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Authors: Quanah Parker
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faded.
Chapter 8
C YNTHIA ANN CLOSED HER EYES hard, until she thought the pressure would squeeze them so tightly she would never be able to open them again. She felt the hands on her back, the rough hair of the horse under her. All around her, she could smell the tang of pine needles. She could tell by the sound of the pony’s hooves that it was in the pine forest near the fort. And under the smell of the pine, she smelled sweat, both of the pony and of the wild man who held her.
She kept seeing things in her mind’s eye, things she didn’t want to see, things that terrified her and made her scream, and only when she realized that did she understand why her throat was so raw. She could see Granny, the lance stabbed through her shoulder, pinned to the ground the way Elder John had once pinned a kingsnake. Only the kingsnake had wiggled and curled itself into a ball, then straightened out as it tried to squirm away. But Granny just lay still. There was blood on Granny’s dress and her hairwas a mess, the pins undone, the long strands of gray spread out around her like a string mop.
And Cynthia could see her father, his body all bloody, his arms and legs lying loose, limp, like a shattered doll. And he had been bloody, too, his shirt soaked with it, his face pale and his eyes staring up at the sky like he was looking for a bird. Smoke from the burning buildings swirled all around him, and he disappeared.
But worst of all was Uncle Ben. She had just caught a glimpse of him as they raced past, but his body was all torn, chunks of skin laid open and blood everywhere. His shirt had been torn to ribbons and she couldn’t even tell what color it was, there was so much blood. And his eyes were the color of the sky, as if they had become two pieces of glass that had no color of their own, and could only reflect what they stared at.
She didn’t want to see those things, but knew she couldn’t not see them, whether her eyes were open or squeezed shut. She knew, in fact, that she would see them for the rest of her life, and at the moment it didn’t seem likely that would be very long at all. She tried to stop screaming, to rest her throat, and she felt the hands on her back patting her, almost stroking her, as if trying to calm her down, the way Grandpa John had done when her first and only dog had died. They were rough hands, like Grandpa John’s hands, but not unkind.
Her screams died away to whimpers, and finally to occasional sobs. She felt things shecouldn’t see and didn’t want to look at ripping at her arms and legs. Thorns tore at the skin of her exposed arms and snagged in the cloth of her dress sleeves. Her legs kept battering against things that first resisted and then gave way, and she knew without looking that the pony was moving deeper into the forest. She kept telling herself that it would be all right, that the Indian who had taken her did not mean to harm her, but then those pictures of Granny and her father and Uncle Ben flooded back, and she knew that the man could have meant nothing
but
harm.
She could hear a wail off through the trees, and it took her a moment to realize the voice was familiar, that her little brother had been taken, too, and was not far away. Her first instinct was to call out to him, to tell him not to be afraid, but she didn’t want the Indian to know she was awake and alert. Better he think she had closed up like some slimy snail, gone deep inside herself where things couldn’t reach her.
Trickles of blood ran down her arms and legs from the tears and scratches, and mixed with sweat that kept dripping from the man who held her. The sweat was salty and made the cuts and scratches sting, but she didn’t try to wipe it away. The burning sensation gave her something to think about. If she could keep her mind on something simple, something ordinary, maybe she could forget all about the horror that swirled around her now like a tornado.
Now that she had stopped crying, she felt
Chapter 8
C YNTHIA ANN CLOSED HER EYES hard, until she thought the pressure would squeeze them so tightly she would never be able to open them again. She felt the hands on her back, the rough hair of the horse under her. All around her, she could smell the tang of pine needles. She could tell by the sound of the pony’s hooves that it was in the pine forest near the fort. And under the smell of the pine, she smelled sweat, both of the pony and of the wild man who held her.
She kept seeing things in her mind’s eye, things she didn’t want to see, things that terrified her and made her scream, and only when she realized that did she understand why her throat was so raw. She could see Granny, the lance stabbed through her shoulder, pinned to the ground the way Elder John had once pinned a kingsnake. Only the kingsnake had wiggled and curled itself into a ball, then straightened out as it tried to squirm away. But Granny just lay still. There was blood on Granny’s dress and her hairwas a mess, the pins undone, the long strands of gray spread out around her like a string mop.
And Cynthia could see her father, his body all bloody, his arms and legs lying loose, limp, like a shattered doll. And he had been bloody, too, his shirt soaked with it, his face pale and his eyes staring up at the sky like he was looking for a bird. Smoke from the burning buildings swirled all around him, and he disappeared.
But worst of all was Uncle Ben. She had just caught a glimpse of him as they raced past, but his body was all torn, chunks of skin laid open and blood everywhere. His shirt had been torn to ribbons and she couldn’t even tell what color it was, there was so much blood. And his eyes were the color of the sky, as if they had become two pieces of glass that had no color of their own, and could only reflect what they stared at.
She didn’t want to see those things, but knew she couldn’t not see them, whether her eyes were open or squeezed shut. She knew, in fact, that she would see them for the rest of her life, and at the moment it didn’t seem likely that would be very long at all. She tried to stop screaming, to rest her throat, and she felt the hands on her back patting her, almost stroking her, as if trying to calm her down, the way Grandpa John had done when her first and only dog had died. They were rough hands, like Grandpa John’s hands, but not unkind.
Her screams died away to whimpers, and finally to occasional sobs. She felt things shecouldn’t see and didn’t want to look at ripping at her arms and legs. Thorns tore at the skin of her exposed arms and snagged in the cloth of her dress sleeves. Her legs kept battering against things that first resisted and then gave way, and she knew without looking that the pony was moving deeper into the forest. She kept telling herself that it would be all right, that the Indian who had taken her did not mean to harm her, but then those pictures of Granny and her father and Uncle Ben flooded back, and she knew that the man could have meant nothing
but
harm.
She could hear a wail off through the trees, and it took her a moment to realize the voice was familiar, that her little brother had been taken, too, and was not far away. Her first instinct was to call out to him, to tell him not to be afraid, but she didn’t want the Indian to know she was awake and alert. Better he think she had closed up like some slimy snail, gone deep inside herself where things couldn’t reach her.
Trickles of blood ran down her arms and legs from the tears and scratches, and mixed with sweat that kept dripping from the man who held her. The sweat was salty and made the cuts and scratches sting, but she didn’t try to wipe it away. The burning sensation gave her something to think about. If she could keep her mind on something simple, something ordinary, maybe she could forget all about the horror that swirled around her now like a tornado.
Now that she had stopped crying, she felt
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