EIGHT

Charles was winded. He halted to take a drink of water and catch his breath. Even though the two men following Alan had chosen to do so on foot due to the rough terrain, they weren't injured like he was and were making good time. While the wound wasn't all that bad, his head throbbed and he felt sick to his stomach. A bullet striking a man like that could cause a concussion, and he wondered if he had a mild one. The sickness had also kept him from doing anything more the nibblin' at the rich pemmican his unseen rescuer had provided. He'd forced himself, since he knew he needed his strength.

As he let the water-skin fall back to his side, Charles reached up and touched the bandage wrapped around his head. There was a little seepage of blood, but nothing too plentiful. With any luck, the flow would stop soon. He needed it to heal as he needed his wits about him. He had no idea who the men were who were hunting Alan. What he did know was that their presence meant trouble. One set of footprints had been made by a pair of standard issue army boots.

Alan was, of course, off the reservation. That put the boy's life at risk, along with the lives of anyone helping him. Though the law would frown on it, anyone killing an Indian or a settler who helped one would get, at most, a slap on the wrist. After all, it hadn't been all that long since the Minnesota government had paid a bounty of seventy-five dollars for a native's scalp. He'd hated to leave Caroline and the girls, but it was better this way.

This way only he was in danger.

Kneeling, Charles checked for prints again, wondering about the man who filled the other boots and whether he was army or not. It was curious how men – sensible, reasonable men – could turn white to black to validate their actions. A man would sign up to fight and, in battle, kill as many Indians as he could, claimin' it was right and good since the natives were the enemy. When the Indians did the same thing, they were heathens and outlaws. After the war ended, that same man would maintain he had a right to hunt down the ones who got away. But – again – let an Indian do that and he'd hang. As he saw it the Indians had just as much right to fight for what was theirs as the settlers and army did. And they had just as much right to be left alone once it was over. Hunting them down was wrong. They were a vagabond people now, with no homeland.

That was punishment enough for any supposed crimes.

Rising to his feet, Charles adjusted the water-skin so it would remain at his side and then set off through the trees at an easy lope. His only hope was that Alan's pursuers would stop for the night to rest. If he kept going and they didn't, he might be able to pass them and find the boy before they did. Of course, Alan could be looking for him. He probably was looking for him. He just hoped the boy hadn't drawn the wrong conclusion from what happened. He hoped Alan didn't think he had betrayed him. If he did, well, there were no two ways about it. He was in deep trouble.

While he only had one soldier to fear, Alan was an army in himself.

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The sun was set. The two white men had finished eating their supper. One had gone to the stream to clean their dishes, while the other remained near the fire. Alan crouched in a patch of tall grasses and watched them. It would take nothing to kill the man who went to the water. He was alone and unsuspecting. The army man was more wary. The yellow hair sat with his rifle balanced on his knees. It would be best to be patient and wait for both men to fall asleep so he could end both their lives at once.

Then he would search for Charles Ingalls and do the same.

The white man from Walnut Grove, for all his high words, had been a liar like all white men were liars. There was no other explanation. How else could the two men he had left behind in Mankato have found him so quickly? He had been careful to cover his tracks, using the tricks his grandfather taught him. Ingalls must have wired them and told them the route they would be taking. No doubt there was a reward on his head and the white farmer wanted it. Ingalls could use it to make his farm grow bigger. All white men wanted more. There were none who were satisfied with what they had. That was why they pushed farther and farther into Indian land, forcing the Indian to fight back so they could kill him or lock him away on a parcel of land that was worthless.

Alan shifted into a more comfortable position, having made the choice to stay where he was and attack the men later. It served the white men right to die without honor. They had hung many men of his tribe. There was no honor in hanging. He would hang them if he could and stand and watch as their eyes bulged and their tongues thickened, as their faces darkened and their lips became blue as the sky. And he would laugh.

Then they would be as red-skinned as Jack Lame Horse.

