July 15, 1847 - day 14 of captivity
It is difficult for me to believe that two weeks have passed since the fateful day when our small wagon train was attacked. Many of the men and older boys were killed immediately-the few who survived the initial attack were brutally murdered a short time after we surrendered. The stories we had all heard of the savagery perpetrated by the Indians prompted many of the women to fight and die alongside their men. More than one committed the most horrifying act of suicide rather than face what life in the hands of our captors might bring. They have allowed me to keep my journal and a few pencils-probably believing that I could do no harm with such pitiful weapons. I shall endeavor to keep a record of my journey from this point forward. At least for as long as I am able.
~~~
July 20, 1847-day 19 of captivity
I was beaten today. One of the other women, Marjorie Taylor, is ill. I was simply trying to ease her suffering. Apparently any form of compassion is unacceptable to these inhuman beasts. Their leader speaks no English-in fact not one of them seems to understand anything we say. Perhaps that is the reason they will not allow us to speak to each other. A reason, perhaps, but hardly justification for not allowing me to treat my friend.
~~~
August 7, 1847-day 37 of captivity
We are being moved. Each of us was given a large pack to carry, even dear Marjorie. I fear she is getting worse. I made one attempt to help her with her load and was rewarded with a stick across my back and addition to my own burden. The pace is brutal. We travel many miles-stopping only when we cannot move another step. I am so exhausted by nightfall that even writing in this journal is beyond my meager strength.
~~~
August 16, 1847-day 46 of captivity
Dear Marjorie passed on last night. The savages allowed us to bury the body and to say a few words over the grave. Perhaps they are more afraid of “spirits” than they appear. God rest her soul. She is in a far better place.
~~~
August 27, 1847-day 55 of captivity
We have arrived at what appears to be a large gathering place. I am no judge but there appear to be more than one tribe here. I can only base my assumption on the variety of dress and the general cliquish attitudes I’ve witnessed. We have been herded into a large, for lack of a better word, corral. There are others here, some in far worse condition than those of our party. Any attempt at communication is met with vicious response on the part of our guards. At various points throughout the day men and women have approached and examined one or another of the captives. Sometimes the examination is cursory, other times even the captive’s teeth are exposed for viewing. Many times the examination is followed by spirited argument and then the respective captive is led away. I now know how an animal feels when being purchased.
“What you do?”
The woman looked up into a pair of curious brown eyes. A young Indian boy of indeterminate age stood staring at her. Behind him stood a woman wearing a decidedly less curious look.
“I am writing,” the woman responded, careful to keep her voice low and her eyes to the ground.
“Wri-ting?”
“It is a way of remembering what I have seen and done.”
“You no keep in head?” the boy snorted in derision.
The conversation was interrupted by a push and a harsh word from the woman.
“You come!” the boy ordered, returning to the business that brought them to the corral in the first place.
The woman quickly closed her journal and rose to her feet. Her short time with her captives had taught her to obey without question, even if the one giving the orders was a mere child.
As the trio walked through the camp, the woman fought the urge to look about her. Finally the boy stopped in front of a large teepee. They waited there until the owner emerged, the woman’s captor at his side.
The other man was obviously quite important judging from the deference accorded him. His dark eyes bore into the woman, scrutinizing her from every angle. At his command, translated by the boy, the woman turned around. He nodded at her quick response. A second nod followed as he had her lift her skirts and pull up her sleeves so that he could view her legs and arms.
A single sentence to the woman’s “master” was met with only a brief argument. The words that followed were far too rapid for the woman to follow even if she were capable of understanding the language. Finally an agreement was reached. A younger brave, obviously the son of the warrior, stepped forward leading a single pony. The woman’s captor took the lead, then walked away without a backwards glance.
September 1, 1847-day 60 of captivity
We are moving once again. I find myself marveling at the organization of the people and the speed with which they take the lodgings apart and prepare to travel. Once again I am treated little better than a pack animal although I must confess that every member of the tribe, from the very youngest of toddlers to the older and less firm are expected to carry as much as they are able. The group travels with less urgency than that of my former captors, instead taking the health and well being of the entire group into account. Still, we have made good progress away from the large camp.
