Grayfox (14 page)

After a while they came in and built a fire for us to sleep next to. I didn't understand why they cared about our comfort if they were going to kill us anyway, but the fire felt good. The desert got cold at night!

Neither of us were sleepy, though—that's for sure.

So we lay there on the ground, still tied up, staring into the fire, and talking. Two or three Paiutes at a time hung around, but whether they could understand us as well as the chief, Sarah, or Tranter could, I don't know. They didn't seem to pay much attention to our conversation, but it was sure a conversation I would never forget.

We found ourselves picking back up on what we had talked about riding toward the Paiute camp.

“Well, son,” Hawk said after neither of us had said anything in quite a while, “I reckon now's the time.”

I glanced up, a look of question on my face.

“Time for what?” I asked.

“Time for us to find out what kind of stuff we're made of. Time for you—and maybe me, too—to figure out what being a man means,” he answered.

Everything about courage and bravery and all the rest of what we had talked about earlier in the day came back into my brain.

“Looks like we got ourselves into a fine pickle. So tell me, Zack, you remember the two fellows we were talking about earlier?”

“Yeah.”

“Which of them two'd you like to have to help us out right now?”

“You mean Jake and the other man?”

“Mr. Fenwick—right. Which of those two do you figure would stand the best chance of getting us out of this alive?”

“I don't know—I reckon Jake.”

“Why?”

“He'd be tougher and braver, I reckon—more likely to fight off the Paiutes or capture Demming or something.”

“He's more like Demming himself?”

“Yeah. Demming could
be
Jake, the way you describe him.”

Hawk chuckled, but without humor.

“Yep, they're cut out of the same cloth all right.”

It was getting late, but we kept talking. How can you sleep when you're scared and you know it might be your last night alive on the earth! So we wound up talking about all kinds of things. It was probably halfway through the night before we finally dozed off.

“I asked you before whether you figured a man ought to be a thinker,” Hawk said. “I don't recollect you answering me.”

“Maybe I didn't.”

“What do you figure? What's your answer about whether a man ought to be a thinker?”

“I don't know. Seems like he oughta be.”

“Jake's a pretty manly sort, but only with his brawn, not his brains.”

“Yeah, I guess I don't know what to say. Maybe there's gotta be both.”

“I'll tell you what, Zack—I ain't at all sure Jake could get us out of this fix we're in. Figuring he was tough enough to take on anything just by being mean and ornery and waving his gun around, he'd likely get himself killed, and us along with him.”

“I see what you mean.”

Again it was silent a while.

The fire was almost out, and the one Indian left guarding us was asleep. But Hawk kept talking. I think he was talking to keep our minds off our predicament.

“All right, then, I'll ask you about something else,” he said. “What about feelings?”

“How do you mean?”

“Should a man be tender and sensitive?”

“That sounds more like a woman than a man,” I said. “The man you call Jake would laugh in your face. Demming too.”

“I'm sure they would. But I ain't at all sure Demming's the sort of feller I want to be like. So . . . should a man have feelings?”

“Yeah, but a
man's
kind of feelings.”

“What are a man's feelings?”

“The same kind of thing we were talking about before—bravery and courage and that kind of thing.”

“And anger and revenge—those kinds of hard manly feelings?” I nodded. “But what about gentler feelings? I mean real deep things like love and sympathy and compassion. Should a man feel them?”

“Hmm . . .” I said. “I don't know. Sounds more womanly than manly.”

“You don't figure feeling those soft kinds of things would help us find Demming and rescue the chief's daughter?”

“Don't seem very likely.”

“Yeah, well I ain't so sure. The way things are looking, seems to me Fenwick might do us more good about now than Jake.”

“But he wouldn't have any experience at these kinds of things.”

“But we need ideas, Zack, not muscles. And maybe we need a little compassion too. Takes more than bravery to make you risk your life for somebody. You gotta
feel
something to go along with the bravery.”

