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The idea for The Beauty of the Days Gone By first came to me while driving across Texas when my two boys were small, after immersing myself in the rich Southwestern histories of Anglo settler children taken captive by Native American raiding parties. Many of these children not only survived, but learned the skills and lifeways of their captors, often becoming fully assimilated into the cultures that had once seemed utterly foreign.

Set against the brutal post-Civil War Texas frontier, the novel pairs the life and times of legendary plainsman Charles Goodnight with a tragic Indian captivity narrative unfolding during the Texas Indian Wars. It opens in 1866 on a sun-drenched stretch of West Texas prairie, when the Terry brothers are playing near their family ranch and a Kiowa war party suddenly descends. Their father returns to total devastation—his home in flames, his wife Sally mortally wounded, and his two boys carried off into captivity along with five other women and children.

In this excerpt, Sam, his younger brother Charlie, and their Aunt Wilma are the only remaining survivors. They face an all-but-impossible choice: risk everything on a desperate nighttime escape, or remain in captivity and pin their hopes on a rescue that may never come.

–Jason Stone

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They’d been dozing in and out of sleep for the next hour when Wilma crawled back beside the fire. She lay down between them and tucked her hands under her armpits and curled up in a ball on her side facing Sam. He was pretending to be asleep. She closed her eyes and when she opened them a little while later Sam was looking at her. She was crying and her eyes glistened in the moonlight. He reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder.

Are you okay?

Yes.

She wiped the tears from her eyes and took a deep breath.

Listen to me, she whispered. I’m getting out of here. Tomorrow night.

Sam didnt say anything.

When we tend the horses, we’re going to tie that dun mare out away from the camp. I want you to go with me.

Sam was picturing it and thinking of the pony he’d choose.

Wilma was pulling at a tiny clump of desert grass with her free hand and she let the stems drop and then she picked them up again. She watched him to gauge his reaction.

Sam was watching the tears stream down her face. I dont know, he said.

She looked at the Kiowas asleep on their blankets. Look at them now. We can slip away while they sleep.

But . . . but what about Charlie?

Wilma started to answer but stopped herself. She raised up and looked down at Charlie. His mouth was open and he was breathing deeply. He twitched in a dream, sweet little boy.

We cant leave him, said Sam.

But Sam, I dont think he can . . .

Yes he can.

He’ll hold us back. Our only chance is to slip out and ride for help. I cant go alone.

I cant leave my brother alone.

It’s our only chance.

He’ll never make it by himself.

Yes he can.

Tears welled up in Sam’s eyes. You can go on if you want to, he said. I understand.

You’ve got to come with me. I need you.

I’m not going unless he comes with us.

We cant risk it.

Sam lay there, thinking.

We’ll ride through the river so they cant track us. We’ll return with your father and the Rangers.

Sam watched her and she closed her eyes and then rolled over. They said no more. He looked at the swarm of stars shimmering back at him, drifting ever so slowly. A puff of wind stirred the grass and cooled them and then it was gone. He rolled over and then back again and finally settled on his side nudged up against her. Her back was turned to him and her eyes were open again. Then she could hear him sleeping.

When they rode out that morning a sharp wind blew cool and dust churned the horizon and the early sunlight shimmered in and out of a steady line of slow-moving clouds dancing across the canyon country that fed from the Llanos like some godlike beacon peering down from the heavens as if to seek something that needed to be saved. Hint of moisture in the air. Sam was watching the rim of the western escarpment where a dark cloudbank was building on the horizon and he knew the weather was about to change.

They rode down into the broader reaches of the Palo Duro and the warm light of early morning began to burn the distant walls in a kaleidoscope of yellow and red and orange. They reached the valley floor at noon and waded a sandy-braided stream on the rise, sheets of rainfall on the Caprock looming silent and dark and fat dollops of cold rain now blowing down slantwise in the windgusts to the north. The Kiowas nudged their mounts forward with the mutterings of thunder; and raindrops sprinkled the dust, peppering the riders’ faces and the slick coats of the horses and as they rode the sweet smell of rain on the prairie consumed them.

