Lightning in His Hand

By Nancy Sowell

It's 1848 and thirteen-year-old Jacob Whitmore hurries to Santa Fe, New Mexico, to seek a long-lost relative rumored to be dead. When he finds Uncle Whit and learns the angry, bitter man is preparing to head over the Old Spanish Trail to California, Jacob joins the caravan, hoping he can convince his uncle to return home to a sister who desperately needs him. On the journey, Jacob has little patience with Whit's wild ways, until he learns to recognize his own failings and tries to understand the troubled man rather than condemn him. Yet Jacob's various missteps, along with the discoveries that Whit has a secret side-business and an enemy who holds unknown power over him, threaten to destroy his mission, which in turn could jeopardize his own plan to stay on the frontier. Ages 10 and up.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nancy Sowell
• Release date: Feb 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310411885

Nancy Sowell

Nancy Sowell enjoys exploring the mountains and deserts of the American Southwest and pondering their rich history and cultures. She also relishes spending time with her children and their families. She and her husband live in Colorado.

Book preview

Contents

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26 | Chapter 27 | Chapter 28 | Chapter 29 | Chapter 30 | Chapter 31 | Chapter 32 | Chapter 33 | Chapter 34

Epilogue

Author Notes

About the Author

Chapter 1

Jacob slung his satchel and bedroll over his shoulder and hustled to Santa Fe’s central plaza. It seemed the logical place to begin his search for a man he’d never met.

He waved to the wagon teamsters he’d traveled with from Independence then looked at his dusty sun-browned hand and grinned. Not much left of that city-bred kid he knew four months ago.

Yet worry gnawed at him. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to find Uncle Attica, or if he did, convince him to go home. Jacob pushed his straw hat from his forehead and wiped sweat with his rolled-up sleeve. He scanned the chaotic plaza with its shouting vendors and barnyard odors.

Across the market, mutton hung in front of a long, low building. Father had said Uncle might work on a sheep ranch. Perhaps the vendor would know him. Dodging stray goats and chickens, Jacob hurried to the plump man squatting under a large sombrero.

"¿Conoce Attica Whitmore?" he asked in his rough Spanish.

The vendor pointed to a saloon. Raucous chatter burst through its open doorway.

Jacob gulped. He’d never been in a saloon.

No matter. Uncle Attica must be back in Boston before spring or Jacob’s own life would be ruined. Muscles tense, he strode toward the drunken noise.

Inside the dark entry, Jacob stopped to let his eyes adjust. Single candles along adobe walls lit the cool, smoke-filled room. Natural light filtered through two small, high windows.

Behind the counter, a bartender eyed him. His greasy shirt stretched tight across a thick build. Former trapper, probably, like the teamsters Jacob had gotten to know on the merchant caravan from Independence. Straight white hair. Red nose. Leathery face. Wild hazel eyes. A three-inch scar traced his jaw.

Jacob willed his feet to the counter. I’m looking for Attica Whitmore, he said in the most grown-up thirteen-year-old voice he could muster. Do you know where I might find him?

He squirmed as the man leaned across the bar and scrutinized him from his shaggy hair to his worn leather boots.

Reckon I knows a Whit Whitmore. Could be the same, maybe. The barkeep raised his eyebrows. Black gaps spread between crooked yellow teeth. You’ve business with Whit?

Jacob instinctively stepped back out of arm’s reach. Yes, uh, perhaps, he said. Does he work on a sheep ranch around here?

Perhaps, the bartender mimicked. He was wary, for sure. Jacob forced himself to stay calm under the wild gaze.

What does he look like? the man demanded.

I don’t know, exactly.

Never met him?

No, sir. Jacob thought a moment. But he looks like his sister, and— Heat surged up his face. How foolish did that sound?

The man guffawed. Wagh! Got hisself a pretty petticoat too? His mouth twisted into an ugly sneer.

That’s not what I meant, sir, Jacob stammered.

Father had said when Attica and Hestia were little, no one could tell them apart. But it hadn’t mattered much because the twins were always together.

 Aunt Hes had said, though, that Jacob looked like Uncle. Same lean build, unruly brown hair, dark blue eyes. But he didn’t want to say that now. He steadied his voice. Do you know where I can find him?

The barkeep hacked and spewed into a spittoon at the end of the counter. You want in too, huh?

Want into what?

The man folded his arms across his chest. Jacob glanced away to avoid his eerie glare. No, he won’t intimidate me. He stared back. I just want to talk to him. He might not even be the person I’m looking for.

The bartender fetched a bottle from the shelf. Was in here a while back. He tipped the container over an empty glass. Said he was headin’ to Sanchez’s shop yonder to get fixins’ fer his trip to Californy. He jerked his head in the store’s direction.

California? Jacob slumped. He hadn’t planned on chasing his uncle all the way to the Pacific. He might not even have enough time. Is he going soon? he asked.

The bartender swilled the last of the bottle and wiped his mouth on his dirty sleeve. Reckon so.

