The Captive Heart (7 page)

Chapter 8

O
n the long drive home Caleb constantly scanned the lengthening shadows of rocks and trees for signs of an ambush. But they were only shadows, devoid of threat. Perhaps El Pantera was, after all, a man who kept his word. The log-laden wagons encountered no more trouble on the return trip, arriving at the farm well after dark. Exhausted by a long day of hard work and a tense ride home, Caleb slept that night as one dead.

The next morning the men gathered at the saw pit. By the time the sun had climbed enough to take away the night chill the older sons had already shed their coats and sweated through their shirts as they drew the two-man ripsaw rhythmically up and down, up and down, slicing logs into lumber.

As Caleb and John put their shoulders into cant hooks and rolled a fresh log onto the trestle, Ira walked up. He leaned his forearms on the edge of the wagon.

“Caleb, we need to talk,” he said. “We got to do something about these bandits before somebody gets killed or, Gott forbid, they do harm to our daughters.”

Caleb climbed down from the wagon and John followed, lighting his pipe.

“I'm not sure what we can do,” Caleb said. “I'm as fearful of these men as you are, Ira. They are hard men, without conscience, but would you become as they are? In the end I think we must do everything we can to avoid provoking them. We must not become their enemies.”

There were gray circles under Ira's eyes. He had not slept well, and even now his red face was clouded with worry. “That kind of thinking may be fine for most of these vermin, Caleb, but this El Pantera fills me with dread. What kind of country is this, where evil men do as they please without anyone to stop them?”

“I will stop them,” Domingo's voice said. He had come up behind Ira and overheard most of the conversation. “I will stop them if I can, but you must understand a few things, Herr Shrock. Most of the people you will meet are ordinary hardworking farmers like you, but there has been a war. Now that it is over, these northern hills are full of Pancho Villa's rabble, men from the border towns who were swindlers and thieves before they were soldiers. El Pantera's men fought with Villa during the Revolution, and it was there that they learned to storm a hacienda, to slaughter and rape and take what they want. It is not easy for some men to unlearn such things.”

Ira stared hard at the young native as he took off his hat and poncho and laid them under the wagon seat.

“This is what comes of war,” Ira said. “It kills a man's conscience and makes him capable of all manner of abominations. This El Pantera is such a man, and what is to stop him from coming here?”

Domingo pulled his hair back and tied a bandanna around his head. “I have told you, he will not come here, because he was Pancho Villa's man, and Villa has never allowed his men to attack El Prado. As long as Villa lives, El Pantera will not come to Paradise Valley.”

John Hershberger drew on his pipe and said thoughtfully, “But there must be others who do not belong to Villa's army. Surely the new government will protect its people from such men.”

“Jah, but the federales are spread thin. There are policemen in the cities and towns, but you have come to a far corner of the mountains. Here, we must protect
ourselves
.”

The eyes of Ira and John were full of angst as they watched him unfasten his gun belt and lay it in the wagon on top of his poncho.

“Domingo,” Caleb said, “if you were us, what would you do?”

“If I were you I would arm myself and do what is necessary to protect my family.” Domingo spoke matter-of-factly, but he could not hide a little smirk—Caleb's young friend knew what the Amish answer would be.

It was John who confirmed it. “We cannot do this.”

Ira's face flushed red and he jabbed a finger at Domingo. “We
will
not do this! Better to die once than burn in hell forever.”

Domingo cocked his head as if something about Ira puzzled him, but he said nothing.

Caleb sighed. Despite his own misgivings it had become clear that his neighbors would never rest until he made an appeal to the government for help. He laid a calming hand on Ira's shoulder.

“I believe it is our Christian duty to make peace with all men as far as we are able and trust Gott to protect us, but mebbe there is something more we can do. The hacendado once told me about a man in Monterrey, a Señor Montoya, the government official who decides where to send troops. I did not want to appeal to him, but mebbe if it would help you sleep easier, I suppose it would do no harm to write a letter. Perhaps we can persuade him to send a few troops to Paradise Valley.”