“Hmm . . . I reckon maybe you're right.”

“Let me ask it another way then, Zack. I said Jake used his hands and Mr. Fenwick used his head. I think we were getting around to figuring that maybe a man ought to be able to use both. 'Course Jake had feelings too. But hard kinds of feelings. And what about the heart? Should a man use his heart too? If your hands are where you
do
things and your head is where you
think,
then your heart is where you
feel
.

“Let me put my first question to you like this. Is it
doing
or
thinking
or
feeling
that makes a man?”

“I don't know. Now you're putting all kinds of new things into it—more than stuff like being brave and taking care of yourself.”

Hawk laughed, almost like he'd forgotten where we were. “I'm just trying to get you to look at the question from all the way around it,” said Hawk. “You'll never find the answers to things if you only look at the question from one angle. You've got to walk all the way around something, looking at it every different way you can, before any kind of a complete answer will come to you. So should a man have feelings?”

“I reckon,” I answered. “Just not too much. Not like a woman.”

“How much is too much?”

“I don't know.”

“Well then, I'll leave that for you to figure out later too. Here's another question for you, looking at it from still another angle. Should a man talk?”

“Talk. What do you mean? 'Course he oughta talk.”

“I mean, should a man talk about what he's thinking and feeling? I reckon all men do think and feel—but should they talk about it?”

“I see. You mean how women are always talking about what they're feeling?”

“Yeah. You figure maybe a man ought to keep it inside?”

“Like the fella Jake probably would?”

“Right. You and I been doing lots of talking about what we think. Does that make us more or less a man? But we ain't talked a whole lot about what we're feeling.”

“Men don't, do they?” I said.

“I don't know. What do you think, Zack? Does your pa?”

“No, I don't reckon he does much,” I answered.

It was quiet a long time. I was finally getting sleepy, and I could feel myself drifting off.

“So what are you feeling right now, Zack?” Hawk said.

“I'm scared,” I said.

“I'm glad to see you aren't afraid to admit it.”

“What about you?”

“I'm scared, too. A man'd be a fool not to be. Besides, sometimes fear makes a body more wise and careful.”

“You think Jake would be scared?” I asked.

“Down deeper than he'd want to face, 'course he'd be scared, unless he's an even bigger fool than I think,” said Hawk real thoughtfully.

I was so sleepy by then that I didn't even notice how real he made Jake sound.

“But then Jake'd probably find himself dead tomorrow, and I don't plan to let that happen to either of us,” Hawk added.

“What you gonna do?” I mumbled groggily.

“I ain't sure. But we're not getting out of this alive unless we
do
use our heads—and maybe our hearts too. I ain't at all sure Jake could do us much good. We're gonna have to use everything we've got—our courage and our brains and our feelings—or we're done for.”

When I woke up, Hawk was gone.

It was daylight, though still early. The Indian guarding me was awake and eating something, but he paid no attention to me when I woke up. He didn't offer me anything to eat, either.

I was too nervous to eat, but was hungry nevertheless. And I was some kind of sore to have slept—or tried to!—all night with my hands and feet tied.

I figured they'd already let Hawk go to find the girl. All I could think of was the words I'd heard last night. Pieces of the conversation kept running back and forth through my mind.

If I can't find her in time?

Then we kill boy . . . we keep boy . . . you bring daughter . . . harm come to girl
, boy die. Maybe you die too, Hawk . . . you leave camp
daybreak . . . bring daughter, we give you boy.

I laid there a few minutes, afraid to move. I was pretty stiff and cramped, and so eventually I rolled over. The Indian glanced over at me, then got up and left the tent. A few minutes later he came back, followed by Tranter.

He bent down over me, then smiled a wicked smile.

“Today's the day you will die, little white boy,” he hissed. “I will kill you all—you and that foul dog called Demming! Yes, and your sentimentalist Trumbull. Old fool! He will curse the day he saved my life. Ha!”

