Encounter in Shadows

Jantallian

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'A friend loveth at all times and a brother is born for adversity.' Proverbs 17:17

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The Second Encounter

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Out of the narrow mouth of the battle-scarred valley, two wagons lurched and swayed until the flats bordering the river were reached. Their speed increased considerably after this as the skillful drivers urged on their fresh and willing teams. They had taken the precaution of hitching up their own horses, rather than trying to steal ones from the enemy who would not know their drivers and prove a hazard in the darkness.

Presently both wagons slowed and turned into the shallows of the wide river. They parted company and headed in opposite directions, one upstream, the other down. The water here was not deep and they were able to proceed in midstream. Despite the fact that it was full night, the drivers appeared to know exactly where they were going with no more light than the stars.

Not long after, the wagons were followed by two horses, whose riders draw to a halt on the bank of the river to watch their shadowy progress into the distant gloom. Between the pair, a young man was standing with a foot on each of the inner stirrups, his hands lightly resting on the shoulders of the riders.

Lieutenant Warwick, riding on the left, gave a nod of satisfaction. The plan had worked well. Their decoy prisoner had distracted the Yankee troops sufficiently for his Ranulfiar - the 'raiding wolf warriors' as he had laughingly christened them one night - to launch a covert attack, capturing both a munitions wagon and a supply wagon. They had been able to extract the captive without a problem. The rest of the raiders had dispersed as silently as they had attacked, melting into the shadows of the night in a multitude of different directions, which made them impossible to track as a group. They had pulled off a highly successful raid and gained urgently needed supplies to send to the army in the east, as well as for their own needs.

He looked down at the young man they had swept up from right under the nose of their enemy. "You did well, Wolf-cub. Now get up behind the Second. We must travel."

"Spirit?"

"Y' horse is safe!" the red-headed second-in-command assured him. "Lay like the dead until Bentley got to him. Y' can have him back when we catch up with them."

The young man just nodded. He dropped down between the horses and then vaulted back up behind the Second. Lieutenant Warwick studied him for a moment. It was not possible to see much by starlight. What he did see disquieted him, but he made no comment. The phenomenal success of his raids depended upon every member of the band concentrating totally on what they were doing. The young man's concern over his horse was not only because he cared about it, but because he knew that by riding double their progress would be less swift. All the same, the leader knew there was more at issue than just the condition of a horse.

"Stop worryin'!" the Second told him with a grin. "The Wolf-cub's so skinny, ain't no horse gonna notice him ridin' it!"

They both waited for the customary quick retort, for the easy banter of camaraderie which usually flowed in the euphoria after a successful raid. The young man made no response.

"We'll all eat well tonight," the Lieutenant assured them. It had been so long since they had had a decent meal that they had almost forgotten what one tasted like. And the young were always hungry!

Again there was no response. More than this, the Second felt not even the flicker of movement in the still body riding behind him. He exchanged a heartfelt glance with his leader, but his own advice had been good: they couldn't afford to worry now.

Without further words, Lieutenant Warwick led them down into the river, crossing straight over and ignoring the way the wagons had split up. They rode at a steady lope, not bothering to hide their tracks, but making several wide curves instead of heading directly east and, on one occasion, turning back on their tracks in a complete circle. It was not long before the sandy earth began to turn to much rockier desert terrain. At the edge of this, they caught up with one of the wagons.

It was halted at the mouth of a narrow canyon, scarcely wide enough for it to pass through. Men were swarming over it like a colony of ants, each one efficiently carrying out their part of dealing with the cargo without a single order being given. It was the munitions wagon and much-needed ammunition was being loaded on to their horses and the pack animals they had brought with them.

It did not take long until almost all of it had been hauled out. The Lieutenant gave a hand-signal and the men immediately mounted up and dispersed in their separate ways. Only a driver remained with the wagon. He saluted and urged the team into a furious gallop, as if they had been spooked. He was heading in a southerly direction across the softer terrain. The wheel-marks were clearly visible and, just to encourage any pursuers, he tossed out a handful of bullets now and then. Warwick grinned to himself. Presently the wagon would be abandoned in the soft margins of the river, just deep enough to make it difficult to get to and with just enough ammunition cases visible to ensure that anyone finding it would be forced to investigate whether there was anything left to salvage. Nothing like wasting other people's time! Meanwhile, the driver would ride and lead his team back to their camp.

Once the wagon and the men had disappeared, the three of them moved into the mouth of the canyon and dismounted in a patch of deep shadow. From here they could look out across the plain to the river, although little could be seen, even with the keen night-sight they had developed. Everything appeared still and tranquil. Nevertheless, all three remained on their feet, alert and ready, with the horses' heads turned towards the canyon, ready to mount at any moment.

Again, it was not long before they heard the sound of the second wagon approaching; silent maneuvering was almost impossible and there had been no time to grease the axles or muffle the harness. This time the driver did not stop, but continued on up the narrow passage, like a cork into a bottle-neck. Once the wagon had passed them, the three watchers straightaway began to obliterate its tracks as best they could for some way before the entrance. When they had finished, the trail gave the impression that the wagon had simply been lifted into the sky by some giant eagle and returned to earth a quarter of a mile further on. It wouldn't fool an experienced tracker for long in daylight, but once more it would delay pursuit, since the mouth of the canyon was not immediately obvious, especially in the dark, unless you knew where to look for it.

As they walked back to their horses, the Lieutenant viewed the shirtless back of the youngest member of his pack with concern. He'd hoped they had been quick enough to prevent any kind of physical torture being inflicted. Evidently he had been wrong. There was, however, absolutely nothing he could do about it now. And he knew that the boy knew it. They were making the speediest return possible, given the necessity for absolute secrecy, to their secure camp and the needed skill of their surgeon-doctor. Until then, the planned course of the raid was paramount.

They mounted up again and followed the twisting tunnel of the canyon, riding in the deep shadows under the cliffs as if they were riding a broad, grassy trail leading home. Within another quarter of a mile, they caught up with the second wagon. It was being methodically stripped of its contents in the same way as the munitions wagon, but with much more joy. There was not a sound from the wolf pack, but their exultation in the success of their raid and the prospect of a decent meal, for the first time in who remembered how long, was palpable.

While the Lieutenant and the Second joined in the work, the young man who had been riding double ran to where the horses were standing patiently drawn up in a line, ready for loading. As he neared them, there was a soft snort and a pony, sturdy and wild, lifted its head and trotted towards him. It obviously had Appaloosa blood, for its head and rump had the characteristic 'snowflake' spots, dark brown on white background, while the rest of its forequarters were bay. It butted the boy hard in the stomach and he rubbed its crest vigorously, murmuring softly under his breath. The affection of their reunion could not be mistaken and was echoed by the relief of the humans, as the men loading their horses paused briefly and grinned their appreciation of his return to them.

