Free A Handful of Time by Kit Pearson Page B

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    â€œThis isn’t the way to the park!” objected Maggie. “Don’t you even know where it is?”
    Trevor groaned. “Shut up, Maggie, and don’t ask questions.”
    â€œWe’re not going to the park,” Kelly explained. “We’re going to the Indian Reserve.”
    â€œBut Mummy said—”
    â€œI knew we shouldn’t have brought her,” said Christie impatiently.
    Patricia listened to them reason with the little girl. It was handy having Maggie along to ask the questions she wasn’t brave enough to ask herself.
    â€œI know what Mum said,” Kelly told her, “but she doesn’t understand about the Indians. Last summer they said we could go on their land as long as we didn’t litter. If you want to come with us you have to promise not to tell, okay?”
    â€œSure!” declared Maggie, proud to be included in a secret. “I won’t tell. I bet Potty will, though.”
    â€œWill you?” asked Christie.
    Patricia shook her head. She felt a twinge of superiority; she’d already been on the Indian Reserve today.
    They trudged along the road. The heat had softened the tar and it stuck to Patricia’s bare feet. She lifted them gingerly, trying not to mind; Ruth never wore shoes.
    Past the last cottage was a group of dilapidated buildings labelled St. Stephen’s Church Retreat.
    â€œWhat’s that?” asked Patricia. The shock of returning so abruptly from the past was wearing off; she felt here again.
    â€œIt used to be a camp,” explained Kelly, “but it hasn’t been used for years. We play in the cabins sometimes.”
    â€œRemember when Bruce found a kangaroo mouse in one?” said Christie.
    Patricia shivered. It was too bad her cousins were so fond of toads and snakes and mice. She wondered if they had a test for her to pass today.
    â€œI just wish we had some matches,” grumbled Kelly.
    â€œI have matches,” said Bruce calmly.
    Kelly’s face lit up. “Great! Good for you, Bruce.”
    They reached a faded sign. Spruce Band Reserve it said. Speed Limit 30 MPH. Watch for Pedestrians, Livestock and Horse-Drawn Vehicles.
    â€œThat’s really old,” Bruce told Patricia. “The Indians don’t use wagons anymore.”
    Kelly led them off the road onto a dirt path. Across it stretched a piece of barbed wire. Patricia’s heart thudded as she scrambled under after the others.
    Now they walked quietly. Maggie moved closer to Kelly and took her hand. Trevor tied a rope to Peggy’s collar.
    â€œHi, Mr. Paul,” called Kelly. She waved to an old man sitting on the steps of a bungalow.
    â€œHi, kids,” the man said gravely. “You’re back again.”
    â€œWe’re going to Sandy Point for a picnic. Is that all right?”
    The man’s brown face crinkled into a smile. “That’s all right. Come back later. My grandsons will be home and you can have a ride.”
    â€œThanks, we will!” said Kelly.
    They continued past other small houses. Women eyed them curiously and small black-haired children stared. One teenaged boy with a long braid and fringed leather vest glared at them until they passed the houses.
    â€œYou’re so brave, Kelly,” whispered Christie. “I’m afraid to talk to them. Daddy would be furious if he knew we were here. He doesn’t like the Indians, he says they’re lazy.”
    Kelly stopped and faced her cousin. “I hope you don’t think that, Christie Reid! They’re people like you and me and white men have been horrible to them. Mr. Paul is my friend. You know we always rent horses from him. My parents say your father is prejudiced.”
    â€œHe’s not!” cried Christie and Bruce, but without much conviction.
    â€œYou know he is,” said Kelly angrily. She continued walking, then added more kindly, “Never mind. You can’t help what Uncle