It was easy for Buck to convince himself that the bay gelding was deserving of the extra brushing.  Nor did he have any difficulty telling himself that because the light in the barn was dim, he needed to check the animal’s hooves for damage twice.  But when he tried to raise the bay’s front foot for a third inspection the horse grew weary of the attention and refused to cooperate. 

“What?  You tired of my company?” Buck asked, straightening to look the animal in the eye.  The bay merely turned his head, unimpressed with the rider’s excuses. 

Buck drew a slow breath and combed his fingers through the coarse, black strands of the gelding’s mane.  “You’re right, Red,” he admitted quietly as if imparting a confidence to the animal.  “I’m wastin’ time.  It’s just safer out here is all.” 

Although, despite its patches, the barn leaked and its joints groaned with the ache of an old man against the breeze, the barn did offer a safety the more secure school building didn’t afford him.   In the dim confines of the barn there was no black robed inquisitor, no questions to answer, no decisions to make - only the sweet smell of fresh straw, the muffled sound of heavy hooves and the melody of a late summer shower on the roof.   

A glance to the sky as he led the gelding to the barn assured Buck the Reverend Mother was accurate in her prediction.  Clouds laying low and lightly bruised to the west held the promise of rain but the meek bank bore no malice – no thunderous words or jagged barbs of light lay hidden in their folds.  The rain would be enough to rinse the air and settle the dust.  A rarity in August.   A blessing.  Had he only himself to consider, Buck would have weathered the shower on the open prairie and enjoyed the communion with a higher power but his indecisiveness regarding Daniel dictated that he stay. 

Illuminating his path with a rusted lantern, Buck crossed the barn toward the hay mound.  The bay had served him well and needed to be fed but, in spite of the Reverend Mother’s instruction, he felt badly about taking it.  From what he had seen so far, Sorrows really couldn’t afford to share.  His steps interrupted by the methodical sound of chewing cud, Buck raised the lantern to the side and peered into softly familiar brown eyes.  He smiled in spite of himself.   

“You still here, Blossom?” Buck asked, approaching the brown and white Guernsey.   Completely content in her domesticity, the cow didn’t shy away when Buck reached over the top rail of the stall to scratch the curly thatch of hair between her eyes.  “’Bout time for you to retire, don’t ya think?” he inquired of the aging milk cow.   The cow’s bony frame shifted impatiently on heavy hooves, a look of expectation in her eyes.  Noticing the pile of oats on the ground beside him, Buck understood.   The student assigned feed duty had evidently been in such a hurry to complete his task he had missed the feed box and instead poured most of the ration of oats onto the barn floor outside the cow’s stall. 

Buck shook his head disapprovingly as his eye followed the meandering trail of oats.  As if Sorrows didn’t have enough trouble, valuable grain was going to waste.  The Reverend Mother would certainly not hesitate to punish the young perpetrator for his carelessness.  After a moment the harsh lines of Buck’s critical expression softened a bit.  Truth be known, he had hurried through a few of Blossom’s feedings himself.  Setting the lantern aside he dropped to his knees and scooped up a handful of oats letting the soft particles filter through his fingers into the trough.  Intent on saving the grain, he didn’t guard himself against the image of a hungry thirteen year old runaway and the intensity of the memory knocked him backward against the feed box.  The barn wasn’t as safe as he thought. 
  

Running Buck regarded the scoop of grain in his hands with equal measures of desperation and disgust.  Having shadowed his older brother from the time he took his first steps, Running Buck, although only thirteen summers old, was an accomplished hunter.  Not for big game.  He wasn’t old enough to accompany Red Bear into the hunting grounds, but he could snare a rabbit or bring down a deer with his bow as well or better than any of the other boys in the village.  For all the good it did him.  If he had killed a massive buffalo bull with his bare hands and dragged the carcass home to a starving village, the Kiowa would have still found fault with him.  Just like they always had.  Just like they always would.  Two months prior in a moment of utter despair, his spirit too weary and wounded to face another day of torment, he made the decision to leave the Kiowa and slipped from his brother’s tepee into the cover of night.  Uncertain as to just how far it was to the white world, he considered taking one of Red Bear’s horses, but without his brother’s permission it would be stealing.  Determined to find a better life in the world of his father, he started walking with no intention of turning back.  Had he known it would come to this, he might have considered his decision more thoroughly. 

Assuming the white world lay in the direction opposite the hunting grounds, he had traveled south along the foothills of the great mountains.  Treated no more hospitably by the few whites he encountered than by his own people, the young Kiowa runaway found himself debating whether it was worse to be cursed in his own native tongue or in the strange language of the white man.  Not that he understood their angry words.  He didn’t need to.  The tone of their voices and look of repulsion on their faces said plenty.  Running Buck consoled himself by deciding that they just weren’t the “right” white people.  These poor farmers weren’t the friendly, generous families of Camille’s memory.  He would find the prosperous villages and places of learning his white friend had described.  He just needed to keep looking. 

Although nights in a prairie grass bed had left his young muscles as stiff as the ground he slept on and the solitude began to wear on him, he had, at least most of the time, been able to find something to pacify the gnawing emptiness in his stomach.  Having snapped the sinew string on his bow early in his trek with no means to repair it, his diet consisted primarily of jack rabbits that had the misfortune of stepping into his snare.  Using every available daylight hour to search for the white villages, Running Buck limited himself to hunting only in the evening and one meal a day.  At the end of each day the protests of a young body needing fuel to grow were strong, but certain there were better days ahead, he was convinced he was doing just fine. Then the rain started.  

Caught unprepared in the open prairie, he watched as black thunderheads bullied their way across the sky and stalled overhead.  Battling torrents of rain that rolled across him like a swollen river, he had stumbled through the flooded grassland for two long days until a flash of lightning exposed the angles of the barn’s roof. 

His buckskins soaked and heavy with mud, his long hair glued to his face and neck, Running Buck made his way to the shelter.  While the wind took a moment to inhale he managed to pry open the door and slip inside.  Following the sound of shuffling hooves, aided by an occasional flash of light filtering through the cracks in the roof, he felt his way to the rear of the barn coming face to face with the large doe-eyed creature.  Although unknown to the Kiowa, he had seen a few such animals behind the white farmer’s fences.  Running Buck had been confounded by the animals’ willingness to be penned in – to be held captive.  Were all the white man’s animals so lacking in spirit? 

Her interest in the young intruder fleeting, the cow lowered her head into the feed box and resumed her meal as if he wasn’t there.  Running Buck couldn’t help feeling a bit envious of the animal.  Trapped for a seemingly endless time in the storm he couldn’t quite remember when he had eaten last.  The lack of food had left him weak and a bit dizzy.  The pains in his empty belly had traveled to his head, encasing his skull in a pounding so relentless that at times he had to press his hands against his eyes to prevent them from bursting from their sockets. 

