The Captive Heart (20 page)

Once they had gone half a mile or so downhill from the ranch Domingo eased up the pace. But the three of them held their spread and did their best to keep the entire herd ahead of them.

The steep-sided canyon gradually gave way to boulder-strewn slopes, and hours later, as the sun rose red over the jagged peaks in front of them they pushed the herd down through a twisting valley of cactus and sage. Halfway to Arteaga they came across a stream where they stopped to drink.

Domingo got off his horse and dropped to his knees by a little willow at the edge of the stream. Lying flat on his belly, he sunk his head in the cold water, then lay back on the bank, one arm over his eyes. Before he mounted his horse he took the knife he'd salvaged from the weasel, peeled a few strips of bark from a willow branch, chewed on one of them and stuffed the others into his pocket.

Chapter 29

C
aleb didn't sleep much that night, but whatever potion Dr. Gant had given Mamm must have been powerful because she went to sleep and never stirred the rest of the night. No longer able to take the smallest thing for granted, he laid a gentle hand on her back a dozen times during the night, to make sure she was breathing. An hour before daylight he rose, dressed himself, and went downstairs.

Aaron was still there, still dead. It was not a dream. And even with Mamm sound asleep, the echo of a question lingered in the air.

Where is my Rachel?

Leah and Barbara had already stoked the stove and were cooking breakfast. Miriam, Ada, and Harvey had gone out to do their chores.

“Mamm's still sleeping,” he said to the girls as he took his coat down from the hook by the back door. “Leave her be. She'll wake when she's had enough.”

Hollow and drained, he went through the motions of doing chores, but Aaron was all around him. If Aaron were alive,
he
would be the one feeding the livestock right now.

After breakfast Dr. Gant drove over to San Rafael for the day, worried about an outbreak among the villagers. After the doctor left, Caleb walked alone across the valley to Hershberger's farm, taking his time because he needed to be alone with Gott. There were a lot of questions he needed answered.

In the distance he saw men digging with shovels at the base of the opposite slope. Little Enoch Byler had been buried there while he was gone, in the shade of a cottonwood tree. Now the site would become the burial place for the whole Amish community. They were digging three smaller holes and one big one.

He found John working in the doorway of his barn with his sons, fitting planks together for Aaron's coffin. The sight drove another nail into Caleb's heart, but he swallowed the pain and soldiered on because it was all he knew to do. Two smaller coffins were already done and sitting on sawhorses off to one side. John's teenage son was fitting hinges to the lid of one of them while the sound of hammering came from inside the barn.

John paused when Caleb walked up, and gave him a solemn nod for a greeting. No words were exchanged, or needed. Caleb took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, grabbed a planer and set himself to work smoothing raw planks.

The sun shined brightly that afternoon, a warm breeze ruffling the wheat. To Caleb, such fine weather seemed almost cruel.

They held all four funerals at once, on the second level of the Shrocks' new banked barn, because it was closest to the burial site. Since there was no preacher, John Hershberger got up, read from the Bible and said a few words. A couple of other men read and spoke, but not the fathers. It would have been too hard on them. Caleb sat through the whole thing thunderstruck, still unable to fathom a world without his son in it. There was singing and prayer, and though he was there for a long time, it all went by in a blur. Too soon, the time came to file past for one last look into the faces lined up side by side in four boxes in the middle of the crowd—two small, one medium, one large. Even on such a day there were no loud cries, no wailing, for it was the Amish way to endure such things stoically. Shy Cora Coblentz paused by Aaron's coffin for a long moment, touching fingertips to the back of a pale hand, her delicate hopes shattered.

Then came Mary, holding Amos. Little Amos leaned out, smiling, trying to reach his uncle one last time, and Mary let him touch the cold face before she pulled him back. Caleb was standing close enough to hear her whisper, “Remember him, child. Uncle Aaron loved you so.”

Then came the closing of the lids, the turning of the screws, and four boxes were lifted by strong hands to be carried up the hill. Men's voices sang as Caleb stood beside his distraught wife at the foot of the hole and watched the dirt whumping onto the wooden box containing the earthly remains of his son.

———

Dr. Gant was there, on the edge of the crowd, and Domingo's sister Kyra in a black dress and veil. Miriam sought her out and took her, arm in arm, to stand with the family.

When it was all over and the crowd dispersed, Kyra took the chance to grab Harvey's arm and drag him off to the side, by the corner of the house. Miriam had only been able to give her the scantest information about what happened in the mountains, and where Domingo had gone.

Miriam listened in, interpreting for both of them when Harvey's spotty Spanish failed him.

“Who were these bandits?” Kyra asked, peeling back her veil. “And how many?”

Harvey shook his head, uncertain. “Domingo said he thought it was El Pantera and ten or twelve of his men.”

Kyra gripped his shoulders, staring into his eyes. “
Where
in the mountains? How far?”

Harvey shrugged. “I don't think he knew for sure. He said something about a place way up north, somewhere to the west of Arteaga. That's all I know.”

“He didn't say anything else? Nothing?”

“No, that's all he said, but . . .”

“But what?”

“It's just . . . I saw something in Domingo's face I never saw before.” Harvey's dark eyes roamed away from her and his voice dropped so that she could barely hear him. “It was only for a moment, when he looked at me, but I saw it in his eyes. Kyra, he was scared. Domingo was very afraid.”

