Girl in a Buckskin

behind, and raising his arms high he made a path with his body through the jungle of blackberry bushes that stood between them and the forest. Over his head Becky saw the tops of great trees tossing in the wind and she gathered up hope they were almost there. The sun was agony to her tired bones and the brambles slapped at her face, drawing blood that trickled down to her mouth and tasted salty.
    Eseck turned and looked at her. “We’re almost there,” he said, and pulling away the brambles she saw saplings rising straight and tall, knit so close there was scarce room for a jack rabbit to squeeze through. It seemed hours before the saplings thinned and then, abruptly, they were in the deep forest with dried leaves underfoot and patches of sun scattered about like gold pieces. She stumbled toward a hemlock that rose above the others and lowering her small bundle to the ground sat down. “Is it safe?” she whispered. “May we stay?”
    Eseck was studying the forest, his eyes narrowed, and Becky knew this must be the beginning of the wilderness that led them into the Housatunnick Valley. “We’ll eat and rest and then go on. Keep this,” he said, “I’ll be back soon.” And thrusting his musket at her he was suddenly gone. Not even a branch stirred where he disappeared and not even the echo of footsteps returned to her ear.
    Becky was frightened. Where had he gone now? For water, or had he gone to find the Indian trail that led through the valley? The huckaback tablecloth fat with her belongings caught her eye and she forced herself to stare at it, taking comfort from its familiarity. They had so little to set up housekeeping with in the wilderness but they had these things of value: the musket for hunting food, the copper pot for cooking it, and Eseck’s Barlow jackknife for whittling. And somewhere ahead, in the green pocket between the Taconic Range and the Hoosac Mountains there was a country with skins enough to make them rich, a country where the Indians had hunted moose and deer, bear and beaver, otter, raccoon and fisher for as long as Indians could remember.
    The sounds of the forest stole into her thoughts and she glanced anxiously around her. Seeing movement to one side she almost cried out as a red squirrel ran up a tree and turned to give her one sidelong, curious look. She thought she would die of fright if Eseck did not come back soon, and at that moment Eseck stepped from the bushes and walked toward her.
    “What—what have you been doing?” she faltered.
    He squatted beside her, taking the musket across his knees. “Covering our tracks. We left a trail wide enough for a herd of deer,” he said, and Rebecca realized for the first time that covering their trail would become a necessary and monotonous routine.
    Eseck untied the leather knapsack trussed to his back and opening it poured out a fistful of powder which he began mixing with water from the leather bag at his waist.
    “What’s that?” asked Becky, feeling drowsy now that he was back.
    “Nookick.”
    “Nookick?” She turned the strange word over on her tongue.
    “Indian food.” He reaiched out and filled her spoon with the paste, handing it to her. “Eat,” he said, “we can’t risk a fire.”
    She tasted it, finding in it the sweet, hearty flavor of corn. “It’s good,” she told him.
    “Then finish it and we’ll be moving on. Did you sleep while I was gone?”
    Becky shook her head. “The noises—I couldn’t.”
    He looked at her with a glint of amusement in his eyes. “These are the only noises you will hear where we are going.”
    “I’ll get used to them,” she pleaded. “Truly I will. I just felt so—so alone.”
    “It’s when you are alone that you’re safe,” Eseck pointed out.
    She shivered. “But how could I be sure?”
    He smiled. “I will teach you. Now finish the food and we’ll rest a few minutes before we go.”
    “How far?” she dared ask.
    Eseck looked thoughtful. “Two days, perhaps. We’ll have to travel slowly, cutting our own trail.”
    “But we’re in the valley now?”
    “Aye.” Pushing aside the pine needles at his feet he took a stick and drew her a rough map. “Here is the valley,” he said. “The Dutch call it Westbrook and claim it, too. The Dutch are here, just over the mountains that form the other side of the valley. Below us lies Connecticut,” he said, making points on the map, “and behind us to the east is Massachusetts and the frontier towns of