by Tim Tingle
“Where is the boy, the wounded boy?” said Tolar. “We followed a trail of his blood to your camp!”
“I found a blanket,” said the elder Navajo man. “Here. I found it on the hillside and carried it here. We don’t have enough blankets, and it is freezing cold. My daughter could clean the blood from it.”
“Did you see a boy when you found the blanket?” Tolar asked.
“No, it was very dark. I saw nobody.”
“Get up, old man, and show us where you found the blanket!” he shouted, losing his patience. The elder hesitated.
“You said you followed a trail of blood,” he said, staring at the ground. “Where the blood begins, that’s where I found the blanket.” Tolar gave him a long, hard stare before turning to his men.
“The boy’s not here!” he shouted, jerking his horse’s reins. “Get the blanket, and let’s return to the fort. Corporal Doyle will be furious, but we can’t do anything about that now.”
When the soldiers were well out of earshot, Danny’s grandfather lifted his head from behind a boulder, ten feet from where the woman lay with her two infant daughters. He looked left and right, making certain no soldiers were near.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “You saved my grandson’s life.”
“He is a good boy,” said the elder, “and we are glad to help him. But my granddaughters—my daughter too—have his blood from the gunshot wound. Can you make them clean?”
“Yes,” said Danny’s grandfather. “After the morning prayer, I will return to camp and let Danny’s mother and father know he is safe. I will return with water for the cleansing.”
Sergeant Tolar led the soldiers down the rocky path to the gates of the fort, where Corporal Doyle waited. “Did you find him?” asked the corporal, looking eagerly at the returning soldiers. “Is he still alive?”
“We thought we had him,” said Tolar, “but this is all we found.” He told the story of tracing the bloody trail of the blanket, only to find it wrapped around two Navajo infants.
As Corporal Doyle led his men through the gates of Fort Sumner, he was met by a dozen officers on horseback. They were lined up on either side of the road and dressed in full military regalia. A soldier lifted a trumpet to his mouth and blew the first loud notes of a military march, but Doyle waved his hands and signaled for him to stop. He lowered his trumpet, and a half-blown note withered and died in the dark.
“We are here to honor you for capturing the horse thief,” said Major Henson, a well-respected leader of the US Cavalry. He leaned forward and saluted Doyle. “We heard your men shot and captured him. We are ready for his trial and hanging. Is he still alive?”
“Here is all we found of the boy,” Doyle said, tossing the blanket at the foot of the major’s horse. The major stared at the blood-covered blanket.
“We heard the shots,” said Major Henson. “There was a report that the boy was being captured. Is this even the same boy who stole the horse?”
“I have no doubt it is the same boy.”
“And how do you know this?”
“We found him escaping from the carpentry shop of his friend from Fort Davis.”
The major took a long, deep breath, unaccustomed and uncomfortable with being embarrassed. “So, where is this horse-thieving Indian boy?” he asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” replied Corporal Doyle, gesturing over his shoulder. Feeling the harsh glare of the major, he added, “I am sorry, sir. I meant no disrespect. I am disgusted with my own conduct, and I have not slept in almost thirty hours.”
“I accept your apology,” said the major. “Have we arrested this carpenter yet?”
“No, sir, we have not.”
“And why not?”
“I had hoped to catch him with the boy. We circled the carpentry shop last night. That’s how we found the boy. He crawled through a window of the shop and was running away when my men shot him.”
“And you could not capture a wounded Indian boy?” asked Major Henson. He turned to his fellow officers. “We will have no celebration today. No hanging either, it appears. Return to your quarters and change uniforms. We have a workday ahead of us.”
“Major Henson,” said Doyle. “I want to arrest that carpenter, Davis. He is a rebel soldier, and he is just as guilty as the savage. Both of them should hang.”
“Of course we will arrest Jim Davis,” said the major. “That should have happened a long time ago. I will find some trustworthy men and arrest him this morning. Would you like to come along?”
He turned away without waiting for a reply.