Just as the munitions wagon had been baited to delay their enemy, so the empty supplies wagon was run forward and sent plunging into a deep crevasse in the floor of the canyon. Broken casks and split boxes spilled from its interior. But the enemy could never be sure they had really lost all the wagon contained unless they were prepared to climb down and investigate. And any scout worth his salt would do that!

Then the Lieutenant lead the whole company as they wound their way up the canyon, penetrating further and further into the rocky maze. There was no chance that their tracks could be followed. Even so, their progress was hardly conventional. At a certain point, they left the floor of the canyon and began to climb up and over the escarpment, descending on the other side into an even narrower gully, which they followed north. When this was blocked by another arm of the mountains, they simply went on climbing the steep face until they reached the summit of another ridge. Here the mountain wall reared up to the high mesa. The band traversed along its side, turning this way and that as they mounted higher and higher. The horses scrambled willingly alongside their riders, knowing water and food and rest lay ahead: their unshod hooves found a footing where no cavalry-shod horse could have gone. A series of precarious ledges enabled the whole company to climb to a height which any mounted pursuer would have ignored as impossible.

At last, with a heave and a snort and a thud of hooves and an almost universal sigh of contentment, they were home.

#####

Steward Vincent St John Warwick – to give him his full name, which nobody in the Ranulfiar ever did – was first to the top, extending a hand as everyone else clambered over the edge and greeting each of them by name:

"Tod …. Greg … Raoul, c'est un bon nuit … Gabriel … Pete … Samson (as he patted the two great hounds loping up alongside the man) … Doc, got some customers for you, I'm afraid … Keilder … Bentley, thanks for picking up Spirit for the Wolf-cub … Hammer …" and so on, until all thirty seven of them had made it home. Last came his second-in-command with his cousin: "Cal … Jess, thanks, you did what we needed."

Blue eyes sparkled for a moment in the clear starlight gilding the plateau, but the young man he had congratulated just ducked his head and looked away, as if unwilling to be praised. The two older men exchanged another heartfelt glance, but Callum Harper knew his cousin thoroughly and Vin Warwick was experienced enough in handling his band of volatile young men to wisely leave well alone, at least for the moment.

The plateau was alive with brisk movement as horses were unloaded, rubbed down, fed and either hitched to the picket line or left to wander if they could be trusted. Their captured bounty was carefully stored in the caves which hollowed out the ridge rising like a shield wall at the north end of the mesa. Tomorrow their task would be to transport ammunition and food to the hard-pressed regular troops, but for tonight they could celebrate and rest. Water was drawn up from the natural well in one of the caves and fires were lighted in the carefully shielded cooking area. Men kicked off their boots in order to move more silently, not to mention giving their weary feet a rest. Shirts were pulled off too, making good use of the plentiful water supply to wash away the grime and blood of battle and the charcoal with which all but one of them had blackened their skin for the night-raid.

Vin checked with Doc in his hospital cave, exchanging a joke and an encouraging hug with the injured men. Nothing serious, thank the Lord! They could ill afford to lose any more men, although doubtless higher command would have a number of replacements they couldn't make fit in anywhere else. The raiding wolf-pack, his Ranulfiar, was highly irregular, made up as it was of the insubordinate, the wild, the reckless and the occasional released convict. It was never going to function like a normal army unit and the only fame it was likely to accrue its commander was notoriety and putting the fear of God into the enemy. Vin was content with that. From a bunch of recalcitrant misfits, he had managed for forge together a brotherhood who would die for each other and who were skilled and seasoned enough to avoid such an eventuality most of the time. Their varied talents, experiences and backgrounds were complementary and bound together by a matchless pride in and loyalty to each other. Which reminded him …

"Did you treat the Wolf-cub?"

Doc shook his head. "Haven't seen him since we came up. What's he done now?" He sounded justifiably resigned to the routine bodily battering which resulted from this particular member of the pack's total disregard for safety.

"He took a lashing on our behalf," Vin said absently as he moved to look out of the cave doorway.

"Last I saw, he was settlin' Spirit, talkin' to him," one of the men volunteered.

"So what's new?" another laughed affectionately. "That boy practically speaks horse!"

He was probably entitled to say 'boy', by virtue of his long membership of the band, although he was not so much older than the youngest of them. Doc and Samson, their blacksmith, somewhere in their thirties, were the only ones with any approach to maturity. Cal and Vin were older than the other men under their command, both in years and life-experience, which enabled them to provide the rock of stability that the younger ones needed. Of the rest, most had barely made it into their twenties. Yet it was a mistake to underestimate any of them.

Vin nodded briefly, accepting the information, and raise his hand in a salute as he left them. He tracked down Cal at the field kitchen, checking that the cooking was underway with a minimum of betraying smoke.

"Where's Jess?"

Cal rolled his eyes and gave him wry grin. "Communin' with his spirit, of course! Ain't anything to pick between the two of them for bein' impervious to orders."

"Did you give him orders?" Vin inquired disbelievingly.

Cal shook his head: "Just sayin'!"

"And that pony does exactly what he says," Vin pointed out. "Couldn't have made the raid if it didn't sham dead to order."

"Jess's orders," Cal agreed, grinning again.

"Horses are all fed now," Vin observed, leaving Cal to finish his overseeing and striding further out onto the open plateau. He could see the Appaloosa standing stock-still in the middle. The pony's head was up and his ears were pricked tight as he gazed across the broad flat mesa towards the cliff edge. Following the animal's rapt attention, Vin could make out a figure, kneeling in the shelter of a concealing boulder. Jess was too experienced and wary to show himself against the skyline. But what did the young fool think he was doing, ignoring that back?

The boy had his back to the camp and was apparently gazing out over the foothills in the direction they had come. The starlight revealed clearly the long cuts across his shoulders, the blood clotted darkly in places and still running sluggishly in others. Vin gave an impatient sigh and started out to fetch him in for the medical attention he undoubtedly required.

A hand on his shoulder halted him in his tracks. Cal, of course. Vin swung round, for the first time that day allowing the strain and weariness and anger he was feeling to show as he faced his friend. Cal was so much more than just a trusted subordinate. Now they were almost at odds for once.

"Leave him be," Cal ordered softly.

"Cal! He's still bleeding after a couple of hours. The wounds will be full of dust. He must be in pain."

"Leave him be, Vin," Cal repeated. "Let it go for now."

"And how long is 'for now'?" Vin demanded, as he turned back to look again at the distant figure. "How long do you expect him to stay standing in that condition?"

Cal stepped up beside him and laid a reassuring arm across his shoulders. "I'll tell you sometime how Zak Harper trained his sons."

There was a long pause. Then Vin shrugged, although he did not shrug off Cal's grip. "I dare say the smell of food will bring him in."

"Nothing surer!" Cal agreed and, with one last long look at the kneeling young man, he steered Vin back to the concealed camp-fire.

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In the darkness at the edge of the cliff, the cold stones bit into Jess's knees. Even if he had not automatically acted to make sure he was concealed, he would still have fallen to them. In his head, he could hear Father Paul: When there is no place left to go, boy, go to your knees! Deep at the core of his being, the savage guilt and pain tore with renewed power. More than his back was bleeding.