Okay, thanks. Jacob turned toward the door then stepped back with sudden boldness. Just curious. What are you thinking I ‘want in’ on?

The man’s hazel eyes narrowed. He leaned into Jacob’s face and thumped a dirty forefinger on his chest. They’s some things greenhorns kin figure out fer their own selves.

Chapter 2

Jacob hurried along the row of shops, checking their signs until he reached one that read, La Tienda de Sanchez, the trader’s shop where the bartender said Whit Whitmore had gone. Fruit vendors sat on either side of the doorway, legs sprawled, blocking his entry. One fellow held up a peach and smiled wide.

Jacob started to shake his head no when his stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Quickly he retrieved a coin from his money belt, took the fruit, and stepped to the doorway.

A deep voice blurted from inside, Gold in California?

Yep, came a gruff response. That’s why Bennett’s taking along a thousand sheep. Plans to sell ‘em to the miners flooding in. But keep it to yourself. He doesn’t want his men deserting to the gold fields before he gets his kids settled out there.

Jacob stopped mid-step in the entry. He probably wasn’t supposed to hear that. Maybe he should slip back outside before anyone noticed. Too late. The men standing on either side of a long counter turned and stared at him.

Pretending he hadn’t heard them talking, Jacob bit into his peach and sauntered toward the opposite end of the room, doing his best to look carefree. But his brain was spitting fireworks. Gold had been discovered in California. Probably that’s why Whit Whitmore was going there.

Maybe he should too. After he found Uncle Attica, he could go and get rich before he headed up to the Indian mission in Oregon. Jacob’s insides thrilled. Things might turn out better than he had thought. He just had to find Uncle.

The counter spanned the store’s length, separating customers from house wares and tools. A knife display hung mounted on the back wall.

Peach juice dribbling down his arm, Jacob laid his satchel and bedroll on the dirt floor. He leaned over the wooden surface for a closer look at the display while stealing quick glances at the men. He’d just pretend to be a customer while they were talking. Absently he picked up a flint lying nearby and fingered its smooth surface with his juice-sticky fingers.

The big fellow behind the counter must be Señor Sanchez. Two red suspenders, stretched tight, striped his black clothes. The other man, wiry and in dirty buckskins, slouched opposite him, a cigar in his mouth.

Jacob studied the customer, the one who might be Whit Whitmore. One thing was for sure. He couldn’t be Uncle Attica. He was too scruffy and too old. Aunt Hes, even at forty-two, still looked young and pretty. This fellow’s face was leathery and lined. Brown hair poking out under his brimmed hat had lots of grey. Of course, Father had said Uncle became a trapper after he ran away from home. Jacob thought about the mountain men teamsters he knew. They all looked old.

Still, if this fellow was Mr. Whitmore, he might know Uncle, seeing as they had the same last name. Jacob pretended to study the knife display while thinking about what to say to him once he was finished talking with Señor Sanchez.

But the room had grown deathly quiet. Jacob peered down the counter. The men were staring at him again. Crimeny. Uh, excuse me, he said, trying to sound casual even though his face was heating up. I’d like to look at that Green River knife. He pointed to the blade, which was like the ones his teamster friends had.

Sanchez strutted toward him, smiling. "You know how to pick your knives, amigo. That’s the best blade west of the Mississippi."

Jacob gazed at the shiny steel and simple wooden handle. How much is it?

Five dollars.

Jacob choked. Of course Sanchez expected him to dicker, but he’d never get it low enough. Okay, thanks, he mumbled.

Sanchez scowled. He set the blade back on display and stomped to his customer who was throwing a cloth sack over his shoulder. One of the man’s little fingers was mostly missing.

Jacob’s heart skipped a beat. His mind flashed to Aunt Hes and a long-ago memory of her grabbing her little finger in sudden pain. Oh Attica, what have you done? she had whispered. Father had said the two had a special bond as children, even when they weren’t together.

Probably just a coincidence, Jacob decided. Likely as not, trappers were always getting their fingers hacked off, between beaver traps and knife fights and other such doings.

Sanchez spoke to the stump-fingered man. Think you might do a little, uh, digging in California this winter, Whit? Might be a fine way to line your pockets on the side. He winked.

 I don’t need another side business. The man grinned, a dimple creasing his right cheek. Just like Aunt Hes’s. Jacob’s mind whizzed. Whit. Missing finger. Dimple. Uncle Attica?

Whit headed for the door. We’re leaving first thing in the morning. See you next spring.

He’s leaving for California in the morning. Oh no! Heart pounding, Jacob raced after him.

Chapter 3

Tripping over the fruit vendors gathered in the doorway of Sanchez’s shop, Jacob hollered, Excuse me, sir! Are you Attica Whitmore?

The man named Whit stopped and turned. His eyes narrowed. Who wants to know?

Jacob forced a weak smile. I thought it was you. Just something about the way you, uh, handle yourself. It looked really familiar-like.

Attica’s squint shifted to a glare.