~~~
September 11, 1847-day 70 of captivity
We have arrived. This appears to be a more permanent encampment. My life with these new people, the Kiowa, while not to be described as perfect, is not nearly so harsh as I had anticipated. I have been assigned specific duties and am expected to accomplish certain tasks. However, I am treated no better nor worse than any of the tribal members. I am allowed to sleep inside the lodge with the family, although I am farthest from the fire and very carefully positioned so that escape would be impossible without waking at least one family member. I am watched in my every action, covertly perhaps, but watched none-the-less. Even if I believed myself capable of surviving the rigors of being alone in the wilds, I have no illusions that I could actually avoid recapture by the obviously skilled trackers. Had I been told just three months ago, as I prepared for my “great adventure,” that I would end up in such conditions, I’m quite sure I would not have believed. Even now I find myself hoping that I will wake up to find this is nothing more than a bad dream. None of the others from my party were “purchased” by this particular group. In fact, I believe I am the only captive to be chosen. I can only hope that someone who was willing to treat them in such a manner took the others. The younger of the two sons, Running Buck by name, has been assigned to teach me the language of my captors. The teacher has become the student once more.
“Where did you learn English?”
“En-glish?”
“The language of my people.”
“Running Buck listen when trappers come,” he explained. “Running Buck learn much.”
“Do trappers come to the camp often?” Try as she might, the woman could not keep the note of hope from her voice.
The boy’s eyes narrowed as he discerned the intent behind her question. “Trappers not help you,” he said firmly. “Three Eagles not allow trappers to come to village. You will not escape.”
“I wasn’t thinking that,” the woman protested.
“Three Eagles not allow white men in camp!” the boy stated. “You belong Three Eagles now! You not escape!”
September 20, 1847-day 79 of captivity
I fear I have made a mistake. My days are spent either working with the woman, Little Feather, or having the language drilled into my head by the youngster. While he still works with me, Running Buck has been quite standoffish these past few days. My question, while not totally innocent, has aroused his suspicions once again. I can’t help but wish for rescue from this place, as I’m sure he would were he in my position. It does not appear that he has said anything to his family, however, for they are treating me no differently.
“You learn good,” Running Buck said out of the blue after a daily lesson.
“I learn well,” she corrected. The rare compliment pleased her but her teacher’s instinct automatically prompted her reply.
The boy stared at her contemplatively for a few moments before nodding. “You learn well,” he repeated.
“I could teach you as well,” the woman suggested impulsively.
“Why?” Running Buck asked. “Running Buck talk plenty well.”
“Well, your grammar is atrocious and you could work on your nouns and pro-“ She stopped then, seeing from the look on his face that he understood little of what she was saying. “If you spoke better English, you would be able to talk better with the traders,” she explained more simply. And I would have someone to talk to, she thought.
“No need English for trade,” the boy replied. “White men no come to trade and other people use sign.”
“What about the trappers? What if they don’t understand sign?” she countered.
“All people know sign,” he answered contemptuously. “No understand sign, no trade.”
“It was just an idea,” she said, sighing with resignation.
Running Buck’s dark eyes watched her carefully as he considered her words. He said nothing more as they turned to walk back to the village.
October 14, 1847-day 93 of captivity
My hands shake badly as I write this entry. I sit here waiting for punishment I know will come soon. One of my many duties is to collect wild vegetables, then prepare them for use in the stew pot. As I have proven myself trustworthy-or perhaps as my captors have decided I am too feeble to try escape-I have been allowed to do this collection without benefit of a “companion.” I’m sure I’m still being closely watched but at least I have some small measure of freedom. Today I was fortunate enough to run across a patch of carrots and parsnips near the creek. Pleased at my find, I gathered as many as I could carry and brought them back to camp. As is usual, while I was preparing the meal, youngsters gathered for the inevitable handouts. Two of the older boys simply snatched some of the parsnips and ran off, stuffing them into their mouths as they ran. It seemed as if only a few minutes had passed before the most horrendous noise started from the center of the camp. I ran with the others to find the two thieves writing about on the ground. Three Eagles took one look at the boys and the remains of their feast as it lay on the ground, then turned to see me still holding a parsnip in my hand. He took the vegetable from me and cautiously placed a small sliver on his tongue, rapidly spitting it to the ground only seconds later. He then uttered a single word. The women sprang into action, some grabbing charcoal from the fire, crushing it to a fine powder and trying to force it between the clenched teeth of the two boys. Others moved to my work area, taking up the remaining vegetables-and the utensils-and moving off into the woods. Three Eagles then ordered me to the lodge. His anger was quite visible, so I know I am being held responsible for what has happened. I am waiting now to see what will become of me.