Alan glanced at the rising moon and decided it would be an hour or two before the men settled in for the night. They were talking now in low, hushed voices. He knew they were speaking of him and of what he had done in the town. He was not proud of it, but neither did the act bring him shame. If he had it to do again, he would. He was sorry the fat man in the apron had died, but it had not been his hand that had brought about his death. He had given him warning. The man would not listen.

He would not believe an Indian.

The young man shifted again, glancing longingly in the direction he had tethered his horse. He could not approach the white man's camp mounted and so, was on foot. Stealthily, he moved through the grasses, pressing forward until he reached a spot where he would be hidden by the body of a large fallen tree and the forest of small plants that burst from its decaying skin. Settling in, Alan turned so his back was to the tree and closed his eyes. Ever alert, he let his breathing slow. He had learned long ago how to sleep with one ear tuned to trouble. Before he died, his mother's father would come to him in the night and beat him. It took no time to recognize the fall of his white grandfather's footsteps and to hear the turn of the knob on the bedroom door. The old man would rage when he found him not in his bed. He would hunt, but he did not find him. His hatred made his mind dull. The old man did not look inside the tall wooden cabinet that held his clothes. He would spend hours there, breathing hard, listening. Then as the morning light streaked the sky, he would crawl out and return to his bed with no one the wiser. The Indian boy snorted. One pleasure he had was seeing the white man's surprise when he walked out of his bedroom in the morning and came to the table to break his fast. He did nothing to discourage the man from thinking he had used sorcery. In fact, he encouraged it by leaving feathers and beads and other trinkets tucked into his grandfather's pockets or laying about his room. His mother caught him once and told him he was wicked. He was not wicked.

The man who beat him was.

Soon, Alan was asleep.

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As he broke through the trees Charles spotted Alan, leaning against a fallen trunk, his head lolling on his chest. The boy wasn't too far from the camp of the men who pursued him who, overcome by fatigue, had curled up in their blankets and gone to sleep.

He could hear them snoring.

The night was cold. He was shivering. Charles knew a part of that was the head wound, which left him vulnerable and less able to withstand the elements. He'd removed the bandage from around his head once the wound had stopped bleeding. When he touched it with his fingers, the gash and the skin around it were hot. He supposed falling to the ground and rubbing dirt and debris into the cut hadn't been the smartest thing to do. Whoever had helped him had cleaned it, but there was only so much you could do in the middle of the woods. If things went well, he could use water from the stream he heard singing close by to clean it again.

If things went well.

He was pretty doubtful that they would. Waking up a sleepin' Indian was a mighty risky thing to do.

Moving as stealthily as he could, Charles closed the gap between them. His main concern was that Alan would cry out in some fashion, alerting the two sleeping men to their presence. The boy was a bundle of nerves wound tight as a spring. If he did blame him for the men following him – if Alan thought he had betrayed his trust somehow – there was no telling what he would do.

As Edwards had laughingly told him once before, he had an awful tempting head of hair!

He was about four feet away now. Three.

Two.

Before he could make a move, Charles found himself on the ground with the edge of that dang knife-blade pressed up against his throat again. Alan's lean form was a shadow above him – a tense silhouette against the rising moon and its light that shone through a gap in the trees. The boy's other hand was pressed firmly across his mouth, stoppin' him from sayin' anything.

Practically stoppin' him from breathing.

"You will remain silent," the boy ordered, his voice low. As he shifted and planted a knee on his chest, Alan hissed a warning. "You will remain silent or I will kill you. Do you hear me, white man?"

Charles nodded his understanding as best he could.

The hand was lifted but the knife-blade was not. "I was right," the boy said, his tone laced with an unexpected note of disappointment. "You betrayed my grandfather and now you betray me."

Charles shook his head. No.

"The Army man and Marshal Brush had no way to me. You had to tell them."

Again, no.

The knife shifted. The tip was just under his chin. It nicked the tender skin there. "Yes!"

