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Indians
at the fort and in Fallis, but never had one appeared at her door.
    “Please, will you help?”
    Without stopping to think, Kate
opened the door wide and beckoned them into the warm kitchen. “Put him on the
bench there.” She commanded briskly, though quaking inside. “What happened?”
    The two men laid their companion
where she indicated, looking at one another warily. They glanced around as
though searching for something. Finally, the older one spoke, “We are hunting.
Our ponies were stolen or run off. You’ve seen them?”
    “No, I haven’t seen any stray
horses near here,” replied Kate. “Your friend, he needs help?” Though she was
fearful, something told her that these men meant no harm, her tension eased
slightly as she spoke.
    “Yes. Gunshot. Can you help?”
     “I don’t know. I can try.”
She knelt beside the bench and for the first time realized that this was a mere
boy, perhaps ten or twelve at the most. Her heart went out to the injured lad.
Dried blood stained the woolen coat a deep crimson and brown. “I’ll need help
getting his jacket off and the wound cleaned.” She glanced around making a
mental inventory of what she would need, thanking God that her mother had
taught her basic medical skills. Though she had never treated a gunshot, surely
she could cleanse the wound to help stop any infection. “Can one of you build a
fire in the fireplace? He’ll need to be kept warm. I want to make a pallet for
him on the floor; he’ll be more comfortable there. I have some blankets in the
trunk by the wall, and I’ll need some towels from the cupboard next to it.”
    Neither of them moved. They
regarded her silently, as though determining whether she was to be obeyed or
not.
    “Well, what are you waiting for?”
She demanded angrily. “Do you want me to help him or not? I can’t do it all by
myself!”
    The diminutive woman stood before
them with her hands on hips. After a moment, the one acting as spokesman said
something in a guttural language to his companion, and they each set about the
tasks she had outlined. Sighing with relief, Kate started a pot of water
heating on the stove, and found the leather bag that contained their meager
store of healing herbs and medical supplies.
     The boy was laid on a
pallet of blankets before a crackling fire glowing warmly in the hearth. His
jacket had been removed and placed on the back porch to be cleaned later. Kate
rolled up her sleeves and heard a muffled gasp from behind her. Feeling the
heat suffuse her face, she glanced briefly at her bare arms. Shaking her head
to clear her thoughts, she dipped a towel in the warmed water and began
gingerly to clean the area around the gaping hole in his arm. The wound was not
fresh, perhaps a day or more old, but the bullet had thankfully gone clean
through. As best she could tell, no bones had been broken, and for that she
said another small prayer of thanks. He had lost far too much blood, that was
obvious, but the flow had diminished to a small trickle, and was now easy to
staunch. She dressed the cleansed wound with an herbal poultice of goldenseal
and echinacea, bandaging it with strips of clean cotton rags.
    ***
    Tochoway watched as the woman
worked on Nocona. How could this small white woman heal an Indian boy? A white
man had fired the gun; perhaps the Father wanted a white healer to mend him.
When the woman had begun to give orders, the men had been confused. Women were
meant to serve, not command.
    The firelight flickered across
the pallid face of the young boy, danced over the rich brown hair of the woman
as she knelt before him. Why did she pause? Was she praying to her God for
guidance?
    Mahseet sucked in his breath as
the woman rolled up her sleeves. “Puha.” He whispered under his breath.
     Tochoway followed Mahseet’s
gaze and nodded his agreement. This woman was marked with a sign of puha, great
power, enabling her to perform supernatural healing. So the Great Father had
led them