At last she appeared to understand what he was trying to communicate, and she nodded her head.
Having obtained her permission, he raised her dress a little so he might run his hands over her calf muscles, as well as her feet. Using again amplified hand movements, he asked if she hurt anywhere he had touched.
She shook her head.
Unwilling to tap her anywhere else on her body, he touched his own chest and asked if there were any pain on her own body in those places he indicated. When she again shook her head, he came up to his feet and indicated she should do the same, but when she seemed unable to do so, he reluctantly offered a hand down to help her rise up. Although it was bad manners to help a woman come to her feet by touching her, he realized he had to bear the insult, since she appeared unable to rise up to her feet on her own.
But, she didn't take his hand. She was looking downward and didn't see.
It was necessary, then, to lift her into his arms again, but in doing so, he accidentally brushed a hand over one of her breasts. It was a mistake. It shouldn't have happened. Yet, it had, and he was momentarily stunned.
Again using exaggerated hand motions, he made the sign for "I'm sorry," but she still didn't understand.
He sighed. It had been too long since he'd held a female in his arms, and he found himself enjoying the scent of her and the feel of her soft feminine skin beneath the touch of his hands.
He had best set her down. He did so at once, only to watch as she collapsed again to the ground. What was wrong with her? Couldn't she walk? He came down to squat again beside her and stared into her eyes, though it was forbidden in his society to look at a young girl so directly.
Her eyes were wide as she gazed back at him, and she said, "You saved my life. If you are asking me if I am injured, I will tell you that I think I am unharmed. I am simply weak, but I think it will pass. Give me a moment, please. I should be all right presently."
He shook his head, for he didn't speak the white man's tongue.
When she said, "Perhaps, sir, you might take me back to my fiancé, for I am certain he is concerned about me," he shrugged, for her words meant nothing to him, and she obviously didn't know sign language.
Unsure what he should do with her, he stood up and glanced at his pony, who was enjoying the treat of the fresh and abundant brownish-green grass growing on the hillside.
He supposed all might be well for a while, which would allow him to come down onto his stomach and belly crawl to the edge of the hill where he could look out over the lay of the land. Looking outward, he could see no sign of either the stampeding herd of buffalo nor the hunters. However, he could still see the woman's man, and the white painter appeared to not notice the plight of his wife, if only because he still sat astride his pony, his paints and his papers still in his hands while he continued to make marks upon the white man's paper.
What sort of man was this person who didn't even know his woman had been in a fight for her life? Strikes Fast tried to rein in his contempt of a man who did not properly care for his woman. But, it was useless to even try. Even a wild stallion would die to protect his harem.
However, none of these thoughts helped bring to mind what he should do with the woman. But, he knew he couldn't take her back to her man when he didn't even seem to realize she was gone.
Turning onto his back, Strikes Fast gazed upward at the deep blue of the sky, feeling himself relax at the same time. Momentarily, he congratulated himself on rescuing the woman; perhaps it was a deed worthy enough to free himself from his obligation to Eagle Heart, his brother— Chief Chases-the-enemy—and Gray Falcon.
But, what was he to do with her now?
Coming up into a seated position, he spoke to her in the Crow language. "Do you think," he asked, "that this deed I have accomplished today will grant me the freedom from my obligation to the Pikuni brothers?"
Blankly, she stared back at him.
Watching her closely, he realized, then, her problem. She was in shock. Of course she would be traumatized by what had happened; she could have lost her life this day.
Perhaps he could aid her a little. Rising to his feet, he stepped toward her and sat on the ground in front of her, bringing his legs into a cross-legged position in front of him. He stared at her. He didn't smile, nor did he say a word. Instead, as his elders had taught him to do, he extended his hand toward her and, with gestures, invited her to put her hand in his.
After she had done so, he pointed to his hand and said, "Isché." He repeated the word, pointing again toward her hand, then asked her, with overly embellished gestures, what her word for this was.
She understood and said simply, "Hand."
He repeated the word. Then, still keeping hold of her hand, he pointed to her arm and said, "Áale."
Again, he asked her for the white man's word, and when she said, "Arm," he smiled at her before repeating, "Arm."
She looked away from him. But, he was determined to try to communicate to her, and he continued in the same manner until they had finished most of a human being's main body parts. When tears came at last to her eyes, he realized her awareness of what had happened might have lightened…at least a little.
The language lessons continued for a while longer until he had discovered her words for the sky, for grass, for trees and for clouds. And, when she asked, "Why are you being so kind to me? I thought Indians hated all white people," he shook his head, but smiled at her nonetheless.
She glanced downward and away from him. But, he was persistent, and he changed his position until he was squatting before her, and then, still holding on to her hand, he rose to his feet, bringing her up with him.
He walked slowly toward his horse, ensuring she came with him, and he rejoiced a little when he saw she could walk. Stepping up close to his handsome, spotted buffalo pony, he petted the stallion's neck, then, with large gestures, invited her to do the same.
