Sagebrush Read online

  Before he could cook, he had to make a fire. But how could he make a fire when he had no wood, no flint, and no tinder? His father taught him many things, but he had never taught him how to make a fire without a flint stone.

  Thinking of his father brought tears to his eyes, which he quickly brushed away . . . . It would do no good to cry. He had to get a fire built, but where are the tools for making a fire? Where would Father have kept them? They weren’t in his toolbox, and they weren’t in the food locker. Maybe he had them in his pockets.

  Oh, no, I can’t dig Father up to find out if he has them in his pockets.

  Then he remembered the secret compartment, hidden under the floorboards. After searching for a while, he found the compartment and removed the covering. Because the wagon was upside down, the contents fell on the inside of the canvas top of the wagon.

  The compartment contained his mother’s books, a metal container of papers, and a big leather pouch filled with gold coins! He didn’t have time to read the papers or count the coins—he’d do that later. He needed a fire, so he continued looking for the flint stone. In another pouch, he found the stone and striker. The compartment also held an ornate knife in a leather scabbard. The knife was beautiful; the blade was about ten inches long, with a four-inch grip inlaid with silver. As Michael held it, he remembered his father liked to collect knives, and this one was his prized possession. The blade was made of the finest steel, and it shimmered in the light.

  He remembered his father saying, “Who knows, Michael, maybe a pirate owned this knife. Imagine the stories it could tell.”

  * * *

  Michael’s father owned a shipbuilding business and frequently took Michael with him on his cruises where Michael learned navigation. So he wasn’t completely lost—he knew where they had come from, and where they were going, but he had no way of knowing the distance either way, other than that they had been traveling for several months when the Indians attacked.

  He needed a fire, but the grass was still wet from the dew. Since dew hadn’t formed on the grass under the wagon, he gathered some of the dry grass, picked up the flint stone, and then crawled out.

  First, he had to clear an area to build the fire. If the prairie caught fire, everything around him would burn. He saw a cottonwood tree just over a little rise with dead branches beneath it, but it, too, was wet from the night dew. He was hungry, and he didn’t want to wait for the wood to dry; he needed a fire right now.

  The board that had broken from the wagon would have to do. He used the hand ax to cut the board into slivers, to use as kindling. He placed the kindling over the pile of dry grass, held the flint, and struck it with the metal striker. Sparks flew, but they didn’t land in the dry grass. He had to get the sparks to land in just the right place. It took several tries, but at last a spark landed on the dry grass, and he saw a tendril of smoke. He blew gently, and all of a sudden there was a flame! He fed more dry grass into the flame until it grew larger. He then placed pieces of the dry board into the flame and, soon they, too, were burning. He had a fire! After the fire was well established, he placed pieces of the dead branches into the fire so it would dry. It worked just as he hoped, and soon the fire was hot enough to cook his food.

  He then cut pieces of salt pork and placed them in the kettle with a handful of flour and poured water into the mixture, then set it on the fire. It took a long time to cook, and it turned into a kind of thick gruel. It didn’t look good, but he was so hungry it tasted wonderful. After eating, he rigged a sling to carry the hand ax under his left arm, where he could reach it quickly. He placed the knife and scabbard on his belt. The knife and the ax would have to do for weapons because they were all he had. The guns were good, but without gunpowder, they were useless.

  He lay under the wagon trying to figure out how to find people who would help him. He could think of no one. The only people he knew about were Indians, and they wanted to kill him. He was going to have to make it on his own and survive until another wagon train came by.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Search for his Mother

  Michael had to know what had happened to his mother, and the only way he was going to know was to look for her. He hoped he might find her alive, but in his heart, he knew she had been killed when that evil-looking Indian hit her with his tomahawk. Michael dreaded seeing what he felt sure he was going to see when he found her. He put some beef jerky and hardtack in his pockets, refilled the canteen, and began retracing the wagon tracks. The tracks were easy to follow because the wagon had been pulled through previously undisturbed grass. The distance was greater than he thought. He felt sure that if he kept following the tracks, he would find his mother. He believed he had located the spot where the attack had occurred when he came to where the tracks of the Indians’ horses combined with the tracks of the horses pulling their wagon.

