By setting his characters in post-conflict years while the
American Indian Wars are still ongoing in Texas, Bob Gaston
has created a rugged Western full of tension, drama and
survival on the land. THE WAR WITHIN alludes to the troubled
hearts of the three main characters. The treaty may have
been signed to end the Civil War, but for none of these
people could it be said that their war has ended.
Cathleen O'Donnell is travelling with her family to a new
life in Denver, but her Boston fineries are useless when her
coach is attacked by painted warriors. She survives but is
ill-used and dragged along after her rapists. A former
Confederate Cavalry Major, Henry Morgan, is also making his
way to the new land, with Travis his Andalusian horse. He
rescues the inconvenient daughter of the former enemy.
Henry, originally from Virginia, is emotionally crippled by
his pent-up bitterness and loss, but he knows how to survive
in remote country. Cathleen is determined to learn.
The atrocities were not one-sided as we know; the women,
children and elders of an entire Comanche village are
slaughtered by soldiers. Dorado, a war party leader,
returns to the scene of devastation and vows revenge. Maybe
capturing that flame-haired white woman brought bad
spirits, and he should hunt her down and kill her, along
with the Texans.
I was immediately absorbed by the realism and the genuine
characterisation of THE WAR WITHIN. Bob Gaston, a veteran
and journalist, has done a superb job of getting into the
head of a young woman of the day. Kate's thoughts and
actions feel as real as the mesquite, cottonwoods, and salt
cedars on the broken grasslands. Although she fought her
captors, decent people will see her as tainted - if she can
reach a fort. Morgan is afflicted by what we know now as
post-traumatic stress. Buffalo skinners, tribes pushed to
desperation, and genteel travellers populate the pages.
The gripping story and character growth kept me immersed
whether riding under a Comanche moon, among a buffalo herd
or in a burning barn. I recommend Bob Gaston's THE WAR
WITHIN as a historical adventure and understated but
powerful romance; well worth a read for anyone who hopes to
understand these times.
The War Within is a gritty, action-packed, and vividly told
story of seventeen year old Boston debutante, Cathleen
O'Donnell and her struggle to survive an Indian attack that
killed her family, and forced her to depend on a hated Rebel
to avoid being sold to Mexican traders as a slave.
Cathleen's father, U.S.Army Colonel Patrick O'Donnell and
family, had traveled West by stage coach. On the same road
Confederate Cavalry Major Henry Morgan, bitter and
alone,rode his horse. They were part of a flood of North and
South veterans seeking a fresh start and trying to forget
the Civil War.
Comanche Indians viewed the invading Whites as prey, that
provided an opportunity for glory, slaves, and horses. The
clash of the two cultures was a bloody continuation of the
emotional stress of the Civil War. Cathleen and Morgan, must
heal their personal animosity and control individual fears,
to out run the vengeful Indians on their trail... or die.
Excerpt
“Ten minutes,” the driver yelled from the box seat of the
stagecoach. “You folks got ten—” A shotgun blast overpowered
the driver’s announcement.
“Get out of here, and take your anger and your damn war with
you,” a male voice yelled across the station yard. “You want
to get drunk, pick a fight, or kill yourself, do it in a
saloon. We got respectable passengers on that stage and they
ain’t interested in a crazy, homeless veteran with a death
wish.”
The old coach rocked on its battered springs as the horses
were unhitched and the driver stepped down to the pulverized
ground. He appeared a second later at the coach window, a
grin on his sun-blistered face. “Pay no attention to that
ruckus. Old Charlie is just getting rid of another one of
them rebel drifters. His toothless smile released a trickle
of dark drool to add to the tobacco stain on his graying
beard.
“As I was a sayin’, you got ten minutes to eat and do your
bidness.”
He leered at the female passengers. “You fine ladies best be
watchin’ your step.” His grinned broadened as he leaned into
the window to loom over the disheveled passengers. “The
station master’s a lazy cuss and don’t believe in mucking
the yard.” His hooting laugh set off a raspy cough that
swamped the coach interior with foul breath. When he caught
his breath, he added, “And horses ain’t too particular where
they do their bidness.” Another coughing fit pulled him from
the window and doubled him over, spraying the stagecoach
with spittle and a tobacco plug. “So wipe your feet afore
goin’ into the station’s fine eatery.” His raspy chuckle
followed him as he ambled to the door of the sod way
station.
