Tied to my horse, the Indian raiders led me toward the flickering firelights of a valley gorge. Faint stars like icy trinkets guided us along a narrow descent from the mountain. Our nervous horses neighed. I tried quieting my own mare while gravel and silt slipped away below us. But the Indians themselves seemed stiff and stoic, as if they welcomed every moment of mortal danger.

In the hidden valley, fire lights of an encampment grew, and so did the sound of drumbeats. I was thrust as a captive into ancient city carved by nature's rock walls where they were free to dance and torture souls without fear of consequence. It seemed hopeless to escape such walls and cliff-faces of nature's prison. As we descended, my heart sank into a pit of darkness.

As the revelry of their raids came into view, Thad's words came back to haunt me, when we'd been on the range and spotted Indians during the buffalo hunt last year. "Now, Miss Jane," he'd said. "Be sure to save the last bullet for yourself. Trust me, when I say, best you go straight to heaven then be led away."

My heart fisted in fear, as I watched in horror painted warriors dancing with knives around men tied to stakes set for a fire. The whole camp seemed a fevered pitch. All I had left inside to keep me sane, was that little light of mine, the one hidden in my soul for such a dark hour.

General Sully's words haunted me into the darkest trail of my mind from the foreboding exchange we had at church when he exclaimed, "Ma'am, I have negotiated with the Indians and fought them. I give them respect when it is warranted. But should a woman be held captive and live to tell the tale, you yourself might be inclined to call them something less than human."

Our horses finished the descent and trekked into a shimmering creek reflecting it's translucent waters. Our small party of a dozen or so warriors allowed themselves and their horse to quench their thirst. It reminded me how my tongue clave, and how I wished to drown myself in the creek. Slipping into the water, I cupped my hands to drink. They took turns kicking me from all sides until I thought I would drown.

The one warrior tugged me out of the freezing water and pulled on me through to the other side where I stumbled and fell. Curious men, women, and children rushed toward me with whoops and shouts. He led me through a gauntlet like a dog on a leash. Others pelted me with rocks. Others cut me with knives.

I was forced to watch the celebration, as warriors and braves danced around the half-naked men. Blood streamed down their sides where they'd been lanced. One of the men looked me in the eye with a defiant stare. I fell to the ground and closed my eyes. Someone kicked me in the head.

In the midst of my suffering, with my head down low and crawling like an animal, I looked up to see an Indian squaw, a bull of a woman with fiery red eyes. I found myself pleading with her in the dirt in front of her t-pee wishing to stick my head in a hole, so I could not see and hear the tortured cries of those burning at the stake.

I hoped she would take pity on me, while other squaws encircled. But she bore down on me with angry words I couldn't understand. She crouched down and scowled. She jerked my head back by my hair.

Someone from behind wrapped an arm around my neck. I closed my eyes to die. A brave snipped a loch of my hair and ran off yelping. I swallowed the knot in my throat, having thought for sure I would be scalped.

A young squaw in broken English stepped forward from the huddled mass and spoke to me with eyes of pity. From her complexion, I suspected she was a half-breed of thirteen or fourteen, with caramel skin and maple eyes. She indicated to me, they were a party of Cheyenne and Brule Sioux. "Do as they say. You will live and not die."

A thunderous fear ran through my head of what it would mean to obey without a chance to resist. The young girl left with a throng of others as sparks flew and a fire roared with the screams of torture and death. I prayed to see her again, as if she would be the angel I needed; a messenger of hope.

The wretched squaw held my head again She cursed at me in her native tongue. She spat in my face. It appeared she was left to keep an eye on me during the gruesome festivities. Somewhere in the blur of my vision and the quake of noises, I must have passed out, finding a temporary escape from my nightmare.