  If his mother had been killed when she was hit with the stone ax, she should be lying nearby. He looked, but he didn’t find her.

  A little farther along, he saw a piece of cloth and recognized it as his mother’s bonnet. It brought back memories of the last moment he had seen her, and he was overcome with grief. Seeing her bonnet made him realize just how great his loss had been. The attack had happened so suddenly that at the time he couldn’t grasp the tragedy that had unfolded before his eyes. He dropped to his knees in the tall grass, held his mother’s bonnet to his chest, and sobbed uncontrollably . . . . Then something warned him that he was not alone.

  He stopped crying and looked around. On a ridge just across a gully, he saw four Indians on horseback following the tracks of one of the other two wagons. Michael dropped into the tall grass knowing that if he moved or made a sound, he would die. The Indians were talking in a language he couldn’t understand. Two were riding horses they had stolen from his father’s wagon! He waited until he couldn’t hear them and then chanced another look. They were gone—at least he couldn’t see or hear them.

  If he were going to survive long enough to avenge the killing of his parents, he had to control his fear and not cry. Right now, he had no place to run, no place to hide, and no one to help him. Seeing the men who had killed his parents caused anger to well up in his throat. He had to find a way to avenge the wrong they had done. He didn’t know how, but he would find a way. At that moment, he promised himself he would not cry again until he had destroyed the men who killed his parents. He didn’t want to harm innocent people, so he had to make sure he could recognize the men who killed them. They had no way of knowing he existed. He had been asleep in the wagon when they attacked, so they couldn’t have seen him.

  He followed their tracks staying low in the grass, with his ears tuned for the slightest sound. He saw a spot of dried blood. One of his mother’s shoes and a piece of her dress lay nearby, but her body wasn’t there. An overpowering anger consumed him, but he wouldn’t cry. He was just a boy and had no chance against even one full-grown Indian, and he would certainly have no chance against four armed Indians on horseback. It would take time to find a way to avenge this terrible wrong, but he was determined to survive and prepare for that day. He vowed that he would not let them go unpunished.

  He crawled to the top of a knoll and, by peering through the grass, he saw them in a low spot just a stone’s throw ahead. They were pillaging one of the other two wagons. There had been a family of four in that wagon, and four dead bodies lay in the grass, close to the wagon, so he knew he could expect no help from them.

  He looked at the Indians carefully. One was big and powerful with a long scar on his right cheek. The scar pulled his right eye down leaving a dark purple streak across his face. Another was a tall, thin man, who moved quick and sure. This man was intent on what he was doing and reminded Michael of a vulture picking at the remains of a dead animal. This man’s identifying mark was a missing finger on his right hand. The third man was short and stocky with strong, heavy arms. He pushed his way past the other men trying to get to the spoils. He was easy to iden
tify—he limped, favoring his left leg. The fourth Indian had a face that Michael would never forget. Everything about that face was cruel and mean. He had a high-beak nose with piercing black eyes. His eyes were set too close to his nose, giving him the look of a huge rat. He was the one who had struck his mother. Their horses were loaded with plunder, but they continued looking for the other wagons.

  Michael followed even more carefully now. He took care not to move the grass as he worked his way through it. It didn’t take long for the Indians to come upon the second wagon. It was still standing, but it had been partly burned. That wagon carried two men and a woman. Micheal counted the bodies of three people. Their bodies had been too long in the sun, and the stench was terrible. The smell didn’t bother the Indians; they were scavenging without hesitation. When they had all they could carry, they climbed on the horses and rode over the hill southbound.

  After watching them pillaging the wagons, Michael was sure his mother was dead. He hadn’t seen her body, but there was a lot of blood on the grass where she had fallen. He would like to have buried her, but he wasn’t sure he would have had the strength to do it. He was relieved that he didn’t have to endure something so painful.