He stared out across the black and featureless miles separating him from his brother. His whole body convulsed as he was wracked with the agony of grief, but not a sound escaped him.

#####

Everything in the mesa camp was arranged to maintain concealment and that included light and smoke from fires and the normal noise level caused by over thirty men and more horses inhabiting one spot. So the main fire was at the bottom of a hollow dip in the ground just in front of the caves. The men could sit around on the sloping sides and in many ways it was an ideal arrangement, enabling them to communicate easily both verbally and with the silent hand-signals they had perfected.

It would be a while before the long awaited meal was ready to serve. One of the reasons the band was so cohesive was that they all ate together, sharing their supplies and the task of communal cooking under Raoul's eagle eye ("naturellement, I am the chef du camp!") unlike most troops where individual soldiers were expected to cater for themselves. The mood was exultant. If there had not been the necessity for secrecy and silence, the men would have been cheering and hollering to the heavens their delight in outwitting their enemy at so little cost and with such great profit. That was impossible, for voices would carry far on the still night air. But they were not deprived of an outlet for all this passion and celebration.

As the troop gathered in the hollow, a very soft drumming began, mimicking the sound of galloping hooves. Around the circle, men stood and began to move, their steps tracing in miniature the way they had ambushed and surrounded the Yankees. A faint, sharp clicking – stones being struck together – supplied the sound of gunfire. The movement became part depiction, part dance, as the shape of the struggle was etched by bodies against the firelight. Then withdrawal and stillness. From this they began the stealthy approach to surround the perimeter of the enemy camp. So concentrated were they on this re-enactment, that a sudden movement from the shadows above almost took them by surprise.

A lithe, dark figure leapt from the lip of the hollow and landed on the farther edge of the circle in a powerful crouch. This was immediately followed by a swift sideways roll, which the other participants knew represented a fall from a horse. The young man rose to his feet and walked haltingly back towards the fire. His dragging, uneven steps and slouched body perfectly conveyed how he had been picked up and carried forcibly into the middle of the Yankee camp. Then came the part none of the others knew about.

Everything was still. The whole attention of the troop was on the single figure next to the fire, just as they had waited in the shadows for the signal to make their second attack. But something had to happen first. The young man bowed his head. Now he was not someone they knew and would die for. He was alone. Facing torture. Facing death. Alone with no assurance that he could be rescued. It was a risk he had embraced willingly, for the sake of what they all fought for. But now, in this instant, every man watching knew the cost. Or so they thought.

The slight figure raised his head. He was just a black silhouette against the firelight, but from that shape radiated a defiance which made the brotherhood respond with the almost silent applause necessity had devised - the drumming of fingertips on the palm of the hand, which was all the sound that could be risked. He ignored it. He deliberately placed his feet wide apart and stretched his arms to their fullest limit. Then he bent forward as though he was being held down. The marks on his back were clear in the cold starlight and the warm glow of the flames. His body quivered as if the lash was indeed falling.

There was a pause of about five seconds. After that, he straightened and stretched out his hands to the fire, his fingers flickering the signal for 'iron'. More than one of the watchers shuddered. There were no burns on the young man's body, but there could so easily have been.

Finally he stood erect and defiant again, his hands clasped behind his back as if bound. He looked towards the edge of the circle, to where Vin and Cal were standing, poised to act out their part. Suddenly his arms jerked wide, as if his bonds had been cut. That was not all. He bent and drew his real boot-knife and made a single incision across his bare wrist.

Every man there knew the sign. The sign of a blood brother.

As if exhausted, Jess slumped to his knees. Vin and Cal raced across the hollow and picked him up between them, just as they had done on their horses. Moments later, the drama of the raid was finished in a whirling leap which brought them all facing the centre in a circle. Utter stillness fell, into which the first man to Vin's left began stamping softly, a rhythm like a rumble of thunder. Then the next took up the action with him and the next. The movement and sound raced round the circle, increasing as each man joined in, a mounting drum roll of triumph which ended the instant it reach Vin. There was a silent count of three and they all punched a clenched fist into the air, leaping as high as they could in a final affirmation of their oneness and their victory.

But the victory was not unalloyed. The enactment came to an end and men dropped back to the ground, their intense satisfaction and jubilant energy expressed and released, which would normally bring them all into relaxation. But they were not relaxed. The youngest member of their pack had shared with them a powerful and painful truth. Not one of them doubted the cost of their success now. Yet discipline prevailed. Their support was expressed in silence and the concerned gazes that followed as Vin finally achieved his aim and, still with Cal's assistance, got Jess as far as the doctor's cave.

"Do your worst!" he ordered Doc. "I don't want him setting foot outside until you reckon you've done all you can." He looked down at the blood-stained body, now shuddering from the effort of reliving what had happened. "And I don't care how hungry he is – keep him here till he's cleaned up and strapped up or whatever you're going to do to him – then he'll be allowed to eat!"

Cal said nothing. He just sat down on a ledge in the wall, folded his arms and more or less defied Vin to command him to do otherwise.

Vin gave him a long look. Under his breath, he muttered: "I'd rather deal with a Comanche war party than a couple of Harpers when they've set their mind on something!", but out loud he conceded: "Stay with him if you reckon you need to, but remember the rest of us exist as well."

A brief nod was all the assent he got. He quit the cave and left his young wolf-cub to those who might be able, in some measure, to heal his wounds. It was necessary not just for Jess himself, but because, somehow, somewhere along the line, the rest of the pack had come to regard him as the symbol of their hope and their luck.

#####

Doc worked quietly, gently, but with inescapable firmness. His patient sat braced against his ministrations, his heart and soul obviously miles away from his body's needs. Cal watched him closely all the while. He'd had enough experience of Jess in this mood to know that he was best left alone until he wanted to communicate.

Presently the cleaning up was finished. Doc slathered a herbal salve, which would form a healing crust, over the lashes; there was no point in trying to strap them if Jess was to be able to breathe or move easily. Then he bandaged the cut across the young man's wrist. Finally, he took Jess's chin in a firm hand and washed the abrasions and bruises which had accumulated during the rough handling he had undergone. As he dabbed salve carefully on these wounds, he said with a wry grin: "If you're going to be charming the young ladies when this war's over, you need to take better care of your face!"

Jess just silently shook his head, as much as he was able with the grip on his chin.

"And," Doc continued, "if I've got the healing of you, you need to stop hiding your injuries!"

This last was true, but the reminder caused his patient to scowl and retort: "Ain't askin' you to mess about with me!"

Fortunately Doc had professional patience. "I am not messing about. Seriously, Jess, you know if you don't want to be a liability to the pack, you've got to take medical help when you need it! You're no use to us if you're a festering mass of wounds."

Jess wrenched free from his fingers, ducking his head and looking away as he always did to hide strong emotion. Cal held his breath. He knew what the movement meant. He didn't know what it portended.

