The Captive Heart (19 page)

Chapter 27

J
ake smiled, hardly daring to believe his captors were really that gullible. But he would do nothing yet—best to wait a while and let things die down.

“Rachel!” he called.

“Jake?” came the answer from the darkness.

“Are you all right? Have they hurt you?”

There was an awkward pause that worried him.

“No, I am unharmed,” she finally said. “Jake?”

“Jah?”

“I love you.”

Those words, from Rachel, even from the darkness in the middle of hell, warmed him. But they also broke his heart.

“I love you too, Rachel. Try to rest.”

He would say nothing of the trick he had up his sleeve for fear the guard might hear him, even though there was little chance of the guard understanding Pennsylvania Dutch.

He knew a trick, a way to get off the chain, but despite the overwhelming urge to free himself and go to Rachel's side, instinct told him to talk to Domingo first. The native had not moved, and Jake was afraid he might even be dead. A little moonlight angled through the cracks of the barn, enough so that Jake could see his friend lying motionless in the dirt where they had dropped him. Jake brought the water bucket and knelt beside him. Untying the bandanna from around Domingo's neck, Jake wet it, squeezed it out and wiped the native's face with it. There was a gash on the side of his head where someone in the melee had pistol-whipped him, and a cut on his chin, probably from a boot.

After a while, as Jake swabbed the wounds on Domingo's face, he started to come around. He squinted through swollen eyes, trying to focus in the dark stall.

“Jake?”

“Jah. I am here.”

“Where are we?”

“In the barn, chained in a stall. I guess they use it like a holding pen for the girls they kidnap.”

Domingo groaned. “Is Rachel all right?”

“Jah. She's in a stall on the other side. I saw them put her in there. She's on a chain, like us.”

Domingo's hand lifted the log chain, held it to his face. “Too heavy,” he muttered, dropping it. “We will never be able to break this.”

“We don't have to. They locked your handcuffs straight to the chain, but not mine. They only passed the chain through my arms. I can get loose.”

Domingo blinked, raised his head and stared.

“How?”

Jake smiled, remembering. “When they made us go to public school, Rachel and I got to be friends with an Englisher boy named Anthony. He called himself The Great Antonio. He did little magic tricks for a hobby, and sometimes he would show me how he did them. Look . . .”

Jake took a loop of the long chain and poked the links up through the iron cuff against the flat of his wrist. When the loop was big enough he passed his hand through it and then pulled the loop back out.

“See? Simple,” he said, holding up his hands. He was still wearing the handcuffs, but the chain was no longer between his arms. “I can't believe they fell for it.”

“That's a good trick,” Domingo said, laying his head back down and closing his eyes, “but it won't do
me
any good. Or Rachel.”

This was true. Domingo's handcuffs were padlocked directly to the chain. Jake had no answer for that.

“Can you put it back on?” Domingo asked. He winced, and laid his arm over his eyes.

“Jah, sure. Same way. But I want to go see about Rachel first.”

“No. It's too risky,” Domingo muttered from behind his arm. “We have an advantage—they don't know you can get free. There will be a guard with a lantern right outside the barn door, and if he hears you and comes in we lose our advantage. We will only get one chance, so we must make it count. Do you have a plan?”

Jake shrugged. “I don't know where I am or how to get home. Even if I did, I don't know how to get you and Rachel free. But I did have a plan. My plan was to wake you up and ask you what I should do.”

Another groan. “My head is killing me.”

He lay still for a long time, and Jake thought he had gone to sleep until he grunted, “We have to take a guard, get his key. There is no other way.”

“But you have no weapons.”

“Then we will take him with our hands. I can't do it alone—you will have to help me, Jake.”

Jake sighed. “I don't think I can do that.”

Domingo moved his arm from his eyes and stared at him in the striped moonlight. “Then you will die, and I will die, and Rachel will be sold into slavery.”

The harsh reality of his words struck Jake like a slap to the face, but he didn't answer.

The arm went back over Domingo's eyes. “There is time. Our best chance is later. They have just returned from battle and they are celebrating. Let them drink their fill. I have to rest now, try to clear my head.” His words were a little slurred.