“What a vile little man,” Mrs. O’Donnell huffed, her voice
muffled behind the handkerchief she held to her mouth and
nose in a futile effort to filter the never-ending dust. “I
declare, Patrick, you surely could have found a more
civilized way to get to Denver—”
Cathleen cut off her mother’s building tirade. “Eat? What is
that man talking about, Father? He stopped the coach in the
middle of the prairie. There’s nothing here.”
Patrick O’Donnell smiled at his seventeen-year-old daughter,
opened the door and pointed. “Look on this side of the
coach. It’s not Boston’s Jacob With, but I think our table
is ready.”
A man wearing a dirty apron and holding a shotgun motioned
to them from the entrance of a sod house. “Come on in,
folks. We got johnnycakes and stew. If you ladies need to
freshen up, there’s a wash shed around back. The men can use
the water trough. There’s a necessary house behind the
shed.”
“Patrick, I will not allow my children to eat in a hole in
the ground with a bunch of smelly, dirt-caked ruffians,”
Cathleen’s mother hissed.
“Shhh, Martha. Keep your voice down.” Colonel O’Donnell
glanced in the direction of the sod structure. The tall man
that had been chased from the station was using a battered
campaign hat to slap dust from his faded Confederate
officer’s uniform. He looked their way. A frown filled his
face when he saw O’Donnell’s blue uniform. Shaking his head,
he untied the reins of his horse from the hitching post, and
led the animal to the water trough.
“Papa, why did the man chase that rebel off with a shotgun?”
eight-year-old Willie asked. “You said the war was over.”
“It is, son, but for some soldiers it never ends. They can’t
stop fighting. They get drunk to hide from their ghosts.
They have violent mood swings and fits of anger.”
O’Donnell rose from his seat and moved out the coach door.
“Now, before my hunger turns to anger and I become violent,
let us see what’s on the table.”
Willie jumped from the stage and headed for the door of the
sod house. O’Donnell turned to his wife and daughter and in
a quiet voice he said, “Ladies, I must insist that you cease
your expressions of distain for your surroundings and our
soon-to-be neighbors.”
Martha O’Donnell ignored his comment and turned her back to
her husband while she wiped the perspiration from her face
with a white lace handkerchief. She took her daughter’s hand
and led her out of the battered vehicle. A powdery dust rose
around their feet, coating the hems of their dresses. Mrs.
O’Donnell immediately attempted to brush the dust from
Cathleen’s traveling coat.
“Ladies,” O’Donnell barked in a parade ground voice.
Startled, they spun to face the Colonel. “This is not
Boston. You will pay attention to what I have to say. The
war is over and many people have moved here from the South
just as we have moved from the North. Circumstances beyond
our control have brought all of us to this place to look for
a fresh start. You will erase old animosities and prejudices
from your minds and conduct yourselves in a courteous,
civilized and lady-like manner.” O’Donnell squeezed the arms
of his wife and daughter. “Do I make myself clear?”
Martha looked away, her face flushed because of the tone and
volume of the reprimand. “Yes, dear.”
“Cathleen?”
“Yes, Father.” She turned away and stopped in mid-stride,
her attention drawn to the Confederate officer’s mount.
“Father, look at that horse with the long mane and tail by
the water trough. It’s beautiful.”
O’Donnell let his eyes linger on the gray’s powerful build.
“Yes, it is. I’ve only seen one other like it.”
“I want one just like it when we get to Denver.”
“It looks expensive, Cathleen. I think it’s a Spanish horse,
A...ah… Andalusian. If I’m right, it’s one of the few in the
country.”
“I want one. Please, Father. Please.”
“That is a very valuable horse. It’s against Spanish law to
export them. A few were given as gifts by the king and a few
may have come to this country from Mexico.”
“Please, Father. Say yes.”
“Even if we could find one for sale, I doubt I could afford
it.”
“Nonsense, we can afford anything once you start working as
a mining engineer,” Martha said in a superior tone.
O’Donnell took a deep breath and gave a condescending smile
toward his wife. She stood erect with her shoulders back and
her head lifted in a posture that allowed her to look down
her nose at her surroundings and the local population. The
first time she tangles with a local lady with that Boston
superiority attitude should be quite a show.
Cathleen turned from her parents and walked across the dusty
yard to the horse, extending her hand to touch its muzzle.
“Careful, miss, Travis doesn’t cotton to ladies.”
Cathleen looked up at the tall man standing on the other
side of the horse and quickly pulled her hand back. She
smiled at the southern accent and the rich baritone warmth
of his voice and pretended to examine the animal. Instead,
she scrutinized the man in her peripheral vision. Under all
that dirt, shaggy hair, and old gray uniform, he is rather
attractive. “May I touch your horse?”
