Cynthia's horse sensed danger and began to gallop, but not fast enough, not soon enough. Indians surrounded her. One of them made an unmistakable gesture, meaning she was to dismount. She scrambled from her saddle and stood facing her captors, small and defenseless. The horse, she knew, was a prize to them, but a young white woman could have only one fate. Cynthia hoped only for a chance to take her life before they did.

A rope was thrown around Cynthia's shoulders, pinning her arms to her sides, and the Indians rode off, pulling her after them. Obviously she was meant to walk and stay up. If she fell behind they would think nothing of dragging her all the way to wherever they were going. She did her best, but began to stumble and knew she couldn't go on much longer.

Suddenly a strong arm reached down and scooped her up. Cynthia found herself on a horse, sitting in front of an Indian. Her captor said a few words which she could not understand, but she realized from the tone they were meant to reassure her. They did not. If this Indian was claiming her for his own it meant an unthinkable fate. The knife and gun she always carried with her were in her saddlebags. She tried to squirm around to see if she could find a weapon, but was pinioned by a hard grip.

Finally they pulled up at a small circle of adobe huts. Cynthia was pulled off the horse and taken into one of the dwellings. There she saw a naked baby girl lying on a piece of hide. She couldn't be more than a week old. The Indian pointed to Cynthia, then to the baby, then back to Cynthia. Obviously he meant her to take care of the child. "M-mama?" she stammered.

"Dead," the Indian replied. So he knew a little English. With his few words of it, and a great many gestures, Cynthia got him to bring a bowl of water and one of milk and some soft leather skins. The baby was filthy, and she used one of the skins to wash it. The other she dipped into the milk and then into the tiny mouth. The baby sucked greedily, and Cynthia dipped the skin again and again, until, replete, the baby slept.

The Indian had been watching all this with stern eyes. At last, satisfied with Cynthia's ministrations, he said "You stay," turned, and left. Cynthia surmised that this was his baby; that the mother had died in childbirth. She wondered why he didn't get one of the squaws to care for it, but realized that his scanty store of English would not be enough to explain it to her.

Cynthia feared the little creature would die under these conditions, but it thrived on the milk she was able to give it, and she became very fond of the baby as the days passed. It was her only companion. The braves ignored her; the squaws spat at her. She would have been glad to learn the language if anyone had been inclined to teach her, or teach English to anyone who wanted to learn it. No one did.

Cynthia taught herself to sew skins, to cook bits of meat over a fire. The Indian who had brought her provided for her needs and the baby's, but never bothered her otherwise. She supposed that, as the woman who was caring for his child, she was untouchable.

The baby had an Indian name, but Cynthia called her Little Fawn, for the colour of her skin and her large dark eyes. Three months went by, and she loved Little Fawn passionately, walking with her when she cried, rocking her and singing the lullabies she knew. Every smile, every coo delighted her. "Mommy loves you," she would croon. "Mommy will always take care of you." She had resigned herself to staying with the tribe forever, bringing up the baby as her own.

One morning Cynthia heard screaming and shots. She held the baby tightly and did not dare go outside. An Indian raid had been made on several farms in the area. Houses had been burned, people killed and scalped. This tribe had nothing to do with it, but retribution had to be taken. Indians are Indians, the settlers thought. Go after the first settlement you see. And they had.

Little Fawn's father staggered into the hut, blood streaming from his throat, and fell to the ground. He breathed once and not again. A man dressed in some sort of blue uniform followed him and looked closely at Cynthia. "You . . . you're a white woman!"

Cynthia's voice sounded far away in her ears. "Yes. I'm Cynthia Adams."

"Everyone's been scouring the countryside, looking for you. We'll take you home now."

Cynthia showed Little Fawn to him. "This is an innocent baby. You killed her father, and I'm taking her with me."

"No, Miss Adams. You can't do that." The man's voice was not unkind.

"But she's mine!"

"Miss, you can't raise an Indian baby among whites. They'd never accept it, and when she grew up she'd want her own people. Maybe someday it could be done, but not now."

"Then I'll stay here."

The man sighed. "With her father gone you'd have no protection among these savages. They'd likely take the baby away from you and use you . . . use you hard." Knowing he was right Cynthia followed him outside, sobbing and clutching the baby fiercely to her. She covered its tiny face with kisses, wetting it with tears from her own and handed it to a squaw. Little Fawn put out her arms and said her first word: "Mommy!" Cynthia's heart broke as she left and never looked back.

A few years later Cynthia married Robert Trueblood, a homesteader. They had five children. Cynthia had thirteen grandchildren, seventeen great grandchildren and lived long enough to hold her great great granddaughter. She passed away peacefully at the age of ninety-nine, with all her children around her bed. Cynthia's face lit up with her final words: "Mommy's coming!"