There are some aspects here to make readers of the 21st century squirm, but, having acknowledged that, try to look past them to read the story as our great-grandparents may have.

From the Improvement Era, January 1917 –

“Cast Thy Bread”

By Elsie Chamberlain Carroll

“See, papa, what is that?”

John Harris stopped chopping wood, his ax still lifted in mid-air, and looked in the direction his little son indicated.

“I don’t see anything, Johnny.”

“It’s stopped now, but I did see something creeping behind the bushes over there on the hill.”

“Maybe it was a coyote. Tell your mother to give you the gun when you go in with the next armful of wood,” the man answered, and resumed his task, glancing occasionally across the little valley to the opposite hillside.

Soon the child came out of the log house with a formidable old flintlock, which was almost more than he could carry, and stood it up against the shed. He sat on a log a little distance from his father and again riveted his eyes upon the opposite hillside.

The ax flew vigorously, sending pine chips in every direction, and the pile of fuel grew.

Presently, as the man stooped to pick up a detached chunk, the child sprang up and rushed excitedly to his side. – “I saw it again, papa. I saw it good. It isn’t a coyote — it looked like a — squaw carrying something on her back.”

The man straightened up, his face growing a shade paler and he again looked across the valley. This time his eye also detected the dark, crouching form gliding from one clump of bushes to another. As the child had guessed, it was a squaw bearing a papoose on her back. For several moments after the man had observed her, she remained concealed, but presently she emerged from her hiding place, limping down the hill toward them.

“See, she is old and lame,” the child cried in compassion as she drew nearer, “and, oh, papa, her feet are bleeding,” as he observed her crimson foot-prints in the snow.

The creature stopped a short distance from the wood-pile and looked searchingly at the man, then at the gun leaning against the shed.

John Harris, discerning her thoughts, pointed to the gun and shook his head. “I won’t hurt you, granny,” he said, kindly. His look and tone reassured her. She came closer and sat down on a log, removing the papoose cradle from her back and holding it on her lap.

“Me heap tired; heap sick,” she explained in broken English. “Me run two suns,” she indicated the number with her fingers. “Apaches after me. Steal papoose. Papoose father my boy. He Navajo big chief. Apaches fight, hurt chief, maybe so die. They steal papoose. Me find her and run away. They come. Me heap hungry, heap tired, heap sick. You good man. You hide me, give me bread. You good man.”

The man’s face had grown serious. Indian troubles were not far in the past in this sparsely settled western country. His nearest neighbors were five miles away. It was not a small matter to incite the anger of a band of savage Apaches who, if the squaw’s story was correct, would likely trail their victim to his door. He hesitated.

“You’ll let her stay, won’t you, papa,” little Johnny pleaded. “See her feet. See how cute the baby is. Oh, papa, what if it were mama and Alice out in the snow?”

The man looked down into the child’s pleading face and smiled. Then he patted his shoulder, but still hesitated.

“Good papoose, good papoose,” the squaw said, approvingly, for she seemed to understand that the child was pleading her cause.

“All right, sonny, I guess we’ll risk it,” the father said, at last, but the anxious look remained upon his face.

Their dusky guest was taken to the big warm kitchen, where she was given food before the open fire. Mrs. Harris heard her story with all a woman’s sympathy and before she went to bed she had found a pair of old shoes for the wounded feet, a warm blanket for the pretty, black-eyed baby, and had filled a sack with food. The squaw showed her gratitude as only dumb beasts and Indians can, by a look of devotion which nothing can surpass.

The family retired to the one other room when bedtime came, and left the squaw to rest and sleep by the open fire. Mr. Harris went to bed because he did not wish to cause the other members of the family to worry, but as soon as his wife and babies were asleep he crept softly to a window, commanding a view of the country from which the squaw had come, and there he sat through the long hours of the night, wrapped in warm blankets. If there came the need of his protecting his family single-handed against a band of savages, he would need every advantage. The old flint-lock stood near, and he had silently barred the doors. Once or twice he thought he detected shadowy forms in the moonlight, but each time he decided it was but an illusion, and so the hours passed and at last dawn stole over the eastern mountains and he went to bed.