Moving a bit to the side to escape a drip from the roof, he bumped against a sack of grain outside the cow’s stall.  Knocked on its side, the contents spilled from the burlap bag onto the earthen floor. Running Buck dropped to his knees and ran his hand hesitantly through the grain.  Not an agricultural people themselves, the Kiowa traded fur pelts and buffalo hides for grains offered by farming tribes and an occasional trustworthy white peddler. Although a bit damp, the oats felt like the grain he remembered his mother pounding into a powder for bread.  He brought a handful closer, wrinkling his nose and flinching involuntarily at the spoiled odor.   

Running Buck sank to the floor in a crumpled heap under the weight of his mother’s memory.  Life in the village had been bearable while she was alive.  Red Bear loved him regardless of his pale skin and brown hair, but rather than take measures to prevent the abuse that became a constant fixture in his brother’s life, the chief simply chose not to see it.   That selective blindness had been the final blow that drove a wedge between Running Buck and his older brother.  Still, he missed Red Bear’s throaty laugh and the relative safety and warmth of his brother’s lodge.  To honor her husband, Red Bear’s wife had seen that he was fed, even if it was after everyone else had finished.  

He had left the Kiowa confident in his pilgrimage to a new world, but his empty belly growling like an angry dog, drenched to the bone and no closer to his goal than the night he ran away, his resolve was slipping.  Although he would certainly be punished for running away, Red Bear would take him back.  But to return to the village, admitting defeat, would only validate the Kiowa’s claim that he was nothing . . . that he was so worthless the white world didn’t even want him.  If life in the village had been unbearable before, the torment would be murderous if he returned.  If not his body, his spirit would surely die.  No . . . No, he wouldn’t go back.  Running Buck rolled the grain in his hand, his fingertips brushing against the hairy, greyish-green growth.  He was thankful for the darkness.  If he couldn’t see what he was doing, it would be easier to deny his actions to himself later when things were better.  Running Buck took the handful of molded oats into his mouth, pressed his eyes closed, and swallowed. 

Running Buck hadn’t intended on falling asleep, at least not sleeping for very long.  Assuming the barn belonged to another white farmer, he planned to leave at the first hint of light and continue on his way before the familiar pattern was repeated and white man threw him out.  But cocooned in golden threads of straw, the roar overhead reduced to a soft patter, he slept hard.  Streams of morning light spilling through cracks in the shrunken siding fell across his face and he rolled toward the warmth.  Running Buck arched his back, stretching like a cat waking from a nap and tossed a lazy arm over his head.  The sun’s rays seeped in steadily like a warm fluid flowing through channels of awareness, waking him slowly.   

Noises.  Daytime noises.  Voices.  Running Buck’s eyes flipped open like a sprung window shade expecting to see a pitchfork wielding farmer standing over him.  What he saw startled him even more and he dug his heels into the mound pushing himself further into the straw burrow.   

Their features were softly rounded like a woman’s, but nothing else in their appearance was the least bit feminine.  Dressed in stark black from head to toe, they looked nothing like the white women he had encountered so far. They stood close together, gripping each other’s hands, so wide-eyed that Buck wondered for a moment if he had grown a third leg overnight.  Following their gaze he realized it wasn’t an extra limb, but the large hunting knife strapped on his leg that frightened them.  A youngster, a boy Running Buck estimated to be a few years younger than himself, stood beside them clutching a metal milk bucket to his chest like a piece of armor.  Pointing an accusing finger in his direction, the boy started forward until one of the black clad women grabbed his arm and pulled him back. 

The two women leaned into each other, their heads slightly bowed, speaking in whispered tones while the boy’s curious gaze held Running Buck in place.  The women nodded as if coming to an agreement.  The larger woman moved toward him and pointed toward the knife.  She didn’t carry a weapon, at least not that he could see, but at a distinct disadvantage on his back in a pile of straw Running Buck slowly complied and handed over the knife.  The nun held the blade cautiously with only her thumb and forefinger carrying it well away from her body as if it might suddenly spring to life and do damage on its own.  Returning to her position beside the other woman, she motioned for him to get up and follow.   

Running Buck’s heart plunged into his stomach.  He expected to be thrown out again but how would he survive without his knife? Although the woman was bigger than he was, he was certain he could overpower her easily and retrieve his knife, but the other woman’s hands were hidden in her black dress.  A small gun like the one he saw an angry farmer pull from a sheath on his hip could be easily hidden in the many folds of fabric.  When he didn’t respond the woman motioned to him again and said something he didn’t understand.  He slowly rose to his feet and followed them out of the barn. What else could he do? 

Unaccustomed to the bright light, Running Buck brought his hand up, shielding his eyes from the morning sun as he stepped out of the double barn doors flanked by the black dressed women.  What he saw surprised him.  If this was a family it was a very large one.  Children of many different ages ran around the buildings, playing some sort of game he didn’t recognize while other black dressed women tried to keep them in the grassy areas and out of the puddles of water and thick layer of mud covering the yard. 

Ushered toward a building larger than he had ever seen, he noticed a group of boys about his age pulling on the low branches of a cottonwood tree, grabbing for something hidden in its limbs.  They were singing, although it was a song much different from the chants and prayer songs he was familiar with. 

Ike McSwain! Ike McSwain! 
The dummy can’t even say his name! 

Ike McSwain! Ike McSwain! 
The dummy can’t even say his name!

As Running Buck and the nuns approached the tree one of the boys caught a glimpse of the strange procession and smacked his friend on the shoulder, pointing a finger in Running Buck’s direction. 

“Will you look at that!” the boy exclaimed to his friend causing the other troublemakers to turn and gawk at the young Kiowa. 

“I found him!” shouted the smaller boy with the milk bucket running along behind the two nuns and the trespasser.  Puffing out his chest he added, “found him in the barn when I went to milk Blossom!  Prob’ly lying in wait, gonna scalp us all!  Got his knife away from him though!  Ya’ll are safe now!” he finished, not bothering to mention it was Sister Beatrice who had collected the weapon and not himself. 

Finding this intruder more interesting than their treed prey, the boys fell into line behind the nuns.  They had never seen a “real” Indian before and were a bit disappointed in this one.  He didn’t look all that dangerous - not like the screaming, wild eyed, savages of their late night story telling sessions.   Still, they kept some distance.  If he was a killer, better he attack one of the nuns who was assured a place in Heaven than one of them. 

“Whatcha gonna do with him Sister?  Huh? Whatcha gonna do?” 

“Do ya think there’s more of ‘em?” 

“He ain’t painted!  I thought Indians were s’posed to be painted!” 

