CAN West 04 - When Hope Springs New Read Online Free PDF Page B

pursuit of berries was my search for new friends. Daily I took Kip for his walks, and each time I met or passed the Indian ladies I smiled and called out a greeting to them. They still chose to ignore me but even that did not stop me.
    I made up my mind then to concentrate on the children. I was sure the children would be more responsive—after all, the children at Beaver River had learned to love both Kip and me.
    I chose the paths where I heard children playing and smiled warmly and greeted them in their own tongue whenever I was near enough to be heard.
    They lifted their heads and stared at me, but they refused to answer any of my questions. They did not even respond to the wild tail-wagging of Kip. They looked at us until their curiosity was satisfied, and then they either turned back to their play or else ran off, leaving us standing looking after them.
    I even tried a little friendly “blackmail.” I took some of my most colorful and fascinating books and held them out to them, showing them the pretty pictures as I let the pages flip slowly by. They stared at the strange new thing, but they did not draw closer or reach for it. In disappointment, I took my books and went back to my lonely cabin.
    I stopped sharing my experiences with Wynn. It only pained him to hear of my loneliness. Instead I asked him all about his day. For the most part it was simply routine. He inspected boundaries, checked on trappers, distributed a small amount of medicine, settled a few local disputes, pulled a few teeth, delivered a few babies, and bandaged ever so many knife wounds, axe cuts, accidentally fish-hooked fingers, and sprained ankles.
    I went to the trading post only when it was absolutely necessary. I did not feel comfortable with the dark-eyed trader, who watched me so closely as I looked around his crowded quarters trying to find the item I wanted.
    He never moved from his spot behind his makeshift counter to assist me in any way. Squinting his eyes, puffing on his ever-present cigarette, he scowled at me as though I were an intruder rather than a customer.
    Matches—or rather the lack of them—one day drove me from the safe confines of my cabin to the trading post. Wynn had asked me to get them, as our supply was low, and he would not be back from his patrol in time to visit the store.
    I certainly couldn’t tell Wynn I’d rather not go to the post simply because I did not like the man, so I said nothing. Midmorning, I freshened up, closed the door on Kip and ventured forth.
    On the path I again met women from the village. I smiled and nodded, giving the customary greeting. They would not look at me anyway.
    I found the trading post the same as always, dark, stale and clouded with cigarette smoke. The trader stood behind his little barrier and scowled as two Indian women made their selections. I did not merit even a nod from any of them.
    I stood back, patiently waiting until the women had finished their business and left by the low door. Then I quickly purchased the matches and left the store.
    As I ducked out the door I heard voices just around the corner. The two Indian ladies were chatting. Surprised they had not already left the area, I stopped short. I knew they were right there on the path. I would need to pass by them. Would they answer me if I stopped and greeted them? I took a deep breath and determined to try it. And then some of their discussion reached me.
    “Why she go there?”
    “Don’t know.”
    “Who?” A third woman must have joined them.
    “The pale-faced one with the dog child.”
    The “dog child”? Why would they say that? Pale face, I could understand. It did not bother me to be referred to in such a way. But dog child? What did they ever mean by that?
    And then I remembered Kip. The Indian women saw me often with Kip. They saw Kip fluffed and brushed. They had watched me bathe him and dry him with an old towel. They had seen me take him with me while others left their dogs tethered at home.