The Holy Road

Chapter XXXVI

The road to Jacksboro was broad and easy to follow. It was also well traveled, such that Dances With Wolves had to keep himself and his children clear of human traffic whenever possible. That they kept out of sight slowed their progress, but taking their time fit well with Dances With Wolves' plan. Nothing could be gained by haste and much could be lost. He wanted to leave the impression with anyone they encountered that the threesome was on a routine errand. Any suspicions that might be transmitted to the local counterpart of the Vernon constable would be disastrous.

Though it was only sixty miles from the spot in the crossroads where they had parted company with the lawman, three camps were made and slept in before they reached the outskirts ofJacksboro on the morning of their fourth day out of Vernon.

Mindful of their past lapses in obedience, which reflected so well the stubborn wills they had inherited, Dances With Wolves reminded his children of the necessity for absolute adherence to his instructions so often that he provoked protests from both of them.

Even as they passed the town's outlying buildings, Dances With Wolves was mumbling in Comanche.

"Remember — no talking. "

Neither child looked at him. They stared ahead glumly, as if his constant pestering had made them weary to the point of exhaustion.

"And do as I say."

"Father," began Snake In Hands, "I cannot think when you talk. You talk all the time."

"Let's just find Mother and the baby and go home," added Always Walking. "All we do now is talk."

Two horsemen, coming at a canter, emerged from a bend in the road.

"No more," hissed Dances With Wolves.

He could see that they were both men and, as the riders drew closer, Dances With Wolves instinctively checked to make sure his rifle was resting in is scabbard.

When he glanced up again he could see the glint of a metal star on one man's breast and his heart jumped. In a few seconds he would know if the constable had carried out his threat. He hoped desperately that he would not have to kill the approaching riders, because it would give him so little time to locate his wife and daughter. But readying himself as the riders came up, he leaned down along the side of his horse, pretending to check his girth while he gripped the stock of his rifle.

The man with the metal star brought his fingers to the brim of his hat as he and his companion loped past without breaking stride, and to Dances With Wolves' profound relief the ordinary drum of hoofbeats began to fade behind him.

"Do not look at them," he whispered in Comanche to his children. When the hoofbeats of the lawmen's horses had fallen away to nothing, carrying off the clearest; most dangerous impediment to the success of his mission, Dances With Wolves' heart quickened with the feeling that the Mystery had come forward to aid him. But as he tried to decide whether or not to turn up a side road, new doubts crowded his mind. Perhaps his wife and child were being kept indoors. They might, for some unknown reason, be in another settlement miles away. Maybe they were ill. Maybe they were dead.

Still, he took the sidetrack, and as soon as he made the turn, the trepidations he had labored under for so long lifted off his shoulders in the same way a morning mist vanishes under a powerful sun.

A hundred yards ahead three people were walking up the middle of a hard-packed earthen shack. A small child was sandwiched between a large shuffling man and a woman. The child was holding the woman's hand and no amount of white man clothes could obscure their Comanche identity.

Dances With Wolves shouted, "Follow me! Don't stop!" and as his horse leaped into a gallop, he was a warrior again, uttering the series of high, sharp barks of a man charging to battle.

When Stands With A Fist turned to face the oncoming sound, she was momentarily confused by the sight of a white man racing toward her and reflexively stumbled backward for the safety of the roadside. But the white man was screaming out her name in Comanche and all at once she knew it was him. Sweeping Stays Quiet into her arms she jumped back into the center of the road.

He was coming at a full run and when he leaned along the charging horses' shoulder and extended an arm, Stands With A Fist planted her feet and reached out. His hand slammed into her arm, locked itself on her bicep, and suddenly she was swinging up in a high, smooth arc that brought her down behind the saddle.

But as she landed on the horse's rump the animal bucked and she listed to one side, almost going over. Struggling to right herself, she lost her grip on Stays Quiet and the little girl tumbled off, landing prone on the road.

Stunned by a rush of action he could not comprehend, Axel Strunk had stood still as a post, but when he saw Stays Quiet on hands and knees, shrieking in the road, he bellowed in anguish and lumbered toward her. He had taken only a few tottering steps however when he was hit from behind by a force that sent him sprawling to the edge of he road. When he looked up he saw two children, a boy and girl on horseback, galloping after the man who had grabbed Stands With A Fist. And between them, suspended in space, a foot or two above the ground, was his little friend.

Unable to absorb what had happened, Axel sat crying on the side of the road. Several citizens had witnessed bits and pieces of the rescue, but despite their entreaties, Axel Strunk was unable to enlighten them with further information concerning the bizarre incident.

As more curious inhabitants were drawn to the scene, it soon emerged that it would be impossible to inform the town constable, for he had already departed on official business to an outlying community. It was quickly concluded that it would be logical to repair immediately to the Gunther home, and it happened that Cousin Gunther himself was in residence when the small mob of worried townspeople, pushing the bewildered, grief-stricken simpleton in front of them, ascended the porch.

Cousin Gunther had no better luck in extracting an intelligible account from Axel Strunk, who refused to do anything but sit on the bench and sob into his hands.

It was obvious that Cousin Christine and her child had been abducted, though for what purpose and by whom remained unclear. The kidnapping had only been witnessed in its final stages and those who had seen it were certain that white people, a man and two children, had been the perpetrators. Yet all within earshot were just as certain that they had heard the unmistakable howls of an Indian.

Before a search party could be formed, the searchers would have to know what they were looking for, and thirty minutes passed before the notion was put forward that a "revenger" had snatched them. That led to an animated discussion concerning the dangers of fooling with someone so crazed, and as Cousin Gunther listened, he became more detached, withdrawing into a dreamy, altogether balmic glow. The regular earnest application of prayer had worked a miracle, releasing himself and his family from their unbearable burden.

"Yes," he agreed, "a revenger is nothing to fool with."

The litany of excuses for inaction continued until, at last, a woman who had said little before now shook her head and, in a rare patch of silence, offered the inescapable conclusion no one had yet dared to express, "If they're not dead already, they will be by the time anyone catches up. I'm not letting my husband get killed over that."

No rescue party was formed that day, and when the constable returned to be apprised of what had taken place he soberly echoed the sentiments of his constituents.

"No, I can't waste a minute's time tryin' to get them people back. Far as I'm concerned, we're a lot better off without 'em."

Weeks passed before news of the once-famous captive's disappearance at the hands of a revenger saturated the frontier. But it evaporated rapidly. Alive, Christine Gunther was something to talk about, but death quickly reduced her to an arcane memory of times past.