Their questions flew until Sister Margaret turned to face the gallery, her arms folded across her chest, exasperated.  “He is none of your concern.  The Reverend Mother will decide what is to be done.  Now go on about your chores!  And haven’t you been told to leave Ike alone?  He’s hard enough to handle without you tormenting him.”  Turning to the smaller boy she added, ”and don’t you have a cow to milk, Michael Shaughnessy?” 

Buck knew he should be accustomed to it by now, but the predatory gaze pasted on the boys’ faces still made him feel like a cornered animal.  The nun’s order sending the boys scampering away, he tilted his head to the side so he could see into the tree wondering what kindred spirit they had trapped in its branches.  He expected to see a raccoon, perhaps a possum.  Both animals were common to the area.  What he saw was anything but common and he pulled back in surprise.   

It wasn’t an animal at all, but a boy crouched in the branches of the cottonwood.  A boy with no hair and huge, piercing eyes ready to pop from his head.  Rays of sunlight filtering through the leaves reflected off his hairless scalp making it almost glow.  He sat with his shoulders hunched up around his ears giving the appearance that he had no neck.  An owl.  He looked like an owl!  Running Buck had learned early on that an owl was bad medicine.  Even a solitary hoot from the bird in the darkness was known to strike a chord of impending doom in the superstitious Kiowa people.  

Their path cleared of onlookers, the procession continued across the muddy yard.  Adolescent curiosity winning out over caution, Running Buck turned, craning his neck to look back into the tree.  The boy made no sound or attempted to climb down - simply stared back at him with wide eyes.  Running Buck felt a sense of dread blanket him as Sister Beatrice nudged him toward the building.  He didn’t know exactly what this place was, but the owl boy was a bad sign. 

“He was carrying this, Reverend Mother,” Sister Beatrice said holding up the knife.  “I shudder to think what he is capable of.” 

Reverend Mother Mary Augustine clasped her hands behind her back and walked a slow circle around the young Indian.  His moccassins caked in mud, bits of straw stuck to his still wet buckskins and sticking out from his waist length tangle of hair, he didn’t look threatening.  Running Buck didn’t bat an eye as she continued her inspection, running her gaze from the sharp angles of his shoulder blades jutting against the worn buckskin shirt to the obviously hand-me-down trousers barely held up by his narrow hips.  Thin.  Painfully thin. And no doubt frightened. Yet he stood unflinching before her like a soldier at attention.  Mother Augustine pressed her lips into a tight line, her assessment made.  This Indian was a prideful one. 

The Reverend Mother took the knife and examined it closely, then laid it aside. “It is very possible that the knife is used for hunting,” she said, addressing Sister Beatrice.  Nodding to the other nun she added, “You may go, Sister Margaret.”  

“Thank you, Mother,” the young nun answered making a hasty retreat. 

“Where was he found?” 

“Michael Shaughnessy found him in the barn and alerted Sister Margaret and myself. He probably broke in during the night.  I can only imagine what he was doing there.” 

“I should think he was taking refuge from the storm, Sister,” Mother Augustine said, her eyebrows arched disapprovingly at the younger nun’s insinuation.  “And because the barn is not locked, he could not have ‘broken in’.” 

“But what would he be doing here, Mother?  Why would he be in our barn and not in his own . . . his own place . . . with his own people?”.  

“I doubt that he has a place. Otherwise, he would not have been in our barn.  He is not full-blooded.  Look at the color of his hair – brown not black.  I have heard that some tribes do not take well to mixed blood.  He has probably been expelled or abandoned by his own people.  Judging by the looks of him, he is fortunate to have found us.” 

Running Buck watched the two black clad women with cautious curiosity.  They had yet to act threateningly toward him although he did feel a bit intimidated by them.  He wasn’t accustomed to being inside a building and was more than a little anxious about being trapped inside one with these strange women.  Their robes hung to the ground giving them the appearance of floating rather than walking when they moved and the sleeves of their heavy black garments flowed around them like wings.  Black from head to toe, they reminded him of crows.  He turned his head from one to the other following their cackling conversation.  The small crow was obviously in charge - he could tell by the way the other one lowered her head when she was spoken to.  He understood a few of the words from Camille’s English lessons.  “Mother”.  “Sister”.  “Indian”.  But mostly it sounded like cackling. 

“Reverend Mother, you aren’t suggesting that we take him in are you?”  Sister Beatrice brought her hand to her throat protectively as if the very thought could slit it open.  “He is an Indian. He doesn’t even speak English.” 

“Are you forgetting the word of our Lord, Sister?” Mother Augustine asked.  “ ‘But Jesus said, suffer the children and forbid them not to come unto me for such is the Kingdom of Heaven’.  Matthew 19:14.  Perhaps you should reread the gospel of Matthew tonight to refresh your memory.  Teaching is our mission, Sister.  This is a school.” 

The familiar word caught Running Buck’s attention.  “School?” 

The Reverend Mother and Sister Beatrice turned toward him in unison.   

“Yes,” Mother Augustine answered, taking a step toward him.  “Yes, this is a school for children who have no home.  Do you understand what a school is?” 

“School,” he said again nodding.  Could it be possible that he had found one of the places of learning that Camille had described? 

“It appears that someone has already taught him a bit of English.” 

“But Mother. . .”  Sister Beatrice implored. 

Mother Augustine ignored the interruption and continued as if Running Buck could actually understand her.  He regarded the small crow warily as she once more clasped her hands behind her back and began to circle around him.   

“If you are to stay at Sorrows and go to school, I will expect no less from you than any other student.  You will be required to learn English, attend mass, dress and act as any other pupil.  Your hair must be cut short like the other boys.  And . .” she paused for a moment taking in the oddity dangling from his earlobe and the cloth pouch around his neck.  “Students at Sorrows are not allowed to wear jewelry or adornment of any kind.  Nor is a weapon allowed.  Your possessions will be held for you and returned when you have graduated.  Is that clear?” 

Running Buck didn’t understand a word she spoke, but the expression on her face indicated that she expected a response.  Not knowing what else to do and having been taught to respect those older than himself, he nodded. 

“Good.  Now what is your name?” 

Name.  He knew what that meant.  “Running Buck,” he answered solidly in the well practiced words Camille had taught him. 

“Well, I must say the name suits you,” the Reverend Mother said, “but you must have a Christian name.  What do you suggest, Sister Beatrice?” 

Understanding that her further objections were futile, Sister Beatrice attempted to take an interest in the Reverend Mother’s new project lest she be reading the entire New Testament overnight. “Perhaps, Levi or Benjamin?” she suggested.  “We have no students named Levi or Benjamin currently.” 

The Reverend Mother considered the names but shook her head.  “Both fine names, Sister.  But I fear if we change his name completely, he will not understand that we are addressing him.  Perhaps a Christian surname will suffice.”  Mother Augustine reached for the crucifix hanging around her neck as she often did when in thought.  A tight lipped smile slid across her features.  What better symbol of Christianity?  “Cross,” she said, addressing the young Indian.  “Your Christian name is Buck Cross.” 

