Girl in a Buckskin

she was not afraid. She had a reckless hankering to know who sat in her cabin and she thought she had a right to know. Injuns most likely—-maybe even Eseck, but she would never learn who it was by skulking in the deep woods. She cradled the musket that she always took with her slung over her shoulder, with its precious powder tied to her belt. She had the musket and she had the strange skill Eseck had taught her and she thought she could get down the hill and back without any Indian knowing she had come.
    While she thought about it her eyes darted here and there picking out cover between herself and the cabin. The grass had grown during the year, not enough to hide a person by daylight but aplenty for this kind of light if she crawled all the way on her stomach. She picked a zigzag route that would take her upwind of the horse and enable her to creep up behind the cabin and listen. Then her glance ran over the places the Indians would be hiding should they be waiting for her return and at last, satisfied, she looked to her musket and checked the powder.
    She crawled slowly through the grass that was dampening with dew, taking care to keep the gun dry. At every bush she stopped to listen but there was nothing but the sound of the horses tossing their heads. Two horses, she judged, and whoever rode them was mighty careless to leave them there, she thought, or else they underestimated her. And thinking this hope grew in her like sunlight that it was Eseck, gone so long from her.
    A few yards from the rear of the cabin she cocked the gun and lay down to wait. Darkness had begun to settle. If there was an Indian waiting in another bush he would have heard the sound when she cocked the gun and she held the musket steady, her eyes moving constantly, her ears waiting for the quiver of a single blade of grass.
    So silent was it that when someone in the cabin suddenly sneezed Becky almost cried out from the shock of it. A sneeze, when she had been taking care to breathe so lightly her breath would not have stirred a feather on her lips. But she did not move. Wary of traps she sat in the damp grass a full half hour before she began to crawl toward the door.
    Near the door she stopped and waited again, listening. She heard a faint whisper of movement in the cabin, as if someone had crossed his legs or moved an arm. The horses stamped their feet. A bluejay shrilled somewhere and beating its wings against the bushes flew away. Standing up Becky shoved the musket in front of her and tiptoed soundlessly to the door. With one moccasined foot she gently pushed it wide.
    “It’s about time you came, lass,” said a humorous voice from inside.
    Becky dropped the musket and peered into the darkness. “You!” she gasped.
    “Aye,” said O’Hara with amusement. “I’ve been sitting here at your table wondering how long you’d hide outside. Crawled down the hill on your stomach, I warrant, thinking me a French Injun waiting to scalp you.”
    Becky did not smile. To cover her confusion she walked to the fireplace and lit a piece of candlewood for light, placing it on the rock beside the fire. Then she turned to look at him and saw that he had little changed in three months. “I thought never to see you again, Mr. O’Hara,” she said, her voice trembling only a little.
    He smiled and glanced around. “You’ve been busy. I see you wear a skirt now that you have your cabin of cut logs. T’is powerfully hard you must have worked.”
    She nodded, watching him hungrily, this first human she had seen since April. “Did you come through Wnahtakook? Dawn-of-the-sky is dead.”
    “I know.” His glance returned to her and she looked away.
    “Black Eagle tells me you have not been there to trade. He asked me to tell you that his anger has turned to grief and you are welcome at Wnahtakook whenever you wish to come.”
    “That is kind of him. But I have not offered you anything to eat,” she said quickly, looking for work to do with her hands. “There’s dried venison, and fresh meat on the hill, cold rabbit stew, wild onions, and—”
    “I bring you news of your brother,” O’Hara said.
    She dropped the trencher and stared at him in astonishment. “Of Eseck?” she faltered.
    He nodded, and leaving the trestle table walked to her and picked up the trencher. In spite of her astonishment she had time to notice that he walked now without limping and that he was even taller than she remembered. “Pray tell me,” she