The taken, p.1
The Taken, page 1
HIGH PRAISE FOR MIKE KEARBY!
AMBUSH AT MUSTANG CANYON
“His use of historical figures, Indian languages, and the period all feel true, going beyond the Western genre, and into historical fiction.”
—Sacramento Book Review
“Exciting action.”
—Historical Novels Review
RIDE THE DESPERATE TRAIL
“A rousing, action-packed saga of rough justice in an untamed land, highly recommended.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Clean writing and sharp characterization move the reader . . . good reading for young adults.”
—Young Texas Reader
THE ROAD TO A HANGING
“. . . it places fictional characters into real history, and . . . Mr. Kearby is right on target. With plenty of action, danger and suspense from those days, even the most discriminating Western reader will be satisfied. Absolutely entertaining! A quality work!”
—The New Book Review
“An excellent example of the recently resurgent Western genre. It is well written, with a believable plot that zips along and keeps the pages turning.”
—Historical Novels Review
“Exciting reading.”
—Roundup Magazine
“An action-packed trail.”
—Elmer Kelton
“First-rate action and excellent characterization.”
—James Ward Lee
THAT FATEFUL DAY
James began dragging his brother forward. “Run, William, run!”
Both boys took off.
Ranger held his ground and barked repeatedly at the approaching intruders.
“Run!” James screamed. “Go faster!”
A loud yelp followed by two small whimpers pierced the air.
William looked over his shoulder.
Ranger lay on his side, deathly still.
“James! Ranger’s hurt!” he cried, pulling against his brother’s hand. “We gotta go back.”
James cast a quick glance back. The Indians were only thirty or so yards away. “No! Run!”
An arrow screamed over their heads.
“We gotta go back, James!” William shrieked and tried to pry James Allen’s grip loose. “Ranger’s hurt!”
James fought against William’s efforts. “Quit, don’t. You gotta run or they’ll kill us both!”
Other Leisure books by Mike Kearby:
AMBUSH AT MUSTANG CANYON
RIDE THE DESPERATE TRAIL
THE ROAD TO A HANGING
Mike Kearby
THE TAKEN
To Jake; who always reminds me of what is
important in life.
DORCHESTER PUBLISHING
February 2011
Published by
Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
200 Madison Avenue
New York, NY 10016
Copyright © 2011 by Mike Kearby
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 13: 978-1-4285-1167-5
E-ISBN: 978-1-4285-0961-0
The “DP” logo is the property of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
Printed in the United States of America.
Visit us online at www.dorchesterpub.com.
“Life is partly what we make it, and partly what it is made by the friends we choose.”
—Tennessee Williams
Special thanks to Fred Tarpley, Weldon Edwards, Stephanie Barko, and most of all Mindy Reed who believed in this project maybe more than I did.
THE TAKEN
In an older, darker time, a great prophet of the People journeyed to the sacred cliff home of the Day Father. There he wove together branches of oak and cedar and burned them as an offering to the Great Spirit. And when the wood was transformed to ash, the prophet threw himself into the blistering residue. Refusing to cry out, even as his flesh melted into hot grease, the great prophet prayed for a messiah. One who would battle the People’s great enemy, an evil spirit known as the Tai-vo-tovt. The Day Father heard the prophet’s prayer and was pleased by the shaman’s strength and humility, and being a just and benevolent spirit, he granted the prophet a brief glimpse of the savior he would one day send down to earth. After the Great Spirit’s vision departed, the prophet gathered up the melted grease of his flesh and forever preserved the People’s savior onto the sacred cliff wall. And when he had completed his painting, he looked upon the image and proclaimed, “Behold, this is the avenger of the People. This is the Tai-vo-tovt killer.”
• A legend of the People
1
Paint Rock, Texas, July 1864
Sarah Kensing leaned against the door frame of her log-chinked home and stared at the starkness of her family farm. Behind her, the gamey smell of venison and wild onion simmered in the stale air of the one-room cabin. Sarah exhaled softly as the heat from the cooking pit crawled up her back and formed tiny puddles of sweat beneath her thick brown hair. She dragged a sleeve across her brow as remedy. The sweat evaporated into the fabric, leaving a gentle coolness on her forearm. “Thank you, Lord,” she whispered.
Used well beyond her thirty years, she had a powerful weariness in her face this day. The taste of the land hung in her mouth, and worry lines etched deep ravines near the corners of her lips and eyes. Tall and thin, she wore her markings with a quiet dignity in much the way a soldier displays his bars. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.
Texas.
She blinked open her eyes. This Texas was a strutting peacock, a fickle mistress who seduced young and old alike with promises of riches and new beginnings.
“Opportunities,” Ben had said. “Free land, Sarah.”
Sarah had joined in willingly, never uttering a contrary word to her husband.
Later, when the seductress began to extract her payment, Sarah soon realized the high cost of “free.”
Her firstborn, David, died at age four of pneumonia in ’53.