The boy shook his head.  “Running Buck,” he answered pointed to himself. 

“No.”  Speaking the words slowly and with definition, she stated again,  “Your name is Buck Cross.” 

Running Buck felt his palms begin to moisten and the sour grain in his belly churned into a heavy clump.  His mother had given him his name – it was important to him - yet this crow woman was trying to change it. His concerns compounded when the small woman pointed to his earring, medicine bundle and bracelet, then held her palm open expecting him to hand them over. Learning that this strange place was a school, he had allowed himself to feel a glimmer of hope for his situation but now he wasn’t so sure. The owl boy had indeed been a bad sign. 

Not wishing to be reminded of his pitiful state the previous night, Running Buck tried to swallow away the taste of spoiled grain that lingered in his mouth, but the aftertaste was persistent.  If he was to survive in this new world, he needed to be taught the white man’s ways, needed to understand his words.  There was so much he needed to learn.  This white woman could teach him.  Assuming they were required in trade for a place in the white school, Running Buck reluctantly placed his belongings in the nun’s waiting hands. 

“Good.  Sister Beatrice we have a new student.  Give him a haircut and see to it that he takes a bath. Issue him a suit of clothing and make up a bed in the boy’s dormitory.  I will take him into my beginning readers class until he has learned some of the language then he may advance to the classes for his own age.” 

“Yes, Reverend Mother,” the young nun said obediently, careful to hide her distaste for Sorrows’ newest pupil.  

“And Sister,” Mother Augustine added, “give the boy a piece of bread.”   

Running Buck reminded himself that this was what he wanted.  That this was what he had spent two moons searching for.  But rather than relax him, the warm water of his bath began to dissolve his well crafted composure. 

He was all too aware of the younger woman’s opinion of him.  The mistrust in her eyes and look of disgust when his dirty hand brushed against hers as she handed him a bar of strong smelling soap was no different than the prejudice he had run away from.  He couldn’t help but notice the striking difference in the color of her hand against his.  Sadly he realized that no matter how well he cleaned himself, no matter how much dirt he washed away, the skin that had always been too pale to be Kiowa was much too dark to be white. 

She had given him a crust of bread to eat – but only after he paid for it.  It tasted good and had helped cushion the hard lump in his stomach.  But his clothing and chopped off hair piled into a dirty heap on the floor beside the washtub seemed like a stiff price for a piece of bread. 

He had found a school that would provide the education he needed.  It was just that he never expected to be required to give so much of himself in exchange.  They had taken everything he had – the bracelet that bound him to his brother, his knife, his medicine, his name.  And his hair.  Oh, his hair!  He timidly ran his fingers through the short spikes sticking out from his head like the quills of a startled porcupine.  He understood that hair meant very little to a white man, but to his people it was a sign of strength and the distinctive style, cut short to just under his ear at the front of one side the remaining hair left to grow long, had identified him as Kiowa.  

Alone in the quiet room, his thin shoulders began to shake and he quickly wiped away a tear as his last bits of confidence slid into the bath water.  Life in the village had been difficult, but at least he knew who he was.  He was Running Buck, half brother to Red Bear.  Who was he now?  He didn’t have the slightest idea. 
  

Chapter Four 

Buck intended to take his time returning to the school building thinking perhaps if he waited long enough the Reverend Mother would finish her dinner and retire for the evening. He had wasted a good deal of time pampering the gelding, seeking sanctuary in the solitude and musty corners of the barn but found the building no safer haven than the school itself.  Buck’s dark eyes roamed the long wooden tables laid across the dining hall, his hopeful gaze flitting over rows of plainly dressed children and black robed peacekeepers patrolling the perimeter of the room.  Resignation settled across his shoulders at the sight of the small figure waiting for him at the outer edge, her hands folded on the knotted pine table top, her dinner untouched.   Buck’s hopes for a quiet meal dissipated in a long exhale and he quietly slid down the wall toward his reserved seat.  Mother Augustine would have waited for him all night.  He should have known better. 

The plate of biscuits and milk gravy that awaited him was at least a warm if not hot meal.  Although the aroma floating along the yellowed, cracked walls of the dining hall couldn’t compare to the teasing trail of southern cooking that called the riders to Rachel’s supper table each evening, it was certainly better than the strips of jerky hardened to near leather in his saddle bags.  His presence in the dining hall turned a few surprised heads and more than one full mouth dropped open at the sight of a real live Indian sitting down with the Reverend Mother.  A stern glance from Mother Augustine was enough to turn the youngsters’ attention back to their dinner.  

Buck stepped a bit awkwardly into the narrow space between the wooden bench and trestle table taking his seat across from the nun, his long legs crowded under the simple table built with a smaller framed occupant in mind.  He shifted in his place, searching for a more favorable position, finally giving up realizing it wasn’t so much the cramped quarters but his supper companion that was making him uncomfortable. 

“I assume you found what was required for your horse in the barn?” the nun asked. 

“Yes.  He’s bedded down for the night. Is Daniel all right?” 

“He is in Sister Margaret’s capable hands.  You need not worry about him tonight.  Now, let us enjoy our meal before the gravy turns cold.” 

As if responding to a signal, their hands moved at the same moment - Buck’s reaching for his fork, the Reverend Mother’s raised to her forehead then across her shoulders drawing the sign of the Trinity, her interlaced fingers coming to rest on the edge of the table.  Although her head was bowed, her disapproving gaze peering from under heavy brows prompted Buck to return the utensil to its place.  Feeling like a reprimanded schoolboy, he slowly bowed his head and folded his hands in compliance. 

“Heavenly Father,” the nun began.  “For what we are about to receive we are truly thankful.  Bless this food to our bodies. . .” Mother Augustine paused for a moment, lifting her head just enough for the magnetic pull of  her lead gray eyes to draw the gaze of her former student.  “. . . and let us not forget your teaching, oh Lord.  Amen.” 

The small woman crossed herself again and waited expectantly until Buck obediently added his own mumbled “Amen.”  Her uncompromising gaze then directed his movements as he reluctantly switched the fork from his favored, but allegedly sinful, left hand to his unnatural, but God-like, right.  

Finally satisfied with her pupil, the Reverend Mother began. “What you have done with yourself in the last . . . what has it been?  Three years?” 

“Four.” 

The nun’s brow creased in thought, reconstructing the coming and going of Sorrows’ children.  Verifying his answer, she nodded.  “Yes . . . it has been four years.  And what you have accomplished in that time?” 