Hitching a harsh breath, Jess muttered painfully: "Ain't no use to anyone. Just bring destruction."

Cal and Doc exchanged horrified glances over his head. There was such agony in his voice that they knew this was about more than his reckless disregard for his own physical pain. Cal felt again the searingly vivid link forged from much experience of being the only refuge and comfort Jess had ever been able to call his own.

Physical pain could never make his young cousin flinch or falter, but the deep anguish biting into him now had him bowed over his folded arms, his shoulders hunched and his whole being contracted as if he was trying to efface himself from sight.

"Come here," Cal whispered. He leaned over and gently pulled Jess back against his knees, wrapping his arms round him and praying that there would be no violent attempt to escape.

But Jess just raised his head and looked up, his eyes obsidian - hard and blackened with pain.

"I've killed him!"

"Who?" Cal felt a long shudder run through the thin, hard body in his arms.

"It was Dan, Cal! He was the sergeant. He let me go!" The words came tumbling out like deep, gasping sobs. "They'll kill him! They'll kill him because of me! First the little 'uns and now Dan! I ain't no good for anything but destroyin'!"

"Hush, now," Cal soothed as he rocked Jess softly. It seemed in this instant that he held a much younger child, not the battle-hardened, heart-scarred fifteen year old who had become a man through fire and blood and hideous terror. Just in this instant, Jess let himself be held, allowed himself to lean on someone else, accepted the physical support and comfort which he would have fiercely rejected if it had only been his body in agony.

Doc watched them intently, caught by the strange power of this relationship, deeper than cousins and far different from brothers. It seemed as if Cal could read Jess's mind and more than his mind. There was a shared spirit between them, not definable but deeply precious and strong.

Cal did not attempt any verbal comfort or offer any solution. He knew enough about their family history to understand when words and ideas were useless. He just kept rocking gently. Presently he felt Jess stiffen in his arms and almost pull away from the hug. Then a huge, shuddering breath shook every inch of his body. His next words were utterly implacable and calm: "I'm goin' to get him. They'll shoot him at dawn otherwise. That's what they do. I can't let him die."

"You'll do nothing without Vin's authority!" Cal's voice was calm but stern. It was the Second speaking now, not Jess's cousin.

"Can't stop me!" Jess did pull away then, leaping to his feet, every inch of his body bristling with defiance and rage.

Cal remained silent and just gave him a calm, steady look. Jess had been with the Ranulfiar long enough to know what bound them together. He knew that the security of the band and the success of every raid depended upon their absolute unity.

But the call of family was strong. Jess ducked his head and looked away again, repeating the only sign he ever gave of overwhelming emotion. He too remained silent.

"You need to eat." Doc broke the tension with simple practicality. "Can't do anything on an empty stomach, much less make decisions. Put this on. Then let's get down there before the rest of the pack eat everything in sight!" He handed Jess a clean shirt and, once he had donned it, led the way out of the cave.

Cal put an arm cautiously round Jess's shoulders and was not rejected. "I know what you have to do," he assured his cousin quietly, "but let's do it the right way, do it the Ranulfiar way."

Jess just nodded.

#####

The Ranulfiar were gathering round the fire, settling after their triumph ritual, stretching weary limbs and gulping down welcome mugs of coffee. It really was coffee too, and not the poor substitute they had been putting up with for so long. The supply wagon must have been one intended for the officers of the Yankee troop.

Vin sat a little apart. Not because the men were afraid of him or found him unapproachable, but because they respected his need for quiet and thought. After all, it was his brains and planning which ensured, as far as was possible, their safety and the success of their raids. He was thinking about his Second. Cal had worked with him for an appreciable while before war broke out and they knew each other about as well as two very different human beings can.

He was remembering the first time Cal's sleep had been broken by the vivid, insistent and harrowing nightmare Jess was suffering. He remembered too Cal's instant reaction, leaping from his blankets in their camp, flinging his gear together and heading for the middle of Texas without a word of explanation. It was scarcely surprising that the dream-sharing left Vin baffled and angry. This first time neither of them even understood what was happening, only that Cal was under an overwhelming compulsion to find Jess and succour him. In the event, they arrived at what had been the ranch which Cal's uncle had managed and where Jess had been raised, only to find smouldering blackened ruins of the buildings and the neighbours in the process of burying the dead. There was no sign of Jess or any surviving siblings. They had never discovered why or what Cal was supposed to do as a result of the dream – he only knew he had to find Jess. This proved totally impossible.

It was a couple of years later, not long after the outbreak of war, that Jess was unexpectedly delivered in chains to Vin's troop of irregular raiders. Cal would not allow the subject to be raised then. He was unsure how or why he had known Jess's need and Jess himself seemed unaware of having summoned his cousin in this strange way. Besides, there was too much else to think of and there had been very little time for personal accounts – they were all too busy fighting a war.

Now Vin was acutely conscious of the tie between the two cousins and with the brother Jess had shown he had encountered in the enemy camp. He had no idea what a Texan would be doing serving with the Yankee army, but he knew his Harpers – the bond of blood was stronger than anything else. Such a situation would not easily be resolved without careful handling and thought. And sensible thought was not a Harper characteristic when one of their clan was threatened!

On the other hand, you could pretty well make a hundred percent accurate prediction that food would lure Jess back to the fold. Vin didn't like to think how the kid had been keeping body and soul together before he joined the raiders, if their rations, which had been short ever since, were so clearly a bounty to him. But it was no way to sustain a youngster at the peak of his growth and there was rarely enough. Now the savoury smell of the officers' food supply tickled the nostrils as well as stirring an ironical sense of amusement. Sure enough, when he looked up, he saw three familiar figures coming down from the doc's cave.

A soft murmur ran through the pack: greeting the youngest member, offering congratulations, thanks, and more than one joke about not letting them get their fair share of the food. Jess did not say much in reply, just grasped outstretched hands and exchanged hugs which took care not to press on his damaged back. His face was very still, closed down to an inscrutable mask with the kind of determination in every plane of it that Vin knew full well meant, whatever the problem, he was not going to be open to reason.

Nonetheless, the young man dropped down between him and Cal in his accustomed place. Someone passed him a mug of coffee and for the first time that night a vestige of relaxation ran through his taut body. Plates were being handed round the circle, with no bowing to precedence, but sharing until everyone had something.

"Don't eat it too fast!" Doc warned, knowing too well the effect of a heavy meal on a starving belly.

"Yes, mama!" Gabriel quipped and someone else joked: "Wolf-cub's already finished his, Doc."

"Yeah, wolves don't chew," another voice observed through a full mouth.

"You lot chew – slowly!" Doc was not going to back down and have to deal with the resultant bellyaches.

"Comme les hommes affamés - like starving men, 'oo struggle with the lobster's shell!" Raoul had been at Manassas Junction and witnessed just such a thing happening when Stonewall Jackson liberated the depot with his ragged, barefoot troops.