But Domingo was right, and Jake knew it. Reluctantly he put himself back on the chain and stretched out in the stall to wait. A minute later he turned to Domingo and asked, “How will we get the guard to come close?”

There was no answer. Domingo's breathing was slow and regular, asleep. Or unconscious.

Even from the barn he could hear that the party in the bunkhouse had picked up steam. Someone had broken out a guitar and a squeeze-box, and thirty half-drunk bandits were singing.

Singing.

The unfairness of it all washed through Jake like a wave, alone in the darkness, in chains. None of them had asked for this, neither he nor Domingo, and certainly not Rachel, but all of them faced an unthinkable fate now, all because of these low men and their greed. As he lay there listening to their drunken singing he couldn't stop thinking about Rachel's dismal future. He grieved over it. An uncommon anger festered in him, and grew.

Caleb tended to Aaron personally. He laid him out on a makeshift table in the living room, washed him, dressed him in his Sunday clothes, laced his boots on his feet and combed his hair. He draped a blanket over Aaron's legs, covering him up to the chest and folding the cold hands placidly on top of it.

It was the hardest thing he had ever done, and it took something out of him that he knew would not be replaced. He aged five years in a single afternoon, and when he finally stood back and gazed upon the slack gray face of his son, ready for the grave, his own mountainous resolve failed him. He sank to his knees and wept.

He didn't even look up when he felt Harvey's hand soft on his shoulder. Shaking his head, Caleb whispered, “It's not right. A man should not have to bury his child.”

But it was a momentary self-indulgence. From upstairs he heard the cries of his wife, consoled by a bevy of daughters, yet inconsolable. Martha's bloodcurdling wail made him flinch the first few times, explosive grief building pressure and erupting. Then the wailing would cease for a time and he would hear nothing, though he knew what lay between the screams, and the silence filled him with an even deeper dread. Something in her had broken. Between the outbursts of wailing Martha would whimper quietly, her eyes roaming, searching, until she sought the nearest face and asked, “Where's my Rachel?”

One of them, usually Miriam, would sit beside Mamm, put an arm around her and patiently explain for the tenth time that Rachel had been taken by bandits, and that Jake and Domingo had gone to fetch her back. This was all they knew, for Caleb had spared them the details. A fresh horror would creep into Mamm's face and she would shrink into herself, babbling softly for a time, whimpering, unable to get her mind around so much catastrophe all at once—so much loss and uncertainty. So much fear. Her daughters would sit holding her, rubbing her back and shoulders, begging her to lie down and try to sleep, but she made no sign that she heard them.

After ten minutes of frightening incoherence she would suddenly remember poor Aaron lying dead downstairs, and the cycle would begin anew with a heartrending wail.

The wailing Caleb could take. What he couldn't bear was that question, repeated without fail every ten or fifteen minutes, and the unsettling fact that Mamm's broken mind simply wouldn't accept the answer.

“
Where's my Rachel?
”

The whole valley was full of wailing and mourning. A few people stopped in to offer condolences and grieve with the family, but many stayed away because of the quarantine. John Hershberger came by to tell Caleb he and his sons would build a box and have it ready by tomorrow afternoon.

They were all there in the evening: Emma and Mary with their husbands and babies, Ada, Miriam, Leah, Barbara and Harvey. Everyone but Rachel. Mamm didn't last long downstairs because she couldn't look at Aaron without wailing, and Emma was finally forced to herd her back upstairs just to get her calmed down. Even as she labored up the steps Caleb heard Mamm's tired voice, raspy and exhausted, asking Emma, “Where's my Rachel?”

The Benders treated grief the way they would have treated any insurmountable task—they divided it among themselves and shared it.

Long after dark, when the room had fallen silent but for the guttering and hissing of two kerosene lanterns, Dr. Gant came in.

“They told me about Aaron,” he said, glancing at the body. “Caleb, I can't tell you how sorry I am. It must be a terrible blow. I wish I could have come sooner, but I've been so busy.”

Rising from his chair, Caleb shook the doctor's hand. “It's all right. Your work is with the living.”

Gant hung up his hat and sat down in a kitchen chair beside the rest of them without saying a word for a minute or two. There were dark circles under his eyes and he moved slowly, worn down by long hours and great responsibility. After a while he leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, fingers tousling his full head of gray hair.

