Free Next Spring an Oriole by Gloria Whelan Page B

the gentleness in his hands. All that was in Mama’s drawing.
    In the morning the river was down and we forded the stream easily. Once on the otherside, the trail gave out. It looked like we could go one way as well as another. Papa shook his head. “You and Libby stay with the wagon,” he told Mama, “and I’ll ride Ned a little way into the woods and see where these trails lead.” He took his musket with him. “I’ll find us some partridge for dinner,” he promised.
    When Papa came riding back, an Indian was walking alongside him. We had seen Indians on our trip and they had done us no harm, but I had never been so close to one. This man had on deerskin trousers, leggings, and a long shirt. On his feet were moccasins. His long black hair, all but a few locks, hung down his back. The few locks were coiled into a little heap on the top of his head and were stuck through with feathers. He carried a musket like Papa’s.
    “Vinnie,” said Papa, “this man is a Potawatomi. He and his family are camped near here. They were on their way to Saginaw to sell some skins to the fur company, but their daughter is very ill and they can’t travel until she is better.”
    “What’s wrong with her?” Mama asked.
    “She has measles,” Papa said. He turned to me. “You remember, Libby, when you had them two years ago. We had a hard time keeping you in bed. But when the Indians get measles it is much more serious. The little girl looks feverish.”
    “Rob, tell them we will take the child in our wagon. She can rest on our bed and I can nurse her.”

    Papa and the Indian were soon back. Between them they carried a kind of movable bed made of two long poles and strips of birch bark. On the cot was the Indian girl, and walking along behind her was an Indian woman and a small boy. Papa carried the girl into our wagon and laid her down gently. She was a little older than I. Her long black hair lay spread over the pillow. She wore a plainshift that came to her knees. She was moaning softly and seemed barely able to open her eyes. When she saw us standing over her, she looked frightened, as though, were she able, she would surely run away.
    “We must do something about her fever,” Mama said. She bathed the girl with cool water and brewed some tea from sage leaves for her. The girl slept most of the afternoon. Mama said as long as I was quiet I might sit near the bed. In spite of the red measles on her face, I thought the Indian girl so pretty I couldn’t take my eyes from her. I was happy to know, too, that somewhere in the woods there was a girl nearly my age.
    At dinnertime the girl drank a little broth Mama made for her from a partridge Papa had shot. We shared our dinner with the girl’s mama and papa and little brother, but they would not sit by the fire with us. Instead, they carried their partridge and corn cakes a little way off from the wagon. While they ate they never took their eyes from us. This made us uneasy. “They seem not to trust us, Rob,” Mama said.
    “They have little reason to. First the white man buys the Indians’ land for a pittance, and now I hear tell they want to round up all the Potawatomis and take them west of the Mississippi.”
    That night the Indians slept under the trees, wrapped in their blankets to protect them from the mosquitoes.
    The girl was better in the morning, and it was decided that she could rest in the wagon while we continued on our way. The Indians followed along, keeping a little distance between themselves and the wagon, but never letting us out of their sight.
    The girl’s eyes were open now and she watched everything we did. I wanted to try to talk with her but Mama said she must rest, and anyhow, she probably would not understand me. At this I saw the girl’s eyes open a little wider, but she said nothing. She drank the tea and broth Mama fixed for her and even took the medicine she was given without a murmur. When I had the measles and had to take it, I complained