The Legend of Bass Reeves by Gary Paulsen Page A

jar was empty, and just then the little girl he had saved came into the room.
    Her arms were bare and he could see scabs healing where the wolves had bitten her. She came up to the edge of the bed, looked at him for a moment, said something he couldn’t understand, smiled and then ran from the room yelling at the top of her voice.
    Several minutes went by, and then a man came into the room with her. He was an Indian, stocky, wearing trousers and a vest. His hair fell in two long black braids down his back. Bass thought he remembered the braids from a dream about Comanches, but this was clearly not a raiding Comanche, and in fact the man was smiling.
    “Peter,” he said, coming up to Bass and holding out his hand. “You?”
    Bass took the hand. “Bass. Thank you for taking care of me. I would have died sure if …”
    Peter was shaking his head. “Too fast. No talk good. Talk slow. Again—Bass?”
    “Yes. Does anybody speak English here?”
    “Me.” Peter smiled. “Only one. Rest all talk good Creek.” “Creek?”
    “Talk from before. From old places. From home. Speak Creek before come here. Speak Creek here.”
    Bass was still in a haze. He let his head drop back and sighed. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand very well.”
    Peter nodded. “Bad hole in leg. Take time. Take time. You sleep. We bring food later.”
    With that, Peter and the little girl turned to leave, but Bass called, “Wait. Peter. What’s the girl’s name?”
    Peter fondly touched the girl’s head while he spoke. “White name … Betty.”
    “Betty?”
    “White name. Indian name …” He thought for a moment. “Be Two Shoes.”
    “Betty Two Shoes. Thank you. Thank you.”
    He was alone for a time after they left, lost in his thoughts. His eyes closed and he dozed again, not heavy sleep this time, but comfortable. There was a pain in his leg but it was not severe unless he moved, more a reminder than anything else. The room was pleasant. There were bird sounds outside and warm air coming in the window openings, and he half dreamt, half daydreamed about Mammy and how she would take care of him when he was hurt or had the croup. Memory fed on memory and he realized he’d been gone almost a year. He hoped Mammy was all right, and he remembered how she looked working over the stove making corn bread.
    Peter came bustling into the room along with Betty Two Shoes, and two women, one very old, one aboutPeter’s age, as well as a very old man and a boy of about seven.
    They all stood in a row at the foot of the bed looking at him, smiling, standing straight.
    Peter said, “This is uncle, named Paul.” He pointed to the old man. “And mother, Martha,” the old woman;“wife, Mary,” the younger woman; “son, Luke,” the young boy. Peter’s smile widened. “You know Betty.”
    Bass nodded. “Betty Two Shoes. Later, Indian names for others.” He was already patterning his speech like Peter’s. “And yours. When I can think good.”
    They all filed out, except for the old woman. Without showing any expression, she handed Bass a different jar and pointed so that he understood he had to relieve himself. He waited, and finally she laughed a low laugh and turned away, and he used the jar by twisting sideways on the bed. After emptying the jar outside, the old woman came back in and fired up the woodstove. She started frying what looked like boiled potatoes and beef.
    When the smell of the food drifted over to the bed, Bass became so hungry he almost growled. She brought him a tin plate heaped with meat and potatoes, and two thick pieces of dark bread spread with bacon grease.
    He tried to have manners, but Mammy would have thumped him if she’d seen him wolf down the food, barely chewing it. He ate so fast that the woman had hardly gone back to the stove before he was done and had wiped the plate with the last piece of bread.
    “Thank you,” he said when she took the plate. “That was …” He couldn’t think of a word rich