The Savage

Fifteen

I tried hard not to feel victorious when we got word of it. Frank suspected that I knew what was going on, but try as me might to get the truth out of me, I would not be persuaded. Not even the smallest part of my heart felt badly for those boys, and even their deaths would not have saddened me. It worked though, for after Sammy recovered sufficiently, the boys began to avoid Nettie and me, eventually leaving us solely to our own company. Rumors of witchcraft and bad luck spread around us, and my already tainted reputation grew darker. Those that did not fear me hated me.

At fifteen, I stole two of Frank's saddle horses, and along with my determined friend, we skipped school to ride the prairie in search of buffalo. Nettie had never seen a herd moving across the landscape, and I wanted to share the beauty of it with her. We did not come back until after dark, successful in our quest but directly into the wrath of our parents. As young ladies, we had not been whipped for a few years but that adventure cost us both. I was forbidden from seeing Nettie for over a month, but our friendship only grew stronger.

During my outright rebellious sixteenth year, when Mamma lost all patience with me she sent me from the house. The outdoors had a way of breathing calm into my young fearless heart, soothing the vibrant unpredictable nature of my temper. Frank would take me on long overnight trips, camping along the river that ran through our land. He would talk to me during those trips, his patient guidance and wisdom getting through my stubborn and willful young mind. Instead of approaching through a white man's viewpoint, he would tell me stories about war chiefs, the good and the bad, the beloved and the despised. He had a way of speaking to me that made sense, teaching me without my really realizing it.

We would hunt together, and my father sharpened my skills with the rifle, letting me use his. Although I liked the feel of the weapon, the thought of using one was disdainful to me. Frank once asked me why.

"The weapon of the whites allows them to kill from a great distance," I'd answered boldly. "They do not even have to have the courage to face the one they intend to kill, shooting from far away. It's a coward's way."

"Maybe," he'd ruffled my hair as though I were still a child. "But it makes huntin' a sight easier."

"Have you killed men with this, father?" Frank had studied my face a long moment before nodding slowly.

"It's not a thing I take easy, Butterfly, killin' a man...but if it's him or me, I tend to back myself. You ken?"

"Yes."

During those turbulent years my baby sister Rose also grew, transforming into a beautiful, gentle, sweet natured girl that would follow at my heels nearly everywhere I went. It was good fortune that she was not prone to copying my trying behavior and antics. Despite my original misgivings, I found more love in my heart for my little sister than I ever dreamed possible, and protected her fiercely. It was also a vast relief that none of the evil in my dreams made an appearance, and the frequency of the dark phantoms lessened. When most would have grown impatient at Rose's constant presence, I soaked it in like spring rain, savoring each precious moment.

I was there when she took her first step, my name her first word, her favorite toy the corn husk doll I made myself. We would play and sing, and though I was not allowed to teach her my native language, I spoke to her sometimes, much to her delight. She would walk with Nettie and me as we went to school, along with Nettie's younger siblings. I listened to her in all things, soothed her worries, suffered over her tears, rejoiced in her laughter, my heart soaring as she smiled. Even our mother could not love her more than I.

Wind Runner was a continued element in my life, growing and changing even as I did. The camp of his people was not many miles from our home, and I was always impatient for his infrequent visits, though withheld our encounters from my family. It was especially important due to his involvement with such violent events on my former schoolmates. Wind Runner was mine, a carefully guarded and treasured piece of my past that I would not let go of. When he would call to me from the brook during the night, his voice a perfect imitation of an owl, or coyote, I would slip silently away to meet him, eager to see his face, hear his voice.