“Where you get these?” Running Buck translated, indicating the parsnip Three Eagles held.
“I found a patch of them near the creek,” the woman replied, trembling. “What is wrong with them?”
Three Eagles listened intently as the boy repeated her words. His eyebrows rose as his dark eyes scrutinized her face, searching for deception.
“Why you feed to us?” Running Buck asked. “You try poison us?”
“NO!” the woman responded emphatically. “They are just parsnips. My people enjoy them in soups.”
The warrior considered the slave carefully. A look akin to pity crossed his face as he grunted a sentence to his son.
“Him say white eyes are stupid,” Running Buck said, nodding in agreement. “You eat poison.”
“I don’t understand!” the woman cried. “These are merely parsnips, a simple vegetable.”
As Three Eagles responded to her statement, the woman heard the word “hemlock.” She didn’t wait for the boy to translate. “Hemlock?” she exclaimed, “No, no! I would never do that! Not to children!”
Again Three Eagles’ black eyes bore into her. When he spoke again, his voice, while no less menacing, was a bit softer.
“Three Eagles believe you,” Running Buck told her. “Him say you not be punished this time . . . “
The woman looked at him hopefully but noted the hesitation. “But?”
“If boys die,” Running Buck continued, “people will be very angry. May not believe. If boys die, you must pay.”
Three Eagles left the lodge, the treat still hanging in the air. No one spoke to the woman for the rest of the day. She tried to get someone to tell her about the boys but was ignored.
October 18, 1847-day 97 of captivity
I am finally able to breath a sigh of relief. The children will recover, thank the Lord. I am no longer allowed to gather food alone-an understandable precaution-nor are the children, aside from Running Buck, allowed near me. What little trust I had earned is gone now, but true to his word, Three Eagles exacted no punishment.
~~~
November 12, 1847-day 125 of captivity
I am gradually learning to understand the Kiowa language-though few of the adults choose to speak to me. Mostly they simply point and grunt a monosyllabic command. Running Buck has not accepted my offer to teach him English, nor has he outright refused. I sense an eagerness to learn in him that would please even the most jaded of teachers. There is something going on here, though I’ve not been able to determine exactly what that might be. The older boy, Red Bear, seems to have no difficulty, yet I’ve seen Running Buck ignored by others occasionally. Nothing overt and most certainly not while his father or brother are nearby but something significantly more than adults dismissing a child. Perhaps the day will come when I shall be trusted enough for him to share.
“You teach Running Buck Eng-lish,” the boy ordered.
Barely able to contain her excitement, the woman nodded in agreement. “Are you sure your father won’t mind?” she asked, as always realizing it would be better to err on the side of caution.
“Three Eagles say you teach,” Running Buck replied. “Him say good to know when forked-tongue speaks.”
The woman stiffened slightly at the slanderous terminology but allowed it to pass.
“The first thing we must do is see how much you know,” she decided.
“You work,” the boy ordered. “Teach while work.”
The woman nodded a second time. She had known she would not be excused from her regular duties.
November 24, 1847-day 137 of captivity
I began my “lessons” with Running Buck just seven days ago and already he has made tremendous progress. An old instructor of mine once said that young children have more capacity to learn than we adults will ever know. My own personal belief is that we lose our eagerness to explore new vistas as we grow. Whatever the reason, the boy already speaks English far better than I speak Kiowa.
She heard the taunting long before she saw the tormentors. And she heard a familiar voice angrily respond. As she came around the bushes she saw two older boys push Running Buck to the ground, pressing his face into the dusty trail. Every instinct told her to go to his aid but she knew her interference would result in more trouble for the boy. She was little more than a slave. To have her defend him would lower him even further than whatever had prompted the altercation in the first place.
Helplessly, she watched as the older of the two attackers poured even more dust over the prone boy.
“Now you look white!” the boy grunted in Kiowa. “You go to white family now.”
The second boy looked up then and saw the woman standing at the edge of the clearing. He whispered in his companion’s ear. They both rose to their feet and walked contemptuously to where she stood.