Oh! Jacob laughed, his voice shaking. I’m Jacob Whitmore, your nephew from the States. I’m Homer’s boy. He thrust out his hand.

Instead of offering his own in return, Attica dropped his cigar at Jacob’s feet. Jacob stared at the cigar then at his uncle, who was smirking at him. Jacob’s anger swelled. Father would have never treated anyone like that. He wanted to jam the cigar into the dirt with his heel and walk away. But he couldn’t. Too much was at stake. He swallowed his pride. I came to find you, he said.

Don’t know as I was expectin’ company. Where’s your pa? Attica turned and continued walking across the plaza.

He died last spring of pneumonia, Jacob said, his voice flat.

Attica stopped.

And Aunt Hes’s husb—

NO! Attica punched his fist in the air and stormed out of the plaza.

Don’t let him get away! Jacob’s mind shouted. But his feet wouldn’t budge.

A roar erupted inside Sanchez’s shop. An enraged black bull in red suspenders exploded through the doorway, knocking over the vendors’ baskets. Fruit scattered.

Sanchez charged toward Jacob, eyes blazing bonfires, smoke nearly streaming through his mop of black hair. There you are, ya scoundrel! he raged.

Jacob froze. What did he do? The snorting bull grabbed his collar and jerked. Where is it! he bellowed inches from Jacob’s face. His breath reeked of stale cigar, his body the stench of layered sweat.

Where’s what! Jacob twisted his neck and gasped for air.

Think you could get away with stealin’ from me!

I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t steal anything! Why would Sanchez accuse him of that? He must be crazy.

Sanchez grabbed Jacob’s hand and thrust it to his face. Then what’s that, ya thievin’ varmint! Between Jacob’s clenched fingers, he could see it. The flint. His mouth zapped dry. He stared into Sanchez’s beastly face. He struggled to speak. No words came. How could he defend himself? He’d never stolen anything.

I ought to march you to the sheriff right now! Sanchez raged, his eyes red and bulging.

Jacob gulped, hoping for saliva. Nothing. His tongue, thick and stiff, stuck to the roof of his mouth. Adrenaline surged through his veins. Break free! Run! Raw survival gripped him. He balled his free hand into a tight fist to punch his huge captor.

Hey, Sanchez, said a calm voice. Meet my nephew from the States.

Que! Sanchez gaped, wild-eyed.

Uncle Attica. Jacob struggled free from Sanchez’s weakened grasp and thrust the flint at him. Here. I didn’t mean to take it, he gasped. Just forgot to put it down when I ran after my uncle.

Sanchez scowled from one to the other. He snatched the stone from Jacob’s juice-stained hand and wagged a dirty finger in his face. "Well, I’m keepin’ mi eye on you if you ever set foot in mi shop again, ya sticky-fingered—" He stopped and opened his clenched fist. The flint stuck to his pudgy fingers.

Jacob grimaced. Peach juice, he squeaked.

Sanchez snapped his hand tight and stormed back to his shop.

A moment later, Jacob’s satchel and bedroll hurled out the door. He ran and grabbed them quick in case Sanchez burst from his shop again. But when Jacob turned back, Uncle Attica was striding across the plaza. Hey! Wait! he yelled and ran after him.

Look, kid, I saved your hide for your pa’s sake. But I ain’t got time to entertain no company. I’m taking a pack train to California in the morning.

I’m going to California too, Jacob blurted, trying to keep pace with his uncle’s long legs. It looked like his only chance. We can go together.

I ain’t travelin’ with no greenhorn.

I’m not a greenhorn. I came all the way from New York. Jacob wasn’t about to give up now. Father’s death had affected Uncle Attica, and Jacob sure wasn’t going to let the opportunity slip through his fingers.

Don’t see no horse.

Caught the merchant caravan in Independence. But I’ve money enough to buy one.

Can’t get one here ‘til the packers get back next spring. Attica glared at him. You gonna walk all the way in them boots?

They’re holding up.

Don’t look like it. Listen, kid, even if I wanted you to come—which I don’t—it ain’t my call.

I’ve wanted to go west for as long as I can remember.

Why?

Because…, Jacob scrambled for an answer. Because I heard a rumor about gold being found— Oops. About now Father would be saying, Jacob, how many times do I have to remind you not to let your mouth gallop away while your brain is still saddling up in the barn?

Attica gripped Jacob’s arm. He winced but stifled crying out. You heard nothing about gold, you hear me?

Yes, sir. Jacob stared into Attica’s steely eyes, the color of his own. But I’m going to California all the same, sir.

Attica released his grip with a sarcastic sneer. Do as you must, he said and walked away.

Jacob seethed. Father had often used that old Whitmore saying but with a different meaning. Uncle might have run away from home, but he hadn’t entirely escaped his family’s influence. He’d just warped it. Fists clenched, Jacob shouted, Your kid brother said that means, ‘Do what you know is right.’ But you took it to mean, ‘Run away from responsibility. Run away from family!’