Journey of the Spirit

  Journey of the Spirit

  by John Foxjohn

  Published by L&L Dreamspell

  Spring, Texas

  Cover and Interior Design by L & L Dreamspell

  Copyright © 2007 John Foxjohn. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except for brief quotations used in a review.

  This is a work of fiction, and is produced from the author’s imagination. People, places and things mentioned in this novel are used in a fictional manner.

  ISBN: 978-1-60318-005-4

  Visit us on the web at www.lldreamspell.com

  Published by L & L Dreamspell

  Produced in the United States

  Acknowledgements

  No author can write a novel and publish it without help. When I began to write, I didn’t understand this, but the more I learn about the process of writing and the publishing business, the more I realize that this is true.

  When an author writes a novel of historical significance, the help needed to put everything together multiplies ten-fold.

  I would like to say that I accomplished this on my own, but I can’t, and need to recognize certain people.

  People who do not write don’t know the ups and downs of the business. Unfortunately, there are a lot of the downs. Over the years, many writers, most I do not even know their names, have contributed to lifting me up. To these people, I want to offer my sincere gratitude.

  I would be remiss if I didn’t mention my critique partners who have read and commented on parts or all of my manuscript. Jami Bevins, Pollyanna Williamson, Judy Garza-Smith, Suzan Harden, Linda Gkrzywicki, Toni Stowe, Susan Baker, Carol Kilgore, Jonni Rich, and Nancy West, I cannot put into words what you have meant and done for me. All I can say is thanks for your help and friendship.

  Without the Northwest Houston Romance Writers of America, I would without a doubt, still have a manuscript that no one wanted. I want to thank all the members of this group, and no way do I have room to name all, but I have to mention a few by name—Cheri Jetton, Judythe Hixon, Jody Payne, Jolie Mathis, Rhonda Acy. Two others in this group need special recognition because whether they know it or not, and they probably don’t, they inspire me. They are Colleen Thompson and P.J. Mellor.

  John Jumps, Katie Kicksbear, David Redwing, Malika Thommason, Keita Spires, and Running Horse… thank you.

  Without my family, Beth and Andy, who I spend so much time away from, engrossed in a computer, this book would not be possible.

  I also have to thank Linda and Lisa of L&L Dreamspell for believing in me.

  Last, but certainly not least, the group of people who inspire me to continue to write are my readers. I’d love to hear from you. Please contact me at johnfoxjohn@yahoo.com and visit my web site,

  www.johnfoxjohnhome.com

  One

  Eight-year-old Andy Johansson crept along the wagon train’s back trail. Moonlight cast scary shadows in the grass and trees. Sounds of rustling brush and cloth, along with wood smoke odors, knifed through the thick fog rising from the ground.

  He told himself not to be scared, but his chest tightened and he had trouble breathing. He tried to swallow but his throat felt like a dry creek bed.

  His steps faltered and he listened for several long moments. The morning had an unnatural mood to it, but he couldn’t place what alarmed him.

  “I shouldn’t’ve left camp,” he whispered to the darkness, “but I can’t turn around.” Charcoal, his horse had wandered off because of him. He had to bring the horse back. He’d promised his father he’d be responsible, and he couldn’t return and tell everyone he didn’t find the horse because shadows scared him.

  He took a step, then another. Icy fingers crawled down his spine. He sensed something, but what? Two more steps and he stopped. The night sounds had died—no birds chirping or frogs—no crickets.

  His body shook and he couldn’t stop it. Sweat popped on his forehead even with the night’s chill. Several more steps, and he stopped to look back, but marched on with his head high like he thought a man would do.

  Andy reached the river when the night sky eased to grey. Treetop outlines were visible, and he realized he wouldn’t be able to return to camp without his father catching him. He’d hoped to find the horse and sneak in before everyone in the wagon train woke.