“You can try, but the only woman he ever liked was my wife.
He might kick or bite.”
“You’re married?” She tried to keep the disappointment out
of her voice.
“I was.” A pained expression briefly crossed his face. “Not
any longer.”
“Oh?”
He looked away and frowned. A moment passed before he spoke
softly in a choked voice. “Hanna died in the war.”
“I’m sorry.”
He nodded, his gaze drifting across the rolling grassland
and distant mountains. “Me, too.” Clearing his throat, the
man looked down at Cathleen, the pain of loss apparent in
his eyes. His weather-worn features seemed to try to smile
and failed. “The way the sun shines on your hair reminds—”
“Young lady,” her mother’s voice snapped across the dirt of
the stage yard. “You come here this instant.”
Cathleen scowled, then lifted a smiling face to the Southern
officer. “I have to go.” She took a few steps, stopped and
turned back. “What’s your name?”
“Morgan.”
“Mine is Cathleen.” She lowered her eyes, then looked upward
through her lashes. “Perhaps we’ll meet in Denver.”
“Cathleen. Now,” her mother demanded. The command was coated
in the acid of parental frustration.
“Not likely, too much bad history,” Morgan said, smiling to
soften his words.
“Oh. Well yes, there could be a problem.” She turned and
trudged back to her waiting family.
“Cathleen, what were you thinking?” her mother scolded in a
loud voice. “You know better than to talk to strange men,
especially a dirty, crazy, rebel ruffian. Why… why… I never
thought you’d do such a thing. Your father is a colonel in
the United States Army. It is so embarrassing.”
“I just wanted to see his horse.”
“It can’t be his. He probably stole it,” her mother snapped.
“You heard your father, it’s very expensive. It’s a gift
from kings. Do you think that trash ever met a king?”
“Martha, enough,” O’Donnell growled. “He heard you. I will
not tolerate this mantle of superiority from you.” Her
father’s face hardened and in a quiet voice of cold steel he
added, “Martha, it may have been considered sophisticated
among your Boston society friends, but it is rude, and
totally unacceptable to me. You will stop it immediately.”
“What does it matter? We won the war. They need to learn
their place.”
Across the yard, the tall Confederate officer spat. “Damn
Yankees.” He pulled his horse from the water trough,
mounted, and in a loud voice said, “Let’s head south,
Travis. Colorado’s startin’ to smell.”
Two hours later…
“I can’t believe you made us ride this horrible stagecoach
to Denver,” Cathleen scoffed. “We could have ridden that new
train.”
“Don’t be angry with father, dear, it’s the heat,” her
mother shouted over the noise of the bouncing coach. “He
didn’t make the roads.” Her voice was patronizing.
Cathleen loathed it when her mother defended him, especially
when they had argued. She gave her mother the look she
reserved for the unwanted attention of a boy seeking a spot
on her dance card, and then dropped her chin to her chest
and stuck out her lower lip.
“This trip is an adventure,” Patrick O’Donnell, late Light
Colonel of Engineers in the Grand Army of the Republic,
yelled. He winked at his pouting daughter. “We were getting
soft in Boston. The West will put some bark on all of us.”
Cathleen grimaced at her father. I’d as soon have hair on my
upper lip.
The sound of a whip crack filtered through the coach roof,
followed by a string of profanities from the driver.
“Patrick.” Mrs. O’Donnell raised her hands to cover her
ears. “Can’t you do something about that awful man’s
language? The children… .”
The coach rocked, bumping the passengers against each other,
as the animals responded to the whip.
Miss Clara, the passenger the coach picked up at the last
stop, addressed Martha O’Donnell with a loud cackle. “That’s
the only language them horses understand, dearie.”
Cathleen glanced at Miss Clara. The jezebel, she’s falling
out of that cheap dress so father will see her. She must be
one of those loose saloon women the nuns talked about.
Cathleen leaned forward to block the view and catch Colonel
O’Donnell’s eye. When she had his attention, she collapsed
against the seat back. “Father, we’ve been traveling for ten
days,” she sighed. A pout shaped her lips and she
dramatically lifted her hand and placed the back of it
against her forehead, the way a stage actress had expressed
distress at a play in Boston. “How much farther?” Her words
were drawn out and floated on a rush of exhaled air.
