“And your shoes are heavy.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “They must be so, if they are to last me until we arrive in Santa Fe.”
“Humph!”
“That seemed a rather derogatoryhumph, Mr. Hawk. Do you know a better way of shoeing the feet?”
Swift Hawk shrugged as he drew one boot on her foot and tied it fast. “There is the Indian way.”
“Oh? And what way is that?”
“To carry the hide with you to make another pair of moccasins. No good warrior leaves his lodge without a bit of buffalo skin for this purpose. You see, when the footwear is light, a person may run more quickly in case there is a need. It could save his life.”
Angelia sat there and stared at Swift Hawk. Odd, this feeling of being on the brink of cognizance. Was there purpose to all that the Indian did? Was her own culture being wise in wishing to wipe away the Indian title to this land?
But all she said was, “Ah,” with a quick bob of her head. “There is a reason behind the Indian sort of footwear then?”
“Of course.”
Then he was done with it, and sitting back on his heels, he surveyed her. “You look good, beautiful, but…”
“But?”
“I should comb your hair.”
“You? Comb my hair?”
He gave her a bland look. “It is my duty.”
“Is it, now?”
“Haa’he.” He motioned her to turn around.
“But I have brought no brush.”
“I will use my fingers,” he told her, and when she failed to spin around on her own, he gently took hold of her shoulders, positioning her so that her back was to him. He commenced to run his fingers through her long locks.
“Oh,” she purred, “that…that’s heavenly.”
“Hmmm, it is. Your hair is different from mine.”
“Yes, I know. Yours is dark, mine is light.”
“But it is different in more ways than its color.”
“Oh? Is it?”
“Yes,” he said. “Yours is softer to my fingers than my own. Perhaps yours is simply thinner than mine.”
“Yes, perhaps.”
“The braids I will make for you will not be very thick, I fear.”
“You are going to braid my hair?”
“It is my duty.”
“Another duty, have you? You seem to have many of them.”
