the tree and
waited, shivering, for the rain to stop.
But the rain didn’t stop. It
continued all day and into the night. Lightning darted from cloud to cloud,
illuminating not only the sky, but the earth below as well. Thunder rolled
across the prairie, and Maggie clenched her teeth against the scream that beat
against her lips. She shut her eyes and remembered the night her father came
home. Thunder echoed from the tin shacks behind the saloon where she lived
with Lucy. Michael staggered up the stairs, swaying drunkenly, dashing all
hope of a normal life.
A solitary bolt of lightning lanced
downward, striking so near that she could smell the singed bark. Lightning
cracked the sky like an eggshell, and Maggie huddled further under her
slicker. She closed her eyes and waited out the storm.
Finally, the rain stopped. A
solitary star winked at her from a small break in the clouds. Maggie sighed
and fell asleep beside the river whose voice had deepened to a rain-swollen
roar.
In the morning, large white clouds,
like over-sized sheep, drifted overhead. Maggie’s spirits lifted, and
she whistled as she rode along the river until she came to Windlass Hill.
The mast to which the windlass was
attached had been struck by lightning and split like a dry branch.
Maggie chewed her lip. “What do
you think, Patches? Should I go back and tell them?”
The horse turned his head, looked
at her and looked back at the grass that grew at the edge of the trail.
One week out, one week back .
She could almost hear Sam’s voice in her head. She nodded once. “All right,
Patches. I’ll keep going for a few more days.”
The next two days were uneventful.
The third day dawned unseasonably hot and still. Maggie found three creeks
that fed into the Blue River. She followed one until she reached a rocky
pool. The water fell from a rock outcrop about thirty feet high. The spray
felt cool on her face and rainbows danced in the mist. Maggie sat on Patches
and watched the waterfall for a long time.
Patches tossed his head uneasily.
Maggie turned him back toward the Blue
River.
Five Indians blocked her path.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Maggie froze.
For several heartbeats, none of
them moved—except Patches, who switched his tail back and forth.
Then, the tallest of the Indians
smiled at her. “Where’s my little brother?”
Maggie blinked. “You speak
English?” Her voice was hoarse. She cleared her throat.
He nodded. “Robert Sean Flynn is
my stepbrother. He’s late. Is he all right?”
“Your stepbrother? He never...”
Maggie’s voice trailed off into silence.
“You’re a woman?”
Maggie nodded.
“You hide it well.”
Maggie didn’t know whether to feel
flattered or insulted. So, she merely nodded again.
“I am Man Who Sees Far.” He
grinned. “My friends call me Sees Far.”
“My name is Mary Margaret O’Brien
Anders.” Maggie swallowed hard. “My—my friends call me Maggie.”
Sees Far rode forward and clasped
her hand in the manner of the whites. He smiled at her. “Flynn sent a woman to do his job?”
Maggie scowled. “He sprained his
ankle.”
Sees Far sighed with exaggerated
exasperation. “Did he fall off his horse again?”
Maggie scowled. “He slipped in the
snow.”
Sees Far laughed. “Come.” He
turned his horse and started to ride back toward the trail. The other Indians
closed in around Maggie. She had no choice but to follow.
Sees Far smiled at her. “You must
be his woman.”
Maggie’s face reddened. She shook
her head. “Why do you say that?”
“You have his courage. Come. We
will eat in my village, and you will tell me of my brother.”
They rode for nearly an hour. The
sun was setting by the time they topped a small hill. Conical hide tents
stretched for nearly a square mile.
Maggie gasped. “If this is a
village, I’d hate to see what your cities look
waited, shivering, for the rain to stop.
But the rain didn’t stop. It
continued all day and into the night. Lightning darted from cloud to cloud,
illuminating not only the sky, but the earth below as well. Thunder rolled
across the prairie, and Maggie clenched her teeth against the scream that beat
against her lips. She shut her eyes and remembered the night her father came
home. Thunder echoed from the tin shacks behind the saloon where she lived
with Lucy. Michael staggered up the stairs, swaying drunkenly, dashing all
hope of a normal life.
A solitary bolt of lightning lanced
downward, striking so near that she could smell the singed bark. Lightning
cracked the sky like an eggshell, and Maggie huddled further under her
slicker. She closed her eyes and waited out the storm.
Finally, the rain stopped. A
solitary star winked at her from a small break in the clouds. Maggie sighed
and fell asleep beside the river whose voice had deepened to a rain-swollen
roar.
In the morning, large white clouds,
like over-sized sheep, drifted overhead. Maggie’s spirits lifted, and
she whistled as she rode along the river until she came to Windlass Hill.
The mast to which the windlass was
attached had been struck by lightning and split like a dry branch.
Maggie chewed her lip. “What do
you think, Patches? Should I go back and tell them?”
The horse turned his head, looked
at her and looked back at the grass that grew at the edge of the trail.
One week out, one week back .
She could almost hear Sam’s voice in her head. She nodded once. “All right,
Patches. I’ll keep going for a few more days.”
The next two days were uneventful.
The third day dawned unseasonably hot and still. Maggie found three creeks
that fed into the Blue River. She followed one until she reached a rocky
pool. The water fell from a rock outcrop about thirty feet high. The spray
felt cool on her face and rainbows danced in the mist. Maggie sat on Patches
and watched the waterfall for a long time.
Patches tossed his head uneasily.
Maggie turned him back toward the Blue
River.
Five Indians blocked her path.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Maggie froze.
For several heartbeats, none of
them moved—except Patches, who switched his tail back and forth.
Then, the tallest of the Indians
smiled at her. “Where’s my little brother?”
Maggie blinked. “You speak
English?” Her voice was hoarse. She cleared her throat.
He nodded. “Robert Sean Flynn is
my stepbrother. He’s late. Is he all right?”
“Your stepbrother? He never...”
Maggie’s voice trailed off into silence.
“You’re a woman?”
Maggie nodded.
“You hide it well.”
Maggie didn’t know whether to feel
flattered or insulted. So, she merely nodded again.
“I am Man Who Sees Far.” He
grinned. “My friends call me Sees Far.”
“My name is Mary Margaret O’Brien
Anders.” Maggie swallowed hard. “My—my friends call me Maggie.”
Sees Far rode forward and clasped
her hand in the manner of the whites. He smiled at her. “Flynn sent a woman to do his job?”
Maggie scowled. “He sprained his
ankle.”
Sees Far sighed with exaggerated
exasperation. “Did he fall off his horse again?”
Maggie scowled. “He slipped in the
snow.”
Sees Far laughed. “Come.” He
turned his horse and started to ride back toward the trail. The other Indians
closed in around Maggie. She had no choice but to follow.
Sees Far smiled at her. “You must
be his woman.”
Maggie’s face reddened. She shook
her head. “Why do you say that?”
“You have his courage. Come. We
will eat in my village, and you will tell me of my brother.”
They rode for nearly an hour. The
sun was setting by the time they topped a small hill. Conical hide tents
stretched for nearly a square mile.
Maggie gasped. “If this is a
village, I’d hate to see what your cities look
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