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want the white man’s charity and he did not show up at the fort on ration day.
    Zuniga sighed heavily. If only he had been born fifty years earlier. The Indian had been supreme then. Apache, Kiowa, Comanche, Sioux, Arapahoe, Crow, Cheyenne, all the tribes that had once ruled the vast plains and prairies west of the Missouri had been subdued by the whites, forced off their native homeland and confined to reservations.
    Thoughts of the whites brought Loralee Warfield to mind. He was drawn to her in a way he could not understand or explain. His dreams were filled with her golden image, his thoughts were never far from her. He wondered if she was as aware of him as he was of her. When they were together, it was almost as if he could touch her without touching her. Had she noticed? Did she feel the same?
    He walked softly through the wooded hillside, his keen eyes searching for game while his thoughts lingered on Loralee. What would she think of him if she knew he had killed his father with his bare hands? She wouldn’t be so eager to teach him to read and write then, he mused sourly, or so willing to be alone with him in the schoolhouse at night.
    He swore under his breath, gripped by the old fear that sometimes came to haunt him, the fear that he would end up like his father, just another shiftless Apache buck who drank too much and vented his frustration by beating his wife and making life hell for everyone around him.
    Zuniga came to a halt as he spied a deer grazing on a patch of yellow grass. Taking his bow from his shoulder, he put an arrow to the bowstring, sighted down the shaft, and let the arrow fly. The cane shaft flew straight and true, piercing the deer’s throat, killing it instantly.
    He felt a sense of satisfaction as he padded quietly toward his kill. Let the other Indians eat Agency beef. Tonight, he and Nachi would feast on venison steaks and tongue.
    Tonight…
    He moved quickly, draping the heavy carcass over the dun’s withers. Tonight he would be with Loralee.

 
    Chapter Three
     
    Loralee stood before the mirror, brushing out her long hair. It was Saturday, and the morning was bright and clear. She smiled at her reflection as she coiled her hair into its customary knot and fastened it in place. So many things had happened in such a short time. Shad Zuniga had kept his word. He had told the Apache children and their parents that he was learning to read and write the white man’s language. The elders had decided it was a good thing. And the children had started to attend school.
    Three little girls had been the first to come to class. Black eyes solemn, faces grave, they had arrived at the schoolhouse promptly at eight in the morning. Loralee had greeted them with a smile. They were darling children, she thought as she bid them sit down. All three were dressed in colorful long-sleeved blouses, corduroy jumpers, and moccasins. They wore their long black hair in twin braids tied with red ribbon.
    Their names, she learned, were Red Bird, Little Blossom, and Miranda. Miranda was a half-breed. Her mother lived on the reservation. Her father had been a white man who lingered in the territory long enough to get Miranda’s mother pregnant and then disappeared, never to be heard from again.
    The girls had listened attentively to everything Loralee said, grinned with pleasure when she taught them how to write their names.
    The next day, Red Bird, Little Blossom, and Miranda were at the school waiting for Loralee. Red Bird had persuaded her two older sisters to come to school, too. Their names were Yellow Grass Girl and Deer Eyes.
    Now, five weeks later, Loralee had sixteen students, eleven girls and five boys, ranging in age from five to seventeen. The boys made it clear from the start that they did not want to be there, and Loralee knew it was only Shad Zuniga’s influence that had persuaded the boys to attend school.
    The boys. They were forever thinking up new ways to devil her, and Short Bear was the