They stopped for the night at a spot where the canyon widened slightly. The Cimarron River was slower here, beaver dams backing it into a series of pools. Thomas fashioned poles so he and Jessie could fish.
“You’re too little to come. You’ll scare the fish,” Jessie told Charlie loftily as they left the campsite.
The two-year-old pouted for a minute, then settled to playing with some glittery rocks. Meanwhile, Sarah built a fire, sliced bacon into a cast iron skillet to render fat for the trout, then went to the back of the wagon to nurse the baby. She was buttoning her chemise when she heard a clatter. Charlie cried out.
As Sarah darted around the wagon, an Indian child’s black head disappeared into the willow bushes. The skillet lay upside down in the dirt. Charlie stood with a rock in his hand, wailing, “She stole my bacon!”
Copyright © 2015 Loretta Miles Tollefson