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But then she recalled how he had said she would be among these people for only the length of time that it would take for her injury to heal. Once her strength returned, she would be allowed to leave.
But now she wondered if he had only told her that to make her cooperate with his plans.
She badly wanted to ask the young chief to search for Megan, but knew now that she must be careful about everything she said to him. First she must see if he was truthful; she must judge how he treated her. If what he had told her were lies, she would not even mention Megan’s plight, for he would be of no help.
Standing quietly in the tepee, now no longer hearing the young chief talking with the warrior who stood outside the entrance, Shirleen was not sure what she should do. There were no comforts at all in the tepee, not even a blanket upon which to sit.
At that moment, two Indian maidens came into the lodge. One immediately spread what looked like bulrush mats over the earthen floor, leaving none of the ground exposed to the naked eye, while the other woman brought in firewood and started a fire in the firepit.
They left, but soon returned again. One carried blankets. The other positioned a pot of tantalizing-smelling food over the fire, hanging it from a tripod of sorts.
They left again, and before Shirleen could have time to wonder about all that was happening, the women returned.
One carried a wooden basin of water, the other wooden bowls and spoons.
The two women wore beautifully beaded doeskin dresses and matching moccasins, their coal-black hair hanging in long braids down their backs. They said nothing to Shirleen, nor did she say anything to them.
And then she was left alone again.
She turned and watched the entrance flap, expecting the women to return with other things. But this time it seemed that they were gone for good.
She was glad to be alone, for her head was throbbing again where she had been struck by the horrible club. Groaning with pain, she sank to the mats beside the warm fire.
She hung her face in her hands and sobbed, then stopped when she heard someone enter the tepee.
Afraid of who it might be, she looked slowly up and saw an intelligent-looking old man standing there with a buckskin bag.
The Indian spoke to her in good English.
“I am called by the name Morning Thunder,” he said in a deep, resonant tone. “I am my people’s shaman, which in your white world is call
ed a doctor. I have come at the command of my chief Blue Thunder to see to your wound.”
Unsure of how to feel about this old man’s presence, Shirleen sat up stiffly and looked at him anxiously.
“Do not be afraid,” Morning Thunder said softly as he knelt down on the mats, gently turning Shirleen to face him. “You are with a friendly band of Assiniboine people who do not kill whites unless forced into it.”
Shirleen swallowed hard. “I am no danger to any of you,” she said. “I will do nothing to cause you to want me dead.”
Morning Thunder smiled, reached out, and gently separated her hair to check the wound.
He “tsk-tsk’d,” as Shirleen remembered her grandmother doing so often when she was not pleased with something.
The familiar sound made Shirleen relax.
“It hurts so much,” she offered.
“I shall take the pain away,” Morning Thunder reassured her. “Close your eyes as I tend to your wound if it will make you feel better. Soon my healing powers will make you well.”
Shirleen was surprised that she had been in the presence of two powerful Indians, and both had shown her kindness.
And more than that. She was so glad to know that she was with a friendly tribe of Indians, the Assiniboine.
She was beginning to hope that the young chief, who she now knew was called Blue Thunder, was sincere in what he had said to her.
“You are called by what name?” Morning Thunder asked as he slowly and carefully washed Shirleen’s wound, removing all the blood.
“Shirleen,” she responded without hesitation. She felt comfortable in his presence, and he was as gentle as her grandmother and mother had been when she had gotten hurt as a child.
