A Trade and a Promise

The filly was swept away like so much dandelion fluff on the current. I neighed shrilly as she disappeared under the water. But even if I had been free, there was nothing I could have done. How could the foolish filly not have known that jumping into the water meant likely death?

The man who had driven the filly into the river seemed not to know what to do. One hand still fingered the handle of his quirt. He finally shrugged and said something in a harsh, joking tone of voice. But no one laughed. Men and women glared at him from all sides.

Just then a cry arose from downriver. I spun around to look. To my amazement, the filly was scrambling ashore in the rocky shallows on my side of the river, about a quarter mile downstream. She must not have been injured badly, because she immediately bolted upstream, once again evading people’s attempts to catch her. Her eyes were glassy and wild, and she seemed too panicked to know where she was going.

As she drew closer, I realized she was headed straight for my camp. Little Turtle’s aunt and uncle had just arrived at the falls this morning and were setting up their tepee frame a short distance away. The filly crashed right through the poles and sent them flying. Blood and water streamed from her body as she raced toward where I stood.

Underneath the grime, her coat was white with splashes like black raindrops across her entire body. Her mane and tail were black. She had been badly cut by the sharp rocks in the river, and I could see pale remnants of older scars on her coat.

I backed up nervously as the filly approached on thundering hooves. I was clumsy in the hobbles and could not get out of the way. I was afraid she might crash right into me, but she came to a shuddering halt a shadow’s length away.

She was close enough that I could feel her breath whooshing over me. Her ribs showed beneath her sodden fur, and her mane and tail were tangled with burrs. From her small size I guessed she was just two winters old and had not been fed well during either of them.

The angry man, whom I had come to think of as Dirty Crow Feather, had crossed the river in a canoe. Now he strode over to where we stood, slapping his quirt against his thigh. Sitting Bear came forward to meet him, putting one hand on my neck to calm me. He stretched his other hand toward the filly, but she flinched away. Then Little Turtle’s father looked more closely at the filly’s spotted coat.

“No two Maamin are marked alike,” he murmured, “and I recognize that filly, for I bred her.” He looked up accusingly at Dirty Crow Feather. “She is the filly who was stolen from her dam’s side in the dead of night two winters ago! I do not know if you are the thief who stole her, but judging from her condition you clearly do not know what to do with a well-bred horse once you have one.”

Sitting Bear’s voice was harsh, and angry sparks danced in his eyes. Dirty Crow Feather only scowled. “I’m no thief,” he said. “I won that filly in a game of Bowl and Dice.” His shifting body and darting eyes made me think of a guilty dog who had taken a piece of venison while its owner’s back was turned.

Sitting Bear looked at the man for a long time, then went into his tent and came out with a finely carved tobacco pipe. He offered it to Dirty Crow Feather. “I will give you this in exchange for the filly,” he said.

The man scowled and grabbed the pipe. “You’re welcome to her,” he said. He called back over his shoulder as he began to stalk away, “That filly is a good-for-nothing runaway!”

I understood that a trade had been made, and I turned to nudge the filly in welcome. She started at my touch and skittered sideways out of reach.

Don’t be afraid, I said. Now you are a Nimi’ipuu horse, and you don’t have to go back to that cruel man.

The filly stood glassy-eyed beside me with her ribs heaving, and I began to wonder if she had even heard me.

I do not trust men, she said finally. The one who chased me stole me from my dam while I still needed her milk for nourishment. He rode me before I was fully grown, so that my legs and back ached. He kept me tied close to his tepee, so I could not forage for grass to keep my belly full.

No one in Little Turtle’s tribe is like that, I reassured her, and the other horses will welcome you into our herd.

I have no herd, she said, and turned her back on me.

Little Turtle and Pale Moon had just returned from their game. Pale Moon took one look at the spotted filly and her eyes shone. She took a handful of dried huckleberries from a pouch around her waist and walked over to us. But the filly backed away and hid behind me.

Well, if she was going to be that way …

I reached out eagerly to gobble the berries instead. Pale Moon patted me as I ate them, but her eyes were trained on the filly. Pale Moon’s father, Red Cloud, came over to see what all the fuss was about. Pale Moon turned to him eagerly.

“Father,” she said, “this filly somehow makes my heart feel lighter. I think she is meant to take Foxtail’s place.”

“She looks skittish and underfed,” said Red Cloud. “I have many finer horses in my herd. But if you have chosen each other, I will not argue.”

He said to Sitting Bear, “I have an extra buffalo overcoat among my supplies. Would you take it in exchange for the filly?”

Sitting Bear nodded, and Red Cloud went into his tepee. He returned holding a furry robe, which he handed to Sitting Bear.

The filly had been standing beside me, watching the exchange with wary eyes. As the coat was handed over, she squealed and spun around, nearly knocking Pale Moon off her feet. She only ran a stone’s throw away, then stopped and hung her head sullenly.

Traded again! she said. I told you men can’t be trusted.

No, it is good that you were traded to Pale Moon’s family, I told her. Pale Moon is a friend of Little Turtle, and she will be a friend to you also.

I knew what the filly’s reply was going to be even before she said it.

I have no friends.

Fine, I said, frustrated by the filly’s suspicious nature. But you had better stop acting up like that. You could have hurt Pale Moon.

She looks fine, the filly said sourly. Pale Moon had dusted herself off and was walking toward us with her hand outstretched.

“Dancing Feather,” she called out in a singsong voice. “Tawts, Dancing Feather, I won’t hurt you.”

Dancing Feather! I said. That is your new name.

I want no name.

Now I, too, was beginning to wonder if Pale Moon’s father would have been better off with his buffalo robe, and Sitting Bear would have been wiser to keep his pipe. This filly was impossible! But I reminded myself that she was only mistrustful because she had been treated badly. As Pale Moon tried to coax the wary filly to come close enough that she could stroke her nose, I promised myself that I would help Dancing Feather feel at home among the Nimi’ipuu.