Chapter 16
Death by Hanging or Firing Squad?
An hour before sunrise, Major Henson and a dozen soldiers entered the carpentry shop. They found Jim Davis slumped over his worktable and snoring loudly. Major Henson approached him and pounded his fists on the table.
“Hey, what are you doing?” asked Davis, startled from a dark dream of Danny Blackgoat climbing a canyon wall, chased by rattlesnakes.
“We are here to do what should have been done long ago,” replied the major. “Hands behind your back, Jim Davis. You are under military arrest. Men, tie him up!”
The soldiers lifted Davis from his workbench and jerked his arms backward, tying his wrists with a tight rope.
“What did I do?” Davis asked.
“You know what you did,” said Major Henson. “You helped that Indian boy escape. He’s a horse thief, and I’m thinking that makes you one too.”
Davis said nothing, but a tide of joy swept over him. If I helped that Indian boy escape, Danny Blackgoat is alive! he thought. He hung his head to hide his smile.
“Where are you taking me?” Davis asked.
“That’s one too many questions,” the major said, nodding to a soldier. Knowing what the major wanted, the soldier struck Davis in the jaw with the butt of his rifle. He slumped forward, stunned by the blow, and his head swayed from side to side.
“Any more questions?” asked the major. “Take him to headquarters,” he said, turning to his men. They pushed Davis forward, and he stumbled through the door and into the darkness. The gravediggers arrived, ready for their morning work. They pulled their wagon to a halt as the soldiers left the carpentry shop. They were shocked to see Jim Davis, his face already swollen and blue from the bruises, tied and being dragged away by Major Henson’s men.
“I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes,” said one.
“Where they’re taking him, he won’t need any shoes,” said the other.
The sun peeked over the nearby mountains, casting a warm glow on Danny and his grandfather. At that moment, Jim Davis sat on a bench awaiting trial for horse theft and helping a prisoner escape. The only issue to be settled in the trial of a rebel soldier, Davis realized, was whether he would die by hanging or firing squad.
A lone soldier stood guard over Davis while the officers had their morning breakfast. He was staring out the window at the noose on the scaffolding in the distance, hoping for a hanging rather than a firing squad. He heard the door close quietly behind him and jumped to attention.
Jane stood by the door. “I did not mean to startle you,” she said. “I went by the carpentry shop to see my friend, and they told me he was gone. They said he was arrested. What did he do? He’s always been nice to me.”
“Young lady, you better leave here right away,” the soldier said. “Major Henson is likely to arrest anybody who’s a friend of this rebel. He’s gonna hang today or die by firing squad.”
“I’m going. Thank you,” said Jane, turning to the door. She reached for the doorknob, then paused and asked again, “What did he do?”
“They say he stole a horse and helped an Indian boy escape. The boy was shot last night, but he got away.”
“If he got away, how do they know he was shot?” she asked.
The soldier tilted his head and pursed his lips before replying. “You sure ask a lot of questions, young lady. But if you need evidence, there it is,
” he said, pointing to a blanket folded up neatly on the floor. The Navajo blanket, of green and yellow sheep’s wool, was covered with patches of dried blood.
Without replying, Jane walked quickly from the building, holding back her tears. She ran to their campsite, where they were holding breakfast, awaiting her return.
“What did you find out?” asked Rick, her father.
“Jim Davis has been arrested,” Jane said. “They did not catch Danny. They shot him, but he got away.”
“Are you sure he was shot?”
“I saw the blanket with his blood all over it,” she said, sobbing as she spoke. “He might be dying now, somewhere in the mountains.”
Chapter 17
Confederate Soldier’s Trial
Following a cheerful breakfast filled with stories of “that troublemaking Indian boy,” Major Henson stood and announced, “It’s time we bring the rebel to justice.” He lifted his cup and chugged down the last of his morning coffee, then whispered aloud for all to hear, “Coffee now, whiskey tonight, to celebrate the hanging of a rebel traitor!”
