her eyes grew heavy and she slept.
Long before daylight the Indians shoved and dragged the captives back into line. Clarinda saw that other warriors had caught up with them during the night. The horses that the newly arrived Indians brought with them were loaded like pack-mules.
Overcome with bitterness, Clarinda recognized the animals were from Morgan’s Station. She could see the settler’s household goods protruding from the packs. In blocking out thoughts of her own desperate situation she had failed to consider what was happening back at the fort. Was her Ma dead?
Her spirit sank and she shuddered, biting her lips to hold back the flood of tears.
In order to make walking easier Clarinda removed her outer skirt and petticoat. Using the sash from her skirt, she tied them around her neck like a cape. She found she was able to move through the brush much faster in just her pantaloons.
She tried to hold her clothing away from the thorns and brambles lining the faint trail. Her fingers traced the delicate needlework. Clarinda thought about her Ma’s callused hands, and how hard she always worked. If she only knew where Martha was now she might find some measure of peace.
After conferring with a tall Indian, Ugly Face moved Clarinda to a place at the front of the line. He motioned her to follow behind a big gray mare. She recognized the mare as one belonging to Mr. Becraft, and remembered how she had watched his children riding her around the fields outside the station.
Clarinda noticed that the tall Indian whom Ugly Face had talked to was leading the gray. There was something different about him. She did not recall seeing him yesterday. He was well built; his bearing that of someone who was used to being in a position of authority. Sort of like the military officers she saw at the Furnace.
This Indian wore his long black hair neatly tied back with a leather thong. Eagle feathers stuck in the thong were his only adornments. His body was clean and smooth, not painted like the rest of the war party.
Clarinda studied the part of his face she could see. The gray horse walked between them. The Indian was ruggedly handsome. His bronze muscles rippled as he moved effortlessly along the faint trail. He handled the gray with one hand using the other to carry a rifle inlaid with gleaming brass trim. There was something vaguely familiar about the shining rifle and the way he stared back at her.
From far behind her a commotion erupted. The sounds of a struggle reached Clarinda. She stopped to look back. The tall Indian turned and looked directly into her face. Without saying a word his dark eyes flashed her a message of warning.
The noise came again, and then she heard screams followed by the cries of a woman and a baby’s whimper. She wanted to run back, but the Indian’s eyes burned into hers an unspoken order to keep moving. She felt, rather than heard, his command. He kept his face turned toward her; the stern look on his carved features flickered just for an instance. Clarinda thought she saw a glimmer of compassion or some form of human emotion.
Was she losing her mind? He was a savage, a heathen and a thief. That was plain enough to see. He was leading a stolen horse and marching them to God only knew where. He could have even murdered members of her family. Clarinda shrank back at these thoughts, but she forced her feet to move.
Each step was painful. She wondered how long she could keep setting one foot down, and dragging the other one forward. Her whole body ached. Her arms and legs were covered with welts and insect bites.
The line had been snaking along for hours. An orange sun rode high overhead. Clarinda heard more sounds of scuffling and wailing behind her. The line slowed to a crawl, then came to a complete stop.
“Mercy,” she breathed a prayer of thanks. Maybe the Indians would give them food, or at least some water. She had not eaten since her capture.
Clarinda would forever remember what happened in the next few moments. Using tomahawks, the painted Indians savagely bludgeoned some of the prisoners to death, then set about scalping them.
Most of the dead were children. Clarinda watched as blood spouted from Mrs. Craig’s open skull, and she saw Betsy Becraft fall. Shaking from sheer terror, Clarinda buried her face in her hands, waiting for the blows to fall.
From somewhere far distant she heard her own voice screaming. The sound grew louder and would not stop. It was all around her, choking her. She welcomed the spinning, whirling darkness. Her limp body crumpled to the ground.
The tall Indian dropped his rifle and raced around the horse to catch Clarinda. He snatched her up quickly, raising her with his arms. He shook her gently, while pouring a strong, smelly liquid over her face. Clarinda’s eyes opened slightly, she tensed, feeling the strong arms holding her. The Indian set her down firmly on her feet.
“Be still, make no sound,” he said. “You mustn’t cry out. They’ll kill you.”
He spoke English. This time she could not mistake the softness. It was in his voice and in his eyes. His words shocked her back to the present.
“Keep walking, don’t look back, no matter what you hear, keep on walking.” His voice was an urgent whisper, and his meaning was clear. He was giving her a chance to survive. She must try to do what he asked. She lurched forward on trembling legs. By grasping the tail of the gray mare, she found she could stand. By holding on, she let the mare pull her along the trail. It was the only way she could stay upright, so she held on with both hands, trying to stay alive.
That night there was food. She was allowed to bathe her feet, which were cut and swollen. Thinking she would never eat again, Clarinda watched the meat roasting on a spit. It smelled good. She took what was offered, knowing it would be impossible to keep going without food.
Somewhat refreshed, Clarinda began examining her surroundings. She hoped to find something familiar, a hilltop, valley, rock or stream. She searched for any landmark she might have seen before. There were none. She examined and discarded several plans for an escape. She was desperate to go home. She wondered where her brothers and William were. She could not understand why they had not come for her. Maybe they were all dead at the hands of these demons. How long would it be until she would know?
Days blended into nights, and Clarinda’s thoughts stayed on her family. Walking along, their faces floated around her. She could hear their voices in the wind, calling her name. Each weary day was the same. She walked behind the gray mare and the tall Indian with the fancy rifle. He had not spoken to her again, and she never looked back.
At last the pace became slower. The Indians no longer seemed to fear pursuit. The line was much shorter. There were no children now. Only the women from the station. While the Indians set up camp at night Clarinda and the others were allowed to talk quietly. Most often they fell asleep exhausted without saying anything.
During the blackest hours of one night several Indians left with Polly Baker and Ben Becraft. The leader of that group was known as White Wolf. Clarinda suspected he was a white man. She overheard Shining Rifle speak to him in English. She prayed for her friends, in her mind turning them over to God.
She wondered where God was anyway, and if He had a hand in all of this. She had been taught He would watch over her. She didn’t understand how He could let this happen. She felt guilty and afraid thinking these thoughts. There were no answers. Her load of grief was heavy, but she was determined to survive. She must find a way to get back to her family.
Every day Shining Rifle stayed just a few feet in front of Clarinda. She walked carefully, following in the footsteps of his high, fringed moccasins. She had learned early on not to make any noise or draw attention to herself. She tried to do as he indicated after he saved her life back there on the trail. She believed with all of her heart that he had saved her, but she could not understand why.
Clarinda remembered something William had told her about the war. There were Indians who had fought along with him. They were regular soldiers, wore uniforms, and could speak the white man’s language. Some even learned to read and write. Maybe Shining Rifle had been one of those Indians.
She secretly watched him while they were in camp. He rarely talked to the others and remained