to pick up the trail and continued on.
Heat waves shimmered in the distance and, as soupy as it felt, Seth knew a summer storm wasn’t out of the question. And storms in these parts could boil up quickly and, just as quick, turn into violent, lightning-infused monsters. He glanced up at the sky and didn’t see any storms forming, but he knew it was early yet. He nudged the bay gelding with his spurs to quicken the pace. Although he didn’t really like storms, his main fear was the possibility of the trail being washed away and not being able to find his way back home.
He looked up and spotted a grouping of teepees in the distance and adjusted his course to avoid them. Seeing Indians was nothing new for Seth. Living where they did, Indians came and went, trekking back and forth across the ranch land almost on a daily basis. Most were peaceable and more than a few would stop by the main house to trade leather goods or hides for groceries or something they needed. And if they were really hungry his grandpa would trade them a steer or an injured cow in exchange for some work he might need.
But Seth was also well aware that there were other types of Indians nearby—the ones who would kill or kidnap him in an instant. And the biggest problem with that, as far as he was concerned, was that you couldn’t tell the difference between a friendly Indian and an Indian with bad intentions. The only way to know if they were friend or foe was to wait and see their reaction and by then it was usually too late. To compensate, Seth’s intention was to avoid all Indians, period. And that was hard to do because he was currently riding through lands owned by the worst of the worst—the Kiowas and the Comanches. From the stories he’d heard, the Comanches were the meanest Indians to ever ride the earth.
Thinking of the Comanches and the possibility of a storm popping up had Seth worked into a lather. Why would they care about a twelve-year-old boy? But then his mind drifted to the stories of Comanches kidnapping other children and the horrors they’d faced. And he’d even overheard some of the ranch hands talking and they’d said the Comanches’ favorite forms of torture often began with some combination of fire and knives and ended with severed body parts. And as Seth thought about that, fear spider-walked down his spine and he twisted in the saddle, searching the area for lurking Indians. None were visible, but that didn’t necessarily slow his heart rate any because everyone knew an Indian could sneak up on you without making a sound.
Seth tried to force his mind to think about something else and he focused his attention back on the trail, hoping—praying—he’d catch up with his father’s group sooner rather than later. But try as he might, he couldn’t keep his mind from clicking back to the Comanches. He thought he recalled his father saying that most of the Comanches, or at least the most dangerous ones, were not and had never been on the reservation, but he couldn’t remember if it was them or another tribe. And there was a big difference between a Comanche and a Cherokee.
Reining his horse down into a small creek, he was surprised to find water. This time of the year most of the smaller creeks ran dry and the Red River slowed to a trickle. His horse dipped his muzzle into the water and drank deeply and then Seth rode up the far bank and attempted to pick up the trail on a patch of rocky ground. His father’s group appeared to be heading almost on a straight line, but he didn’t know if they had a particular destination in mind or were simply following the rustlers’ tracks. He loosened the reins and let the horse set the pace as he studied the ground, which soon transitioned from rocky to sandy, allowing Seth to pick up the trail again.
When he glanced up at the sky again an hour later it looked like a storm was forming out to the west. He watched it a moment as the clouds boiled and billowed, growing larger by the minute as the updraft pushed the top of the storm ever higher into the sky. It was fascinating to see, and Seth could’ve
