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treetops and the small amount of sky that I can see. What a strange view of the world this is, lying in a ditch covered with brush.
    I can smell our house still burning. Will anything be left? All our clothes and bedding will be gone, along with my father’s small library of hymnals. My mother’s Bible, too.
    My mother reads her Bible as often as she can. She started after Father died. The night he passed, she picked up that book and started to read. I figured she was looking for answers. How could a strong man catch a cold, and a week later, be dead? And how were we supposed to live without him? She must not have found the answers right away, because she kept reading. I didn’t like it. My mother never needed help with anything.
    I can feel Mary’s body moving evenly. I turn my head to look at her. Her eyes are closed, and whatever thoughts are in her mind seem far away from here. She looks sweet. I watch her for a few minutes, and then I think of someone else … Eliza Little.
    I start to sweat. Is the Littles’ farm close enough for them to have heard the Indians’ yelling? How could they not have heard? And, just like us, they must have smelled the fire.
    There is a light snap. My body goes rigid. Someone is still out there.
    My eyes scour the small amount of the world availableto me. My ears work so hard that they ache from the lack of sound.
    I see his feet.
    My mother sucks in a small breath—she sees them, too.
    Oh, Father, please help us , I chant in my head. But I worry that whoever is out there might be able to hear my thoughts. I stop.
    I can see his moccasins clearly now. They’re highly decorated, with white glass beads sewn to the ankles and each lace ending in a red tassel. He can’t be more than five feet from us. Is he looking for us? Maybe he’s looking for one of the pigs, or maybe he was lagging behind and got lost. Perhaps he’s trying to decide the right way to go. Mary rests peacefully, while the sweat pours out of me like a river in springtime.
    The knife. I feel it next to my thigh. I don’t want to move in case the branches make any rustling noises. I want that knife. I can’t reach down now, but if he begins to check our laurel branches, I’ll grab it, dive out, and stab him. Maybe I can kill him before he kills me. I just hope that I can move fast enough after having lain so long in this ditch.
    I’ve never killed anyone, although I’ve slaughtered many a pig. My father was an expert hunter and trapper, but he hated the slaughtering. Somehow he felt that hunting and trapping was different, more of an even game than walking over to the sow pen with an ax. My mother was actually the expert when it came to sticking the pig. I should handmy mother the knife. I know she wouldn’t even hesitate if it meant keeping Mary and me safe. I can kill him , I tell myself. I can do it .
    If I don’t kill him, he’ll surely scalp me, just as the Tories and Indians did to old Philip Swartwout and his two sons that day last October. The thought of Mary at the mercy of the owner of these moccasins heats my blood, and my muscles strain to break free of the ditch … to use the knife.
    It’s as if the moccasins feel my readiness, because they begin to move away. I keep watching the spot where I last saw them until my sight darkens from the effort.
    I drop my head to Father’s frock and breathe deeply. I can smell him perfectly. “Thank you, Father,” I whisper.

        CHAPTER FIVE
    Â Â Â Â Â  SOMEHOW I CAN CHANGE MY FATE
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  THURSDAY, JULY 22, 1779
    Scar cries out from the middle of a deep sleep. I shoot up, only to collapse back to the earth with my guts on fire. What a pair the two of us are. I would laugh, if it weren’t for the fact that it isn’t very funny.
    Scar is silent again. I sink into the forest floor, the throbbing of the ball ebbing with every