"Hey, where's the Rhine wine then?" That was Greg, Raoul's soul-mate and chief side-kick in matters culinary.

"Hah!" Raoul gave a derogatory sniff. "Lavasse almand? No bouquet worth smelling!"

"But just a sniff of it 'ud get us all drunk," Cal observed wryly. It didn't do to dwell on what they didn't have.

"Hell, I'm drunk on real coffee!" Bentley was the clown among them and proceeded to stagger round, threatening to upset several plates on his way.

"Lay off, Bentley! Sit down!" His comrades were laughing and exasperated at the same time. Bentley complied reluctantly, under threat of his neighbour finishing his share of the food.

Quiet fell, the kind of quiet that only real satisfaction of real hunger creates among the diners. It was some while before this was broken by replete sighs and the occasional belch.

"Sure beats stewed lizard and apple bread!" Greg murmured contentedly. Chuckles of agreement affirmed that their diet had suddenly improved spectacularly.

"Without lizard, you starve," observed a dry voice from above them.

Two shadowy figures stood at the lip of the hollow as suddenly as if they had materialised out of thin air. Vin's head slewed round before he could prevent his reaction. He ought to be used to this by now! Few indeed were those who could reach the mesa camp undetected by the guards, but these two – well, they were Apache and moved unseen as a matter of course. The Ranulfiar had got used to the unexpected way the two braves would appear out of nowhere and without any explanation, solely, it seemed, to impart to the raiders some of their survival skills. This done, they would disappear about their own business – until the next time.

This time, it was Kuruk who had spoken.

"Hell, Bear – with lizard we starve!" Greg retorted without missing a beat. "Next time, buffalo, huh?"

"Big men get buffalo," Taklishim, the other Apache, commented. "You get lizard."

This carefully contrived mock-insult had everyone rocking with suppressed laughter, as the two were welcomed into the circle and given their share of the food.

It was good to see them all relax, but too soon Vin knew it was time to bring them back to more serious matters. His hand flicked in the sign for clearing up and shortly after the dishes had been dumped in buckets of hot water and everyone round the fire was sitting still and alert, despite an undoubted desire just to fold up and sleep.

"Tomorrow's tasks." The Lieutenant looked slowly round the troop, receiving nods from those who had been given orders and readiness from those who would help them. "You know your working groups. Forward group under Marcus and Clint – mainly ammunition and dry supplies for the front line. Base group under Tom and Kielder – bulk of the food, and whatever ammunition the others can't carry, to the reserves. Raoul and Greg – sort and allocate the food. Leave us enough – but not too much."

This raised a general laugh.

"You reckonin' we'll get too fat to raid, Vin?" someone called.

"Nah, raidin's in our blood!" someone else responded. There was no doubt about the unanimous agreement with this statement and with the question that followed: "What about those Yankees? We goin' after them again?"

The question brought an expectant hush across the men.

Vin looked at their shining, eager eyes, set in faces drawn and haggard by the privations they had suffered and the sheer endurance needed to do what they had done. He shook his head. "No. Enough is enough. We've taught them not to poke their noses into our territory. Retreating to lick their wounds behind their own frontier will be a better lesson for the whole damn Yankee army than trouncing them again here." Besides, he knew their limitations. They had not enough man-power to move the supplies and attack the Yankees at the same time. And the supplies were more urgent than any victory.

A murmur of disappointment came from those who would be left in the camp – precious few of them, but every man a lethal weapon in his own right.

"I'm goin' back there." Jess's voice was a low growl which belied his years. He did not sound as if he cared what his commander ordered or whether anyone else was going to go with him. He was already on his feet, defying them to stop him.

A stillness caught and held the whole pack, their bodies ready for any fight, their hearts resonating with Jess's pain, their minds pleading for an outcome which did not betray the unity which bound them to each other and to their luck-bearer, their young wolf.

"Sit down!" Vin's voice snapped out with such assured command that Jess was caught by surprise and reacted automatically when he dropped back to the ground.

Once he had been obeyed, Vin caught and held Jess's eyes, whose blue gaze was still darkened almost to black by the pain he was carrying. "Share with us!" he ordered softly. "You know you have the right to be heard."

Jess was silent and not one of his comrades doubted that he was silent because he was unable to express the power and agony of what he had experienced.

"Tell us!" Cal urged equally softly.

"I … can't!"

"You can." Cal knew a little more than the others because he was so much closer to the family tragedy. "You know how … Spin the yarn … Tell the tale ..."

A quiver, a half-sigh, ran through Jess's lean frame. Then he settled back into his familiar space within the circle, sat cross-legged and seemed to move into some place far from the present –

#####

Jess was looking out across the fire to the dark horizon. The flickering light showed that his face was an expressionless mask. In his eyes, tiny flames burned, reflecting not just the real fire but something else, something he was remembering. A shiver ran through him. He took a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice was flat, hollow, as if all the feeling had bled out of it; it was deliberate and almost unaccented, very different from his usual lively drawl.

There was a ranch. A place on the edge of nowhere and at the centre of everything.

There was a family. Travelled a long way to get to that ranch. The father, he knew the place. Knew it and loved it. And the mother too. So they came and raised a family who could survive and thrive.

There were a whole tribe, older kids and small kids, boys and girls, brothers, sisters and cousins - He paused a moment and his gaze flicked to Cal. The listeners grinned a little to themselves, knowing how close the two of them were - and every one of them as wild as any of the mustangs they used to go out huntin'. There were brothers, uncles, cousins and hired hands, locals, drifters, even Mexican drovers and their families – a whole ranchful of people in the huge emptiness.

The father was the range-boss, the one they all obeyed. Never backed down from danger, never let someone else take a risk, never failed to stand by his friends whatever it cost. He was a hard man, demanding and impatient and quick to anger. He expected obedience – from men and from children.

He had six sons. And the middle son had a temper as short as the father and took his own decisions, his own risks. And he wouldn't back down. Never. No matter how many beatings he got.

The older boys tried to shield him from the beatings, but he never paid any heed. He could stand alone. There were three elder brothers. Matt, the one with the healing touch, left to train as a doctor. He went east. The family heard he'd sailed for Europe, to learn the latest doctoring there. The next two, Tom and Dan, quit the ranch together looking for their own place and their own way. Last word of them – they were lost at Ojo Caliante."

His listeners were puzzled. "Thought Carson made sure the cavalry won that one?"

Jess's eyes gleamed with more pain and Cal gave a laugh, half appreciative, half ironic.

Jess said: "They were with the Apache."

Kuruk said something in his own language, then repeated it in Spanish: "Un hermano de sangre es para toda la vida."

Jess flashed him an utterly loyal look. Seeing this interaction, Vin suddenly realised why the two Apache had chosen to join the raiders, to the inestimable benefit of their skills. Cal murmured again: "I'll tell you someday how Zak Harper trained his sons."

