Most likely.
Maybe, like her friend Amelia, she might be able to return here after several years had passed and the danger to her new family was no longer a threat. But, by then Strikes Fast would most likely be married to someone else.
No, she couldn't do it; she couldn't return here. She would live her life as best she could…elsewhere.
As the reality of her situation became more real to her, she cried again, longing for it to be different, yet knowing in her heart she would probably never come back here.
It was upon this gloomy realization when she returned to the tiniest room she had ever seen, and there, lying down on an equally diminutive bed, she quietly cried herself to sleep.
****
"Indians!"
"Un Indien d-Amérique!"
As Sharon shot up in bed, those horrible words and screams came at her from every direction; they were yelled out from the shoreline, from the boat—starboard and port, aft and forward—and worse, from right outside her door. Her first thought was to wonder if it were Strikes Fast who was the cause. Had he followed her? Was he here? Had he come to take her back?
But, no. It couldn't be. He wouldn't be attacking the boat.
She could hear and even feel the vibrations of the war whoops getting closer and closer, as well as the answering shouts of the men. She could distinguish the difference between the guns firing and the paper-tearing sound of arrows flying through the air. Indeed, this was a real Indian attack, much like the one she had witnessed only weeks ago. Only this time, she was in the middle of it.
Was this it, then? Was she to die here?
Quickly, she stood up and reached for her petticoats, her dress and her cape, the three items of clothing lying at the foot of her bed. Hurriedly, she pulled on her petticoats and dress over her linen chemise and drawers, covering the dress with her dark-green hooded cape. Then, leaning over the bed, she pulled on her boots and picked up the small Derringer she carried with her when traveling; she checked it to ensure it was loaded, then stuffed it into the pocket of her skirt.
Looking at the door to her room, she debated over whether to stay put or take the chance of running through the fight, hoping no stray bullet or arrow would find her. Glancing quickly around the tiny interior of the cabin, she realized the room was dark, especially in its corners, and if she covered herself, she might be invisible to an intruder, were there to be any.
And, if she were discovered by the Indians, she would fight as best she could. Looking down at the pretty green dress she wore, an odd thought crossed her mind: were this to be her final day upon this earth, she would at least be properly clothed for it.
Straightening her dress and cape, she pulled a blanket off the bed and hurried past the door. However, at that exact same moment, and with the violence only war can bring, the door slammed inward.
"Ah-a-a-a-a-a!"she screamed and dropped the blanket. There, silhouetted in the moonlight outside, stood the most hideous and evil-looking Indian she had ever seen.
"Eh-h-h-h-h!"she shouted again, and she kept on screaming, over and over, though her screams were lost to the noise of gunfire as well as the savage grunts and groans of battle. Gazing fearfully upward, she thought she would faint.
Dear Lord, help me!
Black covered the man's face with red and white stripes running down his forehead and cheeks. He was tall, muscular, dressed only in breechcloth and moccasins, and, without even a word, he picked her up and hoisted her over his shoulder. He then turned and ran to the edge of the docked boat and jumped down onto solid ground; never once did he relinquish his hold of her, which would have given her a chance to run.
All around her were the sounds of fighting, of screaming, of pistol shots, of deep groans of pain and the whizzing of arrows. The horrid Indian who carried her ignored it all, darting past the struggles for life and death taking place around them. Sprinting past the refrains of gunfire, the whizzing of arrows, the grunts and moans of the dying and the hand-to-hand conflict, her captor darted into the slight cover of the surrounding pine trees without even faltering in his stride.
Not even his silhouette could be seen over the ground as he ran on, carrying his baggage over his shoulder—her.
The moon must have gone behind a cloud because it was so dark within this wood and she wondered how the man was able to keep from falling into some trap or hole or even to keep himself from running into some object like a tree. But, he didn't. Unsteadily balanced, she felt the bow and the arrows in his quiver beating against her cheek, there where she hung over his shoulder. Truth was, however, she barely noticed.
Gradually the sounds of the fighting faded into the distance, and still the man ran swiftly through the trees. Then, suddenly he stopped.
Oh no. Now what is he going to do to me?
Taking hold of her by the waist and setting her onto her feet, it seemed to her as though his touch were unexpectedly gentle, not harsh. Then, using sign language, he gestured her toward some brambles growing up wildly against a pine tree.
She signed back, "I don't understand."
Gesturing toward her, he signed, "Go in bushes! Hide! Do not come out until I tell you to."
Strangely, watching his hands in motion she realized there was a familiarity about the manner in which the man's hands and arms moved. Why, of course they were familiar to her; she would know those hands anywhere. Hadn't she always admired them?
"Strikes Fast!?"
