“Can you play it?” he asked. She nodded. The eager light in his brown eyes made her happy. She looked at the army scout called Cat. “Ask him if he wants me to make music,” she said in Comanche. “I’m sure he does,” Cat said. She smiled and walked to the other side of the table. Slowly she turned to face them and held her flute to her mouth. She played an eerie Comanche melody, with notes wandering up and down, reaching for the wind. When she stopped, Ned clapped his hands together. “That was beautiful! Thank you.” Taabe needed no translation. “Where did you get the flute?” Cat asked. “From He Sits by the Fire—an elder.” Her throat tightened. “He is gone now. He played one day when I had first come there, and I reached for the flute. He was surprised, but he let me take it. I played on it, and he was surprised even more.” Cat laughed. “I believe that.” “He made me a flute of my own, smaller than his, and I have had it ever since.” Cat turned to Ned and translated what she’d said.