Her father smiled and clapped his hands. “Well done. Keep
practicing and you can join your Mother’s social group.”
“Damn you! Run.” The driver’s voice penetrated the roof of
the bouncing stage. “Yah…yah! Run, you four-legged bastards…
Run.”
The wheels twisted into a sun-hardened rut, slamming the
coach down against the chassis as its worn springs
surrendered. Cathleen tumbled sideways onto her mother’s
lap. The two fell into the leg space between the seats.
Their hats, held by pins in their long red hair, were
knocked askew by flaying arms and came to rest tilted down
over their faces. Simultaneously, as if choreographed,
mother and daughter pushed down their dresses and attempted
to adjust their hats.
Willie let out a high-pitched peal of laughter, grabbed the
other male passenger by the arm, and pointed at his sister
and mother. Mr. Watkins, whom Cathleen had earlier dismissed
as a sausage stuffed in a tweed casing, smiled at the boy
and assisted Colonel O’Donnell as he helped the ladies
regain their seats. Embarrassed, mother and daughter quickly
finished pinning their hats, folded their hands and, as one,
closed their eyes to avoid looking at their traveling
companions.
A succession of sharp pops echoed above the passengers.
Colonel O’Donnell drew his firearm and quickly seated
himself. “Mr. Watkins,” he yelled over the noise of the
running coach. “That sounded like gun fire. Do you carry a
weapon?”
“I do. Never know when there’ll be a hold-up on this route.”
“Do you know how to use it?”
“Guns are my stock in trade. I represent the Colt Firearms
Company.”
The sharp, deafening report of a rifle exploded above them
and the biting smell of gunpowder joined the dust and filled
the cabin.
“Cathleen,” the Colonel yelled, “pay attention.”
“Yah…yah!” bellowed the driver. “Run damn you. Run!”
The women passengers exchanged nervous looks as the sound of
savage shrieks reached them through the open side windows of
the coach.
“Patrick… .”
O’Donnell ignored his wife. “Watkins, we need guns and
ammunition for everyone,” he shouted.
“They’re on top, with my luggage.”
An Indian with a buffalo headdress raced by the coach window
toward the team of horses.
“Oh, God, help us. Comanche,” Miss Clara moaned, then
screamed, “Somebody give me a gun. Don’t let them take me
alive.”
O’Donnell leaned out the window and snapped off a shot at
the warrior. He backed into the passenger compartment.
“Missed.” He handed Cathleen his pistol. “Take this and
protect your mother and brother until I get back.”
“Where are you going?”
“On top. We need Watkins’ guns.” He opened the door and
reached for the roof railing.
The yellow-painted Indian materialized from the dust
spinning off the coach wheels and horses’ hooves.
“Father,” Cathleen screamed and raised the pistol.
Before Colonel O’Donnell could react, a war club smashed
into his head, knocking him from the side of the coach.
“Fa…th…er,” Cathleen howled, and emptied the Colt through
the vacant doorway.
Mrs. O’Donnell pulled Willie across the seat and covered him
with her body. The stage bounced across a pothole. The empty
pistol flew from Cathleen’s hand as she fell on top of Miss
Clara. The two women rolled into the seat well at her
mother’s feet.
A rifle exploded at the opposite window and Watkins crashed
onto Cathleen’s back. Two more bounces and the Denver stage
shook like a wet dog and came to a stop. Cathleen couldn’t
breathe with the rotund gun merchant on top of her. His
blood spilled into her hair and trickled into her mouth. She
gagged at the coppery taste and gasped, “Mr. Watkins, let me
up.”
Miss Clara’s muffled whisper came from under Cathleen.
“Shhhh…play dead.”
The door tore open and slammed against the side of the
coach.
Cathleen held her breath.
“Play dead,” Miss Clara repeated in a soft voice.
Watkins’ body rocked on top of Cathleen and slowly slid
across her back. She heard a loud thump that sounded like a
sack of grain being dropped, followed by a moan. Her mother
screamed and Willie started crying.
Play dead filled her mind. She closed her eyes. Hard fingers
bit into her ankles and jerked her from Miss Clara. Stunned
by the impact when she hit the ground, Cathleen sat up among
the moccasin-clad legs of her captors. She tried to rise and
a club blurred through the edge of her vision. A light
exploded behind her eyes and she collapsed into a dark,
disorienting shroud. Pain raced through her foggy head and
settled in her scalp. I’m being dragged by my hair.
