The Lost Ones Read online

  “I like that,” Mollie said. “But that sounds like something families do, not the Army. Charles has always been a military man and he tells me the military is like a brotherhood. But it’s not the same as having a real family—especially for me.”

  “Is that why you wanted us?” Casita asked. She had been so intent on keeping herself and Jack safe, she hadn’t given much thought to what Mollie needed.

  “I wanted to help,” Mollie assured her. “But maybe I wanted company, too. I’m by myself all the time. The other officers’ wives don’t like my Quaker ideas.”

  “The Ndé live in large groups,” Casita said. “We do everything together. We’re hardly ever alone. We even sleep in the same room. My mother knew that sometimes it was hard for me.” Casita’s throat closed. The last time she had talked with her mother, she had discovered that her mother knew all about her private place.

  Mollie took Casita’s hand. “Tell me about her.”

  “She knew I needed to be by myself sometimes.”

  “She sounds wise. I’ll make sure you have some time alone, too.”

  Mollie meant well, but what would Casita’s real mother say about wearing this strange dress and sitting in an Indaa house? Would Father think she was clever to have found a safe place or a traitor for staying with the enemy? Especially when the others were headed to a reservation. She wished she could talk to them and ask them. But Casita had to be strong and push any doubts away.

  Before they went to sleep, Mollie showed them the privy behind the house. She opened the door so they could see the bench with a hole in the middle. She was too embarrassed to say what it was for, but its purpose was obvious. The smell was awful and Jack refused to go inside.

  “How can they live like this?” Jack asked Casita in their own language.

  “The Indaa like to close themselves in. They don’t live out in the air like we do.” To Mollie, she asked, “How does it get cleaned out?”

  “The soldiers are assigned chores each week. This is ‘sink duty.’”

  Now she knew why Caleb had backed down so quickly when Charles had threatened him with sink duty.

  The bugler played a long, mournful tune. Mollie said, “That is ‘Taps.’”

  At the door to their narrow room, Mollie seemed reluctant to leave them. “Will you be comfortable?” she asked.

  “It is good,” Casita assured her, sitting gingerly on the bed. She felt the straw poking through the sheets.

  “Here are sleeping clothes.” Mollie gave them linen shifts to wear to bed. On the table between the beds she placed a lantern turned down to a dull glow. “Your first night in a strange house, you might want a light. Good night, my dears.” She closed the door behind her.

  “How odd these Indaa are—they have special clothes to sleep in,” Casita said.

  She expected Jack to start complaining again, but he didn’t say a word.

  She let the silence grow until finally he burst out, “Sister, we shouldn’t be here. We should run away.”

  “You already tried to escape and you were beaten.” She would do anything to keep him from being hurt again.

  “They won’t be guarding us now.”

  “Where would we go? We have no horses, no supplies.”

  “The caves—” Jack started. The Ndé hid supplies in secret caves in the mountains in case of emergencies.

  “Are all across the great river. We’d never reach them. Right now, Charles and Mollie trust us. If we run, they never will again. My plan is better.”

  “But you just want us to behave and wait,” he complained.

  “For now,” she said. “It’s the only way we can ever get home again.”

  After a long silence, Jack said, “But we have no home. It was burnt to the ground.”

  “Home is where our band is. You and I are the band for now.”

  “Do you think Father will look for us?” Jack asked.

  Casita stared at the cracks in the adobe ceiling. “If he can. He has a better chance finding us here than all the way in Oklahoma.”

  “I won’t become Indaa, though,” he said.

  “You don’t have to. Just pretend. That is what I am doing.”

  “Are you pretending with Mollie?” He made it an accusation. “You seem to like her.”

  “Mollie will never replace Mother,” Casita promised.

  Casita could hear Jack toss from side to side. She could hear his soft moans.

  “Are you hurting?” she asked.

  “It’s not bad.”

  She smiled in the darkness, remembering how proud Jack was of his ability to withstand pain. He could burn sage on his arm longer than any of the other boys.