  “I’m gonna get in trouble, but at least I’ll have Charcoal.” Searching along the river, he found the black stallion eating grass with his picket line attached and dragging behind him. The horse had pulled the stake out of the ground and walked off. Charcoal nuzzled Andy like he always did, looking for sugar. As he stroked the horse’s neck, he spoke in a soothing voice. “I should’ve staked you out right, but you were a bad horse for leaving the way you did.” Charcoal’s ears perked up. The horse listened for a few minutes and went back to eating.

  Andy hesitated. Far away, sounds of yipping coyotes and popping like distant gunfire drifted with the wind. He wasn’t sure where they came from or what caused them. The cry of a baby jerked him upright. He allowed the night to spook him again for nothing.

  He wiped the sweat-soaked black hair out of his face. Other strange sounds he couldn’t identify rushed toward him. Shaking and almost in tears, he wanted to go on, but his feet froze. He needed to get back with Charcoal. Andy had to tug several times because the horse didn’t want to leave, and he was too small to mount him.

  “I know you like the water and grass here, but we need to get back. I’m gonna get a whooping.”

  From time to time, more unidentified sounds sped through the air, and he stopped to listen, but continued when they disappeared. He walked for a long time, and at last, the camp’s cook fires came into view.

  The amount of smoke brought him up short. Too much smoke for the campfires. Tingling fear exploded up his back. Something was wrong.

  He sighed, and then nodded several times. “Someone dropped something and caused a grass fire.” He stroked the horse’s neck. “They can’t blame that on me.”

  Several minutes later, thick black smoke boiled up from the direction of the wagons. Tears formed in Andy’s eyes. He shook his head, not wanting to believe it.

  “That’s not a grass fire!”

  Hooves thundered and vibrated the ground. One thought flashed through his mind—the sleeping guards when he’d left. Mr. Thule, the wagon train scout, had warned everyone about the dangers of an Indian attack, but they’d refused to value his opinion. Too many thought they knew more than he did.

  A long time passed before Andy moved. He wasn’t sure what to do. Something told him he had to go to the camp, but his legs refused. After several long minutes, he wobbled forward like a newborn colt. He stopped, his lips trembling. The sight when he topped the hill seared into his brain, a wound from a branding iron that would never fade. He expected to see the wagons’ dingy brown covers, but they had vanished.

  Fire ate the wagons. Not one live person in sight. Many lay on the ground, stripped, and with arrows in them. Sweet coppery odors assaulted his senses but the charred stench overpowered the blood. He threw up until nothing remained in his stomach. He should behave like a grown up, but didn’t know how.

  Scalding tears flowed as he stumbled down the hill. His stomach convulsed and his entire body trembled. He didn’t want to go down there, but had to.

  “Please let my parents be OK!”

  Sidestepping and snorting, Charcoal walked with Andy, stopping every few moments. He would pet the horse and then they tottered on.

  One of the first bodies Andy found was Uncle Al
bert. He lay face up, stripped naked with his throat cut. Andy wrenched his gaze away, ashamed of the nakedness. Like a drunk, he staggered through camp, crying.

  He recognized first one person, then another. Most had parts of their hair missing. Blood welled up where the scalp used to be. Violent heaves slashed at his stomach when he recognized Mr. Thule’s body, but the Indians treated him different. They didn’t scalp him, and left his clothes on. No weapons were in sight, except by Mr. Thule. He was the only one, until Andy located his own father and mother.

  By the time he found his parents, numbness had taken over. Andy fell to his knees beside his father. He shook him. “Pa. Pa. Please talk to me!” Andy jerked back from his father’s staring eyes.

  With an anguished wail, he fell backward in the dirt, beating the ground with the palms of his hands. He turned over and crawled to his mother, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  “Momma, please talk to me. I need you. Don’t leave me here by myself.” He lay his head on her bloody chest and cradled her head.

  What should he do? He was in the middle of nowhere. Everyone was dead. He had nowhere to go, and no way to get there. What about the Indians? Would they come back? He’d better get out of here, but where should he go?

