food.
Somewhat refreshed, Clarinda began examining her surroundings. She hoped to find something familiar, a hilltop, valley, rock or stream. She searched for any landmark she might have seen before. There were none. She examined and discarded several plans for an escape. She was desperate to go home. She wondered where her brothers and William were. She could not understand why they had not come for her. Maybe they were all dead at the hands of these demons. How long would it be until she would know?
Days blended into nights, and Clarinda’s thoughts stayed on her family. Walking along, their faces floated around her. She could hear their voices in the wind, calling her name. Each weary day was the same. She walked behind the gray mare and the tall Indian with the fancy rifle. He had not spoken to her again, and she never looked back.
At last the pace became slower. The Indians no longer seemed to fear pursuit. The line was much shorter. There were no children now. Only the women from the station. While the Indians set up camp at night Clarinda and the others were allowed to talk quietly. Most often they fell asleep exhausted without saying anything.
During the blackest hours of one night several Indians left with Polly Baker and Ben Becraft. The leader of that group was known as White Wolf. Clarinda suspected he was a white man. She overheard Shining Rifle speak to him in English. She prayed for her friends, in her mind turning them over to God.
She wondered where God was anyway, and if He had a hand in all of this. She had been taught He would watch over her. She didn’t understand how He could let this happen. She felt guilty and afraid thinking these thoughts. There were no answers. Her load of grief was heavy, but she was determined to survive. She must find a way to get back to her family.
Every day Shining Rifle stayed just a few feet in front of Clarinda. She walked carefully, following in the footsteps of his high, fringed moccasins. She had learned early on not to make any noise or draw attention to herself. She tried to do as he indicated after he saved her life back there on the trail. She believed with all of her heart that he had saved her, but she could not understand why.
Clarinda remembered something William had told her about the war. There were Indians who had fought along with him. They were regular soldiers, wore uniforms, and could speak the white man’s language. Some even learned to read and write. Maybe Shining Rifle had been one of those Indians.
She secretly watched him while they were in camp. He rarely talked to the others and remained aloof. It was clear that the relationship between these Indians was unusual. They did not appear to be friends or even to know each other. Instead there was an atmosphere of distrust.
Shining Rifle’s tall stature and clean-cut features held no resemblance to the other Indians. Clarinda wondered if they were from different tribes. She found her thoughts were constantly muddled and confused.
Early on the morning after Polly’s disappearance the remaining Indians held a parley. To Clarinda it sounded like they could not agree on which direction to travel. After a time they split up into two groups. One group took two of the women, one named Robinson, the other Clarinda did not know.
Four Indians and Shining Rifle took Clarinda, Elizabeth Young, and Susie Baker. They took two horses, a roan and the gray mare. By this time the women knew to do as they were told. They could interpret the signals and gestures the Indians used to direct them. Shining Rifle did not speak or acknowledge them in any way, but after the others were gone, he led the gray mare at a slower pace and stopped more often to rest.
The Indians seemed less hostile now. One brave killed a deer with his bow. That night they had fresh meat. The Indians carried salt in small leather pouches. The venison was cut in strips, rolled in salt and slow cooked over the fire. It tasted delicious.
Back on the trail, Clarinda realized they had ceased their circular travel and were moving steadily toward the east. The mountains were getting higher, and the going more rugged and rough. She studied the position of the stars in the night sky and took note of where the sun and moon rose and set. She felt certain she could find her way home.
Elizabeth’s movements were still trance-like. The poor woman trudged along woodenly, doing what she was told. In a whispered conference one night the women made an agreement to do whatever the Indians expected of them, hoping their lives might be spared.
Clarinda suggested it would be wise for them to help out whenever they could and make the best of this dreadful situation. In so doing, they might gain the Indian’s trust.
The long march ended for that day when the Indians found a clear stream to camp by. Clarinda began gathering sticks for the fire and the other women followed her lead.
Shining Rifle appeared to be more in charge now, though he seldom spoke. He took on the duty of making the campfires. Clarinda watched as he carefully placed the larger sticks that she had brought in a crude cross. He filled in around the sticks with leaves, grass and small bits of wood. The mound resembled an altar.
When the wood was ready, Shining Rifle sat back on his heels and held his arms and hands together in the manner of a prayer. He lifted his head, leaning back, so his face was turned to the sky. After a few moments, he went back to igniting the fire using the flint from his war bundle.
Clarinda thought this ritual must be a tribal custom but didn’t know from what tribe. The other braves took no interest in the proceeding and continued staking out the horses.
At dusk Clarinda picked up two gourds and a metal pot that dangled from the backpack the gray mare carried. She walked slow, making no sudden moves on her way to the river. Kneeling by the water’s edge, she scoured the metal pot with sand, then paused for a moment to listen. The sounds of the forest had quieted and she sensed another’s presence.
Shining Rifle’s voice startled her. His movements through the thick, knee-high grass had made no sound. He spoke in a gentle tone, tempered so as not to cause her alarm. “Don’t be frightened away like the fawn, you’re safe with me. I intend you no harm. What are you called?”
Frightened, yet reassured by his words, she stammered “Clarinda.”
“Clarinda.” he let the name roll slowly over his tongue, tasting the syllables. “It sounds like music.”
She gasped in astonishment. “You know about music?”
He stood silent, watching the ripples on the water. He seemed to be deciding if he should say anything more.
“My mother was French,” he said. “It is many seasons now since her spirit left this world. You are much like her.”
“I am? How strange,” Clarinda was flabbergasted. “I mean, how is that so?” She could not imagine herself being like a French girl who had borne an Indian child. “Was she pretty?” Clarinda looked up at the Indian, thinking even as she spoke, what a foolish question to ask. He was so close she could smell the oil on his skin. It was not a bad smell, but pungent, like spice.
“Much pretty, Clarinda. I can make no more talk here.”
She nodded, trying to understand, her thoughts racing.
Now she knew for sure Shining Rifle was different from the rest of the Indians. He was a half-breed. A magnetic force flowed around him. She could feel it. She also felt she had to keep his secret, at least for now. His tall form melted into the shadows. Clarinda carried the water back to the campfire. Tonight she would have so much to think on.
Elizabeth and Susie sat together near the fire. Clarinda handed