“You may kill me,” I said back at him like an idiot. “But Hawk's too smart to let you hurt him. You'll never—”

Wham!
went his foot across the side of my head. I should have known better than to open my stupid mouth. Hawk had said fear sometimes made you wise and careful. It didn't seem to be helping me much!

“You are as big a fool as he is!” Tranter shouted—or he would have been shouting if he hadn't been trying to keep his voice low. It
was obvious he didn't want the rest of the camp to hear his threats. There seemed to be some kind of code of honor between men like Chief Winnemucca and Hawk Trumbull, and I had no doubt if Hawk produced Laughing Waters I would be as safe in the chief's hands as anywhere. But the son of Weeping Feather clearly had another plan to end this crisis—one that didn't involve Hawk and me living to tell about it!

He pulled out his knife and knelt down beside me, flashing its blade right up to my eyes, then sliding it slowly across my cheek, grinning as he did, and watching me squirm.

Then he rose and left the tent without another word, leaving the other man standing watch. Slowly the guard sat down and resumed eating whatever he had been munching on before.

I sat up the best I could with my hands and feet tied and looked around the tent. There wasn't much to see. Nobody lived in it. They must have just used it to put things in they didn't want to get rained on. There were a few skins and tools, pieces of wood, what looked like crude fishing poles and a fishing net, and a nice-looking bow, although the quiver beside it was empty. I knew how to use a bow and arrow well enough from all the time me and Little Wolf spent together. But even if I could get my hands on it, a bow by itself wouldn't do me much good.

What was I thinking anyway? There was a whole tribe of Indians outside!
Paiute
Indians—as ornery and mean as they come, if you listened to anybody except Hawk tell about them!

It wasn't much longer before I realized there was something
else
that needed tending to besides staying alive! Slowly I got to my feet and did my best to tell the brave I needed to go outside and be alone for a minute. He must have gotten my message, because he untied my feet, took me outside, led me a little ways from the camp, and left me to do my business, though he watched me the whole time.

It felt good to walk, and I looked around as best I could to take stock of my surroundings. The tent where they had me wasn't too far from the roped-off corral of ponies off in the direction of the rising sun, but other than that there wasn't too much to notice.

I asked myself what kinds of things Hawk would notice, but I couldn't think of anything. I guess I had a long ways to go before I would be able to really
see
like he'd been teaching me. Everything was quiet. I figured they were waiting for Demming to make his
appearance again. Hawk was probably out there somewhere waiting too, hiding out of sight. For all I knew he was watching me right then.

The next hour or two went by so slow that I almost began to forget my danger. After we were back in the tent my guard didn't retie my feet, which made it a little more comfortable.

I signaled the man about something to drink and he called outside. Another Indian brought me water. After that I lay down again, wondering if there was anything I could do to help Hawk. One thing was certain—I couldn't help him laying there in the Paiute camp with my hands tied in front of me! We would sure have a better chance of tracking Demming with both of us than with just one of us!

Vaguely revolving half a dozen ideas in my brain about how I might escape—all of them ridiculous as long as the Indian, a strong brave twice my size, was watching me, I drifted off to sleep once again.

Sounds woke me!

I don't know how much time had passed. I might have slept for five minutes or an hour.

All I was aware of at first was commotion, shouts, running and scurrying in the camp.

I opened my eyes just as a second brave poked his head into the tent and said something to the man who was watching me. He jumped up, I guess figuring I was still asleep, and ran outside.

I didn't know what the commotion was about. All I knew was that suddenly I was alone!

Instantly I was wide awake and on my feet!

I crept to the opening and peeked out through the skins. The two Indians were running away from the shelter. It looked like the whole camp was moving in that direction.

Then I saw the reason why.

Demming had returned. The chief was walking out to meet him, and most of his camp was following not far behind. I supposed they were just curious, plus they also wanted to keep an eye out in case Demming tried anything.

