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After fi­ve ye­ars of trying, he and his wi­fe had al­ chil­d­ren Then, sud­denly, as tho­ugh so­ic wand, she was preg­nant That the child had be­en born in the midst of such har­d­s­hip se­emed al­most a mi­rac­le In­de­ed, it was a mi­rac­le that any of them we­re ali­ve

There we­re In­di­ans ever­y­w­he­re: the Cree, the Crow, the Blac­k­fo­ot For so­on tra­in had be­en spa­red any ra­ids, as tho­ugh God we­re the­re with the over them

"I wo­uld ha­ve be­en ter­ribly di­sap­po­in­ted over not fin­ding the ra­re but­terfly," he con­ti­nu­ed, nod­ding "But that lit­tle sur­p­ri­se pac­ka­ge you're hol­ding in yo­ur arms ma­kes all the dif­fe­ren­ce in the world inFirst the pret­ti­est wo­e, then I am ap­po­in­ted cu­ra­tor at the sci­en­ce mu­se­um, and then, by God, to top it off, I now ha­ve a son Who co­uld co? Who?"

"But you so lo­oked for­ward to fin­ding the eup­ha­ed­ra," Char­lot­te sa­id, easing Kirk's lips from her bre­ast as his eyes clo­sed in a con­ten­ted sle­ep She wrap­ped hiht blan­ket and crad­led hi her dress "If you had ca­ught it, you co­uld ha­ve com­p­le­ted yo­ur col­lec­ti­on Then you co­uld set­tle down and wri­te that bo­ok that you ha­ve spo­ken of so of­ten toyo­ur ven­tu­res and all the but­ter­f­li­es that you ha­ve cap­tu­red in de­ta­il, as well as the li­fe his­tory of each How ni­ce it wo­uld ha­ve be­en, dar­ling, if…"

Bryce re­tur­ned his eyes to the tra­il, so that Char­lot­te wo­uld not see the di­sap­po­in­t­ment that lay sha­do­wed in the­ir depths He had sworn that the ex­pe­di­ti­on's fa­ilu­re was not tro­ub­ling hiut

"There'll be anot­her ti­ht now all I' you and Kirk out of In­di­an ter­ri­tory and to the sa­fety of a ste­a We ht"

The tho­ught that this dre­ad­ful jo­ur­ney was so­on to be be­hind her ex­ci­ted Char­lot­te

Soro­und just be­yond the sha­de of so­me tall bus­hes, drew Char­lot­te's at­ten­ti­on She le­aned her he­ad for­ward, then gas­ped when she saw that it was not an ani­mal, but a li­fe­less hand

Charlotte pa­led at the tho­ught of co­ ac­ross so­me­one that had be­en mur­de­red, even per­haps scal­ped by the In­di­ans It wo­uld be the­ir luck, she tho­ught to her­self, to just ba­rely get wit­hin sight of the ste­ae­an­ce

"Bryceup ahe­ad, do you see?" Char­lot­te sa­id, po­in­ting They we­re clo­se eno­ugh now for her to see that this was not the hand of a whi­te per­son

It was cop­per in co­lor!

It was an In­di­an's!

A pa­nic se­ized Char­lot­te's in­si­des, fe­aring this ht be a trap

"By God, it's a hand," Bryce sa­id, dra­wing re­in and stop­ping the slow-tra­ve­ling bulls

Charlotte grab­bed for Bryce's arm "Be ca­re­ful," she whis­pe­red, her eyes wild "It co­uld be a trap We co­uld be at­tac­ked by In­di­ans any mi­nu­te now"

Bryce re­ac­hed a gen­t­le hand to her flus­hed che­ek "No," he sa­id, as tho­ugh he we­re so­ot­hing a child "Let's not let our ii­na­ti­on run aith us"

He drew his hand away froons that had co­ co hur­ri­edly to­ward him