“He like you now!” the older boy hissed as the pair pushed past her.
November 30, 1847-day 143 of captivity
There was nothing I could do. To even show sympathy would have embarrassed the boy. So I waited until I was certain he was okay, then slipped away before he saw me watching. I was right in doing so I discovered. Bruising was already started on his face when he returned to the lodge. Little Feather was very upset, not because her son had been beaten, but because HE had allowed it to happen. I am of the impression that she expected him to allow the hooligans to abuse him verbally with no defense. The child said nothing in response. Three Eagles and Red Bear simply watched as the woman berated the boy. I wanted so much to comfort him but, of course, that is forbidden.
“You write much in your journal.”
“I try to write something every day.”
“Why do you do this?”
“I want to remember everything that happens to me so someday . . . “ The woman’s voice trailed off as she realized what she had been about to say would anger her young pupil.
“Someday?” he prodded.
“Someday I might share my memories with others.”
“With your own kind?” he guessed.
She could only nod miserably in response.
“That will not happen,” he told her firmly. “Winter comes. You cannot escape.”
“I can dream can’t I?” the woman whispered softly.
December 10, 1847-day 153 of captivity
Today I learned yet another valuable lesson. For some time now I’ve considered trying to escape. It was not possible in the beginning-far too many people were watching my every move. As time passed, their vigilance relaxed. I knew I must make my escape before the first snow. Thought I may be city bred, I am not so stupid as to not know how easily I could be tracked on snow-covered ground even were I able to survive the cold. Today any hope of escape was dashed beyond recovery. I awoke early to the sound of dogs barking and people chattering excitedly. In the central meeting area, two braves held a young woman-a young white woman. Her torn clothing and battered face bore testament to her struggles. She began to struggle once more as a man rode into camp. With only a few words to Three Eagles, the lone rider took the rope that bound the woman’s hands and led her from the village. His horse easily outdistanced the length of the rope and, being as she could not keep up, she was soon being dragged across the prairie. Running Buck came to me then and explained that the woman was caught trying to run from her owner. The boy made a point of explaining in great detail what would happen to her now and how I should be grateful that Three Eagles was treating me so well. I shall never forget the sound of the young woman’s screams.
~~~
Christmas Day, 1847-day 168 of captivity
Snow has blanketed the ground for many days now. There is little to do but sit-and shiver. Were I in Boston with my family, my father would have a roaring fire in the hearth and Mother and I would be in the kitchen preparing a feast. For the first time since being taken captive, my hope is all but gone. I rue the day that my adventuresome nature made me accept a position in the “wild West.” Life in Boston had grown repetitive and boring. Oh what I wouldn’t give for that life now.
A small hand touched her cheek. “Why are you crying?”
“I was thinking of my home and my family,” she replied. “Today is Christmas.”
“Christmas?”
The woman couldn’t help but smile at the inevitable question.
“Christmas is the day when we celebrate the birth of Jesus-our God,” she explained. “We show his love for us by showing our love for each other.”
“How do you do this?” Running Buck asked.
“My family and I exchange gifts,” she answered, sighing in remembrance. “We give those who mean something to us something we hope will make them happy.”
“You only do this one day of year?” the boy asked in surprise. “Kiowa give to each other every day.”
“As do we,” the woman replied. “But Christmas is a day of special honor and love.”
Running Buck stared at her thoughtfully. Finally the boy shrugged and left her to her memories.
February 1, 1848-day 199 of captivity
I have never experienced such cold. The wind howls across the plains and swoops through the village with a ferocity unlike any I have ever imagined. My journal may be coming to an end soon. I have but a stub of a single pencil with which to write. I’ve tried to make use of other instruments-charcoal, even a burnt stick-to no avail. I would never have believed, a year ago, as I prepared for my “big adventure,” that something as simple as a pencil would become so precious to me.
Sighing, the woman closed her journal. The stub of a pencil she had so carefully preserved had finally worn out.
Running Buck looked up from the piece of leather he had been cleaning. “What is wrong?”
“I can’t write anymore,” she answered. Holding the tiny remnant aloft, she added, “I have nothing left.”
The boy looked at her for a long moment, then a glint came to his eyes. Moving to the other side of the lodge, he returned with a feather in one hand and a small pot in the other. Smiling broadly he presented them to the woman with a flourish.
