CHAPTER THREE
Really, she ought not to be blamed for the mistake. After all, no one had ever told her what would happen to a compass if she were to hold it next to a pistol.
It had been an honest, if time-consuming, error. After Mr. Henrik's departure from them, Czanna had panicked and, after a frenzied search through her clothing, had found her pistol. She had tucked the weapon neatly into the waistline of her skirt, not realizing what would happen to the compass' directions if she held it too closely to her gun.
She, however, knew it now. Problem was, where were they?
Hitching up the two horses to their wagon had proved to be a lesson in humility. Having grown up with stable hands to do the task, neither she nor her brother had ever performed the chore without the aid of another. So, it had taken hours before the horses were properly harnessed to the wagon and ready to go, and even then she was certain their two horses had practically accomplished the chore for her and George. At least, Czanna was aware the two animals thought it was so.
They had, indeed, told her so. Not with words, of course. But, having completed the chore, Czanna had petted first one of the geldings and then the other. It was then when each animal had informed her about the task, certain the chore would not have been accomplished without their assistance.
She had almost laughed but had been able to keep any mirth from showing upon her countenance, afraid the horses would take offense. It was strange, this knack she enjoyed. She couldn't remember a time when she hadn't delighted in her gift of gab with animals—horses in particular—though she had never spoken of this to anyone. Indeed, she was certain she would be looked upon as an oddity instead of what she really was: a young aristocratic lady who enjoyed having conversations with horses.
And so, they had begun their journey back to Fort Benton at last. However, no sooner had they started on their trek than the sudden appearance of black clouds had all but blocked out the sun, temporarily obscuring any direction. Worse, a fine rain had begun to fall, creating a fog and shrouding any landmarks which might have helped give her the direction she needed.
By sunset, the clouds had lifted, and at last Czanna could correctly discern the right direction to go. However, any joy she might have felt in the discovery was soon whisked away; she had been traveling due south, and it was the completely wrong way. Instead of bringing her family closer to Fort Benton, she had taken them farther away from it.
"Anyone could have made the same mistake, Czanna," said twelve-year-old György, whom they were now calling George. He had reined in his horse so the animal stood next to the wagon.
"I doubt if you would have done the same," answered Czanna. "Sometimes boys seem to have a better sense of direction than we females." She sighed. "Trouble is, we are far off course and evening is fast approaching. We have a little food with us but no water, and I was so hoping our trek might take us to the Missouri River before nightfall, thus preventing our becoming too thirsty. Now all we have for water are the puddles left behind from the rain."
"But, do not despair, Mistress," offered Liliann, who was sitting beside Czanna up front. "We will certainly come to the Missouri River eventually."
"Yes," responded Czanna. "However, I have this day carried us even farther away from Fort Benton and the river. Still, seeing the reason for my mistake, I shall now place my pistol elsewhere than at my waist since I have seen the metal, set next to the compass, influences its direction."
"Czanna," said George with a note of urgency in his voice, "we must stop soon and give our horses a rest. They cannot travel much farther without water."
"Yes, you are right," uttered Czanna. "What I think we shall do is unhitch the horses and hobble them so they may eat their fill of the prairie grass and where they can also take advantage of any puddles of water they might find upon the ground. But, I dare to think we may not find relief for our thirst in those same puddles.
"Then," continued Czanna, "there is the matter of supper. We must eat something. Yet, I fear what food we have in our wagon for supper is not enough. It is a problem I had not anticipated."
"Mistress, are thou saying ye and me might go hungry, as well as thirsty?" asked Liliann.
"Yes," answered Czanna simply. "Forgive me. I fear I did not realize how reliant we had become upon the men in the wagon train who hunted for game each day. And so, we consumed the food we had brought with us without thought, not realizing how dependent we have been upon the hunters. It was silly of me not to know this. But, I didn't. And, to add to matters, I do not possess the skill nor the knowledge of how to hunt to supplement the remaining hard bread we have in our wagon. Do you know how to hunt, George?"
"I know a little about it," replied George. "Our father used to take me duck hunting. If we encounter any ducks or other game, I, at least, know how to aim and shoot."
"Well, I daresay your expertise in the sport is better than mine," said Czanna, wiping her brow and squinting her eyes as she looked east. "Here, since it is becoming dark, let us find a good place to spend the night. At least, because we now know whichway to go, we can put some distance behind us tomorrow. There!"—she pointed—"I see a lone tree up ahead. Perhaps we might pull the horses and the wagon in next to it and spend the night there."
"Yes, Mistress, and me own self shall help thee," agreed Liliann.
"Thank you, Liliann," replied Czanna as she picked up the reins and raised her whip. But, remembering how much better the horses seemed to know what to do than she, she set the whip down and instead shouted out, "Ay, ye horses! Move out!"
And, slowly their lone wagon headed toward the lone tree, which stood proudly upon this vast and, except for the mountains outlining the distant horizon, unending prairie.
****
Stands Strong shook his head and grinned as he beheld the solitary wagon heading due south instead of north and east.
White people. Has no one ever taught them how to obtain the correct direction?he thought.
His almost-mother was an exception, but even she sometimes lost her way even when there were many signs in nature to guide her.
Having left the wagon party to fend for itself at the first hint of rain, Stands Strong returned to the narrow valley where he had hobbled Holy Dog, his spotted faithful and fast buffalo-running pony—a Paint. He had then planned to spend the majority of the day hunting buffalo, elk or deer…whatever was plentiful. Luckily, he found a small herd of buffalo at a well-known water hole, and, having killed two fat cows, he had first prayed over the cows, then had skinned the kill and had cut up the meat for easy carrying. Loading it upon his pony, he had set out on foot to find Czanna, her family and the prairie wagon.
It was dusk when he at last tracked down the white man's covered wagon, and, making as much noise as possible to ensurethe family knew someone approached, he trod toward the white people, leading his pony which was burdened down with meat.
"Mistress Czanna! An Indian comes!" It was the other woman and not Czanna, who, shouting loudly, scurried fast around the single tree that rose up bravely upon this vast prairie. On the woman's hip sat the baby who jiggled up and down with the woman's movements.