  After a while, he asked, “Are your wounds healed?”

  She touched the scar on the back of her head. “Mostly.”

  “What happened to you . . . and to Mother?”

  Casita remembered Jack had been unconscious in those final moments. “I don’t remember very well. Mother was shot but she stood over me trying to protect me. Then I felt a terrible blow to my shoulders, then my head. After that it was only darkness.”

  “Are you sure Mother’s dead?”

  “I’m sure. I saw her body.” And her spirit, Casita thought.

  She heard an odd sound coming from the other pallet and realized her brave and reckless brother was trying to muffle the sound of his sobbing. She climbed out of bed to sit next to him. Rubbing his back in small circles the way her mother used to, Casita tried to stop his crying and comfort him.

  “Brother, she showed no fear,” she whispered.

  “I failed her.”

  “You did not fail her!” Casita said. “She knew you fought the soldier. You hurt him badly.”

  “I couldn’t save her.”

  “There were too many. No one could save her. And she chose to die protecting me rather than be taken prisoner. She died with honor.”

  “Was she buried with honor?” he asked, suddenly fierce. “Where is her body?”

  The vision of mother’s long hair hanging down as her body was tossed into the fire flashed into Casita’s mind. “The soldiers burned it.”

  “I was afraid . . .” Jack’s voice trailed off. She knew what he meant. He had feared that their mother’s body had been left out for scavengers. “But there were no prayers. We didn’t do any of the things we’re supposed to do.” She wanted to take him in her arms and hold him, but he would be deeply offended if she did that. She had to help him be strong.

  “Her spirit knows the truth. In such a battle, she would not expect us to stop and mourn,” Casita said, tears running down her cheeks.

  “We should do something,” Jack insisted.

  “I prayed for her. What else can we do? We are alone. There is no one to help us do the rites.” They couldn’t bury her in a sacred place. They had no drummers for the dance. Casita didn’t know the funeral songs; that was something she would have learned only after her Changing Woman ceremony. Closing her eyes, she could almost feel her mother’s clever fingers twisting her untidy hair into a neat plait. That was it. And she knew where to find a sharp knife. “Brother, there is one thing we can do.”

  Jack sat up in bed. “What?”

  “Come with me,” she said. She opened the door and peered out. Hearing nothing, she went into the kitchen, holding the lantern high so she could see. Casita felt uneasy, as though she were trespassing in a foreign land filled with strange metal objects; she was certain Jack did, too. She started searching the drawers until she found what she was looking for. She held up the sharp knife, the blade glinting in the light of the lantern. “It’s not much, but Mother’s spirit will know we tried.”

  Jack nodded, understanding now. “Yes. Do it.” He turned his back to her.

  “You are sure?” she asked.

  His long tail of hair bobbed as he nodded. She held the ponytail, still slightly damp from the washing earlier, against the blade. She took a deep breath and, with a quick motion, cut off his ha
ir at the nape of his neck.

  There was nothing more precious to the Ndé than their long hair. Cutting it showed their grief and proper honor to their mother.

  “Now me,” Casita said, gathering her long hair in a bunch by her neck. Jack stood behind her, holding the knife to her neck, ready to cut, when a shriek filled the kitchen.

  “Jack!” Mollie screamed.

  Charles, in his nightshirt, came charging down the stairs, his rifle pointed at Jack’s chest. “Drop the knife!” he ordered.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE SUN WAS JUST BEGINNING TO STREAM IN THE TINY WINDOW. Casita propped herself on her uninjured shoulder to look down at Jack, still sleeping, on the floor. He looked so odd without his long ponytail.

  She thought about the scene the night before. Once Mollie had understood what Jack and Casita were doing, she tried to convince Charles to put down his rifle.

  “He has a knife to his sister’s throat,” Charles protested. “How do we know that he won’t hurt her? Mollie, really . . . Are you sure this will work?”

  “Charles, this is the way they mourn,” Mollie insisted. “It will work if we are tolerant while the children get used to their new lives. They’ve suffered so much.”