When the family awoke and went into the kitchen their guest had gone. On a chair by the fireplace was a quaint silver bracelet, a piece of queer wampum and a string of unique beads. These tokens had evidently been left as a silent blessing to the white friends.

Nothing was seen of the squaw’s pursuers and the Harris family fervently hoped that she reached her destination in safety. For a long time Johnny Harris thought continually of the old granny and baby papoose and his childish fancy wove many adventurous stories about them, but as time went by they were at last forgotten.

II

Years had passed. Johnny Harris was now a youth of eighteen. His father had decided to move to Arizona. Mr. Jerome, a neighbor, was also going, so the two men planned the trip together. It was decided that Mr. Jerome and his family, accompanied by Jack Harris with a load of the Harris household goods, should make the trip in the fore part of the summer and begin to get located in the new home by fall, when Jack’s parents and Charlie Jerome would come on with the rest of the goods after the crops at the old home had been gathered and the remaining property disposed of.

The Jeromes, accompanied by Jack, started on their journey one morning about the first of June. The first three days passed uneventfully, and they got over a good many miles. The next day they entered the Arizona desert, memorable for its history of tragic deaths from thirst and from the hands of savage red men.

About their camp-fire that night many of these gruesome tales were recounted, but no thought of present danger entered the minds of any of the little party.

The next morning Jack’s horses were missing. They had been hobbled, so it was almost certain that they had not strayed far; consequently, after a short search in the immediate vicinity of the camp, it was decided that the Jeromes should go on and leave Jack to follow when the horses were found. Jack had a lighter load and could travel much faster than his friends, and, too, it was necessary for them to reach a certain watering-place that night.

Jack soon found his horses’ tracks and, thinking he would come upon them at any moment, walked mile after mile. Occasionally he saw another horse’s track along with them, but he thought nothing of it, as several range horses had been seen the day before.

At last he came upon the team and, riding one while the other followed, hurried back to camp. He was soon upon his way, but the sun indicated that it was long past noon, and though he traveled as fast as his load would permit he was still about fifteen miles from the place they had expected to reach, when darkness overtook him. He had no doubt that his friends had reached the desired point and were wailing anxiously for him. When it grew so dark he could not distinguish the unfrequented road, there was but one thing for him to do, so he pitched camp. He had a small keg of water he had brought from his former camp. This he divided, giving part to the horses and reserving part for his own use. He fed his horses an ample supply of oats and tied them to the wagon this time to avoid the trouble of the previous night. He then built a fire and prepared supper, and as he sat there alone on the desolate prairie, surrounded by somber mountains in the distance, with no sound to break the solitude except an occasional howl of a coyote or wolf, the boy’s spirits were depressed with a sense of loneliness. The experience was entirely new, and somehow the frightful tales they had laughed over the previous night grew into haunting terrors lurking all about in the great solemn blackness about him. He soon went to bed and tried to force himself to sleep, but several hours passed as he lay there listening to the dismal howling of the coyotes and wishing he were safely with his friends. He tried to persuade himself that no danger threatened him and that he would start early in the morning and overtake the Jeromes before they had broken camp. At last he fell asleep.

He did not know how long he had slept, but he was awakened suddenly by the wild snorting and stamping of his horses. He sat up and looked about. The moon had risen and to his horror he beheld a number of hideous savages creeping stealthily toward him. At first he thought he must be dreaming, but as soon as the Indians saw that he was awake, they gave a wild yell and pounced upon him. His hands and feet were bound and he was lashed to one of his horses. His wagon was ransacked and what was left when his captors were through was set on fire. One of the number had brought horses from a nearby clump of trees. The booty was packed onto these animals and the procession began to move toward the mountains. It all seemed like a terrible nightmare to Jack. One Indian led the horse to which he was tied while another rode behind to whip the animal and to see that their prisoner did not escape. Often he struck Jack when striking at the horse, leaving stinging wounds on the boy’s face and limbs.

