Although it seemed like forever was passing by before we even reached the Cheyenne's camp, I had a surge of relief. I wasn't completely sure that I wanted to see the tribe yet, and cherishing my last moments to be by myself--or, what was left of being in my own thoughts--was all I could do at the moment.
Motavato turned to me. I still felt uncomfortable around him, but he was the only one out of every Indian I could trust. "Emily," he said. When he said my name, it was like trying to learn another language. His voice compacted into a heavy accent.
"What is it, Motavato?" I asked, as politely as I could. I had learned that Motavato could stall very well.
He walked a few feet away, and to my suprise, there was a shaved stick lying on the ground. He picked it up, and cursed under his breath when he accidently pricked himself with the sharpest end. "This is not from our tribe." He muttered.
He turned to Hiamovi, who was impatiently stepping from foot to foot. "Navésé'e," he said, getting Hiamovi's attention. "Tósa'e éhoo'e?"
Haimovi shrugged, leaving Motavato with a grim expression. I opened my mouth to ask what they were saying, but decided that it didn't matter. Whatever the topic was, they did not want me to hear.
So we started foreward again, this time more quiet. All eyes seemed more alert, listening for some far off noise that I couldn't even try to imagine. What could make them so startled?
I wanted to ask Motavato so badly what the matter was, but I decided that he most likely did not want to tell me. So I pressed on, pretending to not be sent to madness with my curiousity.
Finally, the whole group of Cheyennes stopped. Some of them muttered under their breaths, and some just stared through the trees.
I tried to follow their gaze, and came up with nothing. "Is something the matter, Motavato?" I asked.
He shook his head. "No, child. It is our camp ahead." He seemed to be thinking about his next words. "We are not sure if our families will fully accept white man's child into camp."
I felt a twinge of offend in my chest. "I will try to respect that, Motavato, but they should know by now that my people aren't dangerous."
Hiamovi put his hand on Motavato's shoulder, and pointed forwards with his chin. Motavato nodded and smiled as kindly as he could. "I do not think you are dangerous, Emily. But my people do not trust white men. They destroy the grounds." He said something to Hiamovi, and Hiamovi then ran in front of the group.
Without another word, I followed the group through some more pine trees. All I could hear were the soft stomping of the Indians around mine, which seemed clumsy against theirs. I sighed. If these Indians did not understand that we were civilized people, then how would I make it through these two months?
Suddenly we were in a huge clearing, one that was so well hidden that I almost stumbled back when I walked into it. The rest of the group casually walked into the clearing, not taking notice to my starting. Motavato waited for me, with an outstretched hand.
He didn't need to say anything. From his eyes, I could tell that he wanted me close, just in case I went on the wrong foot with the chief. So, I gratefully took his hand, which reminded me of Papa's, too. Strong and used to carrying around heavy objects.
As we walked, I noticed more things; some dogs, which looked like more like wolves than anything. Some cone-shaped teepees rose high, putting Grace's fort to shame. Some light smoke floated from the top of them. One child, not much older than Elizabeth was, came running out, laughing gleefully. It's mother came out after it, a smile on her face.
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Catching FishHistorical Fiction
~Highest Rank: #257 in Historical Fiction~ America has just became stable again, and families are moving all over the Louisiana Purchase--Including the Mill family, who are building a cabin a bit too close to the Cheyenne Indians. When the Indians...