  Slowly Charles lowered his rifle, and without speaking, turned and lumbered up the stairs. Mollie watched him. “You two are not the only ones who must get used to something new,” she said. “Now, Casita, we need scissors if we’re going to cut your hair.” She hurried out of the room and returned with a sharp tool with two blades. With a few movements of the blades, Casita’s hair fell to the floor with the slightest swishing noise. Casita touched her bare neck with a trembling hand, not even noticing her scars.

  “My mother would love the scissors,” Casita said. “But she would never have used them.”

  “Why not?” Mollie asked.

  “Because they come from the Indaa.”

  Jack sat on a stool in the corner. He added in his slow English, “She liked the old ways.”

  “I wish I could have met her.” Mollie said softly.

  Casita knew that it was only because Mother was dead that they were in Mollie’s kitchen. Mother would never have wanted to meet Mollie. And for that moment, Casita hated Mollie, Charles, and everyone else at Fort Clark.

  Mollie took one look at Casita’s face and busied herself sweeping up the hair. Finally she had a pile in the middle of the kitchen floor. “What should I do with it?”

  “Fire,” Jack said.

  “We burn it so our grief will go into the sky,” Casita said.

  “That is lovely,” Mollie said, brushing a tear from her cheek. She lit a piece of kindling on the stovetop with a match. They all watched until the flame flickered and finally burned strong. Taking handfuls of hair, Jack and Casita tossed it onto the stove. The hair seemed to move by itself, writhing in the flame. Then in an instant it caught in a flash of flame and was gone. The smell of burning hair filled the small kitchen, but Casita felt an easing of the tightness in her chest.

  In that early morning quiet, Casita wondered if Mollie Smith was a good woman. Last night she had tried to understand how Jack and Casita needed to grieve. Would she be as open to their ways today? Or would the Indaa’s ways always be more important?

  No matter what, Jack and Casita must not forget who they were. When their father came, if he came, they would still be Ndé.

  Jack, like any good warrior, woke instantly when he heard Mollie open the door. “I have breakfast for you in the kitchen,” she said.

  Outside a bugler played a lively rhythm. “That’s ‘Reveille,’” Mollie said brightly. Casita mouthed the word, committing it to memory. Her father had always been proud of how quick her ear was—to hear something once or twice was to remember it.

  Charles was already sitting at the kitchen table, dressed in his uniform. He and Mollie discussed his day. As far as Casita could understand, Charles’s work for Captain Carter was managing the assignments for every enlisted man in the cavalry.

  Mollie hurried to put porridge in front of the children. As Casita tried not to gag on the sour milk, she watched Charles carefully. He had hardly spoken to them. Casita didn’t know if that was the usual way with the Indaa or if he was reconsidering letting them stay.

  Jack noticed nothing, eating the food in front of him without complaint.

  Finally Charles spoke to them. “Children, the prisoners are leaving this morning for the reservation at Fort Gibson in Oklahoma.”

  Casita saw all her plans turn to dust. What could be easier than to send Jack and her with them? She nerved herself to ask, “Do we have to go?”

  “Of course not,” Mollie exclaimed. “But we wondered if you wanted to see them off.”

  “You did, not we,” Charles corrected. “I think it’s a bad idea. It will only confuse the children.”

  To her surprise, Casita agreed with Charles. She didn’t want to watch her band being exiled to Oklahoma. But she suspected Jack would see it differently.

  Jack pushed his chair back with a loud squeaking sound. He stood up. “I want to go.”

  “What good will it do?” Casita asked in the Ndé language.

  “It is our duty,” he answered. “You would know that if you weren’t trying so hard to make them like you.”

  Casita didn’t want to go, but she didn’t dare let Jack go alone. There was no telling what he might do out of “duty.” He might jeopardize their place with Mollie and Charles. “I will come, too,” she said.

  An hour later, they stood with Mollie and Charles near the guard post at the entrance to the fort. A small crowd, mainly of women, had gathered to watch the departure of the prisoners. There was no gate, a fact that had escaped her when she first entered the fort. She asked Charles why not.

