The seed for The Beauty of the Days Gone By first came to me while I drove across Texas with my two sons, after soaking in the rich Southwestern histories of Anglo settler children carried away by Native raiding parties. Many of these youngsters not only endured but absorbed the crafts and lifeways of their captors, often becoming fully assimilated into the cultures that had at first seemed utterly foreign.
Set against the harsh post–Civil War Texas frontier, the novel threads together the life of famed plainsman Charles Goodnight with a heartrending captive narrative unfolding amid the Texas Indian Wars. It opens in 1866 on a sunlit stretch of West Texas prairie, where the Terry brothers play near their family ranch as a Kiowa war party suddenly dives in. Their father returns to ruin—his home aflame, his wife Sally gravely wounded, and his two boys carried off along with five other women and children.
In this excerpt, Sam, his younger brother Charlie, and their Aunt Wilma are the only survivors. They confront an almost impossible choice: risk everything by making a nighttime escape, or stay 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 roughly an hour when Wilma slid back beside the fire. She settled between them, tucking her hands beneath her arms and curling into a compact ball on her side facing Sam. He pretended to be asleep. Her eyes glistened in the moonlight as she opened them again; Sam was watching her now. Tears rolled down her cheeks. He reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder.
Are you okay?
Yes.
She wiped away the tears and drew a long breath.
Listen to me, she whispered. I’m getting out of here. Tomorrow night.
Sam offered no reply.
When we tend the horses, we’ll tie that dun mare away from camp. I want you to come with me.
Sam pictured it, imagining which pony he’d choose.
Wilma toyed with a small tuft of desert grass, letting the stems fall and then picking them up again. She watched him to gauge his reaction.
Sam saw the tears tracing her cheeks. I don’t know, he said.
Look at the Kiowas asleep on their blankets. Look at them now. We could slip away while they sleep.
But… but what about Charlie?
Wilma tried to answer but paused. She glanced down at Charlie. His mouth was open, breathing deeply. He twitched in a dream, that sweet little boy.
We can’t leave him, said Sam.
But Sam, I don’t think he can…
Yes he can.
He’ll slow us down. Our only chance is to slip away and ride for help. I can’t go alone.
I can’t leave my brother behind.
It’s our only chance.
He’ll never make it by himself.
Yes he can.
Tears filled 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 can’t risk it.
Sam lay there, thinking.
We’ll ride through the river so they can’t track us. We’ll return with your father and the Rangers.
Sam watched her, and she closed her eyes and rolled onto her side. They spoke no more. He watched the cluster of stars above them, glittering and drifting by in the night. A gust of wind brushed the grasses, cooled their skin, and then faded. He turned once, then again, and finally settled against her back as she faced away. Soon he could hear his friend’s breathing steadying into sleep.
When they rode away that morning, a sharp wind cut through the air and dust billowed toward the horizon, while the early light flickered in and out of a line of weary, drifting clouds that seemed to hover over the canyon country like a guardian watching over something worth saving. A hint of moisture hovered in the air. Sam watched the western rim where a dark cloudbank gathered on the horizon, sensing that the weather was about to change.
They rode down into the broader reaches of Palo Duro, where the first light of day began to set the distant rock faces aflame with yellows, reds, and oranges. They reached the riverbed at noon and crossed a sandy channel as rain clouds loomed overhead, pouring down onto the Caprock with a clatter of cold rain. The Kiowas urged their mounts forward with low grumbles of thunder, and raindrops peppered the dust, dampening the horses’ coats as they rode, and the prairie wore the clean scent of rain. They pressed on through the storm toward shelter.
They found refuge beneath a long stand of cottonwoods, and soon the norther passed, leaving behind a steaming, rain-wet land. Sam slouched in the saddle, hollow-eyed and exhausted, while the sky cleared to a crisp blue and a dry wind swept in from the plains. The horses’ fetlocks thudded through the mud, and puddles dotted the land with glimmering ripples in the wind. He drank in the scene as if it were a waking dream, all the while watching his younger brother with a wary eye and weighing Wilma’s plan for escape in his mind.
That afternoon they camped in a tangle of narrow slot canyons that dropped from the rim of the northern escarpment. The captives led the horses to graze, fetched water, and gathered brush for a future fire. Bands of sunlight sifted through the moving clouds as their footsteps crunch softly underfoot, and they spoke in hushed tones about what lay ahead.
When Charlie drifted a short distance away, Wilma drew Sam aside to confer privately, detailing how they would head back toward home and urging him to run with her that night. She reassured him that everything would be all right and reminded him to hydrate, since the long journey would demand strength. They cupped the water in their hands and drank, murmuring plans, drinking again, until Charlie returned to join them. Sam stood with his feet in the cool stream, gazing toward the road home. They lingered in quiet for a long while, perhaps weighing the risk of capture if they pressed onward. But what were their odds if they escaped unscathed?
By late evening the air had cleared and cooled; they lay close to the fire, unable to sleep. Wilma studied the stars, listening and waiting. One Kiowa rose and went to relieve himself and then returned to his blanket. An hour passed. When the flames finally settled and night grew still, Wilma nudged Sam and they began to slip away from the camp with the utmost caution. Sam rose, casting one last look at Charlie, who slept on his side, mouth open, drool drying on his cheek. He watched him, a tangle of emotion in his chest. There was no wind and the night felt empty, as if even the smallest sound would echo into the darkness. He whispered something under his breath, then turned away and moved forward.
They crawled in short bursts, pausing to listen, crouching, lying still, and creeping a few steps at a time. They continued for a long stretch until they reached the horses. Wilma spoke softly to her mount, breathed into its nostrils, and eased the bridle onto its head, then began to lead it away down the canyon from the camp.
Sam slipped the horse’s bit into its mouth, but when the animal jolted, he let it fall free. He glanced back at Wilma, then toward the sleeping camp. He lowered his head, hands on his knees. Dang, he muttered. Now what?
He set off on foot, creeping back toward the camp in silence, then breaking into a careful trot when he was clear of pursuit. When he caught up with her, she turned and he broke into tears.
What happened? she whispered.
He offered no reply, sniffled, and wiped his eyes.
Sam, go back and fetch the mare.
He stood still, pressed a handful of grass to the ground, and looked back at her.
We’re going to be all right, she said. I promise you that.
She scanned the canyon ahead, the camp’s shadows shifting behind him, probably the flickering of the fire. So quiet on a starlit night. When she glanced back, he was bent over, arms forming a cradle. She slid her foot into his hands and climbed up onto the horse’s back as he steadied her, never taking his eyes off the camp.
Go on without me, he whispered.
No. I can’t leave you behind.
Yes you can.
No.
Now Wilma broke into tears. She wiped her eyes and surveyed the land, the winding stream catching the moonlight as it flowed. Sam stepped away, wary of the remuda following. A gust rose, and a faint sound seemed to rise from the camp. He began to step backward, urging her to be careful while she urged him to stay strong. She guided the horse along the streambed, but a sound behind her drew her attention. Something rose in the distance beyond him from the camp, and the boy turned and hurried back. She whispered something under her breath, then gripped the bridle, pressed her heels to the horse, and rode out into the darkness, a dot of moonlit silver vanishing into the night.
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Excerpted from The Beauty of the Days Gone © 2022, 2026 by Jason Stone. Reprinted with the publisher’s permission, Atlantic Monthly Press, an imprint of Grove Atlantic, Inc. All rights reserved.