Hour after hour they traveled thus. The captors seemed to be in high spirits and kept up a continual bedlam of yelling and singing.

The boy was filled with untold terror. He felt certain he would be killed in some atrocious way. He thought of his father and mother and sister Alice back at the old home, and how they would know of his horrible fate. He tried to pray, but it seemed that his lips, his heart, his very soul, were dry and parched. The pain from his wounds and the thongs and his uncomfortable position became almost more than he could bear. He groaned aloud, and his captors laughed in glee at his misery.

Morning came, but they traveled on. The sun came out and beat down upon the boy’s bare head. The savages stopped to eat, but they gave neither food nor drink to their prisoner. His tongue was swollen with thirst and his head throbbed with pain. He began to think that death might be a relief after all. The journey was resumed and a few hours more Jack suffered these untold agonies, but in time blessed unconsciousness came over him.

III

When Jack opened his eyes again it was dark. At first his thoughts were dazed. He tried to think. He made an effort to put his hand to his forehead, and found it tied behind him. This brought back all the horrors through which he had passed. Gradually his brain cleared and he began to take in his surroundings. He heard the sound of voices a short distance away, but could see nothing. At last he succeeded in rolling over and now he discovered that he was in a wigwam, while outside a hundred yards away his captors and a number of others were sitting about a fire evidently in council. Their gestures and looks in his direction suggested that they must be deciding his fate. He could see other wigwams and fires nearby with squaws and papooses about them. He was evidently in an Indian village, still at the cruel mercy of his captors. He wondered bitterly why God had permitted him to awaken. He tried to move his feet, but found them bound fast also.

As he lay there, one by one the fires before the wigwams burned lower and lower and the squaws and papooses crept into their blankets. At last the council at the big fire seemed to be over. The Indians arose and retired to various wigwams, while one came toward him. With an effort he turned back to the position he had found himself in when he first regained consciousness, and lay perfectly still. The big, burly guard came in and gave him a little kick, then with a grunt of satisfaction went out and wrapped himself in a blanket and sat by the wig-wam door. His mind seemed to be at rest about the safety of his charge, and soon Jack could hear his heavy breathing, which told him that his guard was asleep.

Now if he could only free himself. With the strength of desperation he tried to break his thongs, but they might have been of iron for all his efforts availed. At last he ceased in hopeless despair.

Suddenly he heard a sound at the rear of the wigwam. A corner of the tent was slightly raised, and a dark figure crept toward him. For a second a new fear seized the boy, but there was a whispered “sh-sh.” Then the ropes were quickly cut from his hands and feet, and the stealthy visitor indicated that he was to quietly follow out of the rear of the tent. A moment later they were out in the moonlight and Jack saw that he was following the lithe, noiseless movements of a young squaw. In spite of the pain it cost him, he ran after her down the wooded mountain side to a little sheltered valley, where his horses were tied. Here his guide stopped and gave him a jug of water and a sack of dried venison.

“Once white man save me when little papoose. Grandmother say always be good to white man. Go quick.”

“Thank you, and God bless you,” Jack breathed fervently as he pressed the dusky hand. Not until he was mounted and safely away from the terrible scene did his thought make any connection between his present experience and the Indian refugees he had helped to shelter years before. Then he wondered with a sudden feeling of God’s goodness if his deliverer could be the little Indian baby carried from danger by the brave old granny that winter day when he was a little boy. Of course, there was no way of knowing they were the same, but in his heart Jack felt sure she was.

The next night he reached home to the surprise, and later rejoicing and thanksgiving of his parents.

The Harrises waited with anxious fears to hear from their friends the Jeromes. A few weeks later they received a letter telling of their safe arrival and breaking as gently as possible what they supposed to be the news of Jack’s terrible fate. Mr. Jerome had ridden back and found Jack’s burning wagon with unmistakable signs of the merciless raid, and could draw but one conclusion from what he saw.

Jack, himself, answered the letter, giving in detail the terrors of his capture and his miraculous deliverance.