The woman stared at the offerings, a confused look on her face. Sighing patiently, the boy dipped the end of the feather into the pot, then touched it to the paper she held in her hand. The woman’s confused look disappeared as she saw the mark left behind. Her smile grew to match the boy’s as she looked to Three Eagles and saw his nod of assent. Gratefully she accepted the gifts.
February 24, 1848-day 223 of captivity
While crude, this feather pen works! Running Buck was so pleased that he was able to give me this gift. I do believe I am making progress. These long winter days would be unbelievably boring were it not for the story telling. The Kiowa have no written language, so all of their legends and traditions must be passed from generation to generation by way of stories told by the elders to the younger members of the tribe. Each night, time is set aside for stories to be relayed. Some of them are quite violent, others can be quite funny, but all have the common themes of bravery, honesty and loyalty. I find myself eagerly awaiting each night’s installment. And with that note, I suddenly realize that my understanding of Kiowa is much better than my ability to speak the language.
“Do not white people have stories?”
“Of course we do,” she responded, remembering many nights of “bedtime stories” read from wonderful books. “But many of our stories are written in books instead of being told.
“The way you write in your journal?”
“Yes, exactly. That way the stories are never lost and many, many people may read them.”
The boy pondered that statement for a few moments. “I think telling is more good,” he stated.
“Better,” she corrected automatically. “Why do you think that?”
“Books cannot speak like Old Crow or Morning Mist,” the boy reasoned. “Books cannot make sounds of wolves and birds.”
“Books allow the reader to use their imagination to hear those sounds,” the woman argued.
“But how can you hear what you have never heard?” the boy countered wisely.
For that she had no response.
April 10, 1848-day 268 of captivity
The snow is finally melting. The hunters are finding more game though it be lean from the long winter. The abundant snow, while making fresh food quite scarce had given me much opportunity to teach Running Buck. I do believe that Red Bear is listening and learning far more than he lets on. Occasionally I’ve even noticed Three Eagles watching as his youngest son works on his “forked tongue.”
“You are always writing,” Running Buck told her. “What things do you say?”
“I write about many things,” the woman responded. “What I do each day, things I see . . . sometimes I even write about you.”
“Me?” the boy asked in surprise. “Why me?”
“Because I am proud of what you have done,” she replied. “You have learned much.”
“Will you read what you write to me?”
“Perhaps one day you will be able to read for yourself,” she challenged.
Once again she say that spark of curiosity in the boy’s eyes.
“You teach me!” he ordered.
May 10, 1848-day 298 of captivity
Teaching Running Buck to read has been far more difficult than I imagined. He is often frustrated by the complexity of the written language-especially when it comes to sounding out words. Frustration leads inevitably to anger and, more often than not, our “lessons” end with him stomping away. It is a testament to his pride, stubbornness and curiosity that he always returns for more. What I wouldn’t give for a single McGuffy.
“This is stupid!” the boy protested. “C A T is cat but C A P E is cape? English is a stupid language!”
“Just remember,” the woman repeated patiently. “The ‘E’ on the end changes the sound of the ‘A’.”
“Then why is that not true of ‘tree’?” he asked petulantly.
“Because two ‘e’s’ together always sound like ‘e’.”
“Why?”
The woman sighed. He was not going to make it easy for her. “Because those are the rules.”
“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” The frustrated youngster threw the paper he had been trying to read to the ground and stormed away.
The woman sighed a second time as she bent to retrieve the offending page. Tomorrow they would start again.
July 1, 1848-day 365 of captivity
It has been one year since I was taken captive. I wonder if my family thinks me dead. I wonder if those where were captured with me are still alive. I have to admit that, while conditions can be quite harsh, I am treated no worse than most. I can only hope those who were traded to other tribes have been as fortunate.
