Harrison Investigations 2 Ghost Walk Read Online Free PDF Page B

Buffalo Woman. He'd come with a group called the Wild Chieftains, and since he had something of a reputation as a storyteller, he'd been asked to tell a few legends to the children. They weren't all Indian, and that pleased him. The children represented local tribes, such as the Miccosukee and Seminole, along with Cree, Creek, Cherokee and others. There were also a number of African-Americans, Hispanics and whatever mix the so-called "whites" might be. He'd heard British and German accents in the crowd, so even the tourists had come out for the festival.
    "The truth is, every group has its own legend. The Great Spirit is God to some and Allah to others. There are many paths a man—or woman—might take to reach the same place. The important part of the story is that we all need to respect and take care of one another, and respect the earth, as well," Brent said, grinning.
    Then his grin faded as he looked past the children, and saw, in the group of adults standing behind them, a familiar face.
    A too-familiar face. That of a man he knew well.
    But hadn't he been expecting him?
    "Are you really a Lakota?" one of the little girls asked him. "Your eyes are green."
    "Oh, Heidi," Michael Tiger said, sighing, as if he were possessed of a great deal more wisdom than she, a younger child, and a
girl
. "My sister's eyes are blue, because my stepmother is mostly German. People mix up."
    "Was your mother mostly German?" the girl asked.
    He grinned. "Irish," he told her.
    "But your father was all Lakota?" Michael asked hopefully.
    "How about this—my grandfather, Chief Soaring Blackhawk, was all Lakota," Brent said. He could feel the eyes of Adam Harrison boring into him as he spoke. He could also see the man's smile. Adam was very much enjoying the way the children were putting him on the spot.
    "Is it easier to be only half-Indian?" Susan asked, her tone serious.
    Brent ignored Adam for a moment, hunkering down in front of the little girl. "Let's hope that very soon it won't matter whether we're red, black, tan, yellow, white… male or female. Or whether we believe in the White Buffalo Woman, the teachings of Buddha, Allah or God."
    "Yeah!" The little girl turned to stare at Michael.
    "She is really smart," Michael told Brent grudgingly. "She makes the best grades in school. Especially in math." He made a face.
    "I said I'd help you," the girl protested.
    Brent had a feeling he was watching a budding romance. "Take her up on it, eh, Tiger?" he said, and smiling, he waved a hand, starting away from the group that had gathered around him. His departure was acknowledged with a nice round of applause. He smiled, waved again, and Adam caught up with him.
    "You've got quite a talent there," Adam told him.
    Brent shrugged. "Kids like fables from any land, about any people." He stopped walking and stared at Adam. "All right, why did you track me down?"
    "I need you to go to New Orleans."
    Brent groaned inwardly as a wave of dread washed over him. He avoided New Orleans like the plague. Not that he disliked the city. It was full of wonderful people, great food, incredible music.
    But it was one of the places a man such as himself should never go.
    "New Orleans," he muttered bitterly. He stared at Adam, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I'm supposed to be back at the Pine Ridge Reservation on Tuesday," he said.
    "You're needed?" Adam said.
    "Every man is needed," Brent told him.
    Adam smiled, looking away from the area where the festival was taking place, out to the rich areas of saw-grass that seemed to stretch forever, though the road, the Tamiami Trail, was really within a few hundred feet.
    "Your eyes
are
green," Adam commented, looking at him again.
    "And what is that supposed to mean?" Brent asked.
    "Well, I just listened to you give the most marvelous speech to those children. About acceptance."
    "Yes?"
    Adam smiled. "Heritage is a wonderful thing. The Irish arrived after a potato famine. Italians poured into the