Mary Peace Finley
Award-winning author of books for young people
Julio stopped at the crest of a sand hill and stared. Below, Bent’s Fort rose from
the prairie, tall and solid as rock, two stories high with double gates opened
wide as if in welcome. He dropped to his knees, swung the basket off his back,
and let it tumble onto the sand. "Someone in there has to know, Chivita."
With an excited "Eerp!" Chivita leaped into Julio’s arms, a bundle of black and
white, nuzzling his chin and ears with her nose. "That’s it, Chivita!" Julio
ducked away from her tickling tongue. "Clean me up. Make me look good before we go
inside."
Chivita backed away and cocked her head, one brow raised.
Julio glanced down at his bare chest, the ragged pantalones, pants that were new and white when
he and Papá left Taos, and at the beaded Cheyenne moccasins on his feet. "You’re right.
Impossible." He stood, brushing away strands of sun-bleached hair that dangled like yellow straw
in front of his eyes. He slipped his reed flute into the leather bag at his side, straightened the
shoulder strap, and wiggled the woven basket into place on his back. "Vamos,
Chivita. Let’s go."
After three days alone since he had parted company with the Cheyenne, the
noise from Bent’s Fort thundered against his ears. It looked as if the whole
world had come here to trade—or to join the eastbound spring caravan. A line
of wagons stretched for half a mile, waiting to be hitched to mules or oxen or
horses. Beneath a large United States flag that slapped against a pole above
the second floor, people rushed back and forth between the Fort and the
wagons.
© Mary Peace Finley 2012