Domingo shook his head. “It is too easy for a bureaucrat to ignore a letter from a gringo, Herr Bender. He probably will do nothing anyway, but if you want his attention you must go to Monterrey and talk to him yourself.”

After a lengthy discussion they decided it was best to present a united front; there was strength in numbers. All three of them would go to Monterrey, along with Domingo.

The trip took a whole week. Driving home, as he came back into Paradise Valley, Caleb could see Mamm from a great distance, watching him from the driveway. Nervous ever since Domingo thwarted the bandit attack on Saltillo Road, she fretted constantly when any of her family was away from home.

Over supper Caleb told everyone what had happened in Monterrey.

“We had to wait two whole days just to get in,” he said. “Señor Montoya's office was in a big fancy building with marble floors and tall columns. After two days waiting, he listened to us for five minutes and then told us he could not help us. He waved his arms and said there is trouble everywhere in Mexico, little uprisings here and there because of rumors about the new government shutting down the Catholic churches. The federales at his disposal are all very busy, and he could not be concerned with a handful of yanqui farmers who were not even born in his country. He also said it costs a lot of money to feed soldiers and buy horses for them. After we left Monterrey on the train going back to Arteaga to get the buggy, Domingo told us that this last thing Señor Montoya said was all that really mattered.”

Mamm's head tilted. “You mean about the money?”

“Jah. Señor Montoya was hinting that he wanted money for himself. This is how it works with the officials here. If you want something, you have to pay somebody to get it. If you don't want to pay, then get out of the way because there is always someone else who
will
pay.”

Mamm's face fell then, first into a puzzled frown, and then into a kind of weary acceptance.

“We don't have that much money, do we?”

Caleb shook his head, and the same weary look came into his eyes.

“No, Mamm,” he said quietly. “We don't.”

Chapter 9

B
y mid-July Caleb's corn was in and he needed to make a trip to Saltillo to sell some of it. The new irrigation well across the valley was finished, so John Hershberger went along to buy a windmill. Domingo rode with them for protection, and Caleb took Miriam and Micah along to sell the produce.

“Shame we have to go so far to market,” John said as the farm wagon trundled through the low country in midday. “A day there, a day back, and a day in the market—three days is a long time to leave the wife and children alone.”

Caleb nodded. “They told us there would be a new rail line from Arteaga to Paradise Valley pretty soon. I still don't see any sign of it, though. Things don't move too quick in Mexico.”

After traveling all day they camped outside Arteaga for the night, and early the next morning drove on to Saltillo. Stacking produce on a makeshift plank table in the market, Miriam couldn't help noticing the worry in her father's eyes when he insisted that Micah stay with her while the men went on to the foundry with the wagon.

The market street was crowded as usual. Señora Teresa Tomasina was there, and she remembered Miriam from previous visits. It seemed the toothless old woman was always in the market selling something when Miriam came there.

Again, as she always did, the old woman warned her about the niños. Miriam smiled and nodded respectfully, then explained to Micah about the pickpocket children roaming the streets. She was an old hand by now and had learned to hide her money where little hands could not reach it.

Micah's lip curled into a sneer. “Thieves. I'm starting to think Mexicans are born knowing how to steal. Let them try.”

“They're just children,” she said. “This country has been at war for a long time. Many of these children have no father to teach them or provide for them. They do whatever they can to survive.”

“Well, stealing is not the way. Someone should tell them you can go to hell for it.”

“Perhaps someone should teach them a better way.”

He eyed her cautiously. “Is that what your school is about? You're going to teach these little thieves a better way?”

“Stealing is what they do—it's not who they are.”

He knifed a hand on the table for emphasis and said, “If you steal, you're a thief. That's who you are. And I'm not so sure it's a good idea for Amish children to be in school all day with thieves.”

She pondered this for a second and answered calmly, “I was thinking mebbe it would be good for thieves to be in school all day with Amish children. And an Amish teacher.”

“Jah, that might be, but it might be that you think too much about the children of the World and not enough about the ones in your own family.”