  He had to get back to his wagon and salvage all he could before the Indians came back. His wagon wouldn’t be hard to find—the tracks were easy to follow.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Search for a New Home

  It was still early afternoon when Michael got back to his wagon. He hadn’t eaten since this morning, and he was hungry. He thought he should save the hardtack and beef jerky for a time when he couldn’t get anything else, so he ate the remainder of the gruel. It wasn’t what he wanted, but it helped to satisfy his hunger.

  He began salvaging the things he might need. He had never lived alone, so he didn’t know what to take. He couldn’t carry it all; he would have to leave some behind and pick it up later.

  He looked for the gunpowder, but all he found was the broken keg. He held the guns in his hands; some day they would come in handy, so he would try to save them. If they were to remain usable, he would have to keep them oiled and dry. He wrapped them in canvas and covered the canvas with grease from the bucket his father used to grease the axles of the wagon.

  He would need the hand ax, the knife, the flint stone and striker. He was lucky to have an iron skillet and pot to cook his food in. The wagon contained too much to carry, so he selected just the things he would need right away. It would probably be best to bury the things he couldn’t take with him. He sure didn’t want the Indians to get them. He rolled the stuff he couldn’t carry in the canvas top of the wagon and dragged it to the top of the hill. He then covered the canvas with grease and buried it, hoping it would last long enough to recover later.

  He took the ax, knife, flint, striker, gold coins, iron pot, skillet, fishhooks and line. He also took extra clothes and two wool blankets. That was all he could carry. There was no way he could hide the evidence of his having been at the wagon, and he was sure the Indians would come hunting him when they found that someone had survived. His new hiding place would have to be very good.

  He followed the draw to the creek, waded in the creek to prevent leaving tracks, and then followed it downstream for about an hour, to where the creek had a wide tree-covered meadow on the left and a tall limestone cliff on the right. At this point, the creek made a right turn around the cliff and continued on through a limestone canyon. A small, clear stream was running into the creek from the limestone cliff. He placed his load on a rocky ledge and followed the small stream. It ran from under a grove of willow trees with their branches sweeping the water. He had to crawl and keep his head low enough to pass under the branches. When the branches got too low, he pushed them aside and continued following the stream. It was about thirty feet long, three feet wide, and a foot deep—the bed of the stream consisted of soft, white sand. Michael was pleased to see that the water flowing over the sand filled his tracks after he passed leaving no trace of his passing. After passing the willows, the stream made a sharp left turn, and there he found its source. It was running from a small crevice in the wall of the canyon hidden by the willows.

  Perhaps inside of that opening will be a place where I can hide.

  To enter the cave, he had to turn his body sideways to squeeze through. It was too small for a full-grown man.

  Once he got inside, he found a cavern that opened into a room about twenty feet long and ten feet wide. The top of the cave was so high that he couldn’t reach the arched ceiling. The floor was a rock ledge covered with dry sand. Other than where the water ran along one side, the cave was dry. He heard a waterfall farther back, but it was too dark to see it.

  This is a perfect spot! I can come and go without leaving tracks. The opening is almost impossible to find; I didn’t really find it, I just stumbled onto it. This will be my new home!

  His prayers were answered. He would have to live in semi-darkness, but he had all the water he needed, and he could make his bed and store his things on the dry ledge. He’d find a way to provide light. He would go back to the wagon and get the pork; it would provide salt for his food and oil for cooking. He was lucky to have stumbled onto such a place—or had he been blessed?

  Michael crawled back through the small opening and then followed the stream to the hill where he had buried his things. He then carried them back to the cave, being careful to step only in the water and leaving no footprints. He knew exactly what he had to do and he stayed steady at it. It required several trips and took him most of the day, but by the end of the day, he had carried nearly all of his belongings and stored them in his cave. The things he couldn’t carry, he rewrapped and again buried it on the hill. After he was done he was tired and hungry, but for the first time since he regained consciousness, he felt safe.