“I watched three children die today,” he said through his hands. “The Yoder baby this morning, and a twelve-year-old boy this afternoon—William Yutzy. The little Coblentz girl passed just an hour ago. I did all I could, but it wasn't enough.”

An anguished moan went up from the girls, and the women wept anew. The Yoders were a young couple whose oldest child was just beginning school. The lost infant was their youngest. Caleb didn't know the Yutzy boy because they were from Geauga County and had only been in the valley a few days. But he knew little Suzie Coblentz well. She was a pretty little thing and only four years old. The day, somehow, grew even bleaker.

“But we've turned the corner now,” Gant said wearily. “The others are all improving, and I don't think any more will die.”

Mamm's wail pierced them from upstairs. Dr. Gant pulled himself upright and stared at the ceiling over his head.

“Is she all right?” he asked.

Caleb sighed deeply without looking up. He shook his head. “She's been like that all afternoon. I'm scared she's losing her mind.”

“I can give her something,” Gant said quietly.

This was not done, normally. Medicine was to be avoided when possible, especially when it was only for comfort. Caleb sat staring at his callused fingertips for a long time, pondering his own part in dragging his family to Mexico, questioning his own wisdom and goodness, beaten down by doubt and guilt.

“All right,” he finally said.

Chapter 28

R
achel bolted awake in the middle of the night, frightened. Her chains rattled as she sat up, staring, trying to make sense of the shadows in the barn. Something had awakened her and filled her with dread, but she had no idea what it was.

The moon had gone down and the barn was deathly quiet. The only light came from the lantern of the guard outside the barn door, shining through the cracks. She strained her eyes, peering through the slats of the stall toward the door. Nothing moved, but something was not right. Maybe it was only some strange sound that had stirred her—a rat, perhaps—but she couldn't be sure.

She gave up and started to lie back down when suddenly it struck her again. It wasn't a sound, or a sight. Her nose caught a faint whiff, and she knew.

That smell was familiar, and it chilled her to the bone. Crabbing backward, dragging her chains, she stared at the dark wall just inside her stall, eight feet away. There was nothing in front of her but pure blackness, yet now it seemed that part of the blackness shifted and grew.

The straw crunched, right next to her. A sinister whisper came to her on a wave of foul breath.

“Did you miss me, mi pequeña fresa?”

And then a low chuckle.

A panic-stricken scream welled up and almost burst out, but a callused hand clamped itself over her mouth and pushed her down, hard, into the straw.

Kneeling next to her, the weasel whispered into her ear, as close as a lover. “Everyone is sleeping, my sweet strawberry. The midnight sentry was very tired and happy to let me take the watch for him. Now we are going to finish what we started last night, no? Do not scream, señorita. I will not harm you—if I did, that pompous windbag would hunt me down and kill me. But I swear to you, if you make a sound I will put my knife to your little boyfriend.
Entiende?
”

She nodded. He lifted his filthy hand from her mouth and stepped back, to the far corner of the stall. “Excuse me for a moment, mi fresa,” he said, chuckling darkly. “Don't go away.”

In the blackness she could see nothing, but she heard him dropping things in the dirt—heavy things, like knives and a gun belt. Lastly, there was a softer rustling that must have been his coat.

She knew there was no way she could stop what was about to happen, so she removed herself from it. Even when he came back and lay alongside her she refused to cry out, no matter what, because of Jake.

But why did Jake have to come?
She wept for him even now, amid the terror.

He moved against her, and in the dead silence she could hear the rustling of the weasel's clothes, the clink of his belt buckle, the nervous breathing—and the stench was palpable.

A hand clamped over her mouth again, and foul breath blew hot on her face. The time was near. In desperation she carried herself far away and saw herself riding with Jake in the wagon, in Salt Creek Township. The sun shined and a warm breeze kissed her face. She could see Jake's smile, his kind eyes.

But she was snatched back to the present by the tiny clink of a chain and a gurgling grunt. The grimy hand jerked away from her face, and boots kicked furiously at her legs. The weasel rose up and away from her for no apparent reason, but she could still hear him kicking, flailing. It made no sense.