  “We don’t need one. There are up to six hundred armed and experienced cavalry and infantry soldiers here at any time. Every Apache in Texas could attack us and they’d have no chance. Your people only win battles when they can use the terrain against us.”

  “Charles!” Mollie exclaimed. “That’s rather tactless.”

  “I’m not telling her anything she doesn’t know,” he said with a shrug.

  Six hundred men. Her father’s men had never numbered more than thirty. He couldn’t set them free. She was glad that Jack wasn’t listening. Jack could keep his hope for a while longer.

  Charles had said the prisoners would come from the stables, and Jack kept his gaze fixed in that direction. As they waited, Jack fidgeted and scratched himself where his new clothes touched his skin.

  “Hold still,” Casita ordered him. “You’re upsetting Mollie.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” he answered.

  “I’m just trying . . .”

  “I know what you are doing. And right now I want you to leave me alone.”

  The morning was cool and dry. Casita heard Charles say to Mollie, “Good traveling weather.”

  “How far away is Fort Gibson?” Mollie asked.

  “Six hundred and fifty miles, give or take,” Charles said.

  Casita couldn’t imagine such a distance. It would take them months to travel so far.

  “There!” Jack said, having spied the soldiers leading the prisoners. The children and their mothers were mounted on horseback. Even the boys that Casita knew as skilled riders slumped on the horses, staring at the ground. They had lost their pride. Someone had found them ill-fitting clothes that transformed their appearance. The Indaa clothes had such power, Casita thought, smoothing her own skirt. Only by concentrating on their faces could Casita recognize them. Most of them didn’t look up. But if they did, they stared at her and Jack as though they were the enemy.

  “They hate us,” Jack said.

  “I couldn’t save everyone.” Casita forced herself to keep her voice down.

  “Father taught us to care for the band. We should have stayed to help them.”

  Casita wanted to look away, but Jack’s words had stung. Her father
would want her to be here. It was a small comfort, but at least these children had their mothers.

  Mollie made a dismayed sound. “They’re going to travel six hundred miles? They’ll never make it.”

  Charles shifted uneasily from one foot to another. “The Army will get them there. And there will be food and shelter at the reservation.”

  Casita shook her head. Mollie’s anger fueled hers, too. “The reservations are a slow dying for my people.”

  “There must be a better way,” Mollie said.

  Charles took her hand. “We took in these two. There’s nothing else we can do.”

  Under his breath, so only Casita could hear, Jack said, “I wish we were going with them.”

  As the last of the prisoners trailed by, Casita noticed Caleb standing directly across from her. He saw her and held up an imaginary rifle and pointed it at her. With a jerk, he pretended to pull the trigger. Then he shot Jack, too. Jack’s hand went to his waist, but his knife was gone. Unafraid, he started forward. Casita grabbed his shirt and held him back. She was afraid he would do something reckless.

  “No, Brother,” she whispered urgently. “He wants you to fight. He wants us to be sent away.”

  Like a good soldier, Charles noticed everything. “Ignore Caleb,” he said. When Jack didn’t answer, Charles put his hand on Jack’s shoulder.

  “Let’s go home,” Mollie said sadly.

  “But we have no home,” Jack said.

  “So we make a new one,” Casita said. “No matter how strange it is.”

  Over the next few weeks, Casita thought often of her father. Once, he had told them the story of a group of Ndé who were held prisoner by the Mexicans for years. They had survived, pretending to be docile, until they could escape. The lesson, he told them, was that a Ndé could do anything to survive. Jack had replied that that was the mark of a true warrior. Father had smiled and said the bravest of the imprisoned group had been a woman. He had glanced at Mother when he said it.

  At the time, Casita had wondered if Mother was the woman he meant. Had she been captured by the Mexicans? Was that why she was so insistent that captivity was worse than death? Casita tried to ask, but Mother had said she must wait until she was grown.