Free Bill Dugan_War Chiefs 04 by Quanah Parker

wall of pines was falling away behind her, and she saw ponies erupting all along the tree line. Some of the Indians howled and shook their bows and lances overhead as they converged on the man who held her across his lap.
    Cynthia Ann looked for John, but none of theponies seemed to be carrying double, and she squirmed some more. The Indian seemed to know what she was trying to do, patted her shoulder and pointed. Once more he said something that sounded like a grunt, and she tried to look, but it was too difficult. Realizing it, the Indian grabbed her under the arms, swung her high in the air, the way Grandpa John used to do, then lowered her over the pony so she could sit. He wrapped one arm around her waist, and she looked down at the copper skin, the swirls of war paint that ran from the shoulder all the way to the middle of the muscular forearm.
    Again the man pointed, and this time she was able to follow the extended arm. She saw John then, hanging like a sack of flour over another pony. He seemed to be sleeping, and for one terrible moment she thought he might be dead. But then she realized that there was no point in carrying dead weight, and the Indians would have no use for him, and would have left him behind, if he were not alive.
    She almost smiled then, able for a second to forget about where she was and how she had come to be there. She raised a hand timidly, until it was just a little above her shoulder, and curled two fingers in the smallest of waves. But John didn’t see her, and so she waved the hand back and forth, still keeping it below her head. Again, John failed to respond, and she knew then he was probably unconscious or sleeping.
    Sensing what she was trying to do, the Indiannudged his pony toward the one which carried her brother. The pony moved in very close, so close that she could reach out and touch John’s blond locks, full of pine needles and the husks of seeds. She couldn’t see his face, but she noticed the bloody scratches on his arms. Instinctively, forgetting for a moment where she was, she gasped, “Is he all right?”
    Only when she turned to wait for the answer did she remember, and she started once more to wail. The Indian shook his head and put a finger to his lips. He made a shushing sound and took the extended finger from his own lips to hers. She trembled as the fingertip approached, and shrank away for a moment when she felt it touch her lips.
    She shushed because she was afraid not to, but continued to sob, her hands extended toward her brother. The Indian raised a hand and the others all stopped. She realized then that he must be somebody important, maybe even a chief. He shouted something and one of the warriors moved closer. Some of them, she noticed, were followed by riderless horses. One of these was brought close and the man who had captured her slipped from his pony so easily that she didn’t even hear him land on the ground. He picked her up then, his large hands encircling her waist, and placed her gently on the riderless pony. Then, he walked toward the Indian who carried her brother.
    Taking John in his arms, he rocked him almosttenderly, then tickled the boy’s nose with the tip of a finger. She saw John’s eyes open then, the bright blue almost glowing in the harsh sunlight. The boy started to cry, and the Indian rocked him again, one hand patting the boy’s sob-wracked shoulders. Then, spinning the boy high overhead, as he had done with her, he brought John down on the pony in front of her.
    The Indian barked something, and one of the warriors tossed him a sack of some kind. The Indian she had already begun to think of as the chief opened the sack and took out a length of rawhide. He jerked a knife from a sheath on his hip, and John screamed. The Indians all laughed, and Cynthia leaned forward to coo in the boy’s ear, trying to calm him.
    Working quickly, the Indian secured her feet under the pony, did the same to John, using one continuous length of the