July 15, 1848-day 380 of captivity
The Sun Dance began last week. Running Buck explained that each year in mid-summer the Kiowa people gather in one large group to celebrate life given them by father Sun. There is much to see and do. Even though I am kept busy, I am allowed some time to watch. Every morning, very early, a group of men and boys, their bodies coated with mud from the river and their hair pulled up and tied with horns above their foreheads burst through the camp shouting loudly. As soon as they hear these “mudheads” coming, the women scoop up whatever was outside the teepees and run inside. Apparently this is a “game” these men play but it also teaches the women and young girls to react quickly to save themselves. Little Feather and I have been able to protect our belongings but the family next to ours was not so fortunate. Those women spent the rest of the day salvaging what they could of their food and belongings. Today a very special ceremony took place. Young children, as yet unnamed, were given names by the shaman of the tribe. It was quite beautiful with the children dressed in special clothing, each face almost glowing with anticipation. This was perhaps the proudest moment of their lives. I realized two things at that moment. The most obvious was that, until this point, I had not realized these children have no given names. From what I could gather names are chosen at birth only if some unusual occurrence takes place. For the most part, children are several years old before they are named. Until then they are referred to by gender-the Kiowa equivalent of “hey you.” The second revelation came a bit harder for me. In all the time I have been here, not one person has addressed me by name. In fact, no one has even asked me if I HAD a name.
“I have a name!” she said, not realizing she had spoken aloud.
“What?” Running Buck looked up from the passage he had been struggling to translate.
“I have a name,” she repeated. “No one has ever asked me my name.”
The boy shrugged indifferently. “It is not important.”
“It is to me!” the woman cried, surprising both of them. “I am a human being and I have a name!”
She inhaled, preparing to say more, then realized several adults were looking in her direction. Some wore the same puzzled expression as the boy in front of her. Others wore a more angry look. Realizing she had overstepped her bounds, she released the breath she held in a heartfelt sigh.
July 15, 1848-continued
He truly thought he was helping. Little did Running Buck know that every word of his explanation tore holes in my heart that may never mend. “The animals have no names but we know who they are,” he says. Once again, I see that to these people I am little more than an animal, useful only because I can do as I am told without being beaten. Running Buck also told me that sometimes captives ARE named. Usually this occurs when they marry or are adopted by a member of the tribe. I’m far too old to be adopted and looking at my reflection in the stream, I sincerely doubt any man would have an interest in me now. IT’S NOT FAIR! I HAVE A NAME!
“Who made the rules?”
“Pardon me?”
“When I do not understand why words are spelled this way, you say ‘Because it is the rules.’ I want to know who made the rules?”
The woman fought to keep from smiling. She wished at that moment one of her professors could spend just one day with this child. She was certain at the end of that time they would have even less hair than they had when she was their student.
“I don’t really know,” she admitted sheepishly. “Someone who lived a very long time ago.”
“How long?”
“Long before even my father’s father,” she replied. “The rules have been passed down for many generations. It’s a tradition.”
“But why are the rules so funny?”
“Do you ask these questions of Old Crow?” the woman questioned. “I would not ask them of the one who told me.”
The boy sighed. He had asked questions of Old Crow. The words might have been different but the answer meant the same. “Because that is the way it is.”
~~~
A ripple of curiosity rolled across the camp as a rider barreled in at full speed, barely touching ground between his horse and Three Eagles’ lodge. Just minutes later, the warrior chief stepped into the daylight and began issuing orders. A short time later, the majority of the men in the camp were mounted and riding away.
“What’s happening?” the woman asked.
Little Flower looked at her, apprehension replacing her usual passive disdain. “It is nothing for you to worry about,” she replied shortly. “Three Eagles will take care of this.”
“I-“ the woman started.
“Clean vegetables!” Little Flower ordered, turning away.
August 13, 1848-day 409 of captivity
I’m still not entirely certain what is happening. Three Eagles and his warriors returned, bringing with them several bedraggled families. Today the leaders from several other groups arrived. I have been kept busy and away from the group so I have overheard nothing more than the rumors being spread by the other women. The only thing of which I AM certain is that the women are terrified. The women, children and the older people have been moved to another camp. Running Buck was furious that he has been sent off with the rest of us but he sullenly refuses any explanation. No one is allowed to stray far from camp, not even the hunting parties.
“Who are those people?”
“They are from the village of Grey Fox.”
“Why are they here?”
“Paiute!” The boy spat the word as if it left a vile taste in his mouth.
“I don’t understand.”
“They raid our villages, take our women and girls. They kill our men. Even children are not safe.”
“What will happen now?”
“We will fight!”
