Ride The Wind - Excerpt From Ride The Wind

Excerpt From Ride The Wind

A rolling sea of deep grass flecked with a foam of primroses washed up on islands of towering oaks and pecans and walnuts. The pale blue sky was fading at the edges as the sun heated up the day. Soon it would be hot enough for the children to sneak down to the nearby Navasota River to splash in the cool shaded waters. The warm East Texas wind blew through the stockade door, bringing company with it. It was a morning in May; a time of sunshine and peace, an open gate and Indians.

Inside the high wooden box of Parker's Fort, twenty-six people stood frozen as though in a child's game of statues. Outside the gate scores of painted warriors sat sullenly on their ponies. One of them dropped the dirty white flag he had been holding. It fluttered slowly to the ground where his nervous little pinto danced it into the dust.

Give them a cow, Uncle Ben please. If that's what they want, give it to them. The cracked corn felt cool around nine-year-old Cynthia Ann Parker's fingers as she held the small gourd of chicken feed. Cold chills prickled her skin under her father's scratchy, tow linen shirt. Patched and frayed and altered down to only three or four sizes too large, the shirt looked as though it had been dyed with the same pale, gray-brown dust that covered her bare toes. She watched the men at the gate like a baby rabbit staring into a snake's eyes.

They were begging, Uncle Ben had said. A Cow? What would a hundred Indians do with one cow? Roast it outside the fort? Would all of them leave driving one cow ahead of them? It didn’t matter. Uncle Ben wouldn’t give it to them. The Parkers didn’t hold with begging. He’d tell them to move on, and everyone would go back to their chores. Maybe her grandfather, Elder John, would preach a sermon on sloth at the service Sunday. Foreboding swelled in her stomach and spread to her chest. She heard pounding in her ears.