Girl in a Buckskin

was Westfield. “Look!” she cried.
    “Faster,” O’Hara shouted, looking behind her.
    But Becky’s horse was slowing. She jerked at the reins and the animal answered her by rearing back and giving a snort of pain. Then he halted.
    “What is it?” cried O’Hara, reining in his horse and riding to her side.
    “I think—a stone from the creek bed—he limps—”
    They both glanced behind them and Becky’s heart froze. The Indians had reached the gutted cabin and were fanning out across the meadow, a dozen of them shouting and brandishing their bows. O’Hara thrust his unloaded musket at her and grabbed hers. “Climb on behind me,” he shouted, and raising the musket fired.
    An Indian in the center of the line fell back, his horse wounded, but the others rode on, so close that now Becky could see their painted, grimacing faces.
    “Hurry!” cried O’Hara, reloading in the saddle.
    It was a distraught, nightmarish moment. The screams of the Indians had left Becky trembling. O’Hara’s horse was so skitterish that she was forced to wait for O’Hara’s hand to help her. As she hesitated she saw one of the Indians gain their flank, and leaping from his horse he knelt in the dust to notch an arrow to his bow. She watched in horror as he aimed at O’Hara’s broad back and she was too frozen to move. The Indian did not even bother to lie down, for they were as good as taken now. There was no hope at all for them.
    But at that moment, to Becky’s astonishment, a musket was fired from the woods lining the meadow and the Indian kneeling in the dirt spun around and fell. As O’Hara lifted her effortlessly into the saddle behind him Becky saw a strange painted Indian race from the woods, his head almost buried in the mane of his black and white spotted horse.
    “Oyeeeeeeee,” shouted the Indian, and beating his horse with his fists he drove it between them and the Indians like a madman.
    O’Hara’s horse wheeled, and as it began to level out for the long ride Becky caught a glimpse of the musket in the Indian’s hand and then she saw his face.
    It was Eseck, her brother.
    Becky struggled in the saddle. Then it had been Eseck watching them in the woods from behind, Eseck who had warned them with his cry of the grackle. “Stop!” she screamed. “Stop, it’s Eseck!” But having been handed the gift of life by an unknown Indian O’Hara saw no cause to forfeit it, nor could he hear what she screamed to him.
    “Stop!” Becky cried, beating at O’Hara’s back and shoulders. “Stop, I tell you—he saved our lives!”
    Ahead, at the settlement, small shapes were running toward the garrison house. Behind them Becky saw the Indian war party converging on the solitary Indian with the white scalplock and her screams suddenly stilled as she saw them surround him. A raised tomahawk shone for a moment in the sun. Then Eseck’s spotted horse trotted away riderless into the woods.
    “Oh, no,” she sobbed, covering her face with a hand. “Oh, no—”
    The horse came to an abrupt halt. She felt hands pulling her from the saddle and the roughness of O’Hara’s tunic as he took her in his arms. She heard the sound of a door being unbarred, the chattering of voices, and behind them the smell of bacon and gunpowder.
    “She’s had a hard trip,” O’Hara said in a low voice.
    “Poor lamb,” said a woman’s voice. “We never thought you’d make it. Indeed, I scarcely know to this minute how you ever escaped them—”
    Dimly Becky heard the closing of the door and the sound of bars being drawn. Someone laid her on a mattress and she felt water on her cheeks.
    “Poor little thing, she’s crying,” someone said.
    “There now, lass,” whispered O’Hara, “you’re safe and sound at last.”
    “Aye—safe,” Becky sobbed, and with a little moan fainted in his arms.