The Beaded Moccasins Read Online Free Page B
Author: Lynda Durrant
holds out his arms.
"Thank you, sir," Mrs. Stewart says wearily. Sammy tumbles, still asleep, into his arms.
Smallpox Scars takes Sammy behind a tree.
"Where are you taking him?" Mrs. Stewart calls out. She begins to follow, but the tall one holds her arm.
Smallpox Scars comes back with a scalp of baby-fine yellow hair covered in blood.
I cover my mouth to keep from shrieking.
"God in Heaven, no!" Mrs. Stewart screams when she sees the scalp. She pounds on the chest of Sammy's murderer, but Smallpox Scars just stands there stone-faced. Mrs. Stewart might as well beat on a tree trunk for all the good it does her. She collapses onto the forest floor, beats the ground with her fists, and screams and screams.
They wait patiently for her to stop. Her screams turn to moans, then sobs. Finally, Mrs. Stewart rolls into a silent ball.
"We walk," the old one says softly.
I kneel next to her and touch her arm. "Mrs. Stewart, please," I whisper. "Please don't give them any trouble." But Mrs. Stewart closes her eyes and pretends she can't hear me, the way Lady Grey did when I complained about her kittens.
The tall one lifts her to her feet.
"We walk," the old one repeats.
"I'd rather die," she croaks.
"Then die."
They pivot on their feet and walk away, the old one pushing me in front of him.
"Mrs. Stewart," I shriek. "Please don't leave me." Which sounds peculiar because I'm leaving her.
We commence to march again. I'm crying so hard, I can't see in front of me-I stumble and fall over logs and roots.
After what seems like a long time, she catches up and slips her hand in mine. "I'll never leave you," she whispers. We link arms and walk. Mrs. Stewart's hands are coated with loamy earth.
She buried Sammy, then caught up with us.
I am hungry, thirsty, footsore, heartsore, and so tired and terrified that I can't think straight. But I don't say a word. Smallpox Scars is walking ahead of me, and when I look at Sammy's tiny scalp woven into his long black braids as a decoration, and a warning, I don't dare complain about anything.
***
Mrs. Stewart stumbles forward in a daze, hour after hour, day after day. When she looks at the scrap of
scalp, I'm not even sure she knows it's Sammy's anymore.
It must be June. We have been climbing mountains day after endless day for four or five weeks now, I reckon. Sometimes we spend an entire day climbing-winding our way around treefalls, pulling one another up the steepest parts, and thrashing through the underbrush-only to find that we've made little headway by dusk.
I thought we'd be marching next to the flat creekbeds and riverbanks, but the Indians ignore the water and study the sun instead. On occasion one of them will climb a tall tree, high above the other treetops, just to get a look at it. The creeks and rivers flow south. We're following the sun, heading due west.
We're crossing the Appalachians, I think with a lump in my throat. How will my father and brother ever find us?
My new dress is a dirty, pricker-torn rag. My mother worked so hard to make this dress! I watch her neat stitches in the hems and sleeves break and unravel one by one.
Mrs. Stewart slumps to the ground for our midday meal. I must say something to her to boost her courage. At first she was trying to cheer me, but now it's the other way around.
"Not quite so hot this morning," I whisper softly. They don't like us to talk together. Her dull eyes stare into space.
This afternoon I trip and fall over a tree root. The tall one picks me up as though I am no heavier than a
barn cat. He steps on the skirt of my birthday dress, and it tears away from the back of the bodice. I feel like shriveling in embarrassment. He can see the back of my chemise as he walks behind me! But they don't even wear underwear. The five of them don't even notice.
The heat today is fierce. Before we stop for our corn-meal-and-water supper, the old one points to a creek.
"You and your friend wash here, Mary."
To be polite, I
"Thank you, sir," Mrs. Stewart says wearily. Sammy tumbles, still asleep, into his arms.
Smallpox Scars takes Sammy behind a tree.
"Where are you taking him?" Mrs. Stewart calls out. She begins to follow, but the tall one holds her arm.
Smallpox Scars comes back with a scalp of baby-fine yellow hair covered in blood.
I cover my mouth to keep from shrieking.
"God in Heaven, no!" Mrs. Stewart screams when she sees the scalp. She pounds on the chest of Sammy's murderer, but Smallpox Scars just stands there stone-faced. Mrs. Stewart might as well beat on a tree trunk for all the good it does her. She collapses onto the forest floor, beats the ground with her fists, and screams and screams.
They wait patiently for her to stop. Her screams turn to moans, then sobs. Finally, Mrs. Stewart rolls into a silent ball.
"We walk," the old one says softly.
I kneel next to her and touch her arm. "Mrs. Stewart, please," I whisper. "Please don't give them any trouble." But Mrs. Stewart closes her eyes and pretends she can't hear me, the way Lady Grey did when I complained about her kittens.
The tall one lifts her to her feet.
"We walk," the old one repeats.
"I'd rather die," she croaks.
"Then die."
They pivot on their feet and walk away, the old one pushing me in front of him.
"Mrs. Stewart," I shriek. "Please don't leave me." Which sounds peculiar because I'm leaving her.
We commence to march again. I'm crying so hard, I can't see in front of me-I stumble and fall over logs and roots.
After what seems like a long time, she catches up and slips her hand in mine. "I'll never leave you," she whispers. We link arms and walk. Mrs. Stewart's hands are coated with loamy earth.
She buried Sammy, then caught up with us.
I am hungry, thirsty, footsore, heartsore, and so tired and terrified that I can't think straight. But I don't say a word. Smallpox Scars is walking ahead of me, and when I look at Sammy's tiny scalp woven into his long black braids as a decoration, and a warning, I don't dare complain about anything.
***
Mrs. Stewart stumbles forward in a daze, hour after hour, day after day. When she looks at the scrap of
scalp, I'm not even sure she knows it's Sammy's anymore.
It must be June. We have been climbing mountains day after endless day for four or five weeks now, I reckon. Sometimes we spend an entire day climbing-winding our way around treefalls, pulling one another up the steepest parts, and thrashing through the underbrush-only to find that we've made little headway by dusk.
I thought we'd be marching next to the flat creekbeds and riverbanks, but the Indians ignore the water and study the sun instead. On occasion one of them will climb a tall tree, high above the other treetops, just to get a look at it. The creeks and rivers flow south. We're following the sun, heading due west.
We're crossing the Appalachians, I think with a lump in my throat. How will my father and brother ever find us?
My new dress is a dirty, pricker-torn rag. My mother worked so hard to make this dress! I watch her neat stitches in the hems and sleeves break and unravel one by one.
Mrs. Stewart slumps to the ground for our midday meal. I must say something to her to boost her courage. At first she was trying to cheer me, but now it's the other way around.
"Not quite so hot this morning," I whisper softly. They don't like us to talk together. Her dull eyes stare into space.
This afternoon I trip and fall over a tree root. The tall one picks me up as though I am no heavier than a
barn cat. He steps on the skirt of my birthday dress, and it tears away from the back of the bodice. I feel like shriveling in embarrassment. He can see the back of my chemise as he walks behind me! But they don't even wear underwear. The five of them don't even notice.
The heat today is fierce. Before we stop for our corn-meal-and-water supper, the old one points to a creek.
"You and your friend wash here, Mary."
To be polite, I
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