Girl in a Buckskin

hear white man and Indian fight big war again.”
    Eseck turned to Blue Feather in surprise. “I hear no such talk. Indians have made peace treaty with the Long Knives.”
    Blue Feather shrugged. “Treaties made only of paper.” He made a quick gesture as if he were tearing paper in two and sat back on his haunches waiting.
    Eseck tried to hide his consternation. By the great horn spoon, he thought, if this were true it would be more than a man could stomach. The French declared war on the English, the English declared war on the French, and the colonists must fight their battles for them thousands of miles and an ocean away. “You mean the French Indians will not I keep the peace?” he said. “The paleface in Canada want them to fight again?”
    Blue Feather nodded. “That is what news the wind brings us. Very bad when paleface fight paleface and Indian fight Indian. Many scalps taken.”
    “Very bad,” Eseck agreed. “You fight, too?”
    Blue Feather shook his head. “We not fight. No horses, few braves, but war bad. French Indian come near here. Trail from Canada not far from valley.”
    “How far?”
    Blue Feather shrugged. “Maybe day’s walk.”
    He stood up and walked away, leaving Eseck exceedingly troubled. If Blue Feather’s news were true, then soon the entire Connecticut River Valley would be in flames again—and they were not far from the river valley. And if what Blue Feather said was true then the Indians’ trail into the Connecticut Valley lay only forty miles or so away. “What is it?” whispered Becky.
    “Only a rumor.”
    “What rumor?”
    “Of war,” he said, “but I cannot believe it.”
    “War!” gasped Becky. “But the last war ended only four years ago. We have a treaty now with the French Indians—the very one that allowed you to come home!” !
    “Aye,” said Eseck, “but treaties are only a matter of convenience.”
    “Will—will these Indians fight?”
    Eseck shook his head.
    “Then I refuse to think any more about it.”
    Eseck considered telling her that if chance brought the French Indians into this valley there would be no running to a garrison house for them and nowhere to turn for help. They would be alone, as all fugitives were alone, and alone they would have to meet danger. It was unlikely that Becky could survive—unless he taught her so well the ways of an Indian that she too could become a tree, a bush, a log.
    “T’is only a rumor,” he told her, wondering how long his small supply of powder would last if they were allowed to remain here. He would have to make a bow, he thought, and hunt Indian fashion for their food so that he would have powder and ball saved for any real need.
    At that moment the deerhide flap of the lodge opened and the chiefs filed out, their eyes on Becky and Eseck. Eseck could feel Becky’s tension. “They’ve decided,” he said, and some of her apprehension leapt across the narrow space between them and caused his muscles to tighten. He heard Black Eagle speak—just one sentence—and everyone laughed. Then jumping to their feet the women ran toward them shouting with laughter.
    Eseck turned to his sister but Becky, seeing a horde of Indians streaming toward her, thought, He has given them permission to torture us—or scalp us— we're done for—and with a little whimper fell over in a faint.
     

Chapter Seven
     
     
     
    BECKY OPENED HER EYES TO A SILENCE PUNCTUATED ONLY by the sound of a crackling fire and the sighing of trees in the wind. She lay a moment wondering where she was and how she came to be lying on the earth with only a fur robe beneath her. The fire showed her a black sky with three stars overhead and the trunk of a birch tree that gleamed white as damask against the sky. Then remembering where she was Becky moaned and at once a finger was laid across her lips. “Becky.”
    A painted face appeared between herself and the sky and Becky stared at it wonderingly, too spent to cry out. It resembled Eseck’s face and spoke in Eseck’s voice but the hair had been plucked into a scalplock and the cheeks painted with birds. She wondered if she were dreaming. “What—what have they done to you?” she whispered.
    “We’ve become Indians,” he said, and taking Becky’s hand he forced it to her own face which felt sticky and wet. “What—what is it?” she faltered. “Blood?”
    He smiled. “Only paint. Poor little Becky, you’re exhausted. I let you sleep, thinking it better than your