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| The following piece is part one of a two-part story. Read carefully, then respond to the questions that follow. As you read, take time to make notes in the right-hand column of any thoughts, comments, or conclusions you have. (All written notes will help us score your paper by showing us how you think while you read.) John Kaahteney was bored. The excitement of accompanying his parents on the archaeological dig in the rugged Sierra Madre Mountains of Mexico had worn off after a week of heat, flies, dust, and no luck. "Patience, son," said his father. "Geronimo and his band eluded both the Mexican and American armies for two years in these hills. Why should we expect to find his hideout in a week?" John was not comforted. "How will we know if we do find it?" he thought. "The armies were at least looking for people. We could be standing right on the spot and never know it." He kicked a stone and then, because the day's work was done and he had nothing else to do, he began kicking it down the faint path towards which it had rolled. As he walked his thoughts turned to the legendary guerrilla leader whose camp of long ago they were seeking. An Apache himself, John felt a special kinship and sympathy with Geronimo. He knew from school as well as from his own reading that Geronimo was not the renegade savage most people thought. Embittered by the deaths of his mother, wife and children by the Mexicans and by the broken promises of land and peace from the Americans, Geronimo had several times fled to the harsh protection of the Sierra madres. From here he conducted raids on both sides of the border for food and other supplies. The Kaahteneys were looking for his camps and hideouts. They hoped to find relics and artifacts to add to the museum for which Mr. and Mrs. Kaahteney worked back in the United States. John had been especially excited about their expedition because his own great-great-grandparents were among the 150 followers of the war chief during his last stay in Mexico, but a week of hard work and no results had dampened his spirits. Giving the stone one more angry kick, John waited to hear it thump against the rock wall in front of him. When he heard no sound he walked forward curiously. He parted the sagebrush, and his eyes grew wide. Crouching low, he took a flashlight from his hip pocket and stepped inside. After a few feet the narrow passage widened, and he stood up straight. His flashlight showed him a large chamber which apparently had been occupied in the past, for there were piles of straw and signs of old campfires. Next to him on a ledge were several objects he couldn't identify. He picked them up, but before he could examine them he felt a subtle change in the air about him. He began to feel warmer and to hear rustling and murmurs which gradually grew louder. Alarmed by the strange noises John turned, dropped to his knees and quickly crawled back through the low tunnel, but in his haste he stood up too quickly and hit his head. He felt the sharp thump, but started running. After a few steps, however, a wave of dizziness washed over him, and his knees buckled. He awoke slowly--his head throbbing and his mouth dry. The sun had set, and in the twilight he could make out the forms of several men standing around him. After a few moments he recalled where he was and struggled to remember his few phrases of Spanish. "Me llamo John Kaahteney (My name is John Kaahteney)." There was no response. He tried again. "Quien estan (Who are you)?" Still no answer. As his head cleared and his eyes became accustomed to the dark, he realized these men were not Mexicans. The brown skins, sharp black eyes and high cheek bones were those he saw every day. These were Apaches. Although still confused, he brightened. "Please--can you help me find my parents?" he asked in English. The men glanced at one another, but did not move or speak. Now, despite his swollen head, John began to notice other things about these men besides their strange manner: the antique rifles they held, their old-fashioned clothing and long hair. John's own hair began to rise on the back of his neck. Was it possible that there were still Apaches hiding in these mountains? Had some remained when Geronimo finally surrendered over 100 years ago, and were their descendants still here? The dizziness washed over him again. Fighting to remain conscious, John tried once more, this time in the rarely used language of his grandfather. He pointed towards a nearby water bottle. "Tus." The men had a short conference, and one disappeared from the group. In a few moments he reappeared with a small earthen bowl filled with water. He came forward hesitantly, stopped several yards from John, put it on the ground and backed away. John stood up slowly, picking up the flashlight which lay next to him. The men retreated a few steps. When he switched it on to see if it still worked, they gasped and stepped back again. "They're afraid of me," John realized with surprise. "If they've been living in the hills all these years maybe they've never seen a flashlight." He slowly set it down then stretched his hands towards them in a gesture of friendship. But instead of being reassured the men drew back and stared at his left hand. John had forgotten about the object he had picked up in the cave. Examining it at last he saw that it was made of several small bones, polished to a shine and bound together with strips of rawhide. At that moment a woman approached the group. She spoke softly with one of the men, then came towards John. "Come," she said in English. "Follow me." John stared at her. There was something very familiar in her features which reminded him of --who? She waited a moment to see if he understood. He started to pick up his flashlight, but saw threatening movements from the men. He left it on the ground and followed the woman back into the cave. Or was it the same cave? Torches mounted on the walls illuminated the chamber now filled with groups of people, cooking fires and equipment. Surely he could not have missed all of this earlier? He did not have much time to wonder for he was being led towards a man seated on a pile of hides at the back of the cave. From the way the woman approached and spoke, John could tell this man was a person of importance. When the woman finished talking the man looked up. Too startled to move or speak, John simply stared into the face he knew so well from photographs. "I am Goyakla," the man said in Apache. "Some call me Geronimo." |
Reading Level: 8 Benchmark 3
Notes on my thoughts, |
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©1998 Written by Rebecca Hickox. All rights reserved.
Permission granted for use by OPEN and Oregon Reading Assessment purposes.