2 WHERE AM I?

"Where am I?"

He asked her plaintively. "Can you tell me?"

The doe couldn't answer, and all he could gather was that she was hungry and that food could be found in the valley below.

"Lead the way," he told her. "I'll follow."

The doe and the fawn started down through the tangle. Little Jon went scrambling and limping behind them. Walking was difficult, for both his knees were badly bruised, and one ankle pained with every step.

Soon, however, they reached a winding game trail, and the going was much easier. Even so, it was hard to keep up with the doe, and several times in the next hour he had to beg her to stop and wait for him.

It did not seem at all strange to be following her. Her presence was very comforting and kept the unanswered questions from troubling him. As they wound down near the bottom of the slope. The trees thinned and they passed through an open gate.

Ahead he could see bright sunlight on a small greening field. Around a corner of the field ran a clattering stream—a stream different from the one he had heard earlier.

At the sight of the field, Little Jon caught his breath. Fields and cultivated things were familiar. There would be people near. Soon he would meet them and find out about himself.

The doe paused at the edge of the field, sniffing the air currents. Little Jon could feel her uneasiness, though he couldn't understand it. He sniffed, too, but all he could smell were the pleasant scents of fresh earth and blossoms and the richness of the forest behind them.

He was disappointed that he couldn't make out the scent of people near, but maybe because the air was flowing from the mountain, away from him.

As the doe and her fawn stepped daintily into the field and began to nibble the young plant. Little Jon unconsciously did what he should have done earlier. His mind reached out, searching hopefully.

He had no thought of danger. The sudden discovery that there was danger was so shocking that he could only spring forward with a strangled cry. (Hope it ain't too late??)

The doe and her fawn whirled instantly and leaped, just as the sharp report of a rifle shattered the peace of the morning.

Little Jon had never heard a rifle shot before, but he was aware of the hot slash of pain across the doe's flank and he could see the weapon in the hands of the man who rose from his hiding place at the edge of the stream. He was a lean man in overalls, with one shoulder higher than the other. The harsh features under the cap showed surprise and disbelief as he stared at Little Jon. Then his thin mouth twisted in fury.

"You ruint my aim!" the man roared, striding forward. "What you doin' in my field?"

Little Jon could make nothing of the words. But the hate-driven thoughts behind it were clear enough. For a moment, he stood incredulous, his mind trying to fight through the shock of what had happened. Surely the man approaching was a being like himself. But why the intent to kill another creature? Why the sudden hate? How could anyone ever, ever …..

The anger that rose in him was a new thing. It was something he had never experienced before, at least in this measure. His small hands balled into fists, and he trembled. But as quickly, he realized that he couldn't quench hate with hate and that now there was danger to him. He turned abruptly and fled.

"Stop!" the man bellowed, close behind him. "I know you—you're one o' them Cherokees from over the ridge! I'll teach you to come meddlin' on my land!"

Little Jon tried to lighten his feet and put some distance between himself and his pursuer. Ordinarily, he might have managed it in spite of his pains, but he knew absolutely nothing of barbed-wire fences.

The rusty wires were hidden by the shrubbery until he was almost on them, the barbs caught his jacket. The tough material refused to tear. In another second, he was squirming in the man's firm grasp.

The man dragged him roughly back to the field, and then turned at the sound of an approaching motor. Presently, a small farm truck whirled around the bend of the creek and stopped close by.

A large woman, wearing faded overalls, got out and came over to them. She had a full face, with small, shrewd eyes as hard and round as creek pebbles.

Little Jon had never see a woman like her. Though he was repelled by her, she drew his attention far more than the truck, which was equally strange.

"I declare!" she muttered, staring. "What you got there, Gilby?"

"Not what I was aimin' at," the man growled. "The thievin' varmint spoiled my shot."

"Just as well, I reckon, or he'd tell someone. Whose kid is he?"

"Dunno, Emma. Figured 'im for a Cherokee, but-"

"Pshaw, he ain't no Indian," she interrupted, peering closer.

"Got long, black hair like most of them. Could be half, an' half."

"H'mp! Look at them clothes! Seems more foreign like. Gypsy, maybe. Where you from, boy?"

Little Jon clenched his teeth and looked stonily back at her. Though her speech was strange, the rising questions and ugly thoughts were easily understood. She was a person to be avoided, and he wouldn't have answered her even if he had known how.

"You better answer me! Cat got your tongue?" she snapped

As the woman spoke, Jon drew back abruptly to avoid her unwelcome inspection and curious questioning. As he did so, the man unclenched his hand to get a better grip on him.

Immediately Little Jon twisted free and ran.