Scarlet Plume, Second Edition by Frederick Manfred Read Free Book Online

his heart receptive to the Christian message.”
    A look of calm gravity lay upon Scarlet Plume’s broad face. Too calm. His full, liberal lips were as if graven upon weathered copper. His breath came as if by afterthought, occasionally, barely lifting his powerful chest. Only his black eyes were alive. They were intent, brilliant, deep-set under the smooth dark eyebrow. His air reminded her of a picture she had once seen of a puma—full of pounce and just barely restrained.
    Abruptly, for a fleeting second, hardly longer than the blink of an eye, a superior grimace touched his full carven lips. Then it was gone.
    Almost immediately after, tears started in the corners of his eyes. A few of them ran down each cheek. And equally suddenly, the tears stopped. The quick tears made vividly real for Judith the story that in ancient times the Sioux chiefs were known to be great weepers, that they made much of letting their tears fall on the heads of those about whom they knew something bad.
    Before Judith could wonder what next, Scarlet Plume’s other hand came from behind him, where he had been hiding it all along, and he threw something at her feet. The thing was ashen gray, and fluffy, and rather large. It flopped over twice, and rolled under the oak table.
    Judith stared at it. Why, it was a dead goose. Scarlet Plume had brought them a present. Something to eat.
    “Why,” she began, “how kind of you to—”
    But when she looked up, the doorway was empty. Scarlet Plume had vanished as abruptly as he had come.
    She got to her feet, hand to her brow. Her gray dress and apron fell to her ankles. She swept to the door and looked out. Scarlet Plume was nowhere in sight. Not even the grass was bent to show where he might have gone.
    She went over to the table and bent down to pick up the whitish gray fowl. The bird was quite heavy. It had a long, slim neck, and black bill and legs.
    “Why, it’s a wild swan. A young one. The kind Claude calls the trumpeter.”
    She examined the wild cygnet more closely. Its neck was broken. The bird had been strangled, and then, seemingly, its neck had been deliberately broken.
    This meant something. She had heard Theodosia and Claude talk about Indian sign a number of times. Scarlet Plume had thrown the wild swan under the table for a reason. As a runner and newswalker, he probably knew something. Tribal custom, perhaps the grim soldiers’ lodge, forbade him to speak of it. But the soldiers’ lodge could not prevent him from leaving mute sign about.
    As she was turning the dead bird over yet again, stroking its miraculously soft down, she heard footsteps on the path outside. It was Theodosia. Ah, her sister would know what the sign meant.
    Theodosia stepped into the cabin with a swishing of long skirts. She wore blacks mostly: high black kid shoes, black dress, and gray sunbonnet. She was slender and quite tall, much like Judith herself. But where Judith walked with easy grace, Theodosia had stiff knees. And where Judith’s cheeks had the clean pink glow of vigor, Theodosia’s face was grainy and blotched over with freckles.
    The eyes were the life of Theodosia. Hazel and gentle, they were full of Christian forbearance. They drew one with their sweet compassionate expression. They were the type men revered, would think of as mother eyes. Lust, passion, even simple man-woman love were foreign to them. Judith, in fact, had often wondered how Theodosia and Claude had ever gotten around to having children. Mavis Harder, more frank about such matters, had laughingly remarked one day that the two pure-in-hearts had probably cohabited while sound asleep, maybe while sharing the same deep dream.
    “Theodosia, am I glad to see you!” Judith gave her sister a quick smile. “A strange thing happened. An Indian brought me this only a minute ago. Wild fowl.”
    A serene expression opened Theodosia’s pale lips. “How nice. We’ve not had goose for supper in some time.” She took the wild swan