Rose Eagle by Joseph Bruchac Page B

will kill me. You must go far away from me so you will not be harmed.’
    â€œBut that little crow did not go away. He was grateful that the hunter had saved his life. He was too loyal to fly away and save himself.
    â€œSure enough, just as the mad medicine man said, that night lightning struck the hunter’s tipi. It killed the man and set his lodge on fire. The loyal little crow was not killed, but its feathers were all burned black. All crows have been black ever since then.”
    I stayed silent for a while after Phil finished his story. I picked up a stick and stuck it in the fire.
    â€œI don’t think I like that story,” I said. “The hunter got killed.”
    On the other side of the fire from me, I saw Phil nod. “That’s true,” he said. “The hunter did get killed. And I said the same thing you just said when Grama told me that story. But then she reminded me that the story wasn’t just about the hunter. It was about the crow. No matter what, that crow stayed loyal.”
    â€œJust like you,” I said. I hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but I did.
    Phil looked at me. “That is about the nicest thing I’ve ever had anyone say about me.”
    â€œIt’s true,” I said. “I’m glad you’re with me. You’ve saved my life, and you’ve been right by my side — even when I’ve been rude to you.”
    Phil shook his head. “You’re not rude,” he said. “You’re just shy. I know what that’s like. I’m shy too.”
    â€œYou?” I said. “How could you be shy? You’re so . . . perfect.”
    â€œWow,” Phil said. “First you don’t say much, and then everything you say is a bigger compliment than I deserve.”
    For a minute I found myself getting tongue-tied again. It was the way he was looking at me. “I . . . I’m sorry I’ve been so quiet.”
    â€œRose,” Phil said, leaning closer, “that’s one of the things I like about you. You don’t say anything unless you mean it. But, then again, there’s not much that I don’t like about you.”
    â€œReally?” I said.
    â€œReally.”
    We just sat there like that, looking at each other, so close I could feel his breath on my face.
What next?
I was thinking. I didn’t want to do or say the wrong thing and mess it all up now. But perhaps Phil could see how confused I was because he leaned back.
    â€œOkay,” he said. “I guess we better get some rest before tomorrow, right?”
    He stretched his arms over his head and groaned. “I don’t know about you, but I am hurting all over right now after getting battered by that damn bird or bat or whatever it was.”
    He stood up and smiled at me. “But we can talk more tomorrow, right? To be continued?”
    I smiled back up at him. “For sure,” I said. “To be continued.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN
    I was more tired than I thought. I was sure I wouldn’t sleep, but as soon as I closed my eyes, I fell into a deep slumber.
    A dream came to me, or perhaps it was a memory. I was four years old again. My father was lifting me up to the back of Star, his gentlest mare. I dug my fingers into her mane and pressed my cheek into the back of her neck. She smelled and felt so good, her muscles rippling under me as I rode bareback. After a while my father tried to lift me down, but I held so tight that he laughed and gave up. Then he did what only an Indian father would do. He walked away and left me with the horse, my horse. I stayed on her back for so long as she wandered around the Ridge, that I slipped in and out of slumber. I would close my eyes and when I opened them, as if by magic, everything around us had changed. First we were near my home, then we were out in the deep prairie grass, then we were next to a stream where cottonwoods arced over the water. Sometimes