“Hey!” said Joseph. “It’s the horse, I tell you. He’s too skittish! I had to really coax him to get that close to the herd.” He sat on the bench, blanket draped over his lap, while his sister mended the tear in the seat of his pants.

“You could keep a firmer grip on your saddle, nishiimish. You might shoot yourself next time you hit the ground.”

“Or” said Marc, “you can find your own wife to sew your pants up!” The campfire roared with laughter again. Marc reached for the leather pouch tucked beneath his sash. Retrieving the clay pipe within, he loaded it with tobacco. Lighting a twig aflame with the campfire, he brought it to the bowl, lighting his pipe’s contents with one puff, then another.

“Elizabeth is very pretty,” said Anne-Marie. “I’ve seen her watching you at the dances. Besides, you know I want Biibii René to have lii koozin.”

“Elizabeth is English-born, though,” said Joseph.

“And?” asked Marc. “I think the Michif girls are too pretty for you anyway!” The folks ‘round the fire laughed harder than ever. Sensing his brother-in-law’s displeasure, he pushed the topic aside. “But maybe you can bring toon vyayloon out soon. I’d like to hear some reels, Joseph.”

“Bah! Reels can wait for another night. Did you all not see Dakota watching us on the plains today?”

“Dakota,” said Marc, “don’t like it when we stray too far from li Rivyayr Roozh when we come south. I reckon they’ll be looking for a fight. We can’t help where lii bufloo go.”

Anne-Marie held up her work, tear now mended. Beaded flowers, glowing faint against the dim firelight, were sewn up the legs of the buckskin trousers. “Fight all you want, boys. Just mind where you get shot. I’d hate to see nimaamaa’s work go to waste.”

© PVP NOW ™