  Too dazed to move and too scared to stay, he felt a tug on his arm. He spun around expecting an Indian. But it was only Charcoal pulling on the picket line. Andy couldn’t think, so he let the horse do it. Charcoal seemed to know where to go. As he headed back toward the river, Andy held on to the horse’s tail and followed.

  In a daze, he trudged after the horse through the thick grass. Andy failed to notice the sweet fragrances that blew across wild flowers carpeting rolling hills. Manzanta bushes with purple flowers clung to the earth near gullies and washouts, while birds swooped low hunting for insects and bees searched for water.

  Andy’s knuckles turned white gripping the tail. He couldn’t lose Charcoal, too.

  He didn’t know how far they wandered. Through the morning mist, he toddled behind the horse, one step at a time.

  Late in the afternoon, before darkness overtook the day, Charcoal stopped at a stream. Bone-weary tiredness like none Andy had ever experienced washed over him. Collapsing on thick grass beneath a massive oak, within seconds, he fell asleep.

  As day peeked over the horizon, Andy awoke, gazing up at the remaining stars. He’d dreamed everything. Happiness overtook him. He jumped up to tell his parents about his wild dream. His head dropped and he closed his eyes tight.

  He whispered to the morning dampness. “I didn’t dream it. I’m alone. What should I do? I can’t go where the train was going—there isn’t anything there. We had planned to build it when we got there. All my family and friends are in Missouri, a long ways off.”

  Andy knew he had to think, but everything was confusing and he didn’t know what to do. His stomach rumbled and he realized he hadn’t eaten anything since supper the night before. He had no food. Maybe if he drank water he wouldn’t feel as hungry.

  He crept to the small creek, lay down, and drank straight from the trickling stream. Evidently it was a good idea, because Charcoal joined him. After drinking, he sat on the bank, staring at his hands. Without thinking about his surroundings or the dangers, he jumped up and rushed into the water, hysterically scrubbing his hands and arms in an attempt to remove the blood.

  Charcoal watched the boy but went back to drinking when Andy plodded out of the creek.

  As the horse drank, his head jerked up, his ears laid back, and he faced down stream. With a thundering heart, Andy sat still while water dripped off Charcoal’s muzzle.

  “What’s wrong, boy? What’d you hear?” He picked up the picket line, wrapped it around his arm, and tiptoed down the creek, away from whatever caused Charcoal’s unease. It might have been an animal coming to the creek to drink, but Charcoal acted funny. Andy couldn’t take a chance. If Indians found him they’d kill him without a second thought.

  As they eased away, Andy again pondered what he would do, and again, couldn’t come up with anything. What would his father or Mr. Thule do?

  When the sun rose high overhead, they arrived at another clear creek that gurgled over a rock bed in a multitude of different sparkling colors. Swift water moved through a large stand of oaks and Andy believed it would hide them from the Indians. Beside the creek, a thick patch of grass swayed with the wind, and Charcoal set out to prove how much he could eat. As he grazed, Andy made a discovery.

  Tangles of blackberry vines stretched almost to the water’s edge. He shoveled the berries down his throat by the handful. Sweet juices ran out the corners of his mouth. Andy ate so many he threw up.

  Well hidden, and with grass for Charcoal, and no way of taking the berries with him, he decided to stay the night. He’d take more care eating the berries next time.

  Later, with the sun dropping from the sky, he went back to the patch. He ate enough to take the edge off his hunger, but not enough to make himself sick. On his way back from the berry patch, rattling sounds stopped him. His heart raced, and his lips trembled. Slithering from the brush, a large rattlesnake made its way across the trail. Holding his breath, he let it out in a loud whoosh. With a combination of relief and fear, he was glad it wasn’t an Indian, but realized how close he’d come to stepping on the thing.

  He jammed his trembling hands into his pockets. “I need to be careful.”

  When full darkness shielded him, he lay on the grass trying to think what to do. At last, he decided he would try to make it back to Fort Laramie. He wasn’t sure what he’d do there, but at least the people might feed him.

  Thoughts of food made him hungry. His mouth watered thinking about his mother’s sourdough biscuits, and his stomach balled in a knot.

