I loop one end of a rope around the tree with my message and then I tie the other end of the rope to the railcar door so people will be sure to see what I’ve written when they untie the rope.
I ponder long and hard about whether to tie Gypsy up or put her back in the railcar, but either way there’s no chance of her setting off herself to find food or water if I don’t come back, or of her escaping should some wild animal find her. I have to leave her free.
“Goodbye, Gypsy.” I scratch her bony back with my fingernails the way she likes.
“Prince and I have to go and look for help or we might not be alive by the time we’re found. But you’ve got to stay here, girl.”
I grab Prince’s mane with both hands and swing myself up on his broad back. He turns his neck around real slow to study me, but he stands solid as a soldier. He’s not used to a rider. He’s a wagon and plough horse, but he’s so smart and steady that he’d never let a boy on his back vex him.
“Let’s go, Prince.” I gently push my heels into his sides.
After we walk a spell, I look back. Gypsy’s head is up pointed in our direction. She’s such a good girl. She hasn’t even tried to follow us. I wonder what she must be thinking as she watches us move farther and farther away from her. I give her a wave, but I’m not sure she can see it.
It is a real nice fall day, not cold like yesterday morning. The friendly sun and my aching body get the better of me, so I lay my head down on Prince’s scraggly mane as he plods on. I doze off a bit, rocked by the rhythm of Prince’s steady steps.
My head jerks up when Prince comes to a sharp stop. We’re on top of the ridge I saw in the distance from the train tracks. And below us on the other side is a lake as big and blue and beautiful as our flax field in full bloom.
“Land sakes! Look at all that water,” I say to Prince. I run my dry tongue over my peeling, puckered lips and imagine how good a drink is going to taste.
Prince can’t be hurried no matter how much I say, “Go on, boy.” He just plods forward, down the gently sloping side of the rocky ridge towards the lake.
I FIGURE IT MUST BE late afternoon when we arrive at the shore. I slip off Prince’s back and drop to the ground, stiff, sore, and plumb tuckered out. Prince clomps right up to lake and sinks his muzzle into its blue depths, sucking up the water and swallowing it in huge gusty gulps. After a bit, he rears his head up and swooshes water around in his mouth, streams of it pouring down from his tongue and teeth.
I’m not sure I have the strength to walk to the water, so I roll my body towards it lying lengthwise like a log and plop in with a big splash. The cold shoots through my limbs as I try to stand up. I’m thinking how fine the water feels on all my sores and cuts when I realize this lake doesn’t slope gentle-like towards the middle. It’s deep right at the edge. My toes can’t touch bottom and I don’t really know how to swim.
I splash my achy arms as my head sinks beneath the water. I manage to push myself up once, then twice, but the third time my head drops like a stone and I no longer have the strength to clear the surface. I begin to drift down towards the bottom of the lake. The water is clear and I can see fish and rocks and sea grasses. I’m floating like the hot-air balloon at the Omaha amusement park, except I’m in the water instead of the sky. I feel real peaceful-like and not even fretful about the fact that I am probably going to drown. I close my eyes and imagine I am Harvey in Captains Courageous, floating alone at sea after he has fallen off his father’s ship.
Suddenly I feel something grab my arm. Then a pair of legs clamp tight around my waist the way that copperhead wrapped its mouth tight around the baby gopher. I am pulled up, up, up. I open my eyes and see a brown back, a long black braid, and a pair of arms slicing through the water like birds’ wings pushing back the air to fly forward.
My rescuer’s head breaks the surface of the water. He grabs my arm again and hauls me up till my head pops into the air. I gasp and gulp and sputter. I’m whacked on the back several times and water spurts from my mouth. Then those strong legs clinch my waist again and I am towed to the edge of the lake. My savior braces his arms and pulls his body out of the water. I do a complete flip in and out of the lake as he turns around without ever easing his scissor hold on my waist. He reaches down to encircle both my wrists with his bony fingers and flips me up onto the shore like a netted fish.