Without pausing long enough to really think about what I was doing—'cause if I had I'd have realized how crazy it was!—I grabbed the bow, snuck outside the enclosure, crept to another one that was close by, and peeked inside.

Nothing there!

Using precious seconds going from shelter to shelter would have been foolish had it gone on much longer. But lucky for me, in the second tent I found what I was looking for—a quiver with six or seven arrows in it. I would rather have found a knife or a gun, but it was better than nothing.

I threw the string of the bow over my head, grabbed the rabbit-skin quiver, and bolted down the slight hill toward the ponies. It was a good thing my hands were tied in front of me instead of behind!

No Indians were around. They were all watching the chief as he walked toward Demming on the opposite side of the camp!

If I'd have thought of it, I'd have taken out one of the arrows and used the tip to cut through the leather thongs around my wrists. But I was so frantic that I wasn't thinking of anything except getting away. I scooted under the rope of the makeshift corral and found a pony that still had a rope halter around its nose. I fumbled hurriedly to take off its hobbles, then did my best to lead it under the surrounding rope and out of the corral, then struggled to mount.

I nearly fell several times, with my tied hands and trying to hang onto a bow and quiver, and with no stirrup to use. The commotion had gotten the ponies restless, too, and they were starting to whinny and move about. My own pony seemed uneasy about this stranger trying to mount—I'm sure I didn't smell the same as its Indian masters.

I knew someone would spot me any second!

Finally I managed to struggle and pull myself up onto the pony's back.

I kicked its sides with my heels, and the next second we were galloping away from the Paiute camp, down a little hill, and then out across the plain.

Almost immediately I heard shouts behind me.

Clinging tight with my knees, hanging onto the rope halter and the quiver for dear life while the bow bounced around across my back, struggling to keep my balance with hands tied, I don't know how I managed to stay on that pony's back! I do remember feeling a flash of thankfulness for all the time I'd spent riding bareback with Little Wolf.

I glanced back. Several braves were already mounting to chase me. I don't know what had become of Demming. I'd completely forgotten him by now!

I kicked and shouted at the pony. Now that they were after me there wasn't much need to keep quiet! If only I could get my hands loose!

Everything came back to me from months earlier.

Suddenly no time had passed, and I was riding for the Pony Express once more! Here I was out on the plain, trying to get away from the
Indians again. So many thoughts flashed through my brain—the conversation I'd had in my mind with Rev. Rutledge, riding through the rocky ravines, struggling up the mountainside, the fall, my first meeting with Hawk, and a hundred things that had happened since.

I'd thought I was going to die on that day. Had the moment finally come on this day instead?

I could feel the wind whistling through my hair as I rode, yet inside my brain the thoughts slowed down to a different pace. Thoughts of Miracle Springs came to me—thoughts of home, memories and images of faces and happy times from the past. I hadn't thought of home for a long time. I thought of Pa pretty often, but I hadn't let myself remember how good it had sometimes been at Miracle Springs. Maybe the more time that goes by, the more you remember the good things that happened.

Probably only a minute or two passed while I was thinking those things, yet when I came to myself it seemed like waking up after a long sleep.

All at once I was aware again of the wind, of the sound of the galloping hooves beneath me. Then I remembered that I was fleeing from the Paiute camp . . . running for my life!

Again I looked back, expecting to see a war party of angry Indians twenty or thirty yards behind me and closing rapidly.

I was alone!

No other human being was in sight.

Still I continued to urge the pony on at top speed, not believing what my eyes had seen.

A minute or two went by. I was breathing hard and starting to feel lightheaded.

Again I glanced back, still at a full gallop.

Still there seemed to be no one pursuing me.

I eased the pony back to a trot, then finally stopped completely. I turned halfway around, squinting into the distance and listening carefully. I saw nothing and heard nothing. Once the dust from my own tracks had floated off in the wind, there was still no sign anywhere of other riders.

I didn't know what had happened.

But there could be no mistake now—I was alone in the desert, with no one to keep me company but the hard-panting Paiute pony.