His jaw was clenched against the pain. Charles drew a quick breath and released it. Then he dared to say, "No."

The knife pressed in farther. He could feel a small trickle of blood. As a cloud shifted and the light moved to illuminate Alan's enraged face, Charles read his death sentence in the native boy's eyes. He closed his own so he could picture his children. His wife. So he could see their dear faces when the knife cut into his flesh, seeking the jugular vein.

Instead, a shot ran out. The knife nicked him and then, fell away.

Charles gasped. His hand flew to his throat as his eyes opened. Alan was laying on the ground, a hole in his left shoulder where the bullet had entered. Turning as best he could, Charles looked to see who had made the shot, but at that moment something else happened.

The butt of the rifle came down on his head and he knew no more.

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The chores were done, Isaiah Edwards had come and gone, and the girls were in bed for the night. Another day was over. Another day of work. Another day filled with busyness.

Another day without Charles.

Caroline Ingalls shifted. She was sitting on the stump the two of them often occupied. She'd stoked the fire so the girls wouldn't get cold and then wrapped herself tightly in two shawls – one short and one long – and come outside. Somehow, out here, she felt closer to Charles. It must have been because she knew he was somewhere, looking up at the same stars and feeling the same chilly breeze rifle through his hair.

My, how she missed her fingers rifling through that hair.

Rising, she wandered over to the fence along the lane that led to town. She was always worried when Charles was gone for any length of time and always chided herself for her lack of trust in the Lord to keep him safe. She'd seen a lot of sickness and death in her life, both from accidents and man's greed. And while she knew God was sovereign and in control, she didn't know His plan. Obviously God had led Alan to them or allowed him to find them. It wasn't like the Lord didn't know what was going on. The problem was she had no idea of why. Was it to teach them something, or maybe to teach the boy? Was it to allow Charles to show that there were honorable white men? Or perhaps, it was for her.

So she would face down the prejudice in their own town.

Most of the people of Walnut Grove gave lip service to the plight of the poor Indian. They said they felt sorry for them, losing their land and their homes and dying of the white man's sicknesses, but they didn't want to do anything about them. Nor did they speak up when others did them wrong. Caroline shook her head. People were funny. You couldn't stop them talking on one hand and you couldn't get them to say a word on the other.

She was going to have to speak up. She knew it. There was no way Harriet Oleson was going to admit any wrongdoing to the Reverend Alden. Harriet would smile and sputter and alibi and prevaricate, but she'd never own up to the scandalous rumors she was spreading about Charles.

Caroline's lips curled at the ends and she stifled a laugh.

It was a good thing for Harriet that Charles was away from home!

"Ma?"

The blonde woman turned with surprise to find Laura heading for her. Her child was wearing her nightgown, but had had the presence of mind to pull her warm coat on before leaving the house.

"You should be in bed!" she exclaimed. "Laura! What are you doing outside?"

The little girl looked chagrined. "I couldn't sleep. I came down to find you and you weren't anywhere." Her daughter paused. "I got scared, Ma."

Caroline opened her arms and Laura fell into them. "Hush," she cooed as she stroked her hair. "Hush, it's all right. I understand."

"Ma," her child said as she clung to her. "When is Pa comin' home?"

Laura's voice was small, hushed.

Frightened.

"Soon," she said, though she really had no idea how long it would be. "Your pa can't stay away from his girls for long."

"What if..." Laura started to say something, but seemed to think better of it. "I hope you're right."

Caroline knelt so she was eye to eye with her. "What were you about to say? Laura, tell me."

The little girl's tears glistened in the moonlight. "Mary's been crying in bed. She ain't awake. She's dreamin'." Laura's jaw tightened and she gnawed her lip.

"Yes?"

"She was shoutin' somethin' about Alan hurting Pa."

The older woman drew in a quick breath. She had that fear as well. Had she conveyed it to her oldest child unknowingly or did this come from Mary's own bigotry?