The man is breathing hard, his ribs moving in and out and his chest filling up and then collapsing like a pricked balloon. I don’t know how he has enough spare breath to start shouting at me. My mind is all foggy and waterlogged, but I can hear the words “swim” and “foolish” and “enemy.”
Enemy? Does this man think I am his enemy? Before I can even try getting up, he straddles my waist and starts pushing down on my chest with his big strong hands. Water dribbles out of my mouth as those hands press harder and harder, time after time. Is he trying to kill me?
Chapter 6
I'M FLAT ON MY BACK staring up at a giant. His spine is straight as the flagpole outside the Newton School. His eyes scan the ridgeline. His face looks kind of like my brother Herman’s, with bony cheeks, a long nose, and a jaw that sticks out almost too far. He’s wearing a loose leather shirt that has a flower design made from porcupine quills. Does he still think I’m his enemy? Could I get up quietly and slip away before he notices?
As if he’s read my mind he turns and says, “You cannot swim, but you go in Enemy Swim Lake?”
I gulp. “Enemy Swim is the name of the lake?”
The man nods.
“That’s a mighty strange name.”
“Long ago a band of warriors from an enemy nation attacked while our people were asleep. The Dakota fought and forced the enemy to flee to the lake and swim away to an island. So the Dakota call it Enemy Swim Lake.”
“Are you Dakota?” I ask, sitting up and looking my new acquaintance right in the eye.
“I speak Dakota. I am from the Sisseton-Wahpeton bands.”
“But you’re talking English.”
“I learned at school.”
“You went to school?”
“My grandfather wanted us to have book learning. He claimed property near the school.”
“I went to school too,” I say with a smile. “In Kansas.”
“Kansas is far. Where are your parents?”
“Not certain exactly, but they are on a train going to Drake, Saskatchewan, in Canada. Our family is moving there.”
“And you did not go with them?”
“I was on a different train with our horses.”
The man points to where Prince is standing near his own horse, a black mustang several hands higher than Prince.
“Your horse is a fine one.”
“His name is Prince. I left my other horse, Gypsy, behind at the railroad car. I’m awful worried about her being there alone.”
“Why did you leave the train?”
“I didn’t. It left me. I woke up yesterday morning and the whole train had disappeared except for my car. I was all alone on the tracks.”
My new friend frowns. “Your car broke from the train?”
“I don’t know. The next stop the train was going to make was in Fargo. I figure that’s when my brothers will find out I’m gone and maybe send someone back to get me. They were in different train cars with the pigs and chickens and such. But it could take a fair bit of time.”
“Then you will come home with me.”
“To your house?”
“Yes. I have a son about the same age as you. His name is Joe. I am Arden Little Thunder.”
“Peter Schmidt,” I stick out my hand to shake his. “Thank you, Mr. Little Thunder, for saving my life. My mama and papa would thank you too if they were here.”
Mr. Little Thunder nods. “You will ride home on my horse. When did you last eat?”
“I finished the food Mama sent along a good while ago. Yesterday, all I had were a few berries I found in the ravine near the train tracks.”
Mr. Little Thunder walks over to his horse and opens a pouch dangling from the saddle. He reaches in and comes back to me carrying a small red square of something in his hand.
“Eat this.”
“What is it?”
“Buffalo biscuit.”
I’ve never heard of a buffalo biscuit, but I take a small bite just to be mannerly. “Hey. This is good. There are berries in it. It tastes like turnips.”
Mr. Little Thunder nods and points to my hands. “Those cuts pain you?”
“They do hurt some, but not like my ankle. I twisted it when I rolled down the ravine yesterday.”
“My mother has medicines. I will carry you.”
Mr. Little Thunder turns and crouches down in front of me.
I wrap my legs around his waist and grasp his shoulders, broad and strong as Papa’s. Mr. Little Thunder gets up real easy-like and strides over to his horse. That mustang stands still as stone while his master settles me in the saddle. Mr. Little Thunder swings himself up behind me and we trot off moving east along the trail by the lake. Prince follows us.