August 14, 1848-day 410 of captivity
Listening to Running Buck speak of the Paiute and hearing the vehemence in his speech reminded me of the savagery of the people with whom I live. It is far too easy to forget while living day to day. They can be quite gentle under normal circumstances. But to see such anger in one so young terrifies me.
~~~
August 27, 1848-day 423 of captivity
War has come to the Kiowa. Several days were spent working themselves to a feverish pitch before the warriors of the joined villages rode off seeking their revenge. Running Buck all but begged his father to take him along. Fortunately Three Eagles paid the child little mind.
“I should be with them!” Running Buck ranted. “I am as big as Two Beaver and Little Owl. I can fight better than either of them!”
“I’m sure your father had good reasons for not taking you along,” the woman replied patiently.
“Three Eagles is not my father!” the boy retorted angrily.
“What?” the woman asked in surprise.
Realizing he had said too much, Running Buck became sullenly quite.
August 31, 1848-day 409 of captivity
“Three Eagles is not my father.” So much explanation in so few words. It took some prompting on my part, but once started the words poured from Running Buck as if a dam had broken. Not only is Three Eagles not his father, the boy is half white! His real father was a trapper, known to the tribe and, much to their dismay, trusted. Apparently he had returned to the area after a trip to town to sell his furs bringing with him several bottles of whiskey. After a night of drinking, he had taken Little Feather and had his way with her. Only the fact that he had left the camp before Three Eagles returned from a hunt had saved his life. I am truly amazed that the boy would know these things at his age yet not totally surprised that the information would have been used against him at some point. I must also say that my respect for Three Eagles has increased immeasurably with the revelation. I can think of few men of any color who would raise another man’s child as their own.
~~~
September 21, 1848-day 448 of captivity
The tension has mounted as three weeks have passed with no word from Three Eagles or his warriors. Those left behind to guard the camp are on constant watch and the strain is beginning to show. Even the youngest of the children are affected. Running Buck and I have attempted to continue his lessons but I fear his heart is not in the task. The few survivors from Grey Fox’s camp have been integrated as well as possible. The tales they tell of the Paiute attack are fresh in everyone’s mind. Risks must be taken, however. The camp is running low on food.
“I know I saw a patch of wild onion near here earlier this summer,” the woman murmured more to herself than her companion.
“We should not move far from the others,” Running Buck admonished.
“It’s not much further,” she assured him. “In fact, there it is, by that bush.”
The pair gathered as many of the vegetables as they could carry, than began to make their way back to camp. Running Buck heard the sound of the twig snapping, but before he could react, they found themselves surrounded on three sides by brightly painted warriors.
“RUN!” the woman ordered, giving the boy a push toward the only open path.
He hesitated only long enough to drop his burden before doing as he was told. Hearing the woman scream, he started to turn back only to have her scream “RUN!” a second time. Several of their attackers tried to follow but the boy knew the forest too well.
Running Buck stood holding the journal as he watched the sun begin its decent in the evening sky. From the top of the hill where he stood, the boy could see the mission school-his destination. He would remain on the prairie for one more night before he finished his journey he decided.
Eight years had passed since the Paiute threat had been quelled. Aside from Grey Fox’s village, three other groups had been attacked before Three Eagles and the other warriors had tracked the Paiute marauders and run them to ground. None had survived.
Only one person from his own group had died. To some, she had not even been considered a person. Three Eagles had felt differently. Her actions had saved Running Buck and perhaps even the entire village as the delay caused by her fighting the attackers had given the boy time to escape and warn the others. While not given a warrior’s funeral, the chief had arranged a proper burial. She would, he declared, be remembered by the storytellers.
Running Buck didn’t need stories to remember his teacher. He didn’t need to hear the words of the old ones to hold her in a place of honor in his heart. The day would come, he had vowed when he would take word of her courage to those she had left behind.
He had found her journal tucked safely away in the lodge. Wrapping the book carefully in a piece of hide, he had preserved it, unread, until this day.
Slowly the boy unwrapped the parcel and stared once again at the book that had consumed so much of the woman’s time.
The leather binding, once soft and supple, had become cracked and dry with age. The cramped handwriting was still legible though the pages were more yellow than white.
Once again Running Buck heard her challenge. “Perhaps one day you will read it for yourself.”
Sighing softly at the memory, the boy ran his fingers over the embossed letters on the cover.
She had a name, he thought, translating the words.
Elizabeth Cross