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her father who did not.
    The Indian beside her still slept. Again Maria studied his handsome face with its tender lips, so incongruous to the complete man. He had no facial hair; she remembered that Indians kept it pulled with tweezers. In his sleep, the Indian’s hand moved, and she studied his fingers. They were long and slender. His nails were clean, pink, smooth, and tapered without any bluntness. As she was watching his hand, it moved and brushed against her. Swiftly, she sat up, and he sat up too, his dark eyes meeting her own.
    “Kisipenae — lantamen hec?” he asked her.
    “I don’t understand,” Maria said. “How could I know your language?”
    He held both of his hands before her. “Kewaapami,” he said, and repeated the word again. This was his word for hands, and he waited for her to repeat the word after him. Suddenly the indignity that she had suffered from him that morning came back in overpowering force. A few hours before he had tried to rape her, and now she was supposed to sit meekly by his side and learn his language!
    “Nhikas,” he said, indicating his fingernails. “Nhikas,” he repeated, still patient with her.
    “Shtinkas,” she said stupidly.
    “Nhikas!” he said, frowning.
    “Pinkas!” she answered promptly.
    He pointed to his fingers. “Ohkitchis,” he said.
    “Rinkas!” she said. He frowned. “Rinkas!” she repeated belligerently.
    “Ohkitchis!” he said furiously.
    “Shtinkas!”
    “Nhikas!”
    “Shtinkas!” They glared at each other, and the language lesson came to an abrupt end as he got up and left her.
    Maria smiled to herself and stretched out upon the ground. It did not take her long to go back to sleep. When she awakened it was late afternoon, and she was very hungry. She thought gleefully of all of the ways that she could vex the Indian; let him see what an idiot he had found for a wife! A strong wind was building in the pines; the night would be cold. Shivering, she looked around for him. To her amazement, she saw that the Indians were eating. Well, savages would eat before a woman did. She had always heard that a wife to them was not as valuable as a horse. Getting colder in her thin dress, she watched them consume their meal, and she thought that they would never stop. They ate on and on and on; her captor seemed to be relishing his food. He saw her watching him, and bringing his food, sat down by her, and continued eating.
    Her stomach began to growl. Saliva gathered expectantly in her mouth, and she had to swallow again and again to keep herself from
    “Oh, I am the belle of the ball!” Maria said to herself bitterly. She looked beyond the shelter of the trees. How many more nights would they ride? Where, oh God, could he be taking her?
    Her captor suddenly touched her arm, and she started away from him violently. He moved like a cat, without any noise at all. He had placed another robe upon the ground, and upon it he had placed an assortment of food. “La lematahpi,” he said, indicating that she should sit down.
    There was the mixture of meat and berries, but there was something else that looked crisp and delicious, some kind of meat that had been cooked and smoked by itself. Almost joyous with relief, she reached eagerly for the food. He restrained her hands, and she stared up at him, dumbfounded. “You told me to eat!” she said. Was he going to torture her again? The idea of starving herself to death had vanished entirely. Stubbornly, she reached for the food again, but he slapped her hand smartly with the back of his knife. Murderously, she flew at his face, aching to claw its smooth surface, but he slapped her own, sending her spinning away from the food. Like a whipped animal she crept back, and sitting by it, began to weep. How could an Indian be smart enough to be such a tyrant? Between sobs, she saw him waiting patiently. He had not touched the food, so it was meant for her. Wiping her face, she quieted and looked at him.
    He held his