Ben, age twenty-three, gave his life at Little Robe Creek in ’58.
Years of drought and insect hordes.
Blistering summers and bitter winters.
The daily fear of Comanche and Kiowa raiding parties.
Sarah reckoned she had paid Texas in full for her homestead. A tight smile formed on her mouth followed by a solitary tear. She moved to wipe away the tear when out in the yard, a child’s familiar song broke the afternoon silence.
“A Frog he would to Texas go,
Heigh ho! Heigh ho!
A Frog he would to Texas go,
Heigh ho! Heigh ho!
Whether or not his mother wished it so.”
Snapped out of her self-pity, Sarah tossed her gaze toward the melody. A warm smile appeared on her mouth. Her older boy, James, was self-absorbed in his own rendition of “A Frog He Would A-Wooing Go.” She raised her head and instinctively hummed along. The song was a bedtime favorite for both of her boys. As she gazed skyward, her smile disappeared under a descending apprehension.
The sky seems darker than just minutes earlier.
Sarah realized the day was getting away from her. “James Allen,” she called.
The thin-framed boy was stacking wood between two mesquite trees. He stopped singing and glanced at his mother with a smile. “Yes, ma’am?”
Sarah studied the boy’s face. Only eight years old, he was a gentle soul cast well before his time into the role of man of the house. “It’s getting late. Best go down to the creek and fetch Molly to the barn before darkness sets in,” she said.
James tossed a glance skyward. The moon already sat full and pale in the approaching dusk.
Sarah followed James’s line of sight. “We’ll be having a Comanche moon tonight.”
“Can William Barett come with me?”
Sarah cast a quick glance at her youngest, William. The boy sat close to where James worked, singing along and drawing circles in the reddish soil. Her inner voice warned, No.
“Can he? Please, Ma,” James pleaded.
No.
“I’ll let him ride Molly home. He’s been wanting to all week.”
William looked up from his doodling, recognizing that the conversation now concerned him. “Can I, Ma?” he asked energetically. “Can I go with James Allen?”
Sarah sighed, unsure, with darkness so quick upon them, of the wisdom in letting the five-year-old accompany James. She stared past James. Ranger, the mastiff, which had accompanied her and Ben to the frontier, snoozed in the shade of the mesquite trees. “Okay, but only if you take Ranger with you.”
James turned and looked at the dog. He chuckled aloud. “He’s snoring, Ma. It would take cannon fire to wake him.”
William joined in his brother’s laughter. “He’s snoring, Mom!”
Sarah fought back a laugh and frowned. She folded her arms across her chest and tapped her left foot on the dr
“Ohh-kayy,” James replied.
William jumped to his feet and clapped his hands. “Yeah!” he shouted. He ran for the sleeping mastiff and knelt beside the dog’s head. “Get up, Ranger!” he exclaimed. “We’re going to the creek!”
The dog raised one eye and flopped his tongue into the dirt.
James laid the last cut limb on his firewood stack. He glanced at William and then back to his mother. “I’ll watch him, Ma,” he promised.
Sarah took a deep breath. A warm pride spread through her chest. She nodded. “Make sure you do.”
James strode over to William and Ranger. He reached down and gripped his brother’s hand. “Come on,” he said, pulling William to his feet. “We gotta go now.”
Sarah watched with trepidation. She shot a glance at the setting sun. Forget the mule. Call them back. It’s suppertime, she thought. Instead, she called out, “James Allen, you stay clear of those Indian rocks, you hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am,” James acknowledged without looking back.
Sarah tightened her jaw. “I mean it.”
James glanced back over his shoulder. “I said okay, Ma.”
Sarah narrowed her eyes.
“It’s all right. I’ll watch him.”
“James, you hold your brother’s hand and don’t dare let go.”
James nodded.
William gazed up at his brother. “Yeah, James, don’t let go of my hand.”
James snarled and squeezed tighter on William’s hand.
“Ouch!” William uttered. “That hurts.”
James smiled. “You want me to hold tight, don’t you?”
Sarah stared at the reddish orange glow expanding on the horizon. “You two get going,” she hollered. “It’ll be dark soon enough.”
2
South of the Canadian River, Texas, March 1874
The heavy report from a hide hunter’s rifle rode the wind eastward. The Kwahadi paraibo, Old Bear, straightened on the dun’s back and sniffed at the air. The unmistakable stench of tejano crawled into his nostrils. He searched the western horizon with narrowed eyes. A vast flatness of green, brought about by recent rains, covered the buffalo prairie.
Old Bear exhaled noisily through his broad, flattened nose.
“What troubles you, Father?”
Old Bear wrinkled his nose and spat at the ground. He turned and gazed at his son of fourteen winters, Runs Horses. Old Bear snorted, trying to clear his nose.
Runs Horses waited patiently.
“It is the smell of tejano,” Old Bear finally replied, motioning toward his nose. “It seeks refuge in your nose and is hard to dislodge.”
