CHAPTER ONE

      Whitehorn, Montana

       April, 1896

      “I WANT to be an Indian.”

      Ruth Whitefeather glanced up from the herbs she’d been examining. A boy of about seven or eight stood beside her garden. He wore worn Levi’s and scuffed boots, and held the reins of a bay gelding in his right hand.

      Ruth took in the firm set of the boy’s mouth, the defiance in his blue eyes, not to mention the too long blond hair brushing the bottom of his frayed collar.

      A runaway, she thought, trying not to smile. How often did the children from the nearby ranches, or the town of Whitehorn itself find their way to the Indian village? Those children, mostly boys, had great plans for running away. They imagined a life of endless bareback riding across wide plains, hunting game, not going to school, never having a bedtime. Life with the Cheyenne was not so undisciplined, but the runaways never wanted to hear that.

      The job of the tribe was to convince these children that life at home was not so very horrible. Usually the visitors could be convinced to return before their parents had much time to worry.

      Ruth allowed her mouth to soften slightly. “I believe you would make a fine Indian,” she said softly. “You look strong.” She nodded at the horse. “Obviously you can ride.”

      “Yup. And rope. I help my pa with the cattle all the time.” He glanced toward the wooden structures that made up the main section of the Indian village. “You got cattle? I could help with them.”

      “We have a few dozen head. We raise them for food, not to sell. And there are already several men to tend them. If you wish to stay, we need to find you other work.”

      The boy nodded. At least he understood that he couldn’t stay without giving back to the community. That was something. Ruth rose to her feet and wiped the damp earth from her skirt.

      “What is your name?” she asked.

      “Zeke.” He squinted up at her. “Who are you?”

      “Ruth. Ruth Whitefeather.”

      His nose wrinkled as he frowned. “Ruth’s not an Indian name. My friend Billy has a grandma named Ruth and she’s from Boston.”

      “My mother wasn’t an Indian. She named me.”

      Zeke accepted her explanation without asking any more questions. She picked up the basket of herbs she’d already gathered and led the way toward the Indian lands.

      Spring had come early to Montana, giving the residents a longer growing season. Ruth had been busy planning her herb garden, and thinking about the different plants and roots she would harvest for her healing tonics and potions. Spring was always her favorite time of year, when the earth renewed itself and all of life was given a second chance.

      “Why did you leave your home?” she asked as they walked down the main path of the village. “Do your parents beat you?”

      “Nah. My ma died just after Christmas and my pa…” His voice trailed off. “He’s not mean, but there’s gonna be a new school teacher and he says I gotta go to school.” He turned toward