Delia lay groaning on her grandmother's quilt in the back of the canvas-topped wagon. For days she had endured the heat of summer on the plains, and the torment of being jounced across ruts made by previous hopefuls heading West.

All afternoon Laurie had slowed his team more and more to ease the ride for her. Now they were so far behind their party that the dust no longer bothered her. A corner of the wagon soared as one wheel ran over a rock and crashed down again. She bolted upright, crying "Laurie!"

He yelled, "Whoa! Whoa!" and motion gradually ceased.

She fell back on the quilt with one arm crooked over her eyes. Dizzy and nauseated, she could hear Laurie climbing off the seat and coming around to her. The interior was stuffed with all the belongings that would fit in. She hoped they wouldn't have to leave half of their treasures alongside the trail, as others had done.

"We're stopping here," he said, smoothing a strand of moist hair from her forehead.

"Oh, no!" Delia clutched his shoulder. "We can't let the others leave us."

"They won't go much farther, and we'll catch up in the morning, while it's cool." He moved away, suggesting, "Rest while I unhitch and make a campfire."

Resting was impossible. She hadn't slept well since Laurie decided to set out on this hellish journey, describing with excitement the better life they could have in the fertile valleys of California. California! At this pace, weeks of travel lay ahead with few towns in between and many dangers and mishaps along the way. They'd be fortunate to reach their destination before winter snows closed the passes in the still-distant mountain range that posed the last obstacle.

Daily she longed for the tidy white house on Alexander Street, now in the possession of Laurie's older brother. She missed the shady lawn, comfortable furnishings, her mother's piano against the parlor wall, even the bright-flowered oilcloth on the table.

The wagon train had reached Fort Smith before Laurie noticed her pallor, listlessness, and state of nerves that caused her to jump when spoken to suddenly. They'd been married nearly a year, and both hoped she was 'in the family way.' Laurie wanted a son. Delia hoped so because then she would have an excuse to return home. But the doctor in Fort Smith had poked and prodded, asked a few questions, charged Laurie two dollars, and said, "Not this time."

Hearing hoofbeats, she lifted her head to peer through the rear opening in the canvas. The outrider from the wagon train rode past and said to Laurie, "Figured I'd best check on you folks. Anything I can do to help?"

"No, thank you," Laurie told him. "My wife isn't feeling well, so we'll camp here."

"Not a good place. Over that rise yonder, you'll find a bluff to shelter you. If you don't catch up by noon tomorrow, I'll come back to find you."

Find us! Delia thought, picturing their wagon smoldering, their bodies face down and full of arrows. Campfire tales these last weeks had lodged in her thoughts like burrs. She huddled on the quilt, watching Laurie patiently hitch up the team again. "Maybe you'd better not make a fire," she said. "I'm not hungry, and you can have the cured ham and cornbread from last night's supper."

"You should eat something, Dee. Wouldn't you like to get down and walk awhile? You might feel better."

"Not just now."

Soon the tilt of the wagon meant they were over the rise. She sat up and regarded a high, eroded cliff as he pulled into the hollow. Behind them stretched a vast, bleak grassland shadowed with the coming night. She shivered, turning from its emptiness. Her throat was scratchy from days of breathing dry, dusty air, and though water in the canteens would be flat and warm, she unhooked one strap from its nail and took a couple of swallows. She was replacing the container when movement startled her: a silhouette framed in the arched roof of the wagon.

Several yards away, facing the camp, sat a man on a horse. His mount's tail drifted in the slight breeze. He carried a war lance decorated with feathers.

For a moment, Delia could neither move nor speak, transfixed by the motionless figure that embodied all her nightmares. Then she stumbled over crates and bags and household objects to reach the front of the wagon, where Laurie, hunkered near his team with his tin plate of supper, could hear her hoarse cry. "Laurie! Indians!"

He dropped the plate and leaped into the wagon, snatching his shotgun from under the seat and clambering over parcels. Crouching together, they watched, and waited. Not for long. A burst of clops from unshod hooves behind them made him swing around, the click of the hammer under his thumb sounding loud in the hot, close space. Two more riders carrying lances pranced their ponies around to the front, where Laurie had sat moments before. Surrounded!

Darting pains in Delia's chest made her fear she would faint. A few nights ago, when the others were sharing stories after supper, someone had mentioned that a short lance meant the warrior who carried it was more ruthless than his tribesmen.

In the failing light, she could see that one apparently very young rider hung back. His older companion's long hair was white. Both wore castoff shirts and trousers, perhaps taken from a settler's cabin. The older man's feet were clad in moccasins, and around his neck lay a heavy necklace of claws or animal teeth.

The third rider, close at the back of the wagon, wore similar moccasins and necklace but no other clothing except a breech clout, revealing a warrior in his prime. His hair was fastened in two braids. He said in careful English, "You know signs?"

"No," Laurie answered from the shadows, and had to clear his throat. "Just English." Delia knew he was as frightened as she was, and her terror increased.

"Speak slow. I am Young Bear. We talk."

An interval of silence made her desperate to scream. Then Laurie lowered the barrel of the shotgun and said, "We are friendly. Friends."

"We, too."