It suddenly dawned on her that they were not alone! The thrashing noises she was hearing were the sounds of a deadly scuffle.

Rachel sat up and tried to see. Something was happening over against the wall—black shadows writhing in the dark. Legs flailed, boots crashed hard into wood, and she heard a fierce grunting like a man straining against a heavy load, animal rage vented through gritted teeth.

The kicking and thrashing gradually stopped, but the grunting didn't.

She gathered herself and crawled backward at first, putting herself as far away as possible, for she did not know, could not fathom what fearful thing had just happened right in front of her. But as her pulse began to slow and reason flooded back into her petrified mind, she knew that two men had just fought, and the ensuing silence could only mean one of them had been rendered unconscious. Or dead. It occurred to her as a minute passed, and then two, that if the weasel had won the fight she would already know it. All she could hear was heavy breathing, straining, grunting. And yet the struggle seemed to be over. No one moved.

Light. She needed light. She had to see for herself. Groping to the bottom of the deep pocket of her dress, she felt three kitchen matches. Taking one out, she began to crawl toward the sound, dragging her chain. She still did not know who, or what, was in front of her, so she stopped a few feet short of the grunting and struck the match with her thumbnail.

The light flared, and in it she saw a sight so grotesque that she leaped back in horror, dropping the match. The light winked out, returning her world to a blackness deeper and more terrifying than before.

But the image had been burned into her mind: the weasel lying on his side, staring straight ahead with bulging, unseeing eyes, his lips blue, his tongue protruding, a thin dark chain pulled hard into his windpipe, one arm lying limp in the dirt and the other still clenched at his throat. A pair of strong hands gripped the handcuff chain on either side of his neck, shaking with brute force, even now. And from over the weasel's shoulder another face glared at her, also unseeing, though very much alive. Veins stood out, and the face grimaced with an unthinking rage.

Jake's
face.

Rachel crawled to him, reached for him in the dark, found his head with her hands. Jake's whole body quivered, still pulling with all his might against the chain.

“Jake.”

She gripped harder, instinctively turning his face toward her despite the complete darkness.

“Jake! It's me, Rachel! Jake! Let go!”

Slowly, his arms began to relax. The chain clinked.

“You can let go now, Jake. It's over.”

She felt him come to himself. His arms went limp, his head turned, and then, with a little surprised wail of grief, he snatched his handcuff chain over the bandit's head as if it had burned him and lurched backward, crabbing away from the weasel's body and out of Rachel's grasp.

She heard footsteps, running away. Jake flashed through the strips of lantern light from the door and stumbled headlong into the stall gate on the other side of the barn. The hinge squeaked as he threw the gate wide and staggered into the stall, moaning.

Those eyes. The clenched teeth. The
rage
. She had barely recognized him. Fearing for Jake's sanity, she knew she had to do something quickly, before he took a notion to run screaming outside and wake up the rest of the bandits. It took all of her willpower to make herself do it, but she reached out to the weasel and felt through his shirt pockets for a handcuff key.

Nothing.

She moved down his body, found his pants pocket in the pitch-dark and searched until she found the little T-shaped tool with a tip like a tiny gun barrel. Her hands shaking, she fitted it into the handcuff and turned it, quickly.

The key tightened down and wouldn't turn any more.

The other way.
She cranked it the other way, five, six, seven turns, and then she heard the click. The cuff fell away from her wrist.

She had the presence of mind to drop the key into her dress pocket as she ran across the barn. Probing with her hands like a blind person, cuffs dangling from one wrist, she groped her way into the stall and followed the sound of moaning until she tripped over Domingo and landed on top of Jake, huddled in a corner.

She put her arms about him, pulled him close and kissed his face.

“Shhhh. It's all right, Jake. Everything is all right. It's all right . . .”

A stirring, behind her.

“Rachel?”

Domingo. His voice was weak and raspy.

“Jah, it's me,” she whispered. “Jake strangled the guard. I have the key.”

“Give it to me.” Already, Domingo sounded more focused. Pulling the handcuff key from her pocket, she groped in the dark until she found Domingo's hand and put the key in it.

“Should I go get the lantern from outside?” she asked.

