Little Adam
By TLR
Rated G
Little Adam Cartwright was a boy curious about many things, from how a bird made its nest, to why geese make a V when they flew in the sky.
Early one spring morning, this curiosity took him from their covered wagon to the bank of a creek while his father slept inside.
Ben warned him often, “Never go outside without my permission. There are wild animals, and unfriendly Indians.”
Most of the time Adam obeyed his pa, but on this day, he didn't.
He stood watching the water flow over the rocks, listened to the crystal cleanness of it.
At the creek he found a stick that he poked into the mud, as well as a long, pretty feather fluttering on the rocks. He picked the feather up before the wind had the chance to blow it away, then took his bandana from around his neck, tied it around his head, and stuck the feather in.
He stooped down, smudged his fingers in the mud, then drew a line on his right cheek, then a line on his left.
“Not all Indians are enemies,” his father had explained to him.
They had met some peaceful Indians on the journey from New England. One had taught him to catch fish with his hands. Another gave him a small knife.
Most were eager to trade, but as they moved Westward, others were found to be hostile.
“Adam!”
His father's voice, calling from far away.
He would get a scolding. His curiosity had taken him too far away from his father.
He opened his mouth to call back, knowing it would make his pa worry less, but a red hand clamped over his mouth before he could make a sound.
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“Adam!”
Ben had left baby Eric with the wet nurse, and was now outside the wagon looking all around the area, seeing hills, woods, meadows—everything but his small son.
“Adam!”
Ben ran for his rifle.
“Just you wait,” he muttered under his breath as he saddled a horse and galloped off to find little Adam.
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“Adam!”
His eyes strained to see, his ears strained to hear.
He approached the shallow creek and crossed it, knowing this was one of his boy's favorite places to run off to.
Before he even had time to whisper a prayer, he saw evidence that Adam had been playing here—a feather, a stick, and some smooth stones Adam had fashioned into a circle.
Getting down from his horse for a closer look around, Ben saw something else--fresh moccasin prints-- and broken weeds where his son had been taken through the field.
His face going slack with shock, Ben's eyes scanned the woods and the hills beyond.
“Protect him,” he whispered as he led his horse along the tracks from the bank of the creek and into the meadow, toward the woods. “Lord, protect him.”
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Back on his horse again, Ben followed the broken weeds to the woods, and that's where the trail ended. He had no idea which direction to go.
“Adam!”
Yelling out could draw danger to himself, but he had to let his son know he was looking for him.
Ben allowed his instincts to lead him into the woods.
When the woods got too thick and overgrown to take his horse, he tied the horse to a tree and continued by foot.
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Ben looked all day in the woods. His head snapped toward each sound, but each time it was a squirrel or a rabbit.
It was close to nightfall. The nurse would be worried about him, as well as little Adam.
He knew his infant son needed him, but he couldn't make himself go home. Not yet.
He decided to make camp in the woods so that he could continue his search in the morning. He would need all the rest and stamina he could muster in order to carry on.
Sleep alluded him, however, so around midnight, he got back to his feet and kept looking.
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By dawn he was stumbling, disoriented, tired, and thirsty. He reached for the canteen hanging from his saddle and took a drink, wondering if Adam were thirsty too, or cold, or tired, or frightened.
Or dead.
No, he thought as he rubbed his grainy eyes. He's alive. He has to be.
When he was sure he had combed the woods well enough, he started for the hills, and that's when he saw the Indian walking toward him, carrying Adam on his hip.
Ben's face broke into emotion like a clay pot as he ran toward them.
“Adam!” he shouted as he grabbed his son and clutched him tightly. “Thank God. Are you all right? How many times have I warned you about going too far?”
Little Adam's arms went around his father's neck, then he looked at the Indian.
“He took me to a teepee, Pa. I tried to tell him to take me across the creek to home, but he didn't understand. They didn't hurt me. They fed me some fish.”
Ben looked at the Indian, and the Indian looked at Ben. A little brave about the age and size of Adam ran up behind his father and hid behind his clothes.
“Thank you,” Ben said extending his hand toward the Indian. He knew the Indian couldn't understand him, but he still had to say the words. “For watching out for my son.”
The Indian looked at Ben's hand, then gripped it.
End