makes runaway and hides. I see her. I tell her 'come!' She is here.'
'I see she is.' She drew nearer to him. 'Does she wish to return to her people?'
Even as I spoke I could see how foolish the idea was. If ever I had seen anyone who was pleased to be right where she was it was this Indian girl. 'She is your problem, Keokotah,' I said. 'Just so she doesn't run off and bring them back on us.'
'She no run,' he said, and I believed him.
Limping, I walked outside. The air was cool off the snow-covered mountains. We had a few more days before the snow fell here, or so I hoped. Still, we were as ready as we were likely to be. We had buffalo robes, we had meat, and we had shelter. At the edge of the brush near the creek, something stirred. My eyes held, waiting.
It moved again. It was a buffalo calf.
I spoke to Keokotah. 'The calf. Tell them not to kill it.'
'They know. I speak strong to them.'
Several times when I was close to the calf I spoke to it. Once I reached out to touch it, but it moved away, though not too swiftly, and I felt the poor creature was lonely. I talked to it, and sometimes when I went down by the stream it walked along not too far away, keeping pace with me. One day when Keokotah's Acho woman made fry bread I offered a piece to the buffalo calf. It smelled and then tugged it from my hand and ate it. Gradually, we became friends.
The snow came in the night, softly, silently, very white, very thick, and soon very deep. The Natchee stayed by their fires, as did we. However, later in the day I went out and after much persuading and tugging, got the calf into the cave. He would not stay, but ran outside and into the snow.
'He like snow,' Keokotah said. 'Animal like snow.'
'Tell them not to hunt near the opening of the valley,' I suggested to Keokotah. 'There will be no tracks to see.'
The days went by slowly, and when I could I talked to the Natchee or to Keokotah and his woman.
Her people hunted southeast from us, she told us. As to where they had come from she did not know, only that it had been a very good place. It was 'over there' and now she was 'here.' It did not seem to matter, for they had always been somewhere. Her grandfather had lived far from here, and his father still farther.
When I could I led her to talk, and when she understood that Keokotah approved she talked willingly enough. Gradually her story became the story of many small migrating tribes, moving from place to place over the years. Often they remained for many years in one general area, and then, pushed out by others or because of drouth or the scarcity of wildlife, they moved on. Their warriors went off on raids or were raided.
I saw little of Itchakomi. She held herself aloof, although once or twice I caught her looking our way. My message had been delivered and my responsibility had ended. Yet she had spoken with Keokotah and with his Acho woman.
In all this time we saw nothing of Kapata or of the Conejeros. Faithfully, we all stayed away from the opening into the valley so as to leave no visible indication of our presence. We kept our fires to a minimum and tried not to burn them when the wind would take the smoke down through the opening along the creek. Nevertheless, I knew it was merely a matter of time.
Despite the early snow the aspen trees were a river of gold flowing along the mountain and spilling down its sides. I stood by the creek one day simply soaking up the rare beauty of the late autumn, when suddenly Itchakomi was nearby.
On this day she wore white buckskins, beaded and worked with porcupine quills. She was, without doubt, a woman of rare beauty.
Standing there with a background of the golden leaves of the aspen she was something no one could look at and remain unmoved.
'You are beautiful!' I said, the words bursting from me, without warning.
She turned her head and gave me a cool, direct look. 'What is it 'beautiful'?' she asked.
The question put me at a loss for words. How to explain beauty? 'The aspen are beautiful,' I said. 'The sunrise is beautiful.'
'You think me like the aspen?'
'Yes.' How did I get into this? 'You are slender and lovely to look at.'
She looked at me again. 'You are courting me?'
The question stopped me cold. I gulped, hesitated, and then said, 'Well, not exactly, I--'
'It does not matter!' she spoke sharply. 'I am a Sun. You arenothing , a stranger.'
'To you I am nothing. To me I am something.'
She shrugged, but she did not walk away. 'What will happen if you are not there and the Great Sun dies?' I asked.
For several minutes she did not speak, but I had an idea the question had been worrying her, also. 'There will be another to take his place until I return.'
'A woman can rule?'
'It has been so.'
'Often?'
'No ... once, I believe.'
'The plains are wide and very cold. There are terrible storms of wind and snow, or I would take you back--'
'I do not need to be taken. When I wish to go, I shall go.' She gestured. 'This is a good place.'
A soft wind stirred the aspens into shimmering golden beauty. A few leaves fell, dropping like a shower of golden coins onto the snow. The red leaves of the scrub oak clung stubbornly, not to be worried by any such gentle wind. The stream rustled along its banks, a thin coating of ice near its edges slowly dissolving into water again.
'Did you find the place you sought?'
She hesitated. 'I did not. I found where the river comes from the mountains. It is a good place.' She looked around. 'This also is a good place.' She glanced at me. 'It is yours?'
'We found it, Keokotah and I. It is yours if you wish it.'
'If it be not yours you cannot give it.' Her chin lifted. 'The earth belongs to the Great Sun. He lives where he wishes.'
'It is a good place where you live,' I said, 'a pity to leave it.'
She shrugged. 'We shall not. I came to find a new place because the Great Sun wished it. I do not believe there is danger.'
'You were visited by a trader?'
'No trader. A boat with men came. They stopped with us. They traded some things. They went away.' She shrugged. 'It was nothing.'
We were silent for a few minutes and then I said. 'There will be change. White men are coming, and they will not come only to pass on. Some will stay. They will not believe in the Great Sun. Their way of life will be different. Some of your people may wish to trade. Some of them may change.'
'They will not. Our way is the best way. Our people know it.'
Reluctantly I said, 'There are Englishmen in what we call Virginia, and in Carolina. There are Spanishmen in Florida. The people who live near them are changing. They often make war on the English or Spanish and often it is because they want things they cannot trade for.
'The tribes who live near the white man are coming to desire the white man's things. They sometimes do not wish to live in the old way.'
'The Natchee will not change.'
For a long moment I hesitated and then I said, 'I fear there will be no future for those who do not change. When there are no new ideas things can remain the same, but strangers are coming with different ways--'
'There are strangers in our villages. There has been no change.'
'I noticed one of your men with a steel knife, a white man's knife. That is change. I saw one of your women sewing with a steel needle. That is change. Do not others want such knives and needles?'
'We do not need them.'
'Need and desire have no connection,' I said. 'Many people desire things they do not need. Happiness can be