“No.” Chains rattled as Domingo dropped his handcuffs in the dirt. “As long as the lookout on the ridge can see the lantern burning he will think everything is okay. Leave it.”

Holding Jake, consoling him, trying to bring him back to his senses, she heard Domingo crawl over to the wall where the water bucket sat. She heard water sloshing over the sides of the bucket when he dunked his whole head in it. Domingo sat up and leaned back against the wall, where she could just make out his silhouette. He shook the water from his hair, tied the bandanna around it, and dropped his head into his hands.

“Are you all right?” Rachel asked.

“Jah, I will be,” he said. “Give me a minute. What hour is it?”

“I don't know. Two . . . three, maybe.”

Domingo sat motionless for a few minutes, breathing, collecting himself.

“Get Jake's cuffs off,” he finally muttered, handing her the key. “Star is in one of these stalls with Jake's horse, and the saddles are probably on the rail, but we'll need another. The buggy horse they stole, will it come to you?”

“I think so. He knows me well.”

“Then get him in here. Quietly. I'll go and get the guard's weapons.”

Domingo used the slats of the wall to pull himself to his feet, then staggered out of the stall clutching his ribs.

“Jake,” she said, gripping his face. “Jake, I need you to help me.
Please
, Jake.”

He nodded, finally. “All right. What would you have me do?” His voice sounded washed out, forlorn.

She got him up, took his cuffs off and dragged him to the stall at the back of the barn where the horses waited.

“Saddle these two,” she said. “I'll get the other one.”

———

Rachel was helping Jake tighten the last strap when Domingo came and shoved a rifle into Star's saddle scabbard. Wearing the weasel's gun belt, a bandolier of bullets on top of his poncho, a bandanna tied around his head and black hair hanging down his back, Domingo looked like one of the bandits. After Jake finished with the saddle he just stood there staring at his hands, despair and confusion written on his face.

“I will open the big cattle gate,” Domingo mumbled, rubbing his forehead. “We'll drive the herd out with us as we go.”

“Why?” Rachel asked. “I thought we had to sneak out quietly.”

“No matter how quiet we are the guards on the bluff will see us, and their rifles will wake the others. This way we can create confusion and slow them down. The bandits will have to get their horses back before they can come after us. If we are lucky the herd will hide our tracks and make it harder for them to follow us. What's wrong with Jake?”

Rachel hesitated, staring at her boyfriend. She was afraid to say it out loud because of what it might do to Jake, but Domingo deserved to know the truth.

“He fears for his soul,” she said softly as she reached up and rubbed Jake's arm. “He killed a man.”

Jake said nothing, but he swayed and his knees started to buckle.

Domingo caught him, held him upright. He locked his arms around Jake's shoulders and looked him in the eye.

“Is that what's wrong with you? You thought you killed that guard?” Domingo grinned and forced a laugh. “No, Jake, he is not dead; he's just out cold.”

Jake blinked, stared. “He's not dead?”

“No! You can't kill these bandits—they're tough as coyotes. I checked his pulse. His heart beats like a racehorse.”

“Are you sure?”

“Jah, I'm sure. He will wake up in the morning with a headache, that's all. He probably won't even remember what happened.”

Rachel shot Domingo a little sideways glance. She wouldn't interfere, but she knew what she had seen.

“I'm going to see for myself,” Jake said, turning.

Domingo grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “There is no time to waste. We must go.
Now
.”

———

The corral was wide but not deep, framed as it was by the box end of the canyon. All three of them were good riders, so they had no trouble getting behind the herd and driving them through the open gate. When they had cleared the gate Domingo shouted and whooped, firing a pistol over the horses' heads and driving them into a frenzy.

The panicked horses raised a dust cloud as they thundered past the bunkhouse and then the main house, scattering the embers of last night's campfire and trampling the edge of the cornfield. It was pure bedlam. Jake and Rachel took the flanks while Domingo brought up the rear, riding hard and lying low in the saddle as bandits scrambled from the bunkhouse in their nightshirts, shouting, firing blindly with their pistols. But it was dark and most of the bandits were drunk. A couple of bullets ripped the air over Rachel's head, rifle fire from the lookouts on the bluff, but nothing came close.