Accompanied by Corporal Doyle and the two marksmen, Major Henson marched to the headquarters, where Davis waited. He flung open the door and ordered the guard, “Keep everyone away till we finish this matter. Stand outside and let no one enter.”
“Yes, sir,” the guard said, saluting and leaving the officers alone with Jim Davis. Davis sat with his hands tied behind him, head down, and glanced up at the officers. He did not know the major, but he knew Corporal Doyle wanted him dead.
“Let us get started,” said Major Henson. “Corporal Doyle, there is paper and ink at my desk. Take notes as you witness the proceedings, and I will use them in making my report.”
Doyle moved to the desk and began.
“Now,” said the major, turning to Davis. “You hid this young boy. What is his name?”
“Danny Blackgoat,” said Davis.
“Yes. You hid this boy in your carpentry shop, is that correct?”
Davis turned his head away without speaking.
“Before we go any further, Mr. Davis, let me remind you that you are a traitor in the eyes of the United States Army, a Confederate rebel who lifted arms against your own nation. We could hang you today for that reason alone. But we want the truth. And,” he said, leaning so close that Davis smelled his breath, “we will get it.”
He gripped Davis’s swollen jaw till Davis winced from the pain.
“You hid the boy here. He escaped from Fort Davis, and you hid him in your shop.”
“He showed up at my door last night, and I let him in,” Davis said. “He was hungry, and I fed him.”
“You did not report a runaway prisoner. And you knew he was a runaway. You were his friend at Fort Davis.”
“I saved his life when a prisoner put a rattlesnake in his bed,” Davis said, lifting his head to face the major. “I cut his leg and drained the poison, the snake venom.”
Major Henson stepped back in surprise. He knew none of the details of Danny Blackgoat’s troubles. Henson paused for a moment, but it was an important moment. Jim Davis saw a slice of sympathy in the eyes of the major.
“He should have let the savage die!” shouted Corporal Doyle. “Instead he helped him escape.”
Major Henson looked back and forth at the two men. He saw hatred in the face of one, and a paternal caring in the eyes of the other.
“Is this true?” he finally asked Davis.
“I didn’t see the boy for almost a month before he escaped,” Davis said, truthfully. “He made me mad, and I stopped speaking to him,” he added, quite untruthfully.
“I did not ask if you spoke to him,” Major Henson said. “I asked if you helped him escape.” Davis turned his face and fell silent.
“So maybe you did not help him escape. Maybe he stole the horse and escaped on his own. You do know a horse was missing from the fort the day of his escape?” the major said, reaching for his jaw.
“Okay, yes, I knew a horse was missing.”
“This Navajo boy stole the horse on his own?” said the major in a low, mean whisper. “You know that when we capture him, he will hang for stealing the horse. And he is badly wounded, about to bleed to death. We will capture him.”
“I will tell you the truth, Major,” Jim Davis said, in a clear, strong voice. “And take good notes on what I am about to say, Corporal Doyle. I stole the horse. I stole it from Fort Davis and gave it to the young Navajo man, Danny Blackgoat. He never asked where the horse came from. He never knew it was stolen.”
When he finished his confession, Davis breathed hard and slumped over in his chair. He fought against the full knowledge of what he had just done—of what would happen to him now.
“You are telling us that the boy you call Danny Blackgoat did not steal the horse?” the corporal asked, leaning close to Jim Davis and shaking his head in disbelief.
“I took the horse from the stables at Fort Davis and gave it to him,” said Davis. “He did not know where the horse came from.”
“You are admitting to being a horse thief?”
“If taking a horse to keep a young man alive makes me a horse thief, then that is what I am.”
“We are not interested in why you stole the horse, Mr. Davis,” Major Henson said. “In truth, we are not interested in anything you have to say. We are only having this hearing for military records, so your execution can clearly be shown as the punishment for crimes you have committed. Let me read your notes, Corporal Doyle.”