She smoothed Laura's unruly hair back. "I'm sure your pa is fine. Alan's just a boy. Your pa's a strong man. There's nothing to worry about."

"But Ma, Alan's an Indian."

Caroline rose to her feet. "What difference does that make?"

Laura looked uneasy. "Well, Mister Edwards said..."

Good grief! Not Isaiah too!

"What did Mister Edwards say?"

"He said Indian boys are warriors when they're twelve or so. They know how to fight and how to..." Laura swallowed hard. "How to kill a man, Ma."

Caroline sighed. She'd have to give Isaiah Edwards a good talking to!

"Just because someone knows how to kill, Laura, doesn't mean they will. Your pa carries a gun. He would never use it to harm anyone unless he had to. I'm sure Alan is the same."

"Are you, Ma? Are you sure?"

Her little girl's face was so earnest. And eager. There were words she wanted to hear and she gave them to her.

"Yes, I'm sure. Very sure. Alan needs your pa. Pa is going to speak for his grandfather. Why would he want to hurt him?"

Laura thought about it a moment. Then she shrugged. "I guess it don't make sense."

"Doesn't," she corrected gently.

"Doesn't make sense," Laura corrected. Then she brightened. "I was gonna get some warm milk, Ma, but I know you don't like me to use the stove unless you're close by. Could we?"

"Certainly! We will warm some milk and both have a drink and then go to bed." Caroline held her hand out. "Deal?"

Laura took it. "Deal."

As they walked together toward the house, Caroline cast one last longing look over her shoulder. She had hoped to see Charles riding toward her. Still, she knew that was only wishful thinking. If he and Alan had traveled straight through without stopping, they would only be a few miles outside of the city. It would be at least another week before she saw him.

And she would see him.

As Laura entered the house Caroline paused. She closed her eyes and lifted one hand up toward the sky, petitioning the one she knew loved Charles more than she did to keep him safe.

Then she went in and enjoyed her glass of milk.

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He'd thought his head was throbbing before!

Charles blinked and tried to make sense of the world around him. At the moment it was swimmin' like a fish in one of those little glass bowls. He blinked once more, closed his eyes, drew a breath, and tried again. This time things began to settle. Not into any kind of pretty picture though.

He was lying on the ground looking up into a face hard as iron.

"So you're alive," the yellow-haired man said and then spit tobacco to the side. "Pity."

He was a relatively tall man – taller than him – with hair the color of straw, a mustache to match, and two days growth of beard. Whoever he was, he was the one with the army boots. He was dressed in a dark blue shirt and pants with stripes of gold running down the side.

"Leave him alone, Newell. Ingalls hasn't done anything wrong other than aiding and abetting."

"And resistin' arrest," Newell cast over his shoulder without looking away.

The man he couldn't see snorted. "You just go ahead, Wilts. You tell that to the man who examines him and sees how you struck him from behind."

"Ain't likely no one's gonna examine this one," the soldier growled to himself. Then he added, loud enough for his companion to hear. "Like Marshal Brush said, Ingalls, you're wanted for 'aiding and abetting' a savage. You could hang for that, you know?" Newell spit again and then moved toward Alan. "You really think that heathen over there is worth it? Looked like he was ready enough to slit your throat."

He couldn't really see Alan, so Charles tried to right himself and sit up. It was only then he realized he was bound hand and foot. As his weary mind processed the dire situation he was in, he attempted once more to get a look at the boy. Alan was laying on the ground. From the way his body was twisted, it was obvious he had fallen where he lay, most likely after this man, Newell Wilts, had beat him.

Suddenly, Charles remembered the boy had been shot as well.

"Have you tended to his wound?" he called after the army man.

Newell looked at him and scoffed. "You don't 'tend' a rabid dog, Ingalls. There's other things to do with it. You should know that."