Runs Horses attempted to smile, but instead, an uneasy look showed on his face.
Old Bear cupped his right hand next to his right ear, Kwahadi sign for “listen.”
Runs Horses turned an ear into the wind.
Old Bear frowned. “The smell is much like skunk,” he whispered.
Minutes later, a second detonation sounded. The percussion raced at father and son like a charging bull before dissipating over the Texas panhandle.
Both ponies kept their heads low, foraging quickly during the unexpected stop. Old Bear glanced down his mustang’s neck. The pony pulled grass shoots from the prairie floor noisily. “I may change ponies,” he remarked.
Runs Horses looked at his father, confused. “Why do you worry about your pony now?” he asked.
Old Bear glanced over at his son. He wrinkled his brow. “I don’t think he could sneak up on the tejanos anymore. He’s too noisy.”
“Father, there is danger ahead, yet you speak of changing horses. Why this fuss about . . .” Runs Horses stopped midsentence. The boy smiled inside. He tightened his jaw. “How many are there?” he asked.
Old Bear remained silent. His calm appearance masked a fierce predator. The revered chief of many battles knew that what he was about to undertake might bring the soldiers to the Comancheria.
Runs Horses fidgeted on his pony’s back.
Old Bear rolled his shoulders forward. “Maybe . . . one shooting,” he said, squinting in thought. “Maybe . . . two pulling hides.”
Runs Horses drew a deep breath. “I will bring honor to you today, Father,” he pledged.
Old Bear ran his fingers over the head of his flint-napped war club. “I think the signs are good.”
Runs Horses cast a hard gaze on the horizon.
A third shot echoed.
Old Bear drew a smile to his lips. “You have strong medicine this day, my son. I have never known the Day Father to allow a young warrior to kill his first buffalo and enemy in the same day.”
A rush of warmth spread through Runs Horse’s chest. He swallowed hard.
Old Bear continued. “So it is that after this day you will be known as warrior.”
Runs Horses filled his lungs with air, exhaling slowly through his nose.
“Sing your prayer, my son. Prepare yourself.”
Runs Horses closed his eyes and began a soft chant.
“Come, buffalo brother,
fierce warrior of the prairie.
Meet me on the low grass.
Help me honor your spirit.”
Old Bear raised his right hand to shoulder level. He formed a fist and then extended the first and middle fingers skyward. He rotated the outstretched fingers around each other, signing medicine.
Runs Horses continued to chant.
“Buffalo brother,
hear my prayers.
I beg you for the strength
to ride among my enemies.
I beg that my arrows are of true aim,
and my war club strong and deadly.”
“Runs Horses,” Old Bear interrupted. He clutched his extended fingers into a fist. “Snatch the Great Spirit’s puha. Use his medicine to stop the hide hunters. They have no authority to kill our buffalo on our prairies.”
Runs Horses jerked his eyes open.
Old Bear glanced over at his son. The boy’s face was changed. Deep wrinkles creased his forehead. Old Bear reached for the medicine bag tied between his legs. He opened the rawhide pouch and removed a small square of tanned hide tied with sinew. He passed the square to Runs Horses. “Paint your face,” he said.
Runs Horses opened the smooth leather square and dabbed his fingers in the blackened buffalo grease. He smeared the paint across his forehead. A raw savagery drew his lips back and twisted his mouth into a cruel smile. Using two fingers, he spread a line of paint over the bridge of his nose.
Old Bear looked at his son with satisfaction. “You are ready, Runs Horses. Ride down to where the hide hunter shoots. Take his scalp. It is the right thing to do.”
Runs Horses nodded and tossed the paint pouch back to his father.
Old Bear caught the pouch and began to paint his own face. His body swayed in an ancient rhythm as the grease blackened his countenance.
Runs Horses observed his father’s ritual for several moments, then kneed his pony behind the ribs and clicked his tongue once.
Old Bear began to sing a prayer to the Day Father.
The mustang beneath Runs Horses lifted his head in great reluctance. A mouthful of grama shoots protruded from his mouth. The paint sniffed the air, then moved forward. Within two strides, he settled into a steady lope heading in the direction of the rifle fire.
Three miles later, the small herd came into view. Runs Horses kneed his pony to a stop. He surveyed the hunter’s position. The man sat on a small rise, a hundred yards upwind.
The hide hunter’s gun boomed once more.
Runs Horses snarled. The hide hunters were pursuing a small herd of bulls moving in advance of the main herd’s migration.
These are Kwahadi buffalo. This is Kwahadi land.
Movement crossed the corner of his eye. He looked south. A wagon with two men crept perpendicular to the great herd.
Hide pullers.
The prairie suddenly turned quiet. Runs Horses tossed a sharp glance back at the shooter. The man hunched slightly forward, vigorously massaging his lower back. Runs Horses straightened and a broad smile crossed his mouth.