  He bathed in the stream, washed his clothes, and laid them on the limestone ledge to dry. He gathered dry grass and wood, from the outside and then floated them into the cave on a small raft. He then built a fire, hoping the Indians wouldn’t return.

  Again, he made gruel from the meat and cornmeal. It eased his hunger, but he would have to find a better way to supplement his diet, he was running out of the beef jerky that his mother had made.

  After eating the gruel, he sat watching the fire thinking about the last two days. He was wondering how long he could survive. The sadness, fear, and loneliness were almost more than he could bear.

  As his eyes adjusted to the dark, the fire gave off enough light to see the waterfall. It was about twenty paces back, and the floor of the cave was nearly flat all the way. Then he noticed a strange thing—the smoke from the fire wasn’t gathering in the cave. It was disappearing back in the cave in the direction from which the stream was coming. That meant that there was a draft of air coming in the opening he had crawled through, and the draft was blowing the smoke toward the back. There had to be another opening back there. He’d have to check it out tomorrow. Daylight wouldn’t light the cave, but it would help him to see the opening the smoke was escaping through. He was too tired to think about it now, so he rolled one of the blankets around him, used the other blanket for a pillow, and went to asleep.

  * * *

  When he awoke, a faint light was coming in through the opening he had crawled through. It was morning. He dressed and cautiously ventured out. He had to find food. He had enjoyed the wild plums and hoped to find more. He was in luck. After only a short search, he found an abundance of wild plums, and he also found ripe blackberries. He removed his hat and filled it with the delicious fruit.

  On his way back, a cottontail rabbit jumped up from where it was hiding and ran to a new hiding place under a bush just ahead. The rabbit had been well hidden, and he wouldn’t have seen it at all if it hadn’t moved. He laid his hat down, quietly picked up a rock, took careful aim, and threw it with all his might. Again, luck was with him. The rock hit the rabbit and knocked it unconscious. He picked it up, held its hind legs in
one hand, and struck a blow behind the ears with the edge of his other hand, breaking its neck. He had been taught to do that by his father. Now all he had to do was skin and clean the rabbit.

  He was elated. He had fresh meat. He would fry the rabbit in the oil and use the salt for seasoning. He would also fry some bread by making a mixture of cornmeal and flour. He cooked a good meal of fried rabbit and cornbread, and then ate plums and berries for dessert. He felt much better about his chances of survival.

  After eating, he cleaned his pans with sand and rinsed them in the clear, running water. Last night he had a bath and slept well, and this morning he wore fresh, dry clothes. He was not so frightened anymore and was ready for the new day.

  The first thing he had to do was explore his cave and find out where the smoke was going. He wanted to make sure his cave was secure and that he was not going to be found by the Indians should they locate another opening to his hiding place.

  He made a torch by wrapping dry grass around a stick and tying it together with a cloth. Then he soaked the cloth in grease, and lit it from the fire that he had used to cook his breakfast. He followed the smoke as it drifted back into the dark cave. The waterfall was about fifty feet back from the main room, and the cave was high enough that he could walk upright. He passed the waterfall and noticed that the water was running over a white limestone ledge creating a perfect pond. As he walked farther back, he found places where the water tumbled over other ledges of limestone ledges creating several small rooms. One of those rooms would be a good place to store the things he had wrapped in canvas and buried on the hill. It would be handy to have them close should he ever need them.

  After traveling about two hundred feet, the cave was still large enough to walk upright with plenty of room to spare, but it was so dark that he was concerned about getting lost and was just about ready to turn back when he noticed the smoke was escaping through a crevice at the top of the cave.

  A portion of the cave had fallen in, leaving boulders lying on the floor that he could climb to reach the small opening. Michael noticed that the stream continued on beneath the surface, and the water was too clear to be contaminated by surface water; therefore, it had to be an underground stream, possibly continuing underground for many miles, but he had found what he was looking for and felt no need to follow the stream any farther.