Page 7 - My FlipBook

than Falling Bird’s grasp. She broke away to follow the wagon
as it rolled into their village.

A crowd gathered around the two whites who were sitting
in the carriage. The few men who remained in the village stood

silently by, while anxious mothers held tight to their children.
Red Dove’s grandfather crossed the ground towards them.
Gray Eagle was thin-boned and short of stature, but his frail
body held a power his people knew well. He lifted his head

and stared out of age-clouded eyes.
Red Dove’s mother wagged a finger and warned her to
stay back, but Red Dove edged closer.

A gaunt, leather-faced man in dirty denim and sweat-
stained buckskin climbed off the wagon, his battered gray hat
pulled low over red-rimmed eyes. I’ve seen him before, Red

Dove thought. He’s the one they call Old Tom, the white man
who speaks our language. He’s Iyeska… a traveler between our
worlds.

Old Tom said something to the plump, pink-faced woman
in the carriage. Her pale blue eyes behind silvery glasses were
soft and frightened, and a drop of sweat rolled from under her
lacy black headdress. She tugged at a faded gray shawl that

kept slipping off her shoulders over the shiny purple dress that
clung to her curves.
White women dress so strangely, thought Red Dove.

Women in our village would be ashamed to wear tight clothes
like that. And her hair is a funny color, almost orange… .
The woman squinted at Old Tom, but did not climb down.

Red Dove’s grandfather raised his hand in greeting.
The woman said something in a language that Red Dove
recognized as English, from what she had learned from her

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