The woman crouched in the willows, the water of the creek soaking her to her waist and the Indians paced their horses not twenty yards away, looking for her, grunting in their anger, exchanging gutturals with each other. She kept very still, scarcely daring to breathe, her arm around her daughter who was as still with her wrist held hard in her mouth to prevent herself from crying out.
The wind soughed softly through the branches of the tree, gently rippling the water, in a song that was like an incongruous lullaby.
My God, the woman thought, how much longer? How much longer can I bear it?
For three days and three nights almost since the raid on the ranch house, the Indians had driven her and her daughter, hurrying them to the valley they called their home. For three days and three nights life had been suspended as she and the girl were treated like cattle and the terror had run deep. But the terror had not been worse than this. To be a prisoner of the Indians had been some kind of certainty. This was nothing but a suspension of sentence.
Since she and Sarah had been taken she had waited for that moment when eyes would not be on her. Since being captured she had been submissive and she had made the girl as obedient. By the third evening, the Indians had become confident of the docility of their captives. So when one of their scouts had sighted dust to the north and their attention turned that way, she had taken Sarah by the wrist and run. As the creek was the only place that had offered cover, she had run that way. And run and run . . . till there was no strength in her to run further. They rested, both of them together, with their arms around each other, the older woman whispering encouragement to the younger.
Then they had gone on, walking, running and walking.
Stopping now and then to listen for the pursuit they knew would come.
She had thought that the Indians would not attempt to find them until light, but she had been wrong. They came an hour after the escape, trotting their ponies along the banks of the creek. Five of them.
Her heart leapt as something splashed into the water behind them. She suppressed the cry that came to her lips.
Merciful God—
A pony snorted on the other side of the willow tree and she smelled Indian.
One of them laughed.
A continuous splashing came from the creek and she knew that one of them was wading along the shore. Sarah’s wrist jumped in her grip and she knew the child was ready to run in panic. She tightened her hold and tried to stare over her shoulder, straining her eyes to see through the murk. At once her eye caught the dull gleam of metal.
The man on the horse was dismounting.
The man in the water called to the others.
Hands started to pull aside the willow boughs.
Suddenly, Sarah wrenched her arm free and was running, smashing her small body into the foliage of the tree.
“No,” the woman screamed, “no.”
As she started to her feet, she heard more than saw her daughter run into the Indian pushing his way through the tree. The man grunted and Sarah screamed as his arms went around her.
The woman hurled herself forward, grabbing the man’s long hair and tearing at it with all her strength, fighting her way through the solid wall of the child’s scream that went on and on.
Hoofs thudded on the ground. There were Indians all around her, suddenly. Hands grasped at her and something hard struck her across the back. She bit and scratched, fighting anyway she could. And the child continued to scream so that the shrill sound went through her to her innermost nerves. Something snapped inside her. A savage and destructive insanity overpowered her and she was like an animal fighting for its young.
Something struck her on the head and she shrieked: “Sarie!” and hit the ground.