B.J. Bayle's Historical Fiction 4-Book Bundle. B.J. Bayle

spattered with drops of blood, and the moccasin boots they wore were splashed with mud from the banks of the South Saskatchewan River when they crossed it upstream from Gabriel’s Crossing.

      The door of the long whitewashed log cabin opened as they approached, and Madeleine Dumont called out a greeting, her strong, plain face transformed by her smile. It seemed to Ben that Tante Madeleine was different from most of the vivacious, chattering Métis women he had met. For one thing, she was taller, and her hair was somewhere between light and dark brown—the way his mother’s had been. Except for Charity, Ben liked her better than anybody. He knew no matter how hard he tried he would never be able to pay her back for saving his sister’s life. To show his gratitude to Tante Madeleine, he helped her whenever he could by looking after the herd of cattle and a half-dozen horses and by cutting hay for their winter feed. Doing it made him feel good; it was like being back on the farm by the Red River.

      Tante Madeleine touched the deer. “You did well.”

      Ben hastened to explain. “It’s not mine. It’s his.”

      “We will share,” Red Eagle said.

      Tante Madeleine didn’t reply, but Ben guessed she would find a way to refuse the deer without offending Red Eagle, even though their own supply of meat was low. Six times he had helped her carry food from her storehouse to those along the river who were too old or too ill to hunt for themselves. Had he known there might be deer so close to the village, he would have slipped through the forest more quietly and kept a better watch.

      Ben peered behind the woman at the empty doorway. “Where’s Charity?”

      “The Vanda children came by to hear her stories. They are down by the river.” The words were accompanied by a smile.

      “We had our meal. After you attend to the deer and your horses, go down and wash. Yours will be ready.”

      In silence they hung the deer from a beam in the shed before they turned the horses into the grassy pasture beside the stable and loped down the slope to the river. Near the rushing water, Ben veered sideways to a calm backwash and dropped to his knees, gasping with the shock of the icy water as he doused his hands and face. Although the sunny autumn day had been warm, the river was uncomfortably cold. Beside him, Red Eagle dipped his entire head in, then raised it suddenly, alert as a wild thing as he stared around, listening.

      The murmur of voices drifted from upstream, and soft laughter, like the tinkling of a bell. “That’s my sister,” Ben explained. Pulling his shirt free from his dark corduroy trousers, he dried his face. “I’ll go tell her I’m back.”

      Without inviting Red Eagle to accompany him, Ben clambered over the rocks along the shore until he reached a small clearing in the willow bushes clustered along the riverbank. Charity sat under an old spruce tree, one small, fat Métis child in her lap and four others in a half circle around her. Her hair, red as his own, but shot with gold, gave off sparks in the light of the setting sun. Ben noted that Madame Dumont had made yet another new dress for her. Below the heavy black cloak, the folds of her long skirt were spread on the grass. Its colour matched her eyes—blue as his own. But his eyes could see, and Charity’s could not.

      He turned his head when he heard a sharp intake of breath behind him, ready with a retort if the Cree boy commented on his sister’s blindness. But Red Eagle was speechless, his mouth half open as he stared raptly at the girl. Ben moved forward, pausing as he felt a hand on his arm. “She is real?” the boy asked softly.

      Ben’s mood changed. “Sure enough,” he said with a grin. He reckoned even an Indian couldn’t help but take in how pretty Charity was. Ben was proud of his twin.

      “Ben!” Charity called, turning her head in their direction. “You’re late. Did you see Uncle? Is he very angry? Must we go back to the fort?”

      “I sure did, and it’s all right. We can stay a while longer,” Ben said as he strode forward to lift the child from her lap. “Tell you about it later. Tante Madeleine’s waiting with our supper.”

      “Someone is with you?”

      Pulling his sister to her feet, Ben said, “An Indian named Red Eagle.”

      A dimple appeared in one cheek as Charity smiled. “Hello, Red Eagle.”

      The Cree said nothing. As far as Ben could tell, Red Eagle didn’t plan to do anything but stare.

      Later, between spoonfuls of potage thick with potatoes and chicken, Ben explained why he was so late, but omitted he had first become acquainted with Red Eagle in a fight.

      “I’m glad you found the poor thing, since it was wounded in the leg,” Charity said. “Else it would suffer. Is it very big?”

      “Big enough so the horse had a hard time carrying it.” Ben frowned at Red Eagle, who hadn’t taken his eyes off Charity. “Haven’t you ever seen a white girl before?”

      Red Eagle glanced sideways at Ben. “I have seen many white girls.”

      Charity turned her head in Red Eagle’s direction. “Red Eagle! You do speak English. I thought—” She broke off, her face turning pink.

      “Four years I was in a white school,” Red Eagle said softly.

      Ben hadn’t thought to ask how his companion spoke such good English, and he looked at Red Eagle with interest. “Why was that?”

      “I was taken into the lodge of Poundmaker. He sent his son and me to the school at Prince Albert.”