adults, just as eager to hear but thinking themselves too dignified to show it, still leaned forward a little.
“Well, my father died when I was only seven. I was the oldest child, and we needed food, so I took his old gun and went out to try and shoot something. I was very lucky that I ran into Chief Leading Fox in the forest before I hurt myself. He did not tell me to go home, as a white man might have. Instead, he asked me why I was all alone in the forest with a rifle that was as tall as I was.”
She paused, and the boy immediately asked “What did you say?”
“I told him the truth, of course. That my father was dead and if I didn’t hunt, we would all starve, because my mother could not leave the babies.” She smiled as the youngster nodded solemnly. “So he said, ‘Then perhaps you will allow me to come along.’ He didn’t say that he would help me, although that was what he did. From then on, until I was as good a sharpshooter as I am now, he met me every day to hunt together. He became like the father I had lost.”
She knew that Kellermann was committing all of this to memory, and would probably use it in the show. She made a note to tell it to Fox so that they had the same story—although his version would probably be better than hers.
A few more people began to ask questions—if the Indians were Apache, or Navaho, or any of the other tribes they had read about. What her home had been like, and had she hunted grizzly bears or buffalo. Did she know Annie Oakley, Buffalo Bill, or Sitting Bull?
When they finally moved on—urged by Kellermann, since he needed to move them through in a timely manner—she thought she had satisfied them. And she took the chance when no one was crowding around her to go over into the Indian Village to tell Fox the story she had concocted. He invited her to sit beside his fire with a nod, and she sat cross-legged on the grass and related her story.
I do like this clothing, she thought, and not for the first time. The Western clothing was so much easier to sit on the ground in, and so sturdy she didn’t need to think about grass or dirt-stains.
He was amused when she had finished, and chuckled, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. He had a fine, strong face: older than the way she had imagined Winnetou, more like Winnetou’s father. “It is a good tale,” he told her. “And what happened to this mother and your siblings in this tale?”
“My mother remarried a shopkeeper and took the family to St. Louis, because she did not wish to try to keep the farm going,” she decided on the spur of the moment. “Everyone who has read those books is familiar with that city. I remained with the old cabin, now that I was able to hunt and fish and supply what I needed for myself. Then I joined the show.” She shrugged. “We don’t need to get any more elaborate than that.”
“It is best if we do not,” he agreed. “Although you have never told us much of your past, you know.”
“Oh!” she realized he was right. “Well, there is not a lot to tell. My real parents traded me to Mother for food. Mother was an Earth Master; her name was Annaliese Bundchen, and she wanted me because she knew I would grow into magic.”
Fox looked startled at that—the first time Giselle had ever seen him look unpleasantly surprised. It was an odd expression on his generally stoic face. “Your parents . . . did what?” He shook his head. “I have difficulty with this.”
“It’s not common, but it’s not uncommon either; more often an unwanted child is left on a doorstep, or at a convent,” she said, a little bitterly. “But sometimes, if a childless couple sees a pretty baby they like . . . it can happen. But most often, instead of being outright sold or traded, a child is sent off into servitude at a very young age, as young as five or six. Too many children, not enough food, and there are many laws about hunting and fishing, but few about what you may do with your children.”
“. . . and you say we are the barbarians.” Fox looked as if