A Boy Becomes a Man

 By McKenzie M. C.

Ages 13-17 Runner Up

Fall 2023 writing contest

Chapter One

 I jerk awake. Faint moonlight shines through the open shutters and pools on the rough floor. I sit upright, the thin cot creaking beneath me.

        Shadows move across the bare landscape. I squint into the near darkness. Tumbleweeds roll. Horses mill about in the paddock. A darker shadow slinks along, low to the ground. It doesn’t stir up a lick of dust as it creeps toward the corral.

        My bare feet land on the splintery wood floor and I ease toward the window. The shadow pulls itself up on the railing. I finally get a clear view, the outline against the blue-black sky. I stop breathing. The Indian swings himself over and disappears into the herd.

        I scramble out the window, landing on my feet. I sprint through the night air, thankful for the lightest touch of coolness. Hotter than blazes, Arizona is. I reach the fence and hurdle it in one smooth motion. The horses begin to stir.

        Two other soldiers are on duty, but I doubt they will be able to stop these savages. Not if there are more than a couple o’ Indians.

        I can’t worry about that. I am only looking for one horse. My horse. “Midnight!” I whisper-shout, as loud as I dare. I hear his nicker of greeting. Elbowing the other steeds out of the way, I find him. A beautiful creature. Just as I reach him, another figure swings up onto his back. “No!” I catch hold of the edge of a leather jerkin and yank him to the ground.

        The young Indian stumbles a bit, but I’ve got a firm grasp on his collar now. He hollers out in his garbled language. I silence him with a sock to mouth and tackle him. Dirt flies up around us. The horses spook and scatter back. I sit on the boy’s chest, pummeling him in the face over and over.

        I don’t hear the hoofbeats behind me until the beast and its rider are upon me. I turn in time to see a club swinging toward my head.

 

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        I blink awake. For the second time tonight. A groan escapes my lips. I force myself to rise. Pain shoots through the side of my head. I wince as the world tilts.

        There’s no sign of the thieves. No sign of Midnight. Nearly a dozen other horses from our small herd have disappeared.

        “Pa!” My voice sounds ragged even to my own ears. A light comes on in our stucco house. “Pa, they took our horses!”

        The door bangs open. Pa’s silhouette appears, tall and strong. “Son, ring the bell.”

        I take off in the opposite direction, toward the chapel. The next minutes feel like hours. I burst through the chapel door and take the stairs to the tower three at a time. Tousles of my dark hair fall across my forehead and I throw them back.

        A single rope hangs from the top of the steeple, where the bell hangs. It feels rough against my calloused palms. My shoulders are well strengthened from work and I set the bell ringing.

        Clang! Clang! Clang!

        After about a dozen rings, I release the rope.

        Halfway back down the stairs I realize I’m still barefoot. No time for that now.

        Back outside, the camp is waking. Soldiers shout. Doors to the barracks slam. A whistle pierces the air.

        Pa.

        I quicken my steps and join the rest of the men lining up. I double over, breathless. The two soldiers who guarded the horses rub swelling knots on their heads. I feel for a matching one on the side of my own head.

        “Johnson, Willoughby, Smith,” Pa calls out, “secure the pen.” He lists a handful of names, and the men—some only a few years older than I—step forward. “We’ll go after them.”

        I push through the troop. “Pa! Let me come,” I beg, “please. They took Midnight.”

        Pa looks down at me, sadness in his brown eyes. At fifteen, I’m still a head shorter than him. “Sorry, son.”

        I hang my head.

        The men disperse to their tasks, half to the corral, the others glad to return to their bunks for a few more hours.

        I drop onto the stoop and watch them leave. I sit there with my aching head in my hands until their hoofbeats fade.

        Next thing I know, I’m grabbing my boots and walking toward the corral. I sling myself up onto the back of a dapple gray mare—a lean, fast little thing—and tap my heels to her sides.

        “Woah, there, Riley.” Willoughby steps in front of me.

        “I’m going, Charlie.”

        He holds up his hands. “Well, no. No, you’re not. I can’t go and lose another horse after what happened tonight.”

        I sigh and dismount. My boots clunk against the dirt.

        “That’s a good lad.”

        I scoff. Charlie’s barely twenty. The second he walks away, I’m on the horse and spurring him on. We clear the fence in one smooth motion. For one moment, I’m flying.

        Charlie shouts.

        The mare’s hooves touch the earth on the other side and we’re off, racing through the night, skimming across the scorched ground.

        Once we’ve made it a good distance from the fort, I bring her back to a lope, an easy pace she can maintain. I ride for over half an hour before I catch sight of the posse ahead.

        “Hold up!” comes the command ahead.

        I trot up behind them.

        “What’s going on?” It’s Pa’s voice. He circles back from the front of the troop.

        “I’m sorry, Pa.” I meet his gaze with a solid hazel one of my own. “I had to.”

        He looks me up and down. My unsaddled mount. Rumpled clothes and tousled hair. At least I ain’t barefoot.

        One of the men leans toward Pa and murmurs, “Aw, let him stay, sir. He can ride as good as the best of us. He won’t slow us none.”

        Seconds pass, feeling like an eternity. I squirm. Finally, Pa nods once and gives the command to move out.

 

Chapter Two

 

We ride for hours, stopping every so often to rest our mounts. Dawn streaks across the sky. My eyes begin to blur from squinting at the horizon for so long. There’s no sign of the raiders besides a trail of hoof prints in the sand; even those have been washed with the wind.

        A dark smudge appears ahead. At first, relief washes through me.

        And then we get closer.

        Bile rises in my throat. It’s a horse. Laying on the ground.

