Journey of the Spirit

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.