One of the Indians saw us together and rushed at us. I fell away in terror as he grabbed Patey’s hand and held it aloft, shouting. He dropped her hand and lay in the dirt. The man holding the bearskin turned and danced toward him and jumped over him. He swung it around Patience then jumped over his friend again.
All the Indians circled her, reached toward her, touching her arms and skirt and hair. She turned back and forth, frightened, holding her arms close to her bosom, tears upon each cheek. I heard her moan when one last man reached forth and touched her bonnet, pulling it from her head. Her long red hair fell from its binding and rolled down her back in curls. They stopped what they were doing and got quiet. When the Indians laid the bearskin upon the ground and bade Patey sit upon it, I felt proud for her and relieved, for I knew they meant her no harm. I suppose I might have been frightened for her, for later on that day I realized just how terrifying it would have been, had it been me they had chosen, but at the time I was most interested in the pantomime of the bear crossing Patience without harming her, and her rising up almost under it, causing the animal to rear and step away.
The man who spoke English came to her and said, “Gude woe-man. Shield of Owasso. Gude woe-man.” He took a bracelet off his arm and handed it to her.
Patience took the bracelet and nodded, but I suppose she was too surprised to smile. She placed it upon her arm where it hung, for his arms were meaty and strong and hers as lithe and delicate as a deer’s leg. He smiled then, pointed to her, grunted, and said, “Shield of Owasso,” in English, and something else in their language. All the Indians got quiet, waiting for something to happen or perhaps for Patience to do something. When the quiet became long, indeed, she looked about her. The Indian man who had fallen into the coals sat alone, his face braced against the pain.
Patience stood and the Indians all made small noises, watching her. She went to the fireside and, with her skirt as a pot holder, lifted one of the kettles of rendering bear fat by the handle and took it to the bearskin. She went to the man with holes in his shirt and tapped on his shoulder. He looked up at her but did not move. The other Indians stepped back, as if they had no idea what she was doing, when I knew in an instant. Patey grabbed the man’s shirt sleeve and tugged, saying, “Come here so I can help or you’ll take a fever. Come on. Over here. Right there, sit,” and she motioned to the bearskin. Indians gathered all around so I had to squeeze between two of them to see.
With tugging and motioning with her hands, Patience bade the man remove his shirt! Once he knew it, he did as she asked him, and though he resisted her pointing to the mat several times, at last she made him sit upon the skin. She dipped part of her apron into the bear grease, testing it so that it was not too hot, and began dressing the burns on his back. When the apron would not reach high enough, for it was naught but threads anyway and was sewn to her bodice in such a way that she could not remove it, she stopped. In a moment, she pulled her beautiful red hair over her shoulder and dipped the ends of it into the bear oil, using that to dress his wounds.
The sigh that went up from the Indians was as if they thought she was a saint performing some miracle. When Patience was satisfied that his back was as clean as she could get it, she rose and put the kettle back near the coals, now glowing from the earlier revelry. As she did, I moved toward her. She wrapped her arm about my shoulders. I held to her with both arms about her middle. She drew a breath and said toward the Indians, “If you will honor me, honor also my sister.” She led me to the bearskin. One of them stopped me. No matter what Patience did with movements of her hands, he would not allow me to join her in sitting upon the bearskin. The Indian I had wakened with the news of the bear spoke up then, and told that part of the story. The Indians murmured.
Reverend Johansen stood in the circle of captives so I said to him, “Sir, I pray you, tell us what they say.”
He shook his head. “The words I know are of some other tribe, I fear,” he said, but in his voice I heard a tremble, as if the words were not Indian words at all.
One of the Indians spoke to the others and they began to pack up the night’s merriment. They pushed Patience and me to the front of the line, and in a short while, before I was tired at all, my companion bade me climb upon his back again. I was happy to ride there, and fell asleep there, knowing Patey walked behind me.