She opened her eyes as the savage released her in a circle
of warriors. This can’t be…. Excited hands reached out and
ripped her clothing. Exploring hands groped, and fingers
probed and pinched her flesh. “Please. You can’t. I’m a….”
She fought and kicked until another blow stilled her
struggle and clouded her mind.
Her arms and legs were pinned down. Her legs pulled apart. A
hot pain sliced into her. She struggled to back away from
the hurt but couldn’t move. She screamed, “Help me.” But
there was no one.
Unable to move, she withdrew from the pain and shame,
separating from her young girl dreams and the horrible truth
of the moment. Awareness floated away from her battered
body, observing the wild pack that mounted her.
One…
Two…
Three…
… until awareness faded and only the grunts and the bone-
deep ache registered.
Two days later an afternoon Texas sun burned through the
tattered fabric of William Morgan’s shirt. Sand and loose
gravel sifted through his open collar, turning into a muddy
paste on his sweat-soaked chest, grinding the skin raw. With
the slow deliberate movements of a cautious man experienced
in the blood sports of war and the frontier, he snaked his
way up the steep broken hillside on his belly. The desert
chewed the skin from his knees. On his right leg, a crimson
stain seeped through the thin fabric of his worn gray
trousers and spread across the dingy yellow stripe that
identified him as a cavalry officer of the Confederacy. Each
torturous foot of his climb up the searing rugged surface of
the hill sent needles of pain searching for recognition. He
ignored his body, banking the agony for tomorrow.
Morgan raised his head and listened. Old-timers say you can
smell a Comanche a hundred yards off. He sniffed. That’s
another tale or my sniffer’s broken.
He removed his battered, sweat-stained campaign hat and ran
his hand through the long salt and pepper hair that hung
over his ears and down his neck. He retrieved a bandanna
from his hip pocket and wiped the moisture from his sun-
darkened face. He pulled himself to the crest, peered over
the edge and froze. Thirty feet below, two Indians worked
their way toward the summit. Oh sweet Jesus, Comanche. He
yanked on his hat, ran and skidded for the horse waiting
halfway down the hill.
A scream sliced through the air before he reached his
dapple-gray animal.
“Whoa Travis...whoa,” he yelled. “Stand still. Don’t let ‘em
spook you.” Morgan grabbed the reins and jumped onto the
horse’s back. Travis staggered under the sudden two hundred
pounds of weight, shifted his hooves, and exploded down the
hill at a dead run. Shots echoed from the hilltop and lead
sang around them.
“I’m wearing gray, you heathen bastards,” Morgan yelled over
his shoulder. He leaned low in the saddle, cursing the idiot
Southern general who gave rifles to the Comanche. “Two years
after the war they’re shootin’ Yanks and us,” he muttered
under his breath and nudged Travis with his spurs.
The shooting stopped as Travis’ hooves pounded across the
rugged grass and course ground of the West Texas prairie.
Morgan looked back. The Comanche had disappeared from the
hill. “Good boy.” He scratched the horse’s neck. “You could
have been in some buck’s herd or his belly.”
Morgan pushed Travis until they were halfway across a
shallow valley. “Whoa, whoa boy.” He turned in the saddle to
study his trail. About a mile back, a spiral of dust rose
over the parched land. “Damn Comanche are like a pack of
wolves. They smell a scalp, they keep coming till they get
it.” He touched the knobbed tips of his cavalry spurs to
Travis’ flanks and headed toward a distant line of green.
That must be trees along the Red.
“Horse, if we get out of this, I’m going to stop our
driftin’ and settle down - I promise.”
When the sun dropped below the western hills and a gentle
breeze had sucked the heat from the cap rock, Morgan pulled
on the reins and slowed Travis to a walk. “Whoa, friend,
time for a rest and another look.” I’m talking to a horse.
Am I expecting answers? Maybe I am a little crazy.
Unconsciously he fingered the long saber scar that crossed
his left cheek to give his mouth a crooked smile. He shook
his head to clear it and dismounted. I’ll worry about my
mental health tomorrow. He studied his back trail. Dust
painted the distant sky. “Damn, don’t they ever give up?”
At a creek that fed the Red, Morgan walked his horse into
the water and turned northwest upstream. Sand rose around
Travis’ hooves, mingled with the slow current, and settled
to the bottom, erasing traces of their passage. With luck,
the Comanche will think we went the logical way, eastward
toward the forts.