The sun is going down and Mr. Little Thunder urges the horse into a gallop. A chilling breeze sneaks under my torn shirt and sets me to trembling almost like my brother Alvin does when he’s having one of his fits. Mr. Little Thunder must think I’m going to fall off the horse because he wraps one of his hard ropey arms around my chest and holds both the reins with the other. I’m shaking something frightful by the time the horse finally stops. Strong hands lift me down from the saddle. My mind is all fuzzy, and funny shapes are floating in front of my eyes.
I think I must be falling asleep, but things keep waking me up and I can never quite climb out of the strange world I seem to be slipping through. I can sense my body being lowered onto a bed, but when I open my eyes, I see Herman being lowered into his grave in the church cemetery in Newton. Water washes my cuts and sores, but when I open my eyes to see who is doing it, I see Mama at a strange-looking train station, tears spilling down her face. I can feel the weight of blankets pressing down on my chest, but when I try to shove them off, a vision of my mama gopher appears. She’s biting the claw of an eagle with her babies trapped beneath it. I feel someone trying to push a spoon with hot liquid between my teeth, but in my mind I see a giant one of Grandpa Hugo’s puzzles, a puzzle so tricky I will never twist my way through it.
I must fall asleep for real after that, because the next thing I know, I’m opening my eyes.
Sunlight washes in through a window. I’m lying in a bed.
I can see my toes sticking out of the grey blanket covering the rest of me. I look around. Eight faces stare at me. They belong to people of all shapes and sizes ringed around my bed. Is this another one of the strange things I was seeing last night?
No, these people are real. Just then, one of them, a young woman, laughs. A teenage boy coughs and a little girl starts to cry. Then I recognize Mr. Little Thunder. He’s right at the end of the bed. I raise my eyes to look at him. He lifts one bushy black eyebrow.
“You have decided to wake, Peter.”
Chapter 7
I'VE BEEN STAYING WITH THE Little Thunder family for nigh unto a week now. Mr. Little Thunder went to fetch Gypsy from the train car my second day here.
He left before sunrise, and it was almost dark when he returned. Gypsy looked all tuckered out as she trooped into the yard. I wiped away fierce tears with the back of my hand at the sight of her. When she spied me she neighed and nickered and pawed the ground with her hooves.
“Ah, sweet Gypsy,” I crooned as I combed my fingers through her mane the way she likes. She blew deep fluttery sighs out her nostrils. Even though my body still ached all over, my heart felt a whole lot better knowing Gypsy was safe and back with Prince and me.
Mr. Little Thunder got off his mustang. “Stood right by the train car,” he said, nodding at Gypsy.
“That’s where I told her to stay.”
Mr. Little Thunder rubbed Gypsy up and down the side of her neck and whispered something to her in Dakota.
Then he looked at me as if he knew what I was about to ask next. “No one was there.”
“No one had carved a reply message under mine on the tree or left footprints in the dirt?”
Mr. Little Thunder shook his head.
“I can’t believe someone isn’t looking for me by now.”
“We will find your family.” Mr. Little Thunder started walking his mustang to the corral, and I followed behind with Gypsy.
Joe, Mr. Little Thunder’s youngest son, looks much like his father except his hair is a good deal shorter and he’s more prone to smile and laugh than his papa. Joe’s been mighty friendly to me. He goes to school during the day, and when he comes home, I help with his chores and then he takes me rabbit hunting or we play with his two big dogs, Wi and Hanwi. Joe told me their names mean sun and moon in Dakota.
The dogs love to wrestle and try to nip your nose. Sometimes we use an old horse harness to hook them up to a cart that Joe’s grandfather made and they take us for rides. Many of Joe’s relatives live in houses nearby, and in the evenings we play baseball with his endless supply of cousins. My brother Herman and I used to love to toss the ball around and practise our batting swing by hitting stones out into our cornfield in Kansas with long sticks. But it’s more fun to play with so many kids. Last night, there was near to twenty of us.
Today’s Saturday and Joe doesn’t have school.
