Indian Scare
the kitchen door. Ma understood
immediately. “Elmer, they want you to
turn the grindstone so they can sharpen
their knives,” she said, giving me a little
push tow ard the men. “You’d better
help them .”
I was scared but I went out the door,
hearing Ma's low, intense voice saying
behind me, “ Ella, run quickly to the
orchard and get Albert. G o — now!”
My older brother. Albert, was m end
ing fence where a tree branch had brok
en it a week before. Father was gone for
the day, helping a neighbor farther up
Birch Creek. There was no one else
within three miles in any direction.
My hands shook a little as 1 moved a
rickety box close to the grindstone and
sat down on it. The heavy old stone was
hard to start, but a hefty shove at the
wheel by the older Indian got the mo
m entum going. 1 pum ped away at the
treadle while he held the long blade of
his knife against the stone.
Out of the corner of my eye 1 saw
Albert and Ella come through the lane
gate, Ella running quickly to the house.
I was somewhat reassured when my
twelve-year-old brother joined us at
the grindstone.
One knife sharpened, we started on
the second. The first Indian tested the
knife edge by slicing at a willow bush
nearby. Even above the rough turning
of the stone. 1 thought I could hear the
whistle of the blade as he slashed.
His approving grunt was evidence
that I had pum ped the sharpener
satisfactorily.
However, the new edge was unaccus-
tomedly sharp. A moment later the
Indian cut a finger on his left hand
Combined annoyance and pain register
ed m om entarily on his face. Blood was
beginning to drip when Albert pushed
me away from the grindstone.
“ Here, let me pump. You go get M a."
I raced to the house where Ma was
standing, watching operations from the
door. I could see on the table beside her,
partly hidden under a towel, the muzzle
of our shotgun. Ma was ready to sell
our lives dearly if need be. She was a
good shot, steady of hand and sure of
aim.
She had seen the situation. Quickly
picking up a clean flour sack. Ma
walked toward the injured man. She
p o in te d q u e s tio n in g lv to w a rd the
pum p nearby, thinking he might want
to wash off the blood. But he shook his
head, reached carefully into a dark
I
PAGE 12
NOVEMBER 1985
YOUNG AMERICAN
leather pouch hanging around his neck
on a thong and drew out some crum bs
of tobacco. These he sprinkled over the
oozing wound and pressed them down.
Then he motioned for Ma to bind up
his hand.
Tearing a strip from the sack. Ma
carefully wound the cloth around the
cut. She finished with a firm knot and
stepped back. I he Indian looked ap
praisingly at her for a m om ent, then
acknowledged his thanks with a brief
nod.
By this time the second knife was
sharp. As the younger Indian carefully
tested his blade, Albert slipped away
from the grindstone toward Ma and
me. Very slowly, we started to back
toward the kitchen door while the
Indians prepared to leave. W ould they
try the new sharpness of their knives on
us?
Suddenly the older Indian with the
bandaged left hand made a quick thrust
with his knile. One stroke cut through a
large red apple sitting on the top of the
woodpile. As the two halves fell apart,
he tipped the end of his knife into one
piece and flipped it toward Albert; the
second one to me. We caught them
easily.
I thought 1 saw the faintest flicker of
a smile on his lips as they turned to go.
A moment later they had mounted
their waiting horses and were riding off
up the lane.
I his Mary is based a n an incident which
actually happened a n a pioneer ranch
in Eastern Oregon during the Indian
wars in the late 1870s.
! t \ a great disguise Tom, but I still don't think it's going to fo o l anyone