She could see from the look in his eyes that his mind was made up about the pickpocket niños, so she let it drop. Micah had not lived in Mexico long enough to really know the people. Perhaps in time he would understand.

They sold most of their produce during the day. By late afternoon the crowd had thinned and Micah and Miriam had nothing to do. They leaned on their elbows on their rough plank table, getting drowsier by the minute in the summer sun. Señora Teresa Tomasina sat back in a rickety chair by her produce stand, her head thrown back under a floppy shapeless gardening hat, cooling her brown leather neck with a paper fan. The streets of Saltillo were much warmer than the high plateau of Paradise Valley.

There was a commotion on the far end of the street, and Miriam looked up. She heard wailing and shouting, saw people running. The uproar swelled and spread, rolling toward her like a wave. A young Mexican woman in a long painted skirt ran down the middle of the street, arms waving over her head, black hair flying, screaming something as she ran. Across the street a man stepped out from behind a cart of oranges and suddenly fell to his knees, knocking his sombrero to the ground as he grabbed his head in anguish. Everywhere, people ran this way and that, wailing.

As the young Mexican woman drew nearer, Señora Teresa Tomasina rose from her chair and came to see what the fuss was about. When she finally understood the words the girl was shouting, Señora Tomasina crossed herself, bowed her old head, and began praying to the Virgin Mary.

“
Francisco Villa está muerto!
” the young woman wailed as she passed. “Some devil has murdered him! Pancho Villa is dead!”

The wave of anguish rolled over them and passed on down the street as peons spilled out of doorways and alleys and ran screaming or fell to their knees in despair.

Miriam told Micah what was happening, and he looked at her in near panic. The city was in turmoil, and they were separated from Caleb and John.

Micah's eyes were full of worry. “What will we do? The streets are overrun, and the whole city must be this way. How will they get to us with the wagon?”

“I don't know, but they will find a way.” She stared down the street across the growing tumult. “Jah,” she said, nodding calmly, “Domingo is with them. They will find a way.”

“Domingo,” Micah muttered. “Always Domingo. Sometimes I think you put too much faith in him. He is only a Mexican.”

She opened her mouth to answer, but two strong hands gripped her shoulders from behind. She jumped and spun around.

“Domingo!” Miriam cried, her eyes wide. “Where did you come from? Where is Dat?”

“Come with me,” he snapped. “Quickly!” He grabbed Miriam's arm and began to drag her the wrong way down the street.

Micah hesitated, standing by the remains of the produce glaring at Domingo. “What about the corn? What about our boards and bricks?”

“Leave it!” Domingo yelled over his shoulder. “Follow me,
now
!”

Micah finally bolted after them, leaving everything behind, elbowing his way through the crowd in the chaotic street until he caught up with them. At the next corner Domingo led them to the right and down an alley to the next street over, where it was not so crowded. Running as fast as they could manage in the chaos, the three of them went barreling around the corner of a leather shop and nearly ran into the back of the wagon. Dat was sitting up front with the reins in his hand, waiting.

Micah wheeled about and caught Miriam by the waist, in one swift motion hoisting her bodily up onto the back of the wagon between two large crates. Domingo ran around to the front and vaulted up into the seat. Caleb had already snapped the reins and called out sharply to the two Belgians that leaned into their heavy load. The wagon heaved forward.

Miriam found a place to sit in the back among a wagonload of steel parts, piles of angle iron and pipe, boxes of bolts and sheets of corrugated tin. Micah settled in next to her and held on while Caleb pushed the horses to a trot, hurrying out of the city with his cargo.

“Why is everyone so fearful?” Micah asked.

“Somebody murdered Pancho Villa,” Miriam said.

“Jah, I heard that. But the whole city has gone mad, everyone running wild as if the murderer was chasing them himself. Did it happen in Saltillo?”

“No, I heard someone say he was driving near his hacienda in Parral when someone shot his automobile full of holes.”

“Then why is there such turmoil in Saltillo?”

“Because he was
Pancho Villa
. He was a great leader, a man of the people. He was almost a god to them, and now their hope is crushed. There is no telling what they will do when their grief turns to anger. Domingo said we need to be clear of the towns before nightfall.”