The man who traveled with Wilts appeared out of the trees. Pushing past the soldier, he walked over to where Alan lay and knelt to check the boy. Sensing him watching Brush said, almost apologetically, "In case you are wondering, the bullet went clean through. There doesn't seem to be any sign of infection." Rising, the man came to his side. "I'm sorry about this, Mister Ingalls. Sorry you got involved, and sorry you got hurt. My...partner," he shot a look at Newell, "is a little overzealous where the natives are concerned."

The soldier sneered. "'Overzealous'. You try watching your family burn before your eyes, Brush, and see just how zealous you get."

As the soldier walked away into the trees, Charles looked at the man who had spoken to him. He had straight blond hair turning to brown and was of a medium build and height. He seemed vaguely familiar. Against the pounding of his head, the farmer asked, "Do I know you?"

The man knelt beside him. "My name's Jefferson Brush. U. S. marshalJefferson Brush. We've met before."

Charles frowned. "My head's a bit muddled."

The other man's eyes opened wide. "A little? After the way Captain Wilts hit you, I'm surprised you have a brain left!" He scowled in the other man's direction. "Newell lost his wife and kids in the Dakota War. He's one of the army men who was at the Battle of Wood Lake. When he got home, everything was gone. Burned to the ground." Jefferson paused. "I won't tell you what was done to his missus. Newell hasn't been, well, quite 'right' since then, if you know what I mean."

These were the stories, on both sides. Needless killing and unending grief.

Brush sat down beside him. "I was one of the men traveling with Jim Anders last spring."

Charles could see him now, standing outside by the fence that surrounded the cabin they had weathered the blizzard in. Since Anders had changed his mind about taking Jack Lame Horse into custody, he waved his men off and then went to join them, not revealing that Lame Horse was there with him. Along with the native, he had watched the marshal and his men ride away.

It seemed Jefferson Brush had come back.

Charles nodded toward Alan where he lay. "What do you want with the boy?"

Brush pursed his lips. "I don't suppose he told you what he did in Mankato?"

He shook his head. "No."

"We were trailing him. Almost had him. He'd been talking to his grandfather through the window in the jail. When he saw us he ran." Brush glanced at Alan and then back at him. "He set fire to a store to distract us. There was a man inside."

Charles' heart sank. "Did he...?"

Brush nodded. "He's dead. Now, I don't for one minute think the boy meant to kill him. In fact there are witnesses who swear Alan warned the man and he wouldn't listen. Still," he drew in a breath, "he's wanted for murder and Captain Wilts is damned determined to see him hang right alongside his grandfather."

Charles winced as he shifted and, for a moment, was afraid he was going to pass out. Brush' hand was on his shoulder in a second. "You okay?"

"Right as rain," he snorted. "When it's going sideways."

Jefferson Brush stared at him. He laughed and then sobered quickly. "From what I hear, you are a man of your word, Mister Ingalls. Did I hear right?"

Charles nodded.

"If you promise not to run, I'll free your hands and feet so you can be more comfortable."

It was a tough decision. These men were the law, but it was obvious that Captain Wilts was unstable. Still, at this point runnin' was about the furthest thing from his mind. His throat smarted and his head was poundin'. More than that, Alan needed a doctor and the only way that was going to happen was to let these men take them to Mankato.

He just hoped they would make it there alive.

"You have my word," he said at last.

Immediately Jefferson set about loosening his bonds. When he'd finished, the marshal eyed his forehead. "That wound looks pretty angry. How does it feel?"

"Oh, 'bout like someone took a hot cooking pan to it," he said.

Jefferson was shaking his head. "Jim told me about you. Orneriest cuss he'd ever met, he said. 'Bound and determined to get himself killed, and all for an Indian he didn't know.'"

"Sounds about right."

"Why? Because Lame Horse saved your life?"

Charles was rubbing his wrists, trying to get the circulation back into them. "He saved my family too by riskin' his life to bring us meat, even though he knew Anders was there gunning for him. But even if he hadn't, I wouldn't have turned him over."