  “I’ve got to stop thinking about food. Maybe if I drink some more water, my stomach will stop growling.”

  Charcoal nuzzled next to him while he drank.

  “OK, boy, what’re we going to do? I sure wish you could talk.” Charcoal rolled his eyes at him.

  As Andy stroked the horse’s mane, Charcoal’s ears perked up and he snorted, his attention directed along the creek bed. Andy’s neck tingled as the hairs stood up. He put his hand over Charcoal’s nose to keep him quiet, but couldn’t hear anything. Charcoal’s ears remained up, his gaze riveted along the creek.

  Andy stood still, heart racing and knees trembling. At first, no sound indicated what bothered the horse. Soon, the brushing of cloth on undergrowth made Andy’s pulse race faster. He was unaware that he held his breath. A soft step of a hoof, and several more invaded his thoughts.

  Strange sounds of talking seeped closer, but he couldn’t make out any words. He knew they were Indians—perhaps on the warpath and searching for him.

  He didn’t know how to tell a friendly Indian from a bad one. He’d asked Mr. Thule this after he’d talked to the friendly Indians who had rode up to the train. Mr. Thule had laughed and told him, “You hold up your right hand and if they don’t kill you, they’re friendly.”

  He didn’t think he’d try that. He couldn’t even if he wanted to.

  Leading Charcoal, he eased back into the dark wood line. He knew it would be hard to see the black horse in the darkness. He stepped under the horse’s neck to put the horse between himself and the Indians. He caught Charcoal’s nose with his hand to keep him from whinnying and stroked his neck to calm him.

  A soft, crunching noise wafted through the night. It came again.

  What was that?

  The sound came closer and stopped. Footsteps in sand.

  Andy’s eyes strained to see through the darkness. Charcoal trembled and he stroked the horse’s neck again. At first, he didn’t see anything. Then, he made out a shadow and realized it was a man.

  He almost swallowed his tongue. An Indian stood twenty feet away, glancing into the shadows. Andy was certain the Indian saw them, but a sharp voice called from behind the lone Indian. He stood for several moments. Andy could make
out his head turning, looking.

  With a last look, the Indian turned, but glanced back. Andy breathed for the first time when the Indian walked off.

  It seemed like hours before the hooves left the creek bed. As the sounds diminished, Andy took in deep breaths like he hadn’t breathed for hours. He sucked in air like a thirsty dog laps up water. Sudden weariness overtook him, and he staked Charcoal out close to the water and grass where he could drink. This time he made sure to drive the picket in deep.

  He whispered to the horse. “We’ll get away in the morning. We might run into them in the dark. They may not have gone far, and they’ll hear us if we leave now.”

  Although tired, he couldn’t sleep. The deaths of his parents, his friend Homer, Mr. Thule, and all the others were his fault. If he’d awakened his father to tell him about the sleeping guards, he’d have done something and everyone would be alive. Why did he live when everyone else had to die?

  Tears flowed down his cheeks. Racking sounds erupted from his throat. He tried to control them, to stop them, but they wouldn’t go away. All the fear, horror, guilt, and loneliness tumbled out. He had to be quiet, but he couldn’t stop. Sometime late, he cried himself to sleep.

  With the sun in his eyes, he woke late the next morning. As his eyes snapped open, he thought, where am I? He looked up at the rising sun and it all flooded back. After checking on Charcoal, he drank his fill of water and ate more berries. He didn’t want to leave, but knew he’d better. He’d stayed there too long. If the Indians knew about the creek, they might come to the spot where he camped.

  As he moved out of the hiding place, he stayed in the woods. He still couldn’t ride Charcoal because he hadn’t found a place to climb onto so he could mount him. West along the creek, he found a narrow, shallow crossing. His steps as quiet as possible, he walked across the creek to a small clearing. When he reached the other side, he turned and checked his back trail. Charcoal stopped. When Andy spun around, he stared into the eyes of an Indian sitting on a horse.