"There was nothing more heard. No news. All three of the elder brothers, gone beyond recall.

The middle son became the eldest. But it did not make things easier between him and the father or stop the struggle of their wills.

It was like that at the end. The night of fire and fighting. The household asleep. The night still and dark as pitch. Suddenly the roar of flames and the stench of burning and the startled cries of those taken unaware. The shadows concealed cruel, evil men, bent on greed and destruction. Other outbuildings began to blaze. More people fell. The yard seemed to be full of bodies, not one of them moving.

The eldest, as he was now, woke just like everyone else, roused by the sound of the flames. It was his business, his right to defend the family and the home. He ran from the house and, being smaller than the adults, he was not hit. Against the flame-light of the burning buildings, he could see the father risking himself willingly to defend everyone else. But he was alone, outnumbered, surrounded.

His last command to his son was simple: "Take the others and run!"

But the boy defied him once again. He was too proud to run. He knew he could fight as well as any man. He would not let the father stand alone. So he poured out shots until he ran out of ammunition. He went on firing until the father fell.

By that time, the house was on fire. His mother had fallen on the doorstep, a rifle still in her hand. The older ones, the sister and the younger boy, they managed to get out. But the little ones … they were too small … too weak to escape. The house burned …like the fires of hell. There was nothing left for the three to do but to run … to hide … to leave the looters to their … foul business!

His voice had been getting slower, more ragged, as if he was forcing every word out and every word was a knife in his throat.

Silence greeted the story. Silence that knew the horror. Silence that understood the pain. They were all remembering the second of Jess's summoning nightmares, which had dragged Cal from his sleep in their camp the night after they had come across precisely such a scene – the burnt-out, blackened ruins of what had once been someone else's home. But he had never told the full tale before, not even to Cal.

After a minute or so, Jess concluded: "The boy found a gun, stole a horse, rode away. Always following the trail, however cold it became. Always hunting. Never forgetting. Learnt to survive in some bad places. Killed the first one he caught up with. Saw another put in jail. Then the war came … but he ain't forgettin'!"

No-one spoke until Cal asked quietly: "Where did you take them? Where are Fran and Johnny?"

Jess gave him a look of total astonishment, as if the answer was obvious. "To the People, of course! Where else would we go? Johnny'd just come back. I knew they'd be taken in."

Kuruk gave a grunt of agreement. The bitter truth - 'all the rest of the family were dead or far away' - hung unspoken in the air.

Cal looked at Vin, the two of them realising now why they had arrived at the remains of the ranch to find no-one there except distant neighbours and why Jess's first dream-sharing had been so utterly compelling.

His next words made the present dilemma just as inescapably real. "I killed the little 'uns. I can't let Dan die too. He's back there in that camp. He let me go. Saved my life. It'll cost him his own, 'less I do something!"

Every eye in the pack turned at once to Vin. It was his decision. He felt resolution of each and every one of those who would not be delivering the supplies. They had been prepared to make another attack on the Yankees. Still more would they give everything to such a raid, knowing the life of the Wolf-cub's brother depended upon it. And was there any way in hell he was going to persuade Cal not to be part of rescuing another Harper?

Yet he did not speak immediately. He took several minutes to review his observations of the layout and dispositions of the Yankee camp, even though these had been made at a break-neck speed as he galloped through to pick up Jess. He was in no doubt that security would have doubled, tripled, by now. And he was in no doubt either about where the essential intelligence which had aided their raids had come from. Or the fate now of the man who had given it through the secret trail-sign they had perfected, thanks once again to their Apache companions.

But he did not hurry. There were many hours of the night left and the Yankees would not dare strike camp until daylight. To return there would take far less time than the convoluted route they had followed to conceal the trail to their present hideout.

After due consideration, he said calmly: "We can't mount another direct attack. It would make them execute him at once. We need to go in like ghosts, like shadows. No-one must hear or see us take him out. Ideas?"

He was not at all surprised to find the first reaction was a frenzied and heart-felt hug from Jess. The boy would have defied him anyway, but was clearly overwhelmed by the knowledge that he would have the support and backing of the Ranulfiar brotherhood, which he so desperately needed.

"Three, maybe four men, at the most," Cal stated. "If they're going to get anywhere near, the risk of being spotted increases with the number."

"I don't think anyone here is worried about risk!" Vin observed dryly, earning a murmur of agreement from the band. "But you're right. And it has to be those with the best skills of concealment, the best knowledge of how to move unseen."

"You ain't leavin' me out!" Jess told him roundly.

"As if I'd dare!" Vin reached over and ruffled his hair affectionately. "Besides, you're probably more skilled than most of us." He knew this from previous raids, but he was beginning to get an inkling about why.

"Diversion?" Keilder suggested from the other side of the circle.

Vin shook his head. "They aren't going to fall for that one again. At the slightest sign we're around, they'll either kill him or at least strengthen the guard. Stealth is the only way."

"You must take medical supplies," Doc put in. He saw the realisation of the need for this dawn on their faces. "Yeah, they aren't going to give him a nice, quiet night now, are they?" He rose abruptly to his feet and headed for his cave to assemble what he could.

"So, a small group – no direct action – getting in and out unseen and with minimum disturbance," Vin summed up. Then he added teasingly, to lighten the tension: "In which case, you're out, Samson – you'll just want to cut a swathe right through them."

"Too true!" the blacksmith agreed laughingly, knowing that his strength was his strength. "Y'need someone skinnier!"

"Like the rest of us?" the man next to him jibed.

"Lemme go, boss!" That was Hammer. "Ain't no-one gonna see me in the dark!"

Vin grinned and there were more chuckles. Hammer was not exactly skinny, despite being gaunt from the deprivation they all shared. His huge size made him every bit as powerful as Samson, but he could move like a floating feather. "Maybe. But only if you keep your mouth shut!" It was a familiar joke and accepted as such.

Hammer laughed aloud, his white teeth flashing in his black face. "Can keep m'mouth shut alright, boss. Not like the Wolf-cub!"

Vin nodded in acknowledgement, knowing Jess would not take offence at this, any more than Hammer had at the joke about him. He waited to see who else was willing, ready to judge their suitability with ruthless practicality.

Taklishim rose from where he had been sitting cross-legged in a single, fluid movement. Then he spoke for himself and his companion, decisive and unemotional: "Wolf-cub raids with us. Also the dark one."

Vin nodded again. He knew the Apache were past masters of secret attacks and counted it a high honour to raid the enemy without them even being aware of what was happening. If Kuruk and Taklishim were willing to take Hammer along, he was not going to object. Jess's ties to the two warriors were far closer than Vin had originally understood. If they chose to go with Jess on this raid, it was because they respected his skills as well as his fighting abilities and his loyalty to his kin.

"Very well. Make your preparations."

"Could do with more'n a knife," Jess pointed out. "They've got my gun!"

"Don't waste time trying to get it back," Vin ordered. "You know we can arm you."

