by Ron Schwab
"What do you mean? You said you're not a prisoner anymore."
"I'm not. I'm staying voluntarily. I want to write stories--maybe a book--about the final days of the Comanche wars. You can't get any more inside than this."
"Are you insane? Do you know how dangerous it is here? You never know when these people will turn on you, and our own army will be firing on Indians. Bullets don't discriminate between red and white when they're coming this way. I won't let you do this damn foolishness."
Cal intervened. "He's right, sis. This is going to be in the middle of hell when the army and Comanche finally have it out. Have you really thought about this?"
"I've done little else but think about it." She turned on Josh. "And you don't have a damn thing to say about it, big brother. You're not my guardian."
Josh sighed deeply. This was a hell of a development. They came to rescue a sister who refused to be rescued. "Now I know how Oliver felt."
"Who's Oliver?" she snapped.
"Oliver Wolf. He tried to get you out of here and about died for it."
"I don't know any Oliver Wolf. An army scout by the name of White Wolf tried to get me out of here. He must be your Oliver. Is he alright? I felt terrible about the situation, and I've worried myself sick about him."
"He's fine now," Cal said. "He made his way to a man who helped him."
"Thank God. He's a good man."
"Now," Josh said, "Back to this matter of your staying with the Comanche."
"It's been decided. I just want you to get Sergeant Hooper out of here. He's a dead man if you don't."
"What about the others?"
"Too late."
She seemed unwilling to explain. "We're trying to free the Sergeant. Quanah says the Kwahadi are getting ready to move. That might help. They sure as hell won't want to drag along a prisoner. Of course, that could speed up his end, too. And then there's the matter of Michael."
"Jael said you know."
"Damn right I know. And I can't talk sense into your head, I guess. But I'm taking Michael home."
"This is home."
"What do you mean by that?"
"As far as he knows or remembers, this is home. Jael's his mother. You take him now, by force, and you become the captor. It pains me to say this, but I've been with him a month now, lived with him and Jael in the same tipi. His blood says he's Michael, but he's Comanche, and he knows no mother but Jael. Think about this, Josh. She won't let you and Cal out of here alive with him anyway. If you try this, I'll just have two brothers who died needlessly. You may think I'm a fool, but please don't be one yourself."
There was a rustling of a tent flap, and Jael entered, pushing an obviously angry little boy ahead of her. This hostile boy had shoulder-length, rust-colored hair and Josh's distinctive brown-green eyes. He glared at Josh defiantly.
Josh's body went nearly numb, and his stomach fluttered. His emotions jumped between grief for the lost years and joy for what he saw as the end of his quest. He moved toward the boy and knelt down, extending his arms to embrace the boy. "Michael," he said softly.
"Flying Crow," the boy nearly screamed, backing away a few steps.
"You speak English?"
"I am Comanche."
"No, you are my son. Michael. You are not Comanche."
The boy slipped a little stone knife from the leather strip that held up his breechclout and charged Josh, slashing madly with the weapon. It carved a single slash in Josh's cheek and gouged his forearm before Jael wrapped her arms around the boy and drug him back. She wrenched the knife from his hand and tossed it aside. She spoke harshly to the boy in Comanche before he calmed and seemed only partly contrite.
"Tabby and Cal, could you give the three of us some time?"
"Of course, come on Cal, I'll show you the sights."
"Let me look at those wounds, Josh," Jael said.
He sat back on one of the robes, as she dropped to her knees to examine the injuries. After looking at her son's handiwork, she went to the far side of the tipi and rummaged through some supplies before returning with a small bag and a wet animal skin, which she used to wipe the blood away from his wounds. Then she dipped her fingers into the bag and brought out a clump of something that to Josh had a lard-look to it. She deftly applied the ointment.
"Take this with you," she said. "It will help seal the wounds in addition to healing them. I'm sorry this happened." She nodded toward Michael-Flying Crow. "I fear he's not."
She sat down, facing him, no more than five feet away. "Now we must talk. First we shall speak of realities. Our son is not going with you. I would kill you first, and if I am unsuccessful, there are five warriors outside this tipi prepared to do so. Your brother would die and so would the buffalo soldier. If you leave without further incident, three of you may have safe passage together. Do you understand?"
"I don't like it. But good sense tells me I have no choice."
"I have acknowledged that the boy is our son. You are his father. I am his mother. You must accept that eventually." She turned to the boy. "Flying Crow, look at this man's hair and his eyes. Someday, you will understand better. But this man is your blood father. You are going to learn to know him in the years ahead. He is a good man, and you will come to love him as he already loves you."
"Josh," she continued, "your son speaks near perfect English, and Tabby is working with me to teach him to read and write. These skills, along with his coloring, assure he will someday have a place in the white man's world. When we come to the reservation, you can no doubt take him by force. I do not even know what my place will be when that happens. If we do not fight each other, though, we can share a son, and his life will be better for it. You have suffered great pain in losing him and your wife. But you, at least, have found your son. I promise you will not lose him again. I would not do that to you . . . or him. In the meantime, I will prepare him for a smoother entry into his life. Can you trust me to do this?"
"I think you'd better think about taking up lawyering when you get to the so-called civilized world. Yeah, I trust you, but I don't really have any choice."
Late that afternoon, Josh, Cal and Sergeant Ezekiel Hooper left the Comanche encampment and started their journey across the Staked Plains. It was with a feeling of sadness that Josh left his sister and son behind. He took some comfort, however, from a crow feather a little rusty-haired Comanche boy had shyly placed in his hand at their departure, and which was now nestled in his front shirt pocket over his heart.
Afterword
Thank you for purchasing this ebook. If you enjoyed reading it, please consider leaving a review at your favorite online retailer or Goodreads. For more information about Ron Schwab and his books, you may visit the author’s website at www.RonSchwabBooks.com.