Since Ike’s death Buck had carefully chosen the subject matter of conversation.  There was little danger remarking on the fine skeletal structure of the newly purchased ponies or Teaspoon’s predicted changes in the weather.  To his Express family’s surprise, he had even become more vocal around the supper table at the station, commenting on everything from the route changes proposed by the head office to Cody’s recapitulation of the latest J.D. Marcus dime novel.  Not that that he was really interested in the meal-time chatter.  The meaningless banter simply served as a diversion.   Arguing the character flaws of Marcus’ newest “ten cent hero” kept his mind from wandering to places it wasn’t allowed to go.  He had let his guard down in the barn earlier.  The Reverend Mother’s chosen topic of conversation also bordered on unsafe ground.  He could answer her without breaking the self-imposed rule that forbade him to think about Ike.  He just had to be careful. 

Mother Augustine listened intently as Buck quickly recanted the years since his dismissal from Sorrows, purposely skimming over a good many details he preferred not to remember, ending with his employment with the Express.  

“Jacob Evans was a blessing,” she commented after Buck described his first job at Evans Blacksmith and Livery.  “It was such a shame about the fire. . . lost everything.  We could always depend on him to assist our graduates.”  

Buck nodded stiffly although he didn’t completely agree with the Reverend Mother. True, Mr. Evans had given him a job and the old blacksmith was a decent man.   But his offer of work had arisen not so much from Christian charity but as a cost saving measure.  The shopkeepers in nearby towns knew the penniless sixteen year olds leaving Sorrows could be hired for next to nothing and took advantage of their plight.  Still, it had been a job and he had learned to shoe a horse, an unknown practice to the Kiowa, before a misplaced bolt of lightning cut his employment short and set him to wandering. 

Buck picked at his supper considering how strange it was that his years since leaving Sorrows could be so summarily described.  It was just as well.  The time between the blacksmith shop and the day he signed onto the Express was better forgotten.  There had been bits of work available – meager pay for a dirty day’s labor.  But for the most part they were lean, hungry years spent searching for something of permanence, made bearable only because he had someone to commiserate with.   Someone to share body heat and a thin supper on a cold night.   Without Ike . . . 

“Don’t think about it, Buck,” he warned himself, putting an abrupt halt to his meandering trail of thought. “Careful.” 

“The Express is a good job . . . we’re more like a family really.  I’m doin’ fine,” he concluded hoping his perfunctory answer would satisfy the nun’s kindled interest. 

Mother Augustine pushed her finished plate aside and folded her hands on the table.  “It appears that you are doing well.  Now, what of the McSwain boy? You haven’t mentioned him.  Did you part ways at some point?” 

Buck scrutinized the question from all angles, examining it closely, composing the safest answer he could.  “We signed on to the Express together.”  

‘When I learned you were here, I actually expected to see both of you in my office. In all my years of teaching I don’t believe I have ever seen students as close as the two of you were.  I remember thinking. . .” 

Buck shut his ears and fixed his attention on the enamelware plate before him, focusing intently on the scattered pattern of white speckles against the blue background, until the nun’s words were no more than a low drone that reminded him of hornets.  But each memory, each reference to Ike added another hornet to the swarm until the words buzzed around his ears, faster, louder, breaking his concentration.  

“. . .  so odd to see one of you with out the other.  It was as if you . . .” 

“Reverend Mother,” Buck blurted out.  Grabbing the closest explanation for his rude interruption he added, “I’m sorry . . . it’s just been a long day.  Could we talk later?“ 

“Forgive me,” she said, her startled expression fading.  “Of course you are tired.  And I have kept you from your meal as well.”  Slipping from her seat, she added, “We can discuss your intentions regarding the child in the morning.  Perhaps after a night’s rest your thoughts will be more clear.” 

Buck slumped forward as she left him, his elbow resting against the table top, his chin dejectedly propped in the cupped palm of his hand.  He told himself he really hadn’t done anything wrong – he hadn’t lied to the Reverend Mother.  But the green sensation in his belly argued otherwise – he hadn’t told the truth either.  A ‘sin of omission’ he supposed.  But what did it matter?  He would be gone in a few hours anyway.   He would decide what to do about Daniel and ride away with no intention of ever coming back. 

“Decide what to do about Daniel.”  Everything reasonable in him argued that carrying an infant all the way to Rock Creek was a crazy, downright dangerous thought.  Even if they did make it home safely there was no assurance he could find a suitable family for the little boy.  Recent rumors of the South’s possible secession had the town stirred up.  Families, his own included, were already choosing sides.  Who would take on the added responsibility and expense of rearing an orphaned child when war loomed just over the Missouri line?  Still, how could he in good conscience leave Daniel in this place? 

His eyes absently wandered through the emptying dining hall, finally settling on a group of boys lingering at a far table.  Their names might have changed but from all other aspects they were the same children he had grown up with.  Ragamuffins with uneven hair and ill-fitted clothing.  Their appearance would draw stares from children more privileged.  The older boys’ uniforms rose high on their arms and legs – too small.  In contrast, the smaller ones were dwarfed inside trousers cinched at the waist, their hands partially hidden by dangling shirt sleeves.  Nothing at Sorrows ever fit quite right. Which shouldn’t be so surprising Buck decided, watching the boys.  They ‘were’ misfits, all of them - himself and Daniel included.  Odd lot pieces of patchwork woven together by a common, tragic thread.  

“They’re comin’ back for me!” the small red-headed boy cried out from across the room.  “You’ll see!” 

“No they ain’t!” a larger one taunted.  “Your ma and pa are stiff as a board in the ground just like ev’rybody else’s.  They already done turned cold and wormy!  You ain’t no better’n any of the rest of us, so stop your cryin’, you crybaby!” 

“Crybaby! Crybaby!” rang out from the older boys hovering over the small one like a chorus of vultures. 

“No, they’re not!  They’re not dead!  They’re just gone away for a while.  That’s what the preacher said,” the younger one sobbed.  “I know they’ll be back.  I know they will.” 

“You’re so stupid!” the boy teased again, hurrying to inflict a final jab before the approaching nun scattered the group of troublemakers. 

“So stupid . . . “  

Buck tried to turn away, but the pained expression on the small boy’s face held him firm.  The memory crept up behind him, hitting him hard while he wasn’t looking. 
  
  

“You’re so stupid.  Hey you!  Stupid!”  

Buck paid the boy named Albert no attention, merely continued eating his supper.  He didn’t understand the word anyway.  His English vocabulary was still limited, but because of the heckling tone in Albert’s voice, he knew the word was an insult of some sort.  He doubted it would be included in his English lessons any time soon.  He had learned basic words – ‘shirt’, ‘trousers’, ‘shoes’, were easy enough.  ‘Face’, ‘hair’, ‘eyes’ weren’t difficult either. But when it came to putting the words together in sentences he was still lost in a foreign language.  Rather than attend class with children his own age he spent the day with the youngest of Sorrows’ students learning words through picture books.  The sight of the gangly limbed Indian sitting amongst four and five year olds was a source of great amusement to the older boys. 