They took shelter from the storm under a long grove of cottonwoods and within the hour the norther had passed and the sun came beaming upon a steaming and dripping land. Sam slouched on the horse and looked long out upon this scene with his hollow eyes. Shivering, exhausted. The sky lay pure and blue and a cool dry wind hissed down upon them from the plains. The horses splashed fetlocks through the mud and water stood in little pools all about the desert, glistening ripples of silver in the blustery gusts of wind. He took in the scenery as if it was all a dream. He kept a mindful eye on his brother. He thought long and hard about Wilma’s plan of escape.

They set camp that afternoon on the sand-laden floors among a series of narrow slot canyons that dropped from the rims of the northern escarpment. The captives led the horses out to graze and began to gather water and collect brush for the fires. Bands of sunlight filtered into the canyon through the breaks in the fast-moving clouds and their footsteps crunched softly as they talked among themselves.

When Charlie sauntered off a ways Wilma pulled Sam aside to confer alone and she outlined her thoughts about the route back to their home and urged him to flee with her in the night. She told him that everything was going to be alright and to get hydrated because he’d need it to sustain himself on the long journey. They knelt down by the water and drank and they whispered logistics and drank some more and after a while Charlie returned to join them. Sam arose and placed his feet in the cool stream and stared back toward the way home. They stayed there for a long time without talking and perhaps Sam was thinking about what might happen if they were caught. But what were their chances if they escaped?

Late that evening it was clear and cool and they were curled up beside the fire unable to sleep. Wilma studied the stars and listened and waited. One of the Kiowas walked to the brush and pulled his breechclout aside and pissed and went back to bed. An hour passed. When the fires finally faded and all was quiet Wilma nudged Sam and they began to carefully crawl away from the camp. Sam stopped and rose to his feet. He looked back at Charlie, curled up on his side in a deep sleep. His mouth was open and there was drool on his cheek. Sam watched him, thinking. There was no wind and the dark night seemed hollow as if every insignificant noise would echo in the void. He whispered something to himself, then he turned and went on.

They crept along for short distances, crouching down, lying still and listening, crawling quietly, a few feet at a time. They did this for a long time until they had made their way to the horses. Wilma whispered to the stallion and put her breath to its nose as she bridled it with ease and then began to gently walk it back down canyon away from the camp.

Sam slipped the hide thong bit into the mare’s mouth but when she riled he instinctively let it go. He glanced back at Wilma and then back at the sleeping camp. Then he put his head down and his hands on his knees. Dang, he whispered. Now what.

He set off on foot looking back toward the camp, tiptoeing to a safe distance and then breaking into a trot. When he caught up with her she looked back at him and he was crying.

What happened? she whispered.

He didnt answer. He looked back toward the camp. He sniffled and wiped his eyes.

Sam, go back and get the mare.

He just stood there. He bent down and grabbed a handful of grass and let it drop. He looked back at her.

We’re going to be okay, she said. I promise.

She was looking back up the canyon over his head toward the camp. Shadows moving. Probably the flickering of the fire. So quiet on a starlit night. When she looked back at him he was stooped down with his arms out and hands clasped together. She bent her left leg and placed her foot in his cupped hands and lightly grabbed the mane and pulled herself up as he lifted. He kept looking back at the camp.

Go on without me, he said.

No. I cant go alone.

Yes you can.

No.

Now Wilma was crying. She wiped her eyes and looked out over the country, the gradual and glistening contour of the stream flowing in the moonlight. Sam stepped back. He was wary of the remuda following. There was a gust of wind and rustling in the camp and he thought he heard a voice. He began to slowly walk backward and he told her to be careful and she told him to be strong. She nudged the horse around and started it on a walk down the streambed but she heard something and looked back. She could see something rising far behind him from the camp and then the boy turned and hurried back. She said something under her breath as if to address him directly. Then she pulled the bridle and put her heels in the horse and started it at a trot delicately across the sand until they became small and then smaller in the lonely desert darkness until they dissolved forever into the night.

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Excerpted from The Beauty of the Days Gone © 2022, 2026 by Jason Stone. Reprinted with the permission of the publisher, Atlantic Monthly Press, an imprint of Grove Atlantic, Inc. All rights reserved.

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