The marshal rocked back on his heels. "Care to tell me why? Jack Lame Horse rode with Little Crow. There's a lot of innocent white men and women's deaths can be laid at his feet."

"And just as many innocent Indian deaths can be laid at the white man's. During and after the war. President Lincoln pardoned the Indians who fought. He said they were just defendin' their homes, and he was right." Charles held the other man's gaze. "Wouldn't you have done the same?"

Jefferson Brush regarded him for a moment, saying nothing. Then he grinned. "Anders was right. You are a most unusual man."

"If I am," Charles countered quickly, "then it's a sad world."

Brush rose to his feet. He stared at the point in the woods through which Captain Newell had disappeared. "It is that, Mister Ingalls. It is that."

"So what's next?" Charles asked.

Brush looked at him. "How about a cup of coffee?"

He smiled and nodded his head. Then Charles' eyes went to Alan. "Do you mind if I take a look at the boy?"

Again, Brush looked at the trees. "Make it brief. Wilts isn't going to be happy when he finds out I untied you. I can't be held accountable for what he will do if he thinks you are trying to free him."

Charles nodded and then rose shakily to his feet. Crossing over to where Alan lay, he crouched at his side. As he suspected, the boy had been handled roughly, though it wasn't quite a beating. Knowing Alan, he'd probably provoked the army man, though that didn't excuse what had been done. Reaching out, he touched the boy's good shoulder.

"Alan. Alan, are you awake?"

"Go away, white man," he replied, his words slurred from pain and the injuries to his face.

"I have a name, remember? What do you think? Not usin' it makes me less a man?" Charles hesitated. Then he said what he'd been thinking for a long time. "You know, you're no better than the men you look down on. You think of them as somethin' less than human. Just like they think of you."

The boy shot him an angry glare. "You will not say such things!"

Charles snorted. "I will say such things. You're full of so much hate – just like they are – that you can't see the truth. Someone needs to make you see it." He paused. "Your grandfather would be ashamed of you."

Alan was bound. It was a good thing, otherwise he probably would have been minus one head of hair. The boy reared up like a wild animal, spitting and snarling until his strength ran out.

It didn't take long.

As he fell back to the ground, he whimpered, "Go away..."

Charles pursed his lips. He reached out again and placed a hand on the boy's hair. Alan tried to throw it off, but he was too weak.

"Son, I know you've been hurt by white men and I'm sorry for that. But you can't blame all white men for what one or a few have done. If you do, you're no better than the white men who blame all Indians for the crimes of a few." Charles looked toward the trees. Wilts had yet to reappear. "You're grandfather understands. That's why he helped me and mine. I'm sure he'd want you to understand too."

"Ingalls," Jefferson Brush called.

He heard it. Wilts Newell moving through the trees, returning to camp. Charles rose and returned to the fire just as the army man appeared. He watched as Marshal Brush went to talk to him but paid little attention to the argument that followed. He'd either remain free or he wouldn't. He'd given his word and though Newell probably wouldn't take it, he meant to keep it. With a last glance at the tall blond man, he slid to the ground and rested his aching head on his arm and, with trust in his God for the day to come, went to sleep.

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Laura found her sister awake when she returned to her bed. Mary was lying on her back, staring up at the ceiling. She climbed in beside her and pulled the coverlet up to her chin and waited, wondering if Mary would say anything. When a few minutes passed and she didn't, Laura rolled over to her side and closed her eyes and tried to go sleep. She'd just about made it when her sister's voice sounded in the dark.

"Laura? Are you asleep?"

"Just about," she replied. "Can't you sleep?"

Mary sighed. "I had a bad dream."

She knew that, of course, but she didn't say it. "What about?"

The blonde girl remained silent for several heartbeats. "Are you scared of Indians, Laura?"

Laura rolled over and looked at her sister. "Gosh, no."