Major Henson spoke to Doyle and began reading the notes and discussing changes. Davis hung his head in silence. Exhausted and weary from the last two days, he closed his eyes and floated away. He imagined Danny lying in the mountains and struggling to stay alive.
Over time, Davis had come think of Danny Blackgoat as his son. By my confession I am saving my son’s life, he repeated to himself over and over. I am saving my son’s life. I could not save my first son, but I will save this one.
His mind shifted through the years to the battlegrounds of the Civil War, where he and his son served in the army of the South under General Robert E. Lee. They fought together as Lee’s army invaded Pennsylvania in 1863. On the final day of the Battle of Gettysburg, as Jim Davis was captured and dragged away, he saw an explosion of cannonballs on Cemetery Ridge. He later learned he had seen his own son’s death from a distance.
I could not save my first son from the war and the cannons, but I can save this Navajo boy. He is my second son, and I will see that he lives.
With a firm-set, swollen jaw, Jim Davis lifted his head to face whatever the day brought down upon him. He was startled from his thoughts to the present by the voice of Major Henson.
“You have just confessed to horse theft, Jim Davis. As you know, the penalty is death by hanging.” He turned to the marksmen, who stood by the door with their rifles at their sides. “You, let the officers know we should prepare for a hanging at noon today. Find a wagon and driver and be swift. This affair is almost over.”
The affair was far from over. Rick soon heard the news of Jim Davis admitting to stealing the horse. The gravediggers passed his barracks and stopped to spread the latest news.
“Did you hear? That carpenter who made the coffins, that Jim Davis fellow, he’s been hiding a Navajo runaway. And he stole a horse too, that’s what they’re saying.”
Rick knew what he had to do. He loaded his wagon with supplies for Fort Davis, a day earlier than expected. “Susan,” he said to his wife, “Danny Blackgoat needs to know that Jim Davis is risking his life for him. I’m going to find him.”
“Please don’t put yourself in danger,” she said.
“We are already in danger,” Rick said. “I am not one of them, and they know it.”
“What can Danny do?”
“I don’t know if he can do anything,” Rick said. “But we have to give him a chance.”
“You can unload your supply wagon, and that’s an order,” a voice
called out. Rick looked up to see an army marksman riding in his direction. He halted his horse and dismounted.
“I am on my way to Fort Davis,” Rick said.
“You can delay your trip till later,” said the marksman. “Do you need help unloading?”
“No, I have just started,” Rick said. “It won’t take me a minute. Why do you need my wagon?”
“We need you and your wagon both,” the marksman said. “There’s a hanging today at noon, and you will be the driver.”
“Who is being hanged?” he asked, trembling already for he knew the answer. He knew the name the marksman would say. He closed his eyes and waited.
“Jim Davis,” the marksman said. “He will hang at noon.”
And I will be the driver, thought Rick.
Chapter 18
Life-Saving Navajo Horse
“I can take care of my wagon,” Rick said to the marksman. “I’ll have it cleared out and ready to go. I’ll be at the hanging half an hour before noon.”
“I’ll let Major Henson know,” the marksman said. “Do not be late.” He tipped his hat to Jane and rode away.
“We cannot let Jim Davis hang,” said Susan. “He is a good man. We must help him.”
“I don’t know what we can do,” Rick said. “He admitted to stealing a horse.”
“If I had not given you the horse, maybe none of this would have happened.”
“You didn’t give me the horse,” Rick said. “Your father gave it to me, to show how much he appreciated my care for his daughter.”
“But it was my idea that you use the horse on your trips, to think always of your Navajo family. And it was my idea for Jim Davis to give the pony to Danny Blackgoat, to help him escape.”
As Susan spoke of their Navajo horse, Rick was lifting a heavy trunk from the rear of the wagon. He was suddenly struck by a thought. He dropped the trunk, spilling nails and tools all over the ground.
“Are you all right?” Susan asked.
“Yes,” Rick said. “I am fine, better than ever. I have the smartest wife in the world, and she doesn’t even know it.”