Wind Song by Margaret Brownley Page A

should a buffalo, Indian, or snake show its unwelcome face.
    She decided it was better not to take chances. For this reason, she decided to pitch her tipi as close to the soddy as possible, without being too obvious, of course.
    She wondered if five feet was enough space to leave between Mr. Tyler's house and the tipi. Much closer and he might get the wrong idea. A sudden vision of his bronzed chest came to mind. Shaking the thought away, she decided that ten feet was close enough.
    She pulled the tipi off the back of the wagon and unrolled the gleaming white cover that was made of several buffalo hides and wrapped around twenty wooden poles.
    She held a pole in each hand and looked for a clue as to how they could possibly fit together. Undaunted, she unfolded the skins, and stood several of the poles on end to form a triangle. This left at least a dozen more poles and she had no idea what to do with them. It also posed another problem: how to lash the poles together.
    Pitching the tipi was turning out to be more difficult than she anticipated.
    So simple that a child could put it up . Indeed! If she ever got her hands on that drummer, she would make him eat every one of those words.
    Frustrated, she tossed the poles to the ground and was startled by the sound of laughter behind her.
    Whirling about, she was horrified to discover an audience of no less than three scantily dressed Indians watching her from atop white-spotted ponies. Her alarm soon gave way to indignation upon realizing that she was the object of their mirth.
    Not knowing what else to do, she decided to ignore them. She turned around and continued to work her way through the confusion of lodgepoles and bleached buffalo hides. The laughter grew louder.
    Let them laugh, she fumed. See if she cared. But despite her cavalier appearance, she kept a wary eye on her unwanted guests and almost stopped breathing when the three Indians dismounted and approached.
    Cursing herself for leaving her gun in the wagon, which was still parked behind the barn, she straightened and willed her fast-beating heart to stay put.
    The tallest of the three Indians spoke in his native tongue. She had no idea what he was saying, but just in case he was issuing instructions to scalp her, she glared at him and shook her head vigorously. She sincerely hoped that wagging one's head from side to side held the same meaning for the Indians as it did for her.
    The tall one raised a hand as if to halt the others. She felt slightly encouraged, if not altogether relieved. If she could so readily make them understand how thoroughly she detested the idea of being scalped, who knew what other meanings she could convey?
    A second Indian spoke. The scar that ran down the side of his face gave him a menacing look, though he didn't sound particularly threatening.
    He pointed to the tipi, then stabbed his finger to his chest. Studying him intently, she tried to think of every conceivable thing he might be saying. Maybe he wants the tipi for himself, she thought. If so, it might not be prudent to deny his request.
    Tentatively, she nodded, hoping she wasn't inadvertently giving him permission to help himself to more than just the tipi.
    The scar-face Indian picked up a pole, and his two companions followed his example. The tall Indian pulled a piece of rawhide from his waist and lashed the three poles together, making a tripod.
    The tips of the remaining poles were arranged against the tripod, the opposite ends forming a wide circle. Maddie watched in amazement as the top of the impressive framework rose skyward, standing high above the prairie and dwarfing the little sod house.
    The three Indians took turns weaving a length of rope in and out of each pole until the frame of the tipi was secured. Once the rope was in place, it was pulled tight.
    The buffalo canvas was heaved upward with the help of a lifting pole, dropped into place on the frame, then unrolled until the two ends met between the door