“Can Peter and I ride?” he asks his father after breakfast.
Mr. Little Thunder walks right over to the corral and brings out two horses, Prince and one of his mustangs.
The sun is bright, and as Joe and I canter across the prairie, I feel the air blow sharp and cool against my face. A honking flight of Canada geese wings its way over our heads as we pull up short at the bottom of a huge grassy hill.
“Race you to the top,” Joe hollers sliding off his mustang’s back.
Joe beats me easy. It takes me quite a spell to get up to the top. I’ve not healed completely from my tumble down the ravine and my near drowning, so I’m breathing awful heavy when we reach the highest spot. But it is worth the climb because it’s so dang pretty in every direction you look. Fall forests on fire with oranges and reds, meadows high with golden grasses, silver twisting rivers, and deep blue lakes all spread out like the splashes of colour on my bed quilt back in Newton, the one my Mama made me.
I let out a whistle, long and low. “What a pretty place. It near takes my breath away.”
Joe nods and then sits down and opens the sack he has tied to his belt. He hands me some fry bread and pemmican. I’ve been eating all kinds of new foods now that I’m staying with Joe and his family. Joe’s grandmother is a fine cook. The fry bread we’re devouring is different from my Mama’s bread, but delicious. The pemmican is dried deer meat that Joe’s grandmother pounds fine and mixes with bear fat and berries. I swipe my tongue all around my lips to make sure I get every little last bit of it in my mouth.
After lunch, we wind our way back down the hill, mount our horses, and gallop off to a hollow about a mile away. Joe stops at its edge and slides off his mustang.
“This hollow has many spirits,” he tells me.
“How do you know there are spirits in there?” I ask.
“Everyone knows,” says Joe. “We call this place Sica.”
“Sica?” I ask.
“Means unhealthy in Dakota.”
“You mean the spirits that live here aren’t good spirits?” My voice squeaks with excitement. “Have you seen them?”
“No, but Grandmother tells stories about the spirits.”
“What does she say?” I slip off Prince’s back.
“She speaks of a monster named Hand who came to the people camped in Sica Hollow.”
“What do you know about him?”
“He used dark ways to turn all the young men into killers. They murdered travellers passing by.”
“That’s
awful.”
“The medicine man asked the Creator for help. He sent a spirit named Thunder.”
“Hey, that’s part of your family’s name.”
Joe nods proudly. “The Thunder Spirit is mighty and strong.”
“Does the Thunder Spirit have something to do with storms?”
“Yes. The Thunder Spirit brought powerful rains. During the storm, he trapped the monster Hand in vines, filled his mouth with water, and dug out his eyes.”
“What a horrible way to die.” A shudder rolls from my shoulders down to my toes.
“The rains flooded the hollow. Everyone in the camp drowned except one girl named Fawn.”
“How did she survive?”
“She ran to the top of that hill we just climbed and was saved. But the spirits of all the dead still haunt the hollow.”
“Let’s walk through the hollow,” I say excitedly.
“Why?” asks Joe.
“To show how brave we are. Come on, let’s go.”
Joe heads into the hollow without saying another word and I follow. We haven’t walked far before Joe turns around and speaks so soft I can hardly hear him, “Be quiet. Your noise will disturb the spirits.”
“But I wasn’t saying anything,” I whisper.
“The ground talks when you walk. You crack twigs with every step.”
“Sorry.”
I watch as Joe moves forward in a crouch, his eyes to the ground, sliding his feet over wet leaves cautiously, picking twigs up and moving them deliberately when he has to.
I hunker down like him and try to step real careful. It helps that I’m wearing a pair of moccasins Joe’s mama gave me when she noticed how hard it was to fit my shoes over my swollen ankle. My ankle feels much better now, but I’ve kept the moccasins ’cause I’ve grown so used to wearing them. Their soft soles slip easily over the forest floor.
Joe’s story has me spooked but good, and every time we pass a hollow log or a large rock I get a little thrill thinking a spirit will come sailing out.
Lost on the Prairie Page 3