Homecoming. Jill Marie Landis

of her name, stopped stirring and waited expectantly.

      Thrilled, Hattie smiled. It was the first time Deborah had shown any response to her name. Usually all she did was mimic Hattie’s motions.

      “The gate. Go open the gate.” Hattie nodded toward the door. Deborah had seen her open the gate and had stood back as Joe drove the cattle into the corral for two days now.

      “Open the gate. Gate,” Hattie told her with greater urgency. “Joe’s back.”

      By now Joe was yelling and whooping to beat the band. The bawling of the cattle intensified as they drew nearer to the corral.

      Hattie held up her flour-coated hands and, like a general facing his troops, barked out the order. “Go open the gate!”

      The girl set down the bowl, shot to her feet and ran out the door.

      Hattie took a deep breath and her light-headedness subsided. She caught herself smiling as she kept watch through the window over the dry sink.

       Gate.

      Eyes-of-the-Sky knew the word. She knew many of the whites’ words now, though she refused to give her captors any sign that she was learning. For the first few days, the words had been nothing more than a confusing jumble that made her head ache, but as time wore on, distinct sounds began to separate themselves and she began to understand.

      The foreign tongue almost seemed a part of her somehow. At night, the words invaded her dreams until she dreamed both in Nermernuh and in the white man’s tongue. She dreamed odd dreams filled with Nermernuh and whites, faces she knew so well and others that were unfamiliar. Unsettling dreams that left her feeling anxious and confused.

      On the first day of her arrival, when they took away her clothing, it became clear to her that she was a slave, and that she now belonged to the woman, Hattee-Hattee. From sunup until the evening meal, she worked with Hattee-Hattee and did everything the woman told her to do.

      In this, she realized, the whites were no different from the her people. Whenever the warriors returned to the encampment with captives in tow after a raid, their possessions were taken from them. They were beaten, whipped, even burned and tortured by their owners.

      That was the Comanche way and, knowing she was now a slave, Eyes-of-the-Sky was determined not to shame herself by crying or showing fear. Among her people, things always went easier for those who showed courage and strength of will. Weak or cowardly captives were tortured by the women, if not killed outright. She never let herself forget that Hattee-Hattee, no matter how kind she appeared, had the power of life and death over her.

      For now, she would obey. She would pretend to have accepted her fate.

      In the beginning, the man remained close by, watching her, making certain she did not try to escape or attack the woman.

      Whenever she turned around, he was there. Whenever she followed Hattee-Hattee from one place to another, he was there. Sometimes he would speak to the woman and then leave them for a short while, but he soon returned. He was always watching.

      As a slave, she had no right to deny him anything. When he decided to use her in any way he pleased, that was the way of things. She would do what she must to survive.

      She had endured the Blue Coats’ attack. She could endure him, too, if that was her fate.

      Lately he had begun riding out before the sun rose and would bring more cattle back to the enclosure near the dwelling. She thought him crazy for collecting worthless cows.

      She was sitting in the place where the food was prepared—the kitchen —when she recognized his whistle. It was his way of letting the woman know he was nearly there, that he had returned with more cattle.

      It was Hattee-Hattee’s task to meet him at the corral, to lift the rope, push the heavy wooden gate wide, so the cattle would run into the enclosure.

      But today the woman was making bread, the food that she enjoyed most of all. She loved the taste of it in her mouth, the warm comfort and softness of it. The magic way it melted on her tongue. She loved to inhale the scent of it as it grew plump and hot inside the iron beast with fire in its belly—the stove. The woman’s hands and arms were covered in the white powder— flour. Mixed with yeast, it magically became bread.

      Outside, the whistle grew sharper, louder, as the man brought the cattle closer and closer to the house. So close that she could feel their hooves against the earth.

      Hattee-Hattee was speaking to her, saying the words Joe and gate among others that she didn’t understand. Suddenly, Hattee-Hattee turned to her and commanded her to go.

      She leaped to her feet and ran for the door, then outside into the blinding sunlight. Shielding her eyes with her arm, she tripped over the edge of her long garment and almost fell headlong down the steps but regained her balance just in time.

      The long skirt was always in her way. It was a useless garment, one of flimsy, shiny cloth, not of sturdy, tanned buffalo hide. It was easily soiled and torn. Not only did all the whites’ garments have to be washed, but Hattee-Hattee would sit with them on her lap and repair them after all the outdoor and kitchen work was done.

      Across the open yard, the first of the cattle neared the corral. She grabbed handfuls of the long gown in her hands, lifted it high above her ankles and started running.

      Joe whooped and slapped his hat against his thigh to keep the cattle moving, then wiped his sweaty brow with his shirtsleeve.

      The first thing he noticed when he scanned the yard was that the women weren’t in the garden. Nor was his mother waiting at the corral gate. He was close enough to be heard from inside the house, so where was she?

      He’d been so vigilant early on. Had he dropped his guard too soon? Had his mother’s trust in the girl and in God been misplaced again?

       If anything happens to her—

      Joe let go another sharp, shrill whistle. If it wasn’t for the line of twenty cows he was pushing, he’d have kicked his horse into a canter and headed for the house.

      He cut right, swore at a heifer that started to bolt, forced it back into place. He was about to turn them away from the corral, let them wander lose and forget about them when a flash of yellow caught his eye.

      Deborah came barreling out of the house and across the porch. She nearly went down the steps headfirst but caught herself. Then, incredibly, she hiked her skirt up above her knees and kept running.

      Somehow she’d overpowered his mother and was making a run for it. He drew his rifle out of the sheath hanging alongside his saddle and was about to take aim when he suddenly realized the girl was headed for the corral gate.

      The lead cow was close enough that Joe feared Deborah’s fluttering yellow gown would send the cattle stampeding around the yard. He shoved his rifle back into the sheath and headed straight for the lead cow.

      Deborah jumped up onto the lowest rung of the gate, tossed off the loop of rope that held it shut, and the gate swung open wide—with her riding on it. Carried by her weight and its own momentum, the heavy gate picked up speed and, before he could shout a warning, slammed her into the fence behind her.

      She hung on tight as the first of the cows charged through the gate and into the pen. Once the cattle were all inside, he blocked the entrance to the gate on horseback.

      He broke out in a cold sweat at the realization that he’d almost put a bullet in her, not to mention the fact that if she’d lost her grip, she’d have been trampled.

      “Are you all right?” he yelled at her without thought, forgetting she didn’t understand. Though she was still clinging to the gate, she looked no worse for wear.

      He reached for the gate post.

      “You can let go now,” he told her. “Let go.”

      She blinked up at him, but when she failed to get down, he slowly swung the gate