Mary's blue eyes were wide and they shone like silver dollars in the moonlight that slipped in the window. "How can you not be? Don't you remember that day when they came in the cabin and took Pa's tobacco? Ma was so scared."

"We been over this before, Mary. Ma was scared 'cause she didn't know those Indians. After the chief came and she knew they didn't want to hurt us, she wasn't scared no more."

Her sister sat up. "But they did want to hurt us! Don't you remember those drums? They were gonna kill us!"

"But they didn't!" She sat up too. "Once they got to know us, they didn't!"

Mary wrapped her arms around her body. "I hate them," she said, her voice hushed but fierce. "I hate Indians, Laura!"

Laura shook her head. "You don't hate them, Mary, you're just scared of them. Pa always says hatin' what we fear makes us feel better, like we got some control over it." She paused. "I'm scared too, Mary, but I ain't scared of the Indians."

'What are you scared of?" her sister asked.

She swallowed. "That Pa will get hurt. I ain't really afraid of Alan, he's just a boy. But there's bad men out there who would hurt Alan just 'cause he's an Indian and they hate all Indians. They'd hurt Pa too 'cause he's helpin' him."

Mary frowned. "Am I like those bad men, Laura?" she asked, her voice hushed. "Because I hate all Indians for what one or two did?"

Laura thought a moment. "Well, in a way, I suppose you are. But you're smart enough to see it, so it don't count. You wouldn't really hurt an Indian just 'cause he was an Indian, would you?"

Her sister thought long and hard. Finally, she said, "No. I wouldn't."

"What are you two up to?" a soft voice asked. "You should be sleeping."

They turned at the same time. Ma was just about up the ladder.

"Sorry, Ma," Mary said. "I had a bad dream. Laura was helping me get past it."

Their mother came to their bed and sat on the side of it. She indicated they should both lay down and then pulled the coverlet up to their chins. She looked at Mary first and then at her. "You're worried about your pa."

They both nodded.

"Well, so am I." Ma smiled. "Now, what do you suppose we should do about that?"

Laura knitted her brows together. "I suppose we could pray."

Her mother reached out and pushed a lock of hair away from her eyes. "I think that's a very good idea. Who would like to start?"

"You go ahead, Ma," Mary said.

"All right. You next then, and Laura, you finish up."

She nodded and closed her eyes.

"Dear Heavenly father," her mother said, her voice soft and sweet, "please take care of our beloved husband and father. Give him the strength and courage he needs to do what he has to do and then make his path easy and straight back to us." She paused. "Mary?"

Her sister cleared her throat. "I want to ask You to keep Pa safe too, God," she said, "but first of all, I want to ask you to help me not be afraid of the Indians and to see that they're people, just like us." She was silent a moment and then finished, "Please God, keep Pa safe. Bring him home soon."

There was a moment of silence into which her mother's voice came. "Laura?"

She twisted her lips and thought a moment. Ma and Mary had already asked God to keep Pa safe, so she was afraid God would think she didn't believe He was gonna do it if she asked again. The same thing went for askin' about Mary and the Indians.

What was a girl to do?

In the end she decided to pray for Alan.

"Hello God," she started. "Thank you for hearing Ma and Mary's prayers. I got one to add of my own. You know Alan, God, since you made him. He's awful angry and I think he's hurtin' too. My pa's tryin' to help him. Please help Pa do that. Please help Pa show him that not all white people are bad, that some of us are nice, and that we think Indians are nice too."

After a moment her mother asked, "And?"

Laura opened one eye to find her mother watching her.

"Is it not trustin' God if I ask Him to keep Pa safe too after you and Mary did?"

Her mother's smile was soft. "You go ahead. God hears every prayer."

She clamped her eyes shut again. "And please keep Pa safe 'cause we love him. Amen."

When she looked again, her mother had tears in her eyes. She sniffed them back as she kissed each of them on the forehead and rose to her feet.

"Sleep tight," she whispered, and was gone.