        I dig my heels into the side of my mare and she springs forward. I fly past Pa and tumble  onto the sand beside my horse. My beautiful horse. Abandoned, sweated, and gasping for breath. Foam flecks his heaving sides. His velvety fur is damp and gritty.

        Tears pool in my eyes. “Come on, Midnight, you’re gonna make it.” I barely notice the horse pulling up behind me. A hand rests on my shoulder. I turn and look up into Pa’s face. “He’ll make it, Pa.” The rest of the troop reaches us. Not a single one of them looks in my direction, and they studiously avoid looking at Midnight.

        Pa waves them on. Once they’ve made it out of earshot, he kneels beside me. “He’ll never make it, son.” He tightens his grip on my shoulder. “You know that.”

        A tear streaks down my cheek. “Please,” I whisper. A hundred plans fight for room in my mind. “We can drag him back, bring him home. I’ll tend him every hour of every day, I promise, I—”

        Pa shakes his head. “He wouldn’t make it back to the fort.”

        “Please let him live, Pa. Please.” My voice cracks. I’m crying in earnest now. Snot and tears leak out and dribble down my face. I scrub them away with my shirtsleeve, and look back down at the miserable steed.

        The whites of Midnight’s eyes show. He attempts a weak whinny. My heart breaks at the sound.

        Pa stands and unstraps something from the back of his saddle. He walks back over, his steps—usually sure and purposeful—lagging.

        My stomach turns at the sight of the rifle in his work-worn hands. I shake my head with vigor, a lump in my throat blocking all my air and strangling the words I want to say.

        Pa holds the rifle out to me.

        No, no, no! I can’t accept it. I force my lungs to pull in a breath, and quickly begin hyperventilating. I haven’t seen Pa look this broken since Mama died.

        Midnight’s muscles quiver beneath my hand. I throw my arms around him and hug him tight as I can. My tears drip onto his once-gleaming coat and mingle with his sweat. “I’m sorry, boy,” I whisper in his ear. I suck in a shaky lungful of air and fight back a sob. “Goodbye.” The word hardly makes a sound, but I know he hears me.

        He heaves out a breath, another stifled whinny tearing my soul in two.

        I struggle to stand.

        Pa pushes me behind him and brings the rifle to his shoulder. A shot rings out.

        I watch the life drain from Midnight’s eyes. His labored breathing halts. A dark pool soaks the sand beneath him with crimson. The sulfury smell of gun smoke chokes out whatever oxygen I might be able to gulp in.

        I stumble away, my legs like jelly. I don’t know if my eyes are closed or open as I stagger as far away as I can. A scraggly bush snags on my pant leg and I topple on my hands and knees in the dirt.

        Sobs rack my body. I collapse. In the middle of the desert, my only friend gone, I lay in the sand and cry. My lungs hurt. My throat is raw from the strain of it. Every muscle in my lean body is tense. I’ve never cried this hard before. Never watched something I love die.

        Never been so helpless.

        Pa lets me cry myself out. The sun begins to warm the air.

        I wipe my eyes and pull myself wearily to my feet. My head hangs. I’m sure my face is a mess. I rub at it with my hands, to no avail.

        A blur hovers around my vision.

        We mount up and rejoin the troop heading back to the fort, leaving Midnight out there. I don’t even fight. I hardly register the Arizona sun blistering my exposed neck and face, nor the silence that permeates the air.

        Nausea twists in my gut like a jackknife. Over and over in my mind, for hours, I see Midnight’s last moments in my mind’s eye. I know I’ll never be able to forget it.

  

Chapter Three

 

It’s been a week since…it happened. I can’t even bring myself to think about Midnight anymore.

        I lay on my cot, watching the stars fade under the coming dawn. Down the hall, Pa readies himself for another day. I hear his cot creak as he rises, the clink of pewter when he pours water in the washbasin, and after a while, the metal jangle of his belt buckle—the last piece of his uniform.

        I force myself to roll out of bed. My feet feel numb as I cross the floor. The pitcher that waits on my dresser feels heavy as I pour from it. Cold water splashes against my face and jolts me awake. I run my wet hands through my dark hair.

        The boy in the mirror looks different than the one I used to know. His hazel eyes don’t glimmer with anticipation for the day. His shoulders are squared. He looks more like my father. Less like a boy, really. More sober.

        I can still remember a time when Pa used to smile and laugh. He used to play the fiddle, too, and dance with Mama. Ever since we lost Mama though, he’s lost the spring in his step.

        Over the past seven days, I’ve realized that I can’t even muster up a grudge against Pa. He did the best thing for Midnight in the end, really. All the rage that festers in my soul is aimed at the careless Indian who didn’t value the life of an animal.

        Maybe with time I can forgive him, too. I say a short prayer, buttoning my plain olive-green shirt. I check that the sleeves are rolled neatly over my biceps. My fingers stopped shaking a day or so after the incident. I grip the door handle and find Pa in the kitchen.

        Without a word, he hands me a crisp off-white sheet of paper covered in neat type. I skim it. My eyes light on the words ‘transfer’, ‘effective immediately’, and ‘Fort Yuma’. I look up. “We’re leaving?”

        Pa nods. He must have noticed my hesitation every time I near the corral, or how I haven’t even approached the herd since Midnight died. Pa’s always been good at reading people. Me, especially.

        I meet his eyes. “Thanks, Pa.” It’ll be good to get away. Away from all the things that bring up memories that hurt.

        Another nod. “Anything for my boy.”

        But as I leave the room and look out across the flat horizon, I feel less like a boy, and more like—a grin almost toys at my lips at the thought—a man. I step out across the threshold as the dawn blushes across the cheek of the sky.

        It’s a new day. Better than yesterday. And I have hope for tomorrow.