“You done good, old fellow. Looks like you won’t make the
menu tonight, and with luck you’ll get some grass, then I’ll
catch up on my sleep.” He patted the horse’s sweat-dampened
shoulder and playfully jerked on a handful of mane. “When
I’m talking to you, Travis, it’s polite to answer.” He
closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Damn, I
did it again.
Morgan guided the stallion through the shallow water of the
creek, past the deep pools, avoiding the sandbars, and
beyond the reaching arms of the cottonwood and willow. For
an hour, he zigzagged from bank to bank without leaving a
broken branch or sandy hoof print. A three-quarter moon
floated into the clear eastern sky flooding the land with
light. “We’re in trouble, Travis. If we can see, they can
see. We need to find a place to hole up.”
Ahead the stream disappeared into the dark wall of the cap
rock. The edge of a large stone slab rested in the water
like a natural ramp. Morgan lifted his rifle from its
scabbard, dismounted, and leaving Travis standing in the
creek, he climbed up the gentle rock slope to search for any
sign of visitors.
Finding none, he returned to the horse. “Come on, boy. This
is where we camp.” He jerked the reins, and Travis lunged
onto the stone shelf.
“Careful. Don’t slip. We don’t want to mark the rock with
your shoes.” Morgan opened his saddlebags and pulled out
four heavy squares of leather, each threaded with a rawhide
drawstring. “Raise your foot.” He grabbed the animal’s leg
below the knee and lifted. “You know the drill. Stand easy.”
He placed the first leather on a forefoot, pulled the string
snug, tied it off, and then moved to the next foot.
When all four feet were encased, he led the horse across the
rock slab to where the creek exited into a meadow. “There
should be good grass here, boy.” Morgan stripped the shoe
covers, saddle and bridle from the gray, rubbed him down
with his blanket, and turned him loose. “Stay near in case
we get company.”
Taking one more look around, Morgan bent, picked up his tack
and on hands and knees, forced his way into a clump of
creosote bushes growing along the base of the cliff. I’d
hate to meet a rattler in here.
Ten feet into the green tunnel that surrounded him on all
sides and above, he found a small open space with a smooth
sand floor. He placed his back to the cliff, pulled his
rifle from its boot, lay down, and positioned his saddle as
a pillow.
“Wet britches are uncomfortable as hell, but if a Comanche
shows up for breakfast, I….” Damn, now I’m talking to
myself. He squirmed until the sand cupped his body with as
much comfort as the ground would offer, closed his eyes, and
slept.
Hours later, Morgan jerked awake, held his breath and
listened. The night was empty of all sound. No insects, no
frogs or birds. Even the wind and water left no trace of
their passage. The nerves in the back of Morgan’s neck
tickled. Something’s there. He rolled onto his stomach,
settled the rifle against his shoulder and listened.
There was splash and a horse blowing. Comanche. Damn, can’t
trust Indians to be logical.
He grasped his saddle by the horn and eased deeper into the
creosote bushes toward the cliff face. Keeping his eyes on
the Indians and using his left foot as a guide along the
rock wall, he inched his way slowly toward the meadow and
Travis.
“What the hell?” he muttered. He couldn’t touch the rock
wall with his foot. It was there, then it wasn’t. He
reversed himself and faced a small opening the size of a
bent washtub. His eyes probed the blue-black shadows of the
cave. Lord, don’t let this be the home or a cougar or
rattler. He took a deep breath, gripped his lower lip with
his teeth, and backed in.
In the creek, phantoms with only their eyes showing through
the black war paint on their upper faces ghosted through the
moonlight and shadows. Warily they glided to the rock slab
and stopped.
Ohapitu (Yellow Wolf) sat his pony like a statue, his blue
eyes probing their surroundings before they settled on his
silent, unmoving companions. Good, they wait my orders.
Dorado, as he was called because of his golden skin
coloring, enjoyed the control a moment longer, then said in
a low voice, “We camp here.” He urged his pony out of the
water and up the stone ramp, threw a leg over the animal’s
neck and dropped to the ground.
Eleven warriors rode onto the rock slab and slid from the
backs of their horses. One rider remained mounted, slumped,
head down, unmoving. Dorado walked resolutely to the side of
the pony, grabbed the rawhide rope hanging from the rider’s
neck, and shook it. The rider fell to the ground and moaned.
“Get up, Fire Hair,” Dorado ordered in English. “Prepare the
camp.” When the bundle of dishevel rags didn’t respond, he
nudged it with his foot. “Your life with the true people
begins now. If you do not do as you are told by a warrior,
squaw or child, you will be beaten.”
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