Read Online Captive Trail by Susan Page Davis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Page Davis
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here?”
“Eventually. It’s taken us a while to get settled, and our garden won’t produce until next summer. But we might takein a few girls over the winter, if the parents are willing to donate supplies or money for their board. But we can’t handle more than half a dozen at this point.”
“And now you have a patient who can’t understand you.” Ned smiled. “I asked because Señor Garza has mentioned possibly bringing his daughter to you. Since his wife died … well, he has four sons and only the one girl, and—”
“How old is she?”
“I believe she’s nine.”
Sister Natalie nodded. “A good age. We would consider her.”
“I’ll tell Patrillo.”
Taabe stood in the dooryard with Sister Marie until the big wagon left. Ned Bright had climbed on top and sat with another man, behind a team of four mules. Long leather reins ran from his hands to the mules’ mouths. The other man who had come and tried to talk to her was now inside the wagon.
Sister Marie pointed to the departing vehicle. “Stagecoach.”
Taabe tried to say the word, but the sounds were hard to get her tongue around. Sister Marie repeated it several times. Finally she was happy with Taabe’s pronunciation.
“Come.” She turned toward the house.
Taabe shook her head. She pointed to the low stone wall that separated the dooryard from a spot where the earth had been worked up. The neat rows in the dirt fascinated Taabe, and she wanted to see them up close.
Sister Marie shook her head and tugged Taabe’s arm.
“No, we must go in. Sister Natalie …”
Taabe couldn’t decipher the rest, but she gathered that Sister Natalie had forbidden the others to take her outside for long. Perhaps it was best. She was very tired. She let Sister Marie help her back to her room, where she lay down.
Within a few days, she was able to hobble about the yard with one of the sisters, using crutches the bluecoat medicine man brought. She didn’t like him. He probed her ankle and peered into her mouth and ears and spoke for a long time with Sister Natalie. Taabe could tell he was talking about her. He left the crutches and some white pills that Sister Natalie wanted her to swallow with every meal. They tasted vile, and after the first, Taabe refused.
Sister Riva, who seemed the quietest, took her outside one warm morning and led her through a gate to the place of turned earth. She got across to Taabe that this was to be her garden, and she planned to grow food in it. Taabe knew about growing corn, though the Numinu did not live in one place long enough to cultivate the earth. She had an idea that her old family—her white mother and father—had tilled the soil.
The Numinu didn’t grow vegetables. They hunted and raided and occasionally gathered fruit. But in Taabe’s heart something stirred as she watched the sister, in her flowing habit, stoop to run a handful of earth through her fingers. This was the way white people got their food, through much labor, rather than stealing it from others.
The people she’d lived with disdained the whites for working so hard. And yet when winter came, they would have food to eat. The sisters would have no starving months, the way the Numinu had almost every year. If you lived with the whites, they would make you work all day, Pia’s mother had told her many times. They forced children to work for them and to grow food for them.
Taabe wasn’t sure about that. She didn’t remember being made to work the earth. Compulsory labor had no place in her memory. Were the whites really so cruel to their children?
Sister Riva insisted that Taabe wear a wide-brimmed straw hat outside, like the one she wore over her head cloth. SisterRiva never tried to get Taabe to talk, which was restful. She showed her a small wooden bench on the outside of the low wall. Taabe sat there in the sun while Sister Riva worked. She used a spade to dig in the dirt and turn over clumps of sod. She shook the soil off the roots and
“Eventually. It’s taken us a while to get settled, and our garden won’t produce until next summer. But we might takein a few girls over the winter, if the parents are willing to donate supplies or money for their board. But we can’t handle more than half a dozen at this point.”
“And now you have a patient who can’t understand you.” Ned smiled. “I asked because Señor Garza has mentioned possibly bringing his daughter to you. Since his wife died … well, he has four sons and only the one girl, and—”
“How old is she?”
“I believe she’s nine.”
Sister Natalie nodded. “A good age. We would consider her.”
“I’ll tell Patrillo.”
Taabe stood in the dooryard with Sister Marie until the big wagon left. Ned Bright had climbed on top and sat with another man, behind a team of four mules. Long leather reins ran from his hands to the mules’ mouths. The other man who had come and tried to talk to her was now inside the wagon.
Sister Marie pointed to the departing vehicle. “Stagecoach.”
Taabe tried to say the word, but the sounds were hard to get her tongue around. Sister Marie repeated it several times. Finally she was happy with Taabe’s pronunciation.
“Come.” She turned toward the house.
Taabe shook her head. She pointed to the low stone wall that separated the dooryard from a spot where the earth had been worked up. The neat rows in the dirt fascinated Taabe, and she wanted to see them up close.
Sister Marie shook her head and tugged Taabe’s arm.
“No, we must go in. Sister Natalie …”
Taabe couldn’t decipher the rest, but she gathered that Sister Natalie had forbidden the others to take her outside for long. Perhaps it was best. She was very tired. She let Sister Marie help her back to her room, where she lay down.
Within a few days, she was able to hobble about the yard with one of the sisters, using crutches the bluecoat medicine man brought. She didn’t like him. He probed her ankle and peered into her mouth and ears and spoke for a long time with Sister Natalie. Taabe could tell he was talking about her. He left the crutches and some white pills that Sister Natalie wanted her to swallow with every meal. They tasted vile, and after the first, Taabe refused.
Sister Riva, who seemed the quietest, took her outside one warm morning and led her through a gate to the place of turned earth. She got across to Taabe that this was to be her garden, and she planned to grow food in it. Taabe knew about growing corn, though the Numinu did not live in one place long enough to cultivate the earth. She had an idea that her old family—her white mother and father—had tilled the soil.
The Numinu didn’t grow vegetables. They hunted and raided and occasionally gathered fruit. But in Taabe’s heart something stirred as she watched the sister, in her flowing habit, stoop to run a handful of earth through her fingers. This was the way white people got their food, through much labor, rather than stealing it from others.
The people she’d lived with disdained the whites for working so hard. And yet when winter came, they would have food to eat. The sisters would have no starving months, the way the Numinu had almost every year. If you lived with the whites, they would make you work all day, Pia’s mother had told her many times. They forced children to work for them and to grow food for them.
Taabe wasn’t sure about that. She didn’t remember being made to work the earth. Compulsory labor had no place in her memory. Were the whites really so cruel to their children?
Sister Riva insisted that Taabe wear a wide-brimmed straw hat outside, like the one she wore over her head cloth. SisterRiva never tried to get Taabe to talk, which was restful. She showed her a small wooden bench on the outside of the low wall. Taabe sat there in the sun while Sister Riva worked. She used a spade to dig in the dirt and turn over clumps of sod. She shook the soil off the roots and
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