"Tonight knife, not gun," Kuruk corrected, warning of the need for silence in this venture.

The four chosen ones stood up, dark shadows silhouetted for a moment against the firelight. Then they moved swiftly to prepare their horses. Vin heaved an inward sigh of relief: Cal had not insisted on being part of the raid. As he lifted his eyes to meet those of his Second, he realised what this had cost his friend. Despite the deep bond with Jess, Cal was prepared to stand back, to bow to the superior skills of the Apache and to their shared experience with Jess. And more than this, to yield to his cousin's need and right to achieve his brother's rescue on his own.

#####

Jess stood for a moment in the shadows, leaning against Spirit's warm side. Shock and guilt and pain and relief were coursing through him like a raging torrent. He had never imagined he would see any of his brothers again, not this side of death, anyway. He could still hardly believe that brief glimpse had been true. An older Dan. Shaven-headed. His face lined with the marks of deep grief. But the same face. Resolute. Unmoved by danger. Fiercely loyal. Loving.

Jess felt as if he had forgotten what that love was like. He'd always been closer to Cal than anyone else, though neither of them knew why. He had never doubted the love of his family, but when the others rode away he felt deserted, left out in an empty place between his older and his younger siblings. And after the fire, for a long time, he had no capacity to love at all.

As it was, the war was actually probably the saving of him. It cut short his private vengeance. Gave him some sense of proportion. Reconnected him with the love he had once known. War was like a terrible strait-jacket, not least for someone like Jess, who hated being given orders about anything. But that very insubordination had earned him a place in Vin's Ranulfiar and the support not just of his beloved cousin, but of a whole band of new brothers.

Now, with their aid, he must liberate Dan and in some small measure repay the debt of guilt which burdened his soul.

#####

The preparations of the rescue party took little time. The horses were only haltered, to minimise tell-tale sounds from their harness. The Apache were naturally clad for the venture, but Jess and Hammer discarded their hats, shirts and boots in order to move more stealthily. Later, closer to the Yankee camp, they'd all cover themselves with earth and grass, camouflage local to their target. It was just as well that Doc had taken such care to seal Jess's wounds – although they would have deterred him the slightest! They all carried rifles, but these would be left behind with the horses when they made their final approach. Hammer had the medical supplies, which they hoped against hope would not be needed, in a small knapsack. Vin checked that they all had the clearest picture possible of the layout of the camp, even though there was no guarantee about where they would find Dan. Nevertheless, find him they must.

The Ranulfiar stood silent, intent, respecting the task and the men who would carry it out. Vin gave both Jess and Hammer a formal handshake and saluted their guides. Cal gave Jess a final hug of parting. Then, like a breath of wind moving across the dark grasses, they were gone.

#####

The Yankee camp was quiet. Its boundaries were also as brightly lit as was possible with the minimal fuel supplies available. Fires had been lighted all round the perimeter, although the rest was dark, even the central double row of tents, the little street which gave the illusion of civilisation and security in the midst of an inimical wilderness.

The four raiders exchanged feral grins. Although the fires might deter some attackers and show up anyone unwary enough to cross within their radiance, they actually blinded those watching by their light to anything which went on in the dark beyond. Still more, the light revealed the extent of the camp and the location of the guards. At least, this was probably true, but none of them were so naïve as to assume that the light was only working in their favour. They still had to proceed with the uttermost caution and skill.

Kuruk touched Hammer on the arm and hand-signalled Jess, indicating they should remain, for the moment, hidden behind an outcrop of rocks with the horses. Then he and Taklishim disappeared in opposite directions. There was no more sight or sound of them than if they had melted into the invisible wind.

The two left behind continued to keep watch between the concealing boulders. The illuminated camp remained quiet. Jess knew the Apache would circle it completely, taking in all the defences and familiarising themselves with the layout and the parts where concealment was possible. He knew this was vital and made himself employ the hard-won patience he had learned to master in such a demanding school. In a hunt or a raid, impatience was stupid and often deadly. But it did not come naturally to him, least of all now. He envied how easily Hammer remained calm, but knew that his companion's stalwart serenity and endurance was born of much suffering. Suffering which would have driven Jess to furious, violent and probably futile resistance. But Hammer had come through an even harder school than any man Jess knew, released from a death sentence for killing a brutal overseer, to swell the depleted ranks of the Confederate army and considered too violent to risk in a regular troop. Yet Jess had never ever seen him act with anything other than good humoured tranquillity.

As suddenly as they had departed, the two braves were back. Not a word was spoken. With signs and drawing in the dust, they conveyed all they had both learnt about the camp. In particular, they had identified the Captain's tent, the most obvious place to start their investigation, and a route to it. It was a location Jess could have found from memory, but no raid took place just relying on recollection when fresh intelligence was possible.

This time there was no question of Jess staying behind. Instead Kuruk remained with Hammer. The new partnership began their approach flat on their bellies, their skin and minimal clothing liberally covered with dirt and debris. Jess followed literally on his leader's heels, his whole body emulating every nuance of each move the Apache made, just as he had been taught.

Not for nothing was Taklishim named 'the grey one'. He could move like a ripple in the faded grass, like the tawny dust drifting on the wind. His sinuous body mimicked the contours of the ground and blended with every scrap of cover. Fortunately Jess still had almost the flexibility of a child and his kinaesthetic memory had not forgotten what he had learned when he was one. His concentration was absolute.

So they passed between two fires some way north of their objective and began to worm their way along to the Captain's tent. It really wasn't that hard. There was plenty of shadow and, besides the natural contours of the ground, there were numerous objects fully able to conceal a stout man, much less a couple of lean figures who would both have made a wraith look well fed. Finally they were lying hard up against the canvas wall, able to hear everything but see very little other than the shadows moving against the light within.

The discussion already going on inside the tent was a tense one and fraught with the potential for serious disagreement.

"We've done our best, sir. He won't speak."

"You have not done your best, Sergeant! He has not spoken." The Captain's voice was unmistakable to Jess, who had been on the receiving end of its orders. "What did you do, cut his tongue out by mistake?" The sarcasm was laced with impotent fury at being denied the information they needed so badly to convict a traitor.

"We don't have any proof he's actually got anything to tell," a voice pointed out reasonably. The tenor sounded familiar, but, for the moment, Jess could not place it.

"He let the prisoner escape!" Blake was adamant. "Why would he do that if he wasn't a damn spy?"

"We did pick him up unconscious. He couldn't have hit himself." Whoever was reporting their actions sounded hesitant and unwilling to take any risk to themselves. But someone else added: "He was knocked out cold. Enough to scramble any man's brains."

"So even if he does speak, he may not remember, not know anything." It was the reasonable voice again. Jess recalled it now. The one who had shouted out in protest when the Captain had ordered him to be beaten.

"Not know anything?" The Captain's tone was dangerous and would have warned anyone who knew him better.