Micah stared at her then, and his eyes narrowed. He leaned close. “Domingo again,” he whispered. “You really like that Mexican, don't you?”

She met his eyes. “Everyone likes him—except Schulman. Domingo is our friend.”

“That's not what I meant. That day when we were logging and he pointed his guns at those bandits, standing there all sweaty, without his shirt, wearing that rag around his head like an Indian, I saw the way you looked at him, Miriam.”

Her jaw tightened. Crossing her arms, she broke eye contact to stare at her father's back. “The look you saw in my face was fear. I was afraid they were going to kill him. They would have, if not for you. I haven't forgotten that, either.”

Micah would say no more, but it was clear from his bristling silence that he was not satisfied with her answer.

Domingo found a safe harbor for the night in a little hollow of the foothills between Arteaga and the first mountain pass. They made camp, and Miriam cooked dinner over a campfire. Afterward, the men sat around the fire talking while she cleaned up and washed dishes at the back of the wagon. She was drying the last of the dishes by lantern light when Micah came up behind her, touched her shoulder and spoke quietly.

“I'm sorry about what I said in the wagon, Miriam—about you and Domingo.” He was holding his hat in his hands, turning it slowly by the brim, looking down at it. “I'm not so good at knowing how to talk to a girl, that's all.”

This, she understood. Sometimes the best of men didn't know how to speak to a woman.

“It's all right.” But she didn't look at him. She finished drying a bowl and packed it into the box at her feet. He didn't go away. Clearly, there was something else he wanted to say.

“A question is in my mind,” he said. “Why am I here?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, why was I asked to come along on this trip? Hershberger has sons of his own, and he has Jake, too. He could have brought one of them to Saltillo, but he didn't—he asked me to come instead.” Micah was still turning that hat in his hands, staring at it, when he mumbled, “I guess I was hoping John invited me because you asked him to, that's all.”

Miriam straightened up and looked at him. A lantern hissed softly on the tail of the wagon, casting dark shadows in the lines of his face.

“It wasn't me, Micah. And I doubt that it was John, either. You're right, he would have brought one of his own unless . . .”

Miriam cast a sideways glance at the three men sitting around the fire. Domingo's hands worked the air, telling an animated story, while Caleb whittled on a stick and John sat smoking his pipe.

“Unless what?”

“Unless my dat asked him to bring you along.” She hadn't thought about it until now, but it was the only explanation.

“Your father? Why would he do that?”

A little smile crept onto her face. “It can only be that he's worried about his nineteen-year-old daughter becoming an old maid schoolteacher. I never knew my dat to play matchmaker before. But wait . . .” She shook a finger, remembering. “He
did
tell me to ride with you the day we went logging.”

Micah's shoulders sagged and a sadness came into his eyes. “I thought you rode with me because you wanted to,” he muttered.

“Oh, I
did
—when we were coming home. But my dat told me to ride with you that morning, when we were heading out.”

Micah's face softened and his lips moved silently, working over the words he wanted to say before he said them.

“Well, I'm glad for that. It was mighty fine having you beside me all the way home. Miriam, I know I'm not the smartest man in the world but I'm strong and hardworking and honest and . . . and I like you an awful lot.” He looked her in the eyes, hesitating. “I want to tell you that I liked you from the first time I saw you. You're pretty, and it makes me feel good when I'm with you. I'd like to call on you if it's all right.”

Miriam had seen brief glimpses of his humble side before, but rarely. In the company of other boys he was dominating, yet she had already seen that he was a different person when no one else was around. She almost glanced over at the fire again, at Domingo, but she caught herself. Her heart still quickened when she saw the native working shirtless in the sun with a bandanna around his head, or heard his laughter from the fields, or saw the graceful way he mounted his horse. There was a rare and irresistible power in him, tinged with wildness, and she was certain he had feelings for her as well. But he was an outsider, and in the end that path could only lead to shame and disgrace and separation from her family. Anyway, he'd had his chance. That day in town she'd given him every opportunity to speak his feelings, but he'd refused.