Another silence, more uncomfortable than the first. "My wife did not feel like traveling."

"Good camp," the white-haired one observed, drawing her attention to him, his stout legged pony, a feather wafting from its bridle. And, hanging from the blanket, some kind of fur—

Not fur.

Scalps. Delia could not hold back a convulsed, strangled noise. Through a ringing in her ears, she heard the man ask, "Wife with child?" and Laurie's lie, "Yes. She is."

The Indian slithered off his pony.

Laurie raised the shotgun. "You leave now, she needs rest."

Motioning him off the seat, Young Bear continued, "I know cures."

For long moments, no one moved. At last, Laurie lowered the barrel of the weapon and stepped to the ground. "If you harm her, I will kill the old man."

Shrinking against a curved wooden stave, Delia watched the warrior gracefully clear the back of the wagon. He squatted near her and coaxed, "Come near."

She edged a bit closer, feeling the final glow of the sunset on her face. His necklace of beads and teeth caught the light as he breathed. His eyes sparkled with interest. She was surprised to detect no offensive odor, only familiar earthy aromas common to men who handled animals and wore buckskin.

After studying her for several moments, he reached out and touched her stomach. With playful accusation he whispered, "You not with child."

Her heart thudded. The lie trapped her, sealing Laurie's fate and hers. The Indian reminded her of a house cat playing with its prey before devouring it. "What will you do to us?" she whispered back.

"Pain?"

She nodded.

"Show."

She pointed to her stomach, chest, forehead, all having hurt for weeks. Since the first restless night on the journey.

"You go in wagon long time?"

"Yes." She had lost count of the days. The doctor in Fort Smith had prescribed little white pills which produced no effect. What would this savage do?

He untied a pouch from his waistband. Extracting three little wads of cloth, he laid them in a row on the quilt. His eyes searched the smaller items hanging from nails, and found a tin cup and the canteens. "Whiskey?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Rum. For baking."

"Rum. Yes." He held out his hand, palm up. Clean and sinewy.

She unearthed the bottle from among kitchen items, and gave it to him. His well-shaped fingers, with trimmed nails, blended small portions of rum and water in the tin cup. He selected one of the wads.

His voice was gentle when he asked, "We scare you?" Bits of some herb went into the rum water.

Her glance took in the motionless group, including Laurie, who was letting the shotgun waver. "Yes," she gasped, freshly aware of the hairy objects dangling from the old man's horse blanket.

"You hear things?" Young Bear lazily swished the herb in the cup. "Bad things?"

She nodded again.

He drew a quick, shallow breath. "Things . . . not true."

"But I can see . . . " She made a vague gesture.

Young Bear smiled, offering the cup. "Drink. Be cured."

In taking it, her fingers brushed his, warm against her cold skin.

She hesitated until he put his hand over hers and tilted the tin rim to her lips. Again his touch warmed her skin. The herb smelled and tasted like teaberry, faintly distinguishable through the heavier rum flavor. She swallowed the dregs, and their hands lowered the cup. "Will it make me a willing captive?"

In the darkened wagon, he placed the herbs back in the pouch, and she fancied he smiled again. "No. I am . . . your captive."

So quickly that she didn't flinch, he reached out and grasped the thick hair pinned at the top of her head. He laughed softly. "Good scalp." As he sprang to the ground, he said, "I leave lance. Mark wagon. No man harm you."

Delia leaned forward to tell him, "You are a good friend."

Taking up his lance, he secured it in the whip socket. With a fluid motion, he mounted his pony and declared, "I am Kiowa."

Then he wheeled and rode away, the other men following. Before the unshod ponies ghosted into the night, Laurie was beside her, hugging her and crying. "It's all right," she kept saying. "Young Bear promised we'd be safe."

Morning sunshine, windswept grass, high thin clouds—Delia thought she had never seen so perfect a day for traveling. Sitting on the wagon seat beside Laurie, she recalled the sound of Young Bear's voice, the words he had said, a smile that revealed clean teeth, the sparkle of humor in his eyes, the taste of teaberry and rum—and the warmth of his fingers touching hers.

For the fiftieth time, Laurie asked, "Are you sure you feel all right?"

Full of breakfast and a sense of well-being, she answered for the fiftieth time, "I feel fine."

Far to their right, parallel to their route and moving among clumps of chaparral, she caught sight of a rider. Snatching off her yellow kerchief, she held it over her head, waving it slowly back and forth.

"What are you doing?" Laurie cried. "It might be . . . "

A part of the speck disengaged, the rider's arm raised to return her salute. "Young Bear," she murmured, watching as he disappeared over the horizon.

Just ahead of them, topping a rise a little to their left, another horseman. With relief, Laurie exclaimed, "It's the outrider."

Not only the man from the wagon train, but five soldiers. His first words were, "Thank God you people are all right!"

Laurie stopped the team and stood up, his tone excited. "What do you mean?"

The troopers' dust-stained faces showed weariness. One of them answered, "Old chief Sitting Bear and some of his braves are off the reservation. The captain thinks they're on the warpath again." He paused. "I don't reckon you folks saw anything of 'em."

"No," Delia assured him. "We haven't seen any Indians on the warpath."