Behind her in the yard her mother was taking the wash in off of the line. A warm breeze blowing in starts and stops blowing the thin smoke flat from the chimney of the sod and timber dugout.
There was the swishing of the breeze and the smell of dry sage brush, and the little girl could taste the milk she had drunk and feel the grass warm and scratchy under her feet, and she looked in the grass for bunnies among red and blue and purple flowers.
Above a hollow was a feather. The breeze twiddled it. The little girl noticed it.
An Indian stood up. The little girl stopped still.
The Indian looked past her, blank. Lifted his bow. Pulled the string back to his chest. He was bare chested - in buckskin leggings with fringes.
The little girl turned ran - toward the homestead - near too far away. Her mother standing in the yard. Pulling the dried clothes down, still in the past moment.
The girl running weak legged on the warm scratchy grass with everything slowing down.