By midmorning Domingo had let what was left of the herd go and angled off to the right, following a trail toward a mountain pass.

“This is a hard road,” he said. “And crooked. It comes out at the logging place.”

Jake's horse ambled along next to his. “How far are we from Arteaga?”

A shrug. “Twelve, maybe fifteen miles.”

“Well then, wouldn't it be easier to just ride on into Arteaga and take the lowland road south from there?”

Domingo shook his head. “The easy road is not always best. As soon as they round up a few horses El Pantera will come after us, and if he catches us out in the open things will go very badly. We will have a much better chance in the mountain passes.”

They pressed on all day, narrow trails cresting cold rocky peaks and then winding down through dense green forests that closed about them like jungle while all kinds of wild birds called to them from the trees. Rain fell on them twice during the day, but it didn't last long. At least there were plenty of little springs and streams—a good thing, since they carried no canteens. They also carried no food. They had to make do with nuts and berries picked from the brush in passing. Domingo would not allow them to stop for more than a minute or two.

By late afternoon Rachel noticed that Domingo was slumping forward, his head hanging low, hair obscuring his face. He looked to be sleeping in the saddle—very unusual for Domingo. The trail was well marked, and Jake had taken the lead for the last hour or so. Domingo was beginning to lag behind. Rachel dropped back to check on him.

As his horse pulled alongside hers, she touched his arm and he instantly perked up.

“Are you okay?”

“Sí, I am all right,” he said, though his speech was sluggish, his voice soft and tired.

“You don't look all right. Domingo, maybe we should stop for the night, someplace where we can find food. I'm starving.”

To her surprise, he considered this for a moment. “I don't know if I can ride through another night, or the horses either. But if we stop, and they catch up to us, we will never see the sunrise.”

“El Pantera won't ride through the night,” Rachel said. “He will camp.”

He looked sharply at her, his brow furrowed. “How do you know this?”

“They camped night before last, on the way to Diablo Canyon. Some of his men didn't know I understood Spanish and they talked where I could hear. They didn't want to camp. They wanted to go on, but the Appaloosa is night-blind and El Pantera won't travel in the dark because he is too proud to be led around by the nose.”

“This explains much,” Domingo said, nodding, and he seemed to relax a little. “Maybe it will be all right, then. A couple of old
campesinos
have a ranch at the bottom of this valley, friends of my father. We can stop there and rest. I think maybe we have no choice, but I hope you are right about El Pantera's horse.”

She smiled, laid a reassuring hand on his arm. “Gott is with us,” she said, “or we would not have gotten
this
far.”

The trail was wider near the bottom and less steep, so while Jake scouted ahead Rachel kept her horse alongside Domingo, afraid he might pass out and fall from the saddle without them knowing. Instinct told her to keep him talking.

“Domingo.”

He raised up a little and squinted as if he were having a hard time seeing her.

“Domingo, back at the barn . . . that guard was dead.”

He smiled weakly as his eyes went back to the trail ahead. “Jah. Dead as an anvil.”

“Then why did you lie to Jake?”

“Because he was useless. He couldn't think about anything else, and we needed him. What difference does it make?”

“It was a lie. It is a sin to lie.”

Domingo didn't bother answering.

“Sooner or later we will have to tell him the truth,” she finally said.

“Why?”

Rachel's eyebrows went up in surprise. How could anyone not understand?

“Because he is guilty of a great sin, and if he doesn't know it he can't repent. His soul must be clean before Gott.”

Domingo stared, and a little anger flared in his eyes. “Jake saved you from being raped by that animal. He saved your life—and mine, too. He saved his own life, and the lives of all the other innocent people that weasel would have killed someday. How many sins did he
prevent
when he killed that worthless—”

“Every man is Gott's creation,” she said, interrupting him.

Domingo fell silent for a moment. Finally he asked her a question, very softly. “Rachel, do you think he
meant
to kill the guard?”

She didn't have to think long before answering. “No. Never.”

“Neither do I. I know Jake, and he is no killer. It was a mistake. In the dark, he just didn't know when to quit, and El Pantera made him afraid of quitting too soon, that's all. If what I've read is true your God will not punish Jake for such a mistake. All I did was take away the guilt that Jake put on himself. A small, kind lie.”

She turned in her saddle, brushing wild red hair back from her face. “You've read the Book? The Bible?”

A shrug. “Some of it. It makes a little more sense to me now. Or at least your people make more sense. I always thought your religion was the refuge of a coward—but your father is no coward, and neither is Jake. So I read the Book. There were things I could not understand, and I still do not completely agree, but at least now I understand a little.”

They came out of the trees into a meadow, a green strip of bottomland with a creek running through it. Jake was already there, sitting on his horse at one end of the meadow, talking to a bent old man in a ragged straw sombrero. Behind them lay a small ramshackle farm: a scattering of buildings, a corral bounded by a split-rail fence, and a garden patch hemmed in by a thick hedge of prickly pear cactus. Four or five goats and two burros with washboard ribs watched them over the fence of the corral. A dozen brown chickens strutted about pecking for insects, and a thin line of smoke came from a stovepipe on one of the outbuildings.