Walks the Fire by Stephanie Grace Whitson Read Free Book Online Page A

stared at Jesse. Numb from fatigue and fear, Jesse stared blankly about her. Soon, it will be over, she thought. I will die here, and it will be over. Death would bring welcome relief from the torture of riding and riding with every muscle agonizing as each stride jarred her weary body.
    At last the pony stopped outside a large tepee, and the brave leaped to the ground. He grabbed Jesse roughly, appearing to throw her to the ground. But his strong arm actually broke her fall so that she landed quite gently at the door of his tepee. His voice was angry as he motioned for her to get inside. The village women and children looked on quietly. One squaw whispered something to her companion, and they nodded and smiled to one another. Jesse gathered up her skirts and hurried inside.
    The brave limped after her and snatched down the doorflap. Instantly his demeanor changed. Jesse watched as he removed his weapons. He turned to her, and she backed away. He waited until she looked up into his eyes. The tension about his eyes relaxed. Could it be that he does not plan to kill me after all? But then… no, death would be preferred to some things.
    The Indian turned abruptly, muttering to an old woman who squatted by the fire stirring something in a kind of bag hanging on a tripod made of sticks. She cackled a response and the man left, leaving the flap open. Sunlight poured into the tepee, and across its expanse Jesse spotted the reason she had been brought here.
    Over the top of a cradle board two dark eyes glistened as they watched the old woman move about. Jesse heard a soft cry that quickly grew to an intense wail, and the old woman shuffled over to the cradle board. Gently she pinched the infant’s nostrils and a gasp for breath interrupted the wail. The old woman set to work quickly mashing grain and adding liquid to make a runny gruel. Each time the infant began to wail, she hurried over to repeat the pinching of his tiny nostrils until a gasp for breath would again stop the crying. At last the woman began to dip her fingers into the gruel and then into the infant’s mouth. He sucked greedily at her fingers, but soon began to wail again in frustration.
    Jesse felt her body respond to the cries and looked down, embarrassed by the dampness beginning to show through the bodice of her dress. She folded her arms and pressed them against her bosom, but the old woman had seen. She did not hesitate to unwrap the infant and carry him across the tepee to Jesse.
    Jesse looked away, pretending not to understand, but the wail persisted and she turned to look at the child. The wail stopped momentarily when the child’s eyes met hers. Jesse whispered, “I am not who you want,” but even as she spoke, she instinctively reached out to stroke the velvety cheek. The tiny head turned to seek out her fingers to suckle.
    Instinct took over. Jesse reached for the infant and cradled him on her lap as she unfastened her bodice. Put to her breast, the child sighed, nuzzled gently, and began to nurse greedily. He lay quite still, his tiny dark hand posed against her white skin. Then he stopped, looking up. As his eyes searched her face, milk trickled out of his mouth. He burped loudly and began to nurse again.
    Weariness overtook Jesse, and she sat looking dumbly about. Through the flap of the tepee, she caught glimpses of Indians moving about as twilight approached. The fire in the center of the tepee was burning low. A lazy wand of smoke circled upward and out the hole at the top of the tepee. Jesse’s eyes followed the smoke upward, and she saw a star twinkling in the fast-darkening sky.
    The old woman intervened again, taking the child from Jesse’s arms. Carrying him closer to the fire, she unwrapped him and laid him on a buffalo robe near the fire. Legs and arms flailed the air. Jesse watched as the old woman ministered to the infant, murmuring softly as she massaged his body with some kind of lotion.
    The old one left the newborn then and moved