In two months at the school he had learned a good many things about the white world.  They prayed to a man hanging on a cross in the small room called a “chapel” on the first floor of the school.  The women looked upon the man with the same adoration he had seen on the faces of the Kiowa elders when the Tai’me was presented at the annual sun dance.  The man frightened him a bit – thorns wrapped around his head, hanging there captured and helpless – not at all like the powerful gods of his Kiowa religion.  The cross looked like the one the important woman wore around her neck and he wondered what it meant that she had given him that name.  Rather than the soft hide of animals they wore binding, uncomfortable clothing.  Buttoned to his chin, the collar of his shirt fit snugly around his neck and even his repeated tugging would not stretch the fabric. Twig thin, but long legged, the only trousers that were small enough to stay up on his narrow hips were inches too short in length and revealed a strip of brown flesh between the hem and the tops of his rock-hard brogan shoes.  He didn’t understand at all why the teachers smacked his hand with the wooden stick and made him hold his fork differently.  But the stick hurt and he was careful to use the other hand while they were watching, even though it felt strange.  

There were many different kinds of children at the school.  Some were quiet and took no notice of him – younger ones mostly. They were the ones that cried at night.  Although the smaller boys slept on the other side of the big room with beds their sobs carried across the open space making it hard for him to fall asleep.  Others, like Albert and his friends - the ones who laughed at him for going to class with the small children - were loud and demanded attention.  And then there was the “owl boy”.  Buck had never seen anyone so strange and made a point to stay away from him.  

Buck wondered if perhaps the bald headed boy was one of the children the old Kiowa storyteller had talked about.  “Sometimes,” the old man said, “children are stolen from their families by wild animals and killed.”  He went on to explain that the spirit of the animal enters the dead child’s body and lives in it.  Its outward appearance is human, but its thoughts and actions are still that of the animal.  Watching the owl boy at the next table, Buck decided that must be the answer.  For no reason that he could see, the boy suddenly flashed wild eyes at a group of children sitting nearby and jumped to his feet. With his knees bent, his back rounded he swooped around them, his hands clawing at the air, his arms waving furiously like wings.  His strange actions scattered the children closest to him but drew an audience of others far enough away to consider themselves safe. 

“Don’t let him touch you!” one of them cried out.  “You’ll be like him if he touches you!” 

The panic his theatrics caused seemed to please him and he circled again sending children scurrying under tables and behind the closest black dressed woman for safety.  The boy pulled his upper lip into a sneer and gnashed his teeth for good measure before the women grabbed his arms and pulled him out of the room.  

The incident over, Albert and his friends turned their attention back to the Indian.  Walking behind Buck to return to their places, one of them swung his elbow out and hit the seated boy in the back of the head just as Buck was lifting a tin cup of milk to his lips.  The sudden lurch forward sent the milk splashing down his shirt front and into his lap, soaking the front his trousers. 

“What’s the matter, Injun?  Did you have an accident?” 

“Yeah, stupid,” Albert joined in.  “Did the baby spill his milk?  Maybe you need a bottle.” 

Buck sat the empty cup on the table and brushed off his wet shirt, his face heated in embarrassment.  He didn’t need to speak their language to know they wanted a response. He knew their kind.  In the village he wouldn’t have let such an incident pass without a fight, but the school was different. Fighting in the village would earn him a stern lecture from Red Bear, but his brother would never send him away.  Buck feared the small women in black might turn him out as quickly as she had taken him in if he caused trouble. Rather than acknowledge the boys he continued his meal.  

Because the use of his right hand was unnatural he was somewhat clumsy and had to use his fingers to push the food onto the fork.  

“Look at him, Dutch!” Albert exclaimed to his friend and took a seat on the bench beside Buck.  “He don’t even know how to eat right!” 

Dutch circled the table, taking a seat on the opposite side.  “That’s ‘cause Injuns don’t eat reg’lar food.  They eat dogs.  Roast ‘em whole, hair ‘n all.  Then they snap off a leg and gnaw the meat right off the bone,” he said drawing the stare of a younger tow-headed boy seated further down the bench.  “That yeller bitch in the barn turns up missin’, we’ll know what happened to her.” 

“Dogs?” the smaller one asked.  “He eats dogs?” 

“Nah,” Albert countered.  “They got a taste for white folks is what I hear.  If an Injun catches ya… first he’ll scalp ya and scoop the brains right outa your head while you’re still breathin’.  Then…” he paused for a moment making sure he had his audience’s rapt attention.  “Then he’ll chop off your privates and boil ‘em for stew.” 

“Really?” the young boy squeaked, his eyes open wide, his hands dropped protectively to his lap. 

“That’s the God’s honest truth,” Albert said confidently.  “They like the young uns best.  Tender.” 

He didn’t understand the conversation, but their laughter and look of morbid fascination on the small boy’s face required no translation.  Buck pushed himself away from the table and returned his plate to the kitchen but Albert and his friends followed at his heels.  

“Where ya goin’ Injun?  Hey look!” Dutch said pointing to the wet spot on the front of Buck’s trousers.  “I think the Injun wet his pants!”  

The remark was loud enough to be heard by a group of girls about Buck’s age congregated at the door to the dining hall.  They readily joined in the fun, pointing out the ‘accident’ to each other, giggling.  The flush on Buck’s face deepened as he walked past them into the front hallway toward the staircase.  

He hoped perhaps the group of girls the boys had been intent on impressing would be more interesting than he was, but the click of heels on the wooden floor behind him indicated their fun was not over.  

“What’s the matter, Injun? Where ya goin’?  Gonna go look at your little baby picture books?”  

“He’s such a baby,” Dutch added with a wide, toothy grin.  “Maybe he needs a diaper!”  

Their laughter stung like needles in his back as he continued his retreat.  Buck tightened his jaw, clenched his hands into tight fists and continued walking.   With every step, he reminded himself that he needed this school, he was learning to be white, he couldn’t afford to get in trouble.  The need to defend himself screamed for release, but he willed it to be quiet.  

Impressed with their wit, the boys slapped each other on the back, roaring with laughter.  When the Indian offered no response, Albert grabbed at Buck’s arm, spinning him around quickly.  “Hey stupid, I’m talkin’ to you!” 

The fire in the Indian’s eyes startled the group of boys for a moment, but bolstered by their number they continued taunting, closing Buck in on three sides, pushing and prodding him further backward. Unaware of the boy crouched on his hands and knees behind him, Buck’s step met with resistance and he toppled over the obstacle, landing hard on his back against the wooden floor.  

The impact with the floor stunned him momentarily, loosening the tight grip he held on his anger.  Before Buck could gain his footing and defend himself - perhaps regain a bit of dignity - the boys swarmed over him.  He lashed out, kicking and swinging at his attackers but they held him so tightly there was little force behind his blows.  His struggling only served to amuse the boys and those holding him simply clamped down tighter while the leaders of the bunch punched and kicked at will.  

