Walks the Fire by Stephanie Grace Whitson Read Free Book Online

Would they come from the wagon train?
    The Indian tugged at her arm and pulled her away from the creek. He gestured, seeming to wave, then pointed to her. His right hand turned palm up as he moved it side to side across his abdomen. Jesse watched dumbly and stood still, afraid to move. The Indian repeated the three motions more forcefully. Then she understood. It was the sign language she had seen Dr. Whitman employ with other Indians along the trail. But the motions held no meaning for her. She shook her head nervously, fearful of the reaction.
    The brave showed little reaction except to reach into the pouch at his side and offer her a tough strand of dried meat. Jesse took it obediently and forced herself to bite off a piece. Her stomach refused the offering.
    Rinsing her mouth again in the creek, she glanced up fearfully. The Indian lifted her onto his pony again, and they trotted away, this time in the lead of the band of warriors. It was a torturous, day-long ride. Jesse clung to the white mane of the pony, too numb to pray, too tired to be afraid anymore. Finally, the band halted for the night, turned out their ponies to graze, and built a fire. Several prairie chickens that had been shot earlier in the day were roasted. Her captor repeated the gestures of earlier in the day and then offered Jesse a portion. This time she took it eagerly. She sank, exhausted, onto the ground and fell asleep as soon as she had eaten.
    Low thunder and a sudden cool breeze awoke her sometime in the night. Hurling itself across the open prairie, a violent storm arrived. The Indians collected their horses and held them fast while lying flat on the prairie, defenseless against the onslaught of torrential rain.
    Lightning ripped open the night sky, illuminating the surroundings in a freakish light. Great sheets of water poured upon them, and still the Indians lay flat on the prairie, simply waiting for the storm to pass. The white pony she had been forced to ride stood by his master, nose to the earth, calmly enduring the downpour.
    Jesse trembled with fear and crouched low, her head on her knees. Wrapping her arms about her legs she rocked back and forth. She remembered the storms at home in Illinois when, as a girl, she ran indoors and clambered into her parents’ rope bed, hiding beneath the pile of comforters until the storm had passed. She had nearly succeeded in imagining herself there when a brilliant flash of lightning struck the earth nearby.
    The creek had swollen, and she heard its rushing waters come nearer. Then she felt it pulling at the hem of her water-logged skirt. Another burst of lightning and she screamed aloud. A strong hand pulled her away from the water. A rain-drenched forearm flattened her against the earth. She was pinned to the earth by that arm and lay there, face down, for what seemed like hours.
    At last the storm began to abate. It was passing to the east. The arm across her back was lifted, and she pushed away, raising her head to see that the clouds were breaking apart. Stars twinkled in the patches of sky that appeared. At last the moon shone a bright light over the sodden landscape. In the eerie predawn light, the white pony resembled a ghost-horse as it moved about grazing.
    As dawn broke, only the swollen creek remained to tell of the violent night. The Indians mounted early, and Jesse was once again forced up onto the dancing white pony. With a jolt she realized that the storm would have washed away all trace of their journey. No search party would be able to find her.
    Near evening of the second day’s journey, the band of Indians topped a rise, and Jesse saw an encampment of tepees arrayed on the prairie below. The rhythm of her heartbeat matched the pony’s swift hoofbeats, and she clutched desperately at its mane, wondering, What will happen now?
    Everyone in the village came out to meet the returning hunters; children shouted welcomes. As they passed among the east-facing tepees, curious women