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eventually under these proddings from her senses Mary returned to the present enough to begin to think. She thought of the unborn baby inside her, which surely would be forced soon, by this eternal jouncing and by her legs’ grip on the horse’s ribs, to give up its tenure in the refuge of her womb and come forth into this hopeless world. She thought of the attention Tommy and Georgie would need when this march should stop for the night. She thought of Bettie’s broken and bleeding arm, and wondered if she would be allowed to try to treat it. She wondered whether Will and Johnny had truly escaped the notice of the Indians, and wondered whether they might be trying to follow. That wan hope rose in her breast and would not go down.
    She thought of her mother lying dead somewhere and scalped near the burning settlement. And of Bettie’s baby, slaughtered before their very eyes. She squinted and bit into the flesh of her lip to keep that grievous memory from overpowering her. She wondered about James Cull and Philip Lybrook and Bill Preston, none of whom she had seen killed. And then about Will and John again. If they all found each other they might dare to follow us, she thought. But dear God the heathens have brought every gun there was in the settlement, I’m sure; what could they do for us if they did follow?
    And she began to wonder why she and her children, and Bettie and Henry, had not been killed. Perhaps we’re hostages against pursuit, she thought. Or we’re to be ransomed.
    Nay, she thought, more likely enslaved. Our children to grow up slaves.
    But she knew as well that they might have been spared only for the present, that they might be destined for those tortures of which all white wilderness settlers had heard. Maybe we’re to be sacrificed, she thought. Or eaten. The legends of Indian brutality stopped at nothing.
    She knew with certainty that their lives were in a precarious balance. If we make noise or slow ’em down, she thought, they’ll kill us at once. Thank God my children are no crybabies, she thought. At a first wail they’d doubtless be brained.
    I must tell Bettie these things if we get a minute together, she thought. In case she’s not thought of them. So’s she’ll know how to conduct herself.
    I would tell her now, she thought, but this chieftain seems to know our tongue. And I reckon they’d kill us if we tried to talk to each other now.
    Mary did not know how far they had come. In her trance she had not been aware of time nor of landmarks. She could not remember anything about the journey since the murder of Mr. Barger. She had no recollection of riding out of one streambed or descending into another, and so she presumed that they were still moving downstream in Sinking Creek. But, she realized, we might have crossed a mountain and I’d not have noticed.
    With a sudden surge of her heart, half of panic and half of hope, Mary Ingles realized a desperate need to know where she was.
    If I know, she thought, if I remember the way, maybe I could find my way back! Something might happen and we’d get free. And if it does, we
must
know the way home. To be lost is to die. She had heard William state that warning. He was always warning her and the children not to stray out of sight of the cabins. Womenfolk just tend to get lost, he’d always say; it’s just a weakness they’ve got.
    If we’re still on Sinking Creek, she thought, I could find my way back just by going upstream! It was a wonderful revelation. But if we’ve got off Sinking Creek, I’m lost.
    Must watch everything, she thought.
Everything!
Must look back whenever we pass something, see how it looks from theother side.
Memorize
how it would look coming back! And never forget it! The new excitement of this was making her forget her discomfort.
    She twisted and looked back. She saw the horses coming behind. She saw Bettie’s pain-gray face and her hanging, bloody right arm. She saw Henry Lenard stumbling along grimly, the