Buck had taken beatings before from the boys in the village.  It was nothing new.  But his Kiowa tormentors always had a stopping point.  A certain amount of fighting could be passed off as young warriors establishing dominance - too much would draw the wrath of the half-breed’s brother.  Although the war chief had turned a blind eye to much of his younger brother’s suffering, Buck knew Red Bear had been his source of protection, by his position in the tribe if not by his actions.   These white boys couldn’t care less if his brother was a war chief and seemed to have no intention of stopping.  Maybe it wasn’t a crime to kill someone in the white world.  For a frightening moment, Buck wondered if he might die right there on the cold, wood floor.  

Buck gathered all the strength he could muster into a well placed kick to Albert’s shin, sending the gang leader hopping backward on one foot, cursing like a seasoned sailor.  The boy’s string of profanity startled the others enough for Buck to sense his opportunity.  He had nearly squirmed free from their hold when a swift kick to his middle forced the air out of his lungs and his supper from his stomach.  Refusing to be further humiliated, Buck clenched his teeth and choked back the burning bile rising into his throat.  

Thoughts of retaliation turning to survival, he managed to roll onto his side and drew his knees up into a somewhat protective position.  It was then Buck caught a glimpse of him standing in front of the staircase.  The owl boy – the bad omen, the foreteller of doom.  Buck’s fate was sealed.  

But rather than scratch at the air and twist his face as he had done earlier, the boy stood perfectly still as if he was afraid to move.  His arms were wrapped tightly – almost defensively - across his chest and he flinched noticeably along with Buck at each blow.  The wild glint in his eyes was gone, replaced now with a look of empathy.  He looked as if he wanted to speak but his voice seemed to be locked from inside. 

The sound of rapidly approaching feet scattered the boys leaving the battered young Indian curled in a tight ball, panting hard, questioning why he had been spared.  The hem of a black robe swirled before his eyes and an unseen hand plucked him up by the collar, pushing him, stumbling and doubled over, in the direction of the Reverend Mother’s office.  Buck looked back toward the staircase, but the bad omen was gone.  It puzzled him.  If the owl was a bad sign, why did the boy seem to feel his pain?  Why did he seem to understand? 
  

Chapter Five 

Buck would have preferred to spend the night in the barn.  Tired as he was, he doubted he would even notice the difference between a pile of straw and a proper mattress.  But  the Reverend Mother was insistent, stating that  “no former student of Sorrows would spend the night in a leaking barn when a perfectly good bed was available”.  Shortly after supper and the call for “lights out”, Buck found himself climbing the narrow stairs to the second floor where a bed for overnight guests awaited him in the infirmary. 

The yellow circle of light illuminating his path wasn’t really necessary - he knew the long stretches of corridors dividing the nuns’ sleeping quarters from the classrooms and infirmary by heart.  He had walked the hallways a thousand times, but rather than provide comfort, their familiarity bristled the hair on the back of his neck.  

Though the hallway was empty, he could almost feel his shoulders lurch forward sharply as Albert and Dutch shoved him from behind.  In his mind’s eye, Buck could see himself falling forward, cringing as his books and writing slate jumped out of his hands and were trampled and kicked down the corridor by children rushing to class.  “Did you drop somethin’, Injun?” Albert clucked, strutting around him like a rooster.  Buck saw himself scurrying after the Reader and slate, wincing at the punishment he knew he would receive if the Reverend Mother saw their abused condition. 

His silhouette danced on the wall in the flicker of the lamp’s flame like a taunting ghoul mimicking his every movement as he continued down the dark corridor. The steady click of boot heels against the wooden floor echoed through the hallway and ricocheted off the far wall, bouncing back to him.  The emptiness seemed to magnify the noise.  It was a strange, unsettling, almost haunting sound.  

He could have passed by the open doorway on his way to the infirmary, but before he could remind himself he had encountered enough ghosts for one evening, Buck found himself in the middle of the Reverend Mother’s classroom.  He turned in a slow circle, the amber sweep of the lamp’s glow bringing the darkened room to life.  It had been seven years, but the memory was as fresh as yesterday. 
  

They were very young, not much more than six or seven years old.  Each child sat perfectly still, hands folded on their desktops, backs ramrod straight – too intimidated by the small woman in black to do otherwise.  Feet were placed firmly on the floor and even those whose legs weren’t long enough to reach took great care to hold them still.    No swinging legs or shuffling feet were allowed in Mother Augustine’s classroom.  

The small wooden desks sat in perfect alignment across the floor, the Reverend Mother’s larger one situated at the front of the room.  An  alphabet of precisely drawn letters was printed across the face of a chalkboard mounted on the wall behind her chair and a set of McGuffey Readers stood at attention between metal bookends on her desktop.  Nothing was out of place.  Nothing except the lanky, confused thirteen year old Indian at the back of the room.  

Camille had told Buck stories of school and the wonderful things she had learned before the attack on her family’s wagon train brought her to the Kiowa village.  The English words she taught him were easy enough to memorize but she never mentioned how difficult the white language was to read.  She had never explained how these strange marks became words and the words became a thought or a story.  The Kiowa way was much simpler.  Pictures told stories.  One painting could describe the heroics of a successful buffalo hunt or record the number of enemy lives taken in a great battle. He couldn’t imagine why white men chose to tell their stories by making marks across a piece of paper when the Kiowa paintings were so easy to understand.  

Camille never told him how slowly the school day dragged by either.  Rather than sitting in a classroom for hours on end, Kiowa children learned by experience.  Whether it was arrow making, tanning a hide, or learning the uses of different plants, they were outside in the fresh air, learning by doing.  Even with the window open, the classroom in the white school was stifling in the early September heat. Accustomed to wearing little more than a breechcloth in the warm weather, his white clothing was uncomfortable and clung to his sweaty skin where his back and legs pressed against the seat of his desk.  The heat made it difficult to concentrate. 

From his place in the back of the room Buck could see directly out the window and his thoughts began to wander into the expanse of blue just the other side of the second floor window.  He noticed the dark shape of a bird against the sky in the distance and imagined himself lying on his back in the cool, grassy depths of the prairie, chewing on a tassled blade, admiring the gliding, effortless flight of the hawk.  Or better yet, he envisioned a lightning quick sliver of wood slicing through the layer of blue as he tested his perfectly crafted arrows – arrows so straight even Red Bear would be impressed.  They were painted with his special mark - his signature – so there would be no doubt who had made them.  A crowd of onlookers congregated around him.  Even the Dog Soldiers, the most respected men of the village, stopped to watch their leader’s younger brother.  The warriors spoke in low tones amongst themselves then turned, smiling broadly at the young brave who held such promise.  They gathered around him, patting him on the back to congratulate his fine workmanship.  “Well done, Running Buck!” they said. “What a fine warrior you will be!”   His cheeks flushed scarlet, but from modesty rather than embarrassment, hearing their praise.  “ I am proud of you, little brother,” Red Bear whispered privately. The boys his age looked on enviously as he was asked to demonstrate his skill once more.  “Show us again how well your arrow flies, Running Buck!” they said.  He could feel the tension in his bow as he drew back on the string, felt the weapon quiver with excitement in his hands as he released the arrow.  Its flight was perfect, soaring so high into the sky it might never come . . ..  

