Comanche Moon by Virginia Brown

get there, they had to cross the stream and pass the meadow where the horses roamed.
    Deborah watched curiously as young boys played in the tall grass, pretending to be warriors, she supposed. They had small bows and arrows and gave chillingly realistic whoops that reminded her of that night at the Velazquez hacienda. Some of the horses snorted and shied away, and a man shouted angrily at the boys as they played too near.
    Ropes trailed from many of the animals, and Deborah watched as the man caught one of the horses by the end of the braided leather. It seemed that the horses most often used were haltered with a rope and allowed to roam free, while the others grazed in the high, lush grass. It gave Deborah an idea that was both startling and terrifying.
    She was still lost in thought when they reached the prickly line of bushes atop the crest, and paused to sink down on a flat stone. Sunflower sat down and removed her moccasin, frowning at a stone she shook out. She muttered something in Comanche and slid her foot back into the shoe. Then she looked up at Deborah.
    “I’m ready,” Deborah said slowly, and saw the comprehension in the girl’s face. Sunflower could understand some English, she’d decided. She wasn’t certain how much, but there were times Deborah had made herself well understood.
    “Kima.” Sunflower rose, dusted off her skirt with one hand, and picked up her basket.
    They walked carefully down the line of bushes. Some of the limbs were so heavy with fruit they brushed along the ground. Laughing, both of them ate almost as many berries as they picked. Sweet, sticky juice smeared their hands and mouths and stained their clothes. It was a satisfying morning, with the heat of the sun and the delicious taste of berries on her tongue.
    Deborah grew drowsy, her eyelids drooping. She saw that Sunflower was sleepy also, and they sat down in the shade of a cottonwood to rest. Birds sang loudly overhead, and the wind cooled clothes that had grown damp with perspiration. Deborah loosened her hair, as it had become tangled in the long thorns of the blackberry bushes and pulled loose from the neat braid. She lifted it from her neck and closed her eyes for a moment, heavy strands spilling over her hands and arms in a light, tickling wave.
    “It’s beautiful out here,” she said softly, not knowing if Sunflower could understand all her words but compelled to offer conversation. “I understand why people would want to live so simply. Before, it was always a mystery to me. I’m afraid that my people consider Indians— all Indians—to be little more than savages. They’re wrong.” She curled her arms around her drawn-up knees and smiled at the listening girl. “Haitsi. Haa?” Sunflower smiled back at her. “Haitsíi—haa.” She’d made some sort of distinction in the word, and it had taken on a different meaning, Deborah realized. Sunflower’s sweet smile and soft eyes conveyed only friendship, so she knew it had been a pleasant difference.
    “ Ura. Thank you.”
    Sunflower looked away from her, back toward the valley where the tipis were scattered beside the cool waters of the stream. Deborah sensed that she was troubled, and wished the language barrier could be bridged.

    “I don’t know what is the matter,” she began hesitantly, “but I wish I could help. You are very pretty, and very nice to me, and I do not like to see you sad.”
    Sunflower flashed her a startled glance. Surging to her feet, the girl seemed about to say something, her mouth quivering slightly. Then she gave a shake of her head, and the long, dark tails of hair over each shoulder swung violently.
    “Yaa,” she muttered. There was confusion in her eyes, and Deborah lapsed into silence.
    She wondered how it would affect this girl when she and Judith managed to escape. She prayed that escape was possible, prayed that no one would be hurt. A lingering doubt jabbed at her, the doubt that they would even be able to find the way