“It’s just a scratch.” He winced when she touched the injury.
“A scratch? You have a bullet lodged in there, and that’s going to require attention.” She took a good look at her brother, who sat beside her stiff and white-faced. “Whyare they shooting at us?” She returned her attention to the task at hand and took aim with the rifle. “We haven’t done anything, have we?”
Another bullet flew by them, and she fired.
In response, there in the distance, a man fell.
A man fell?
What? Had she done that? Surely not.
Not in all her earlier escapades had she ever hit or maimed another human being. She shot to warn only.
She gulped. “I think we’re in trouble. I think I might have hit one of those people.”
“Good.”
“Good? And what if I did shoot one of them? What if whoever it is were to die? You know that killing is a sin.”
“Is it? Now listen, what you did is called self-defense.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. You’d think it would be called self-defense, but these Southern towns are different. These people might not see it that way. Besides, hadn’t we long ago made a pact that we would never really harm anyone? Wasn’t that the only reason we agreed to learn how to shoot—it’s supposed to be for protection alone, and only because of Papa’s particular ways of preaching.”
“Forget it,” responded Julian. “They were shooting at us. And that’s the end of the matter. But please, whatever you do, don’t tell Papa about this.”
“I won’t.” Hadn’t she learned over the years to hide many a fact from their father? And why not? The last thing she and her brother needed in any of their situations was to stir up their father’s sense of righteousness.
Angelia glanced behind her once more, but she did not see anyone following them. Perhaps she had only wounded the man.
She certainly hoped so. After all, if it had been more than that, wouldn’t the townspeople have come storming after them, demanding revenge?
Angelia allowed herself a deep sigh, which turned quickly to a frown. Only time would tell if that were true.
The Topof a High Butte
The South Platte River Area
Ponoma’a’ehaseneese’he,
Drying-Up Moon, March 1834
It wasthe cry of a hawk, though the voice sounded unusually high and lovely. From a distance above, the bird flew downward, coming closer and closer to the young man perched so precariously near the butte’s edge.
This was a good sign, thought the man, for the hawk was his animal helper—his defender and protector—having come to him in his first vision quest. Throwing off his buffalo robe from around his shoulders, Swift Hawk spread his naked arms open, and lifting his face upward, he raised his voice to the heavens in song:
“Haiya,haiya,oh spirit of the hawk;
I offer you blessings.
Haiya, haiya,oh powerful hawk;
Come to me, accept my gifts.
Haiya, haiya,come to me,
We will fly together,
Haiya, haiya,I will hear your wise counsel.”