“Buck Cross!” 

The Reverend Mother’s voice shook Buck from his daydream.  He tried to slide further down in his seat hoping to make himself small enough that she couldn’t see him, but when the nun repeated his white name he knew it was a lost cause.  Buck slowly wriggled free of his too-small desk, his tattered McGuffey Primer clutched in his hands.  His gaze was fixed on the floor as if his eyes were glued to the wooden planks as he trudged to the front of the classroom taking the assigned spot beside his teacher.  The other students in the Beginners class read no better than he did - some of them were much slower and needed more practice - yet the Reverend Mother insisted upon calling him to read. Every day he found himself in this same spot and every day he failed to please her.  

Buck felt a trickle of sweat slide down his neck as she replaced the McGuffey Primer in his hands with the more difficult First Reader.  He was familiar with the Primer. He had memorized the bold letters printed on the pages and could recognize many of the words by the illustrations they described.  The new book was different.  Instead of just one word on the page there were many all strung together and there weren’t as many pictures.  

“Quiet!” the Reverend Mother demanded although the only sound in the room was the soft rustle of turning pages.  “We will begin a new Reader today, class.  Buck will read for us.”  

Buck glanced at the open page before him.  He turned toward his teacher, speaking in his choppy English under his breath so the rest of the class couldn’t hear. “Don’t know words.  Where pictures?”  

“Only little children need pictures,” she replied, her strong voice contrasting sharply with his whispered tones.  “You know the sounds the letters make.  How will you ever learn if you don’t try?  If you don’t learn to read you will have to stay in this class rather than advance to one of your own age.  Would you prefer to stay here?” 

“No,” Buck answered through gritted teeth. 

“Then perhaps you should spend your time concentrating on your studies rather than daydreaming.”  

Buck felt his ears flush red in embarrassment as Mother Augustine’s comment sparked a round of giggles from the younger students. 

“Quiet!” she ordered.  Turning to the boy fidgeting beside her, she added, “We are all waiting, Buck.” 

Buck looked down at the page again and swallowed hard. Suddenly everything he had learned seemed to have vanished.  Would they laugh at him if he made a mistake?  He couldn’t bear it if they did.  He would rather be beaten than laughed at.  “Don’t want to say mistake,” he confided in his teacher.  

“Shall I ask one of the smaller children to help you?” Mother Augustine asked growing impatient with the boy.  

“No.” 

“Then try.  We all make mistakes,” she said.  Such an obstinate child!  This boy had too much pride for her liking.  “That is how we learn.” 

Buck didn’t think he had ever known anyone as stubborn as his teacher. She wouldn't back down – he was certain of that much.  The only way she would leave him alone was if he read her words.  Buck drew a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself and began.  The boy stuttered and stammered his way through the simple sentence, sounding out each letter, hoping they would somehow flow into a recognizable word.  But the sounds were slippery and he couldn’t quite catch hold of them. 

“J..Jan..e  sat on t...he w..hit fenk..e.” . 
  
A shudder of frustration ran through him.  The words didn’t make sense.  He knew he was wrong before Mother Augustine spoke. 

“No.  The ‘e’ is silent after a consonant and that is a ‘c’ not a ‘k’.  ‘T’ followed by  ‘h’ has a different sound. Again.” 

Buck tried to concentrate as he sounded each letter, but his repeated efforts were still not enough to remove the creases of dissatisfaction from his teacher’s brow.  English was a hard language.  It seemed to Buck that the rules kept changing.  The same letter could have different sounds depending upon the word.  Sometimes a letter had a sound, sometimes it didn’t.  Some words were pronounced exactly the same yet had different meanings.  It was all so confusing. 

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then back again, and wiped his damp palms against his trousers.   His mouth went dry. His belly flip-flopped.  His fingers felt thick and clumsy.  In his nervousness he fumbled with the book and it leaped out of his hands.  He grabbed for the Reader and snared it before it hit the floor, but when he tried to find the page again it seemed to have disappeared.  Buck turned quickly back and forth through the pages with sweat slicked fingers. The Reverend Mother’s gaze weighed on him like a mound of rocks, growing heavier with each flipped page.  Buck felt himself shrinking under the weight, growing smaller and smaller until after what seemed like an eternity, he finally found the assigned passage.  

It was too hard.  He was such a fool to think he could ever learn this terrible language.  Buck looked out upon his classmates hoping for a sign of support or encouragement, perhaps a show of unity against this taskmaster.  But none of the younger students met his panicked gaze.   Instead they trained their eyes on their own Readers, afraid to make a sound or movement lest the Reverend Mother notice them and they end up in the same predicament as the Indian. 

“Again,” she said.  

Buck stumbled over the words once more but the Reverend Mother interrupted him, correcting his pronunciation before he could complete the sentence. Hot tears of embarrassment and anger stung his eyes and blurred the words until he could no longer differentiate the straight lines of one letter from the humps and curves of another.  This was new to him!  He was trying!  Why couldn’t she see that?  Buck’s dark eyes pleaded for leniency but he received none. 

“Try again and since you are having such difficulty, perhaps you should stay after class and review the alphabet.  You seem to be having a lapse of memory today, Buck.” 

It suddenly occurred to Buck that perhaps she wanted him to fail.  Everyone else did, why would a teacher be any different?  Did it please her to watch him struggle?  Why else would she demand so much of him? He had lost many battles in his life because he had been outnumbered in a fight or had allowed criticism to injure him.  But this was a war fought not with fists or fragile emotions, but intelligence, and his mind was the only weapon needed.  This was a fight he could win.  A feeling unlike anything Buck had ever felt before began to spread through him – empowering him.  He stood taller and turned back to the book, his jaw noticeably tightened, his anger breeding determination.  Buck held the edge of the Reader against his chest to prevent the book from shaking in his hands while he hurriedly blinked away the tears. The letters distinct once more, he steadied himself and began again.  

In that moment he hated her – perhaps more than he had hated any one person in his entire life.  He would not be so easily defeated.  Not this time.  Somehow he would learn this strange language.  He would learn to speak it and read it and write it.  No matter how hard it was or how long it took, he would learn . . . just to show her that he could.