The Year We Were Famous by Carole Estby Dagg

Ma and I were not alone. As I slowly scanned the horizon for anything alive in all those lonesome miles of stone and sagebrush, my eye caught movement to the left. Three long-haired men on horseback galloped from behind a tall red butte a dozen yards out and reined to a stop so close to us that we could count the whiskers on each horse's muzzle.
    I was no stranger to Indians. My mother and I had crossed the entire Umatilla Reservation on foot. But on the reservation we were never far from help. Here we had passed no settlement, white or Indian, for miles, and who knew what these braves intended? One Indian said something in his ancient language and rode away to the southeast. When the other two slid from their horses and grabbed my mother and me by our hands, my throat hurt from holding back a scream.
    What were they trying to tell us? They gestured repeatedly in the direction their leader had ridden, then
remounted and gestured again, urging us to follow them. f they had meant us harm, they would have tied us up and thrown us over their saddles; since they had left us free to walk on our own, dared we to think their motives were good?
    "
What do you think, Clara?" Ma asked.
    "
I don't think we have much choice," I said. "We can't outrun their horses. Let's hope your guardian angel is looking out for us today
"
    Like addle-headed, reluctant sheep, we let ourselves be herded, with great trepidation. After less than an hour, we reached their camp of seven huts made of brush over sapling frames. The two Indians slid off their horses and nudged us toward a cluster of women and children. As I inhaled the aroma of roasting meat, I was reminded that Ma and I hadn't eaten since breakfast, at least twenty-five miles of walking ago. I hoped they'd share.
    One small girl summoned the courage to leave her mother's side and approach me. At first she just stared, one finger in her mouth, glints of firelight in her dark eyes. Such a little Indian, not much older than my little sister Lillian at home, was not frightening. I started breathing normally again as I kneeled beside her. "Hello,"I whispered. "My name is Clara
"
    After looking toward her mother for reassurance, the girl touched my bangs, which I'd turned in tight corkscrews that morning with my mother's curling iron. My stomach rumbled. Would a demonstration of the iron be sufficient trade for dinner?
    Ma stood over us, smiling down at the child's curiosity. I looked up. "Ma, do you think they'd like to see your curling iron?
"
    She opened her bag to find her iron, and handed it to the woman who appeared to be the mother of the little girl. At the sight of the iron, several men drifted closer to take a look. Soon Ma's curling iron was making a circuit around the campfire. As it was passed from hand to hand for inspection, one boy used it as a toy gun. An older man put his finger in the space meant for a lock of hair and closed the clamp. He opened and shut the clamp again, trying to fathom its use. Then he passed it on.
    When the iron reached my mother, she caught a loose strand of her hair and wound it until it was close to the scalp. When she released the strand, the hair fell straight. The Indians were not impressed. For a real demonstration the iron would have to be hot.
    She ceremoniously approached the fire, holding the curling iron in front of her in outstretched hands like a consecrated offering. She kneeled to place the rod near the edge of the fire and stood as she waited for the iron to heat. When she leaned over the fire and spit lightly on the curling iron, the bead of water sizzled and evaporated immediately; the iron was ready. She picked up the curling iron by the wood handle and drew it slowly back and forth in front of her, as if to bless—or cast a spell on—the crowd of Indians watching her. She summoned me to her.
    A laugh bubbled in my chest, but I didn't want to spoil her solemn ritual, so I fought off my smile as
she selected a strand of hair from the