But the one who spoke with reason did not seem to be daunted. "Two Rebel riders carried off the prisoner. That much is confirmed by the report of those who witnessed it, as I did myself. If they knocked out Sergeant Guerra in doing so, it seems unlikely he was a spy."

"Gerrer is a damn Southerner!" the Captain snarled. "The only one in this troop. Who else would pass information?"

"There is still no proof that he was doing so." The reasonable one was not going to be deflected from the truth.

"Not yet, Lieutenant, not yet. But there will be when he speaks." There was a sound of footsteps and the clatter of a chair moving, as if the Captain had just flung himself into it. "Sergeant, apply the branding irons. Now!"

"We already have, sir." The voice of the sergeant who had spoken first betrayed his distaste for torturing his fellow officer. He had already pointed out that it was, in any case, ineffective.

"Nonsense! I heard nothing."

"There was nothing to hear, sir. He didn't make a sound the whole time." There was admiration as well as frustration in the man's tones.

Blake swore and the chair crashed to the ground as he leapt up in anger. "I hate to call you incompetent, Sergeant Taylor, but do I have to do everything myself to achieve efficiency?"

"Taylor was most efficient." It was the reasonable lieutenant speaking again. His voice subtly conveyed his distaste and disapproval of the whole proceeding without giving the slightest cause for an accusation of insubordination.

"He's outside, sir. You can see for yourself what we … tried."

Jess reached out and felt for Taklishim's hand. He quickly pressed out a signal: moving forward, wait. There was no hesitation. Taklishim signalled back: go ahead.

Inch by desperate inch, Jess slid along the base of the tent, worming his way round the tent pegs pinning it down, sliding under the guys, arriving eventually at a point where he could go no further without actually coming out into the open. He raised his head cautiously, closing his eyelids so that his gaze was narrowed to a slit. You might blend totally with the earth you lay on, but nothing gave away your presence like light reflecting from your eyes.

The open space before the tent was surprisingly crowded, but Jess's attention was only for the body of the man slumped on his knees, his head bowed almost to the ground. The firelight and torches left no doubt about what had happened to him. His skin was lacerated with many lashes and blackened patches showed where the most sensitive parts of his body had been savagely burned. A soldier was bending over him. For a moment Jess thought he were inflicting further torture, but then he saw the damp white cloth smudged with dark streaks in his hand. He was attempting to wipe away some of the blood and cool the raging burns.

Jess's heart gave an unexpected lurch. He had been prepared for the torture, but not for the compassion. It was the same feeling he got when he heard the voice of reason from that unknown lieutenant, so much saner, so much more caring than he had any right to expect from an enemy. Could there be a shared spirit between them, something that might deepen, become precious and strong? The feeling made him wonder, for a split second, why on earth they were all fighting each other …

Then the Captain erupted from the tent and surveyed the scene with the full force of his wrath and his authority.

"What do you think you are doing!" His voice rang out like a lash and the one who had been tending to the prisoner froze in mid-action. Jess caught just a glint of the firelight on golden hair as the man leapt to his feet, before he himself flattened face down again and merged his body with the ground.

"Attention, soldier!" It was the judicious officer again, commanding this time, but not intimidating. "Account for your actions."

"Sir! Prisoner collapsed. Without attention, could not speak to give information, sir!"

"Very perceptive, corporal." Jess felt the Captain stamp impatiently to examine the prisoner. He felt the shift of weight as the prisoner's head was jerked upward by a rough hand and the thud as he slumped forward again when released. "However, you do not seem to have revived him. Dismissed!"

"Sir!" The sound of booted feet retreating reverberated through the ground. Somehow Jess felt that those feet were not at all happy about leaving the prisoner at the mercy of his tormentors.

"I grow tired of this affair." The Captain contrived to sound bored, but underneath this superficial impression, his voice was filled with frustration and desire for vengeance. "We can ill afford to waste our energies on this miserable traitor. Let us rest. But let us ensure he does not!"

The ensuing pause was so deadly quiet Jess dared to lift his head the merest fraction so he could see through the trampled grass. His line of sight showed him the gleaming boots of the Captain, pacing impatiently back and forth as he thought – but he already knew that through the vibrations in the earth. Beyond, he could see lots more boots, but only one pair daring to stand still and firm next to the prisoner. He was willing to bet this was the compassionate lieutenant, but once again he dared not look up to see his face.

"I think he can spend the night," the Captain pronounced coldly, "in irons. Beyond the hospital tent, there is a dead tree. It has a convenient branch at just the right height to chain a man so that he can neither stand nor rest. Do it! And make sure you set our sharpest guards and keep the fires well built up. We don't want anyone dropping off to sleep or dropping in."

"You expect the Rebels to come for him, sir?" Sergeant Taylor asked.

The Captain laughed. "With the perimeter of the camp fully illuminated? I somehow doubt it, Sergeant! No, it is sympathisers within that I fear."

Jess could almost feel the scorching glare the Captain shot at his subordinates, but he still did not look up.

"Make sure I do not have any reason to search out further traitors!" The boots stamped back into the tent, with a final command flung over his shoulder: "Hang him in chains! Do it!"

There was a flurry of action as the men hastened to obey. Iron fetters rang out their unforgiving song. There was a murmur of conversation, concern perhaps. The sound of breath being released in a deep sigh.

Under cover of their activity, Jess slid back until he was lying next to Taklishim.

They stared at each other.

Iron bonds and an exposed location and brilliant illumination and hair-trigger guards. Their chances of liberating Dan had just been reduced to near impossibility.

.


.

NOTES:

If you are familiar with other stories of mine, e.g. Father's Night, you will recognise that in this one Jess basically tells the same story in the same way in almost the same words. This is how storytelling works as a mnemonic (try kidding a kid that you didn't just miss out a page of their favourite bedtime story!). At this stage, however, the relationships are much rawer and the grief more immediate than they are when he tells the same story at a later stage in life, and so it is rougher and less sensitive.

Climbing Horses – 'Their journey hither had been a perilous one to me, unused as I was to the rocky paths between narrow gorges and over masses of broken stone, which their Indian ponies climbed with readiness and ease. I was led to remark the difference between these ponies and American horses, who could only struggle to find their foothold over such craggy ground, while the ponies led the way, picking their steps up almost perpendicular steeps with burdens on their backs.' Narrative of my captivity among the Sioux Indians, Fanny Kelly, 1871

The Battle of Ojo Caliante Canyon, 1854 – included to give some historical roots to the story, although it is a little early in the Harper family time-line. The battle actually does not appear to have resulted in so many casualties that a couple of Texans would not be noticed. But note that Jess only says they heard Tom and Dan died and that they were with the Apache, not that they were fighting. Obviously, as it turns out, they didn't and they weren't.

In August of 1862, Stonewall Jackson's men raided a Union supply depot at Manassas Junction, Virginia. A Rebel lieutenant wrote, 'To see a starving man eating lobster-salad and drinking Rhine wine, bare-footed and in tatters, was curious.' (Cooking for the Cause, 5-6).