This Loving Land - Dorothy Garlock [83]
She had paused with the spoon, holding it just outside her open mouth. Oh, Jesus! Ellen thought. Had she gone too far? The girl wasn’t in the mood for a rebuke. From the look on her face, she resented it, too.
“I’m sorry, dear. I’m terribly sorry. I shouldn’t have repeated gossip. I’m grateful the woman is here. I’m sure she’s taken a load of work off your shoulders.”
“Yes, she has,” Summer said quietly. “I don’t care what anyone says about her. She’s good and sweet and I’m proud she’s my friend.”
Ellen lowered her eyes and let the expression on her face reflect the possibility that she had been wrong about Sadie.
Summer heard John Austin calling her. She went to the door and out to the yard. He was racing toward the house.
“Summer! Summer! That Indian’s comin’! He’s leading Slater’s horse. Luther has got a gun on him.” John Austin sped across the yard and down the track. He had talked of nothing but the Indian since he was here. Paying no attention to Summer’s call, he ran on until he reached the spotted pony, shouting, “Hello, Bermaga! Hello. What are you doin’ with Slater’s horse?”
The thing that Summer had feared was turning into reality. She thought her heart would burst. Dread kept her rooted to the spot in the yard, but her eyes went from Slater’s horse to the Indian to Luther bringing up the rear, his gun in hand. She was scarcely aware when Jack, Sadie and Ellen joined her.
“Caught this ’Pache ridin’ in, bold as ya please, Jack.” Luther spat in the dust. “Almost killed him when I saw Slater’s horse, but he kept on a jabberin’, a tryin’ to tell me somethin’. I don’t know ’nuff ’Pache to know what he was a sayin’. I got one word—woman— so I figured . . .”
The Indian slid off the pony and came to within a few feet of Summer. When she had seen him last his face had been drawn, his eyes dull, his body weak. Now, he walked proudly, his head held high, his eyes sharp and piercing. He commenced speaking in an even tone. He would say a few words and stop.
“What is he saying, Jack?”
“I don’t know much Apache, Summer, but it’s something about Slater.” Jack said a few phrases in an Indian language. The Apache didn’t understand. He shook his head vigorously and frowned. He spoke again, more slowly.
Summer thought she would scream. She shrugged off John Austin’s tugging hand. The boy’s eyes went from the Indian to Summer and then back to the Indian. He dashed away and came back with two sticks.
“Bermaga.” He thrust a stick into the Indian’s hand. “Slater told me some Apache words, Summer,” he said, still looking at the Indian. “I’ll tell him to draw.” He said the guttural word, then said, “Tall Man . . . Tall Man.”
The Apache walked a few steps to a smooth, bare spot on the ground, stooped down and began to draw. The figure that emerged was a man lying down.
“Tall Man?” John Austin asked. The Indian nodded. John Austin screwed his face up in a grimace of pain, staggered a few feet and fell down. All eyes were on the Indian to see if he understood. He nodded and put his hand to his shoulder, then to his side and doubled over as if in pain. Then he stood and touched both his hands.
“He’s been hurt,” John Austin said. “Hurt in the shoulder, in his side and both hands.”
“How bad? Find out how bad.” There was almost hysteria in Summer’s voice.
The boy lay down on the ground and closed his eyes, then got to his feet and waved like a bird. The Indian shook his head, then held out his hand drawing his thumb and forefinger slowly together.
“He isn’t dead, but almost,” John Austin announced.
“Oh, God! Oh, God! Where is he? Find out where he is.”
Bermaga was drawing again. First it was a crude but recognizable horse. The straight lines he added brought a word bursting from the boy.
“A travois! Travois!” He said a variation of the word to the Indian and he nodded. John Austin ran to the cabin and patted the