The Rocking R Ranch. Tim Washburn

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      CHAPTER 13

      Emma was physically and emotionally numbed as the four Indian ponies thundered across the plains, the savage’s grip on her never loosening. They had been riding for hours with no stops and—more important—no opportunities to escape. And Emma was planning to escape or die trying. During the long night, thoughts about her fate tormented her mind until, through sheer willpower, she finally tamped them down. If they were going to kill her, they would have already done so.

      But Emma also knew some fates were worse than death.

      As the sky began to lighten, heralding the coming dawn, the Indians rode down into a small creek and allowed the horses to drink. The Indian holding her, whom she named Big Nose, finally loosened his grip and elbowed her off the horse. Emma hit the ground hard and her breath rushed out in a whoosh. She curled up in a ball as she tried to get her wind back as the four Indians moved upstream from the horses and drank from the creek. Once she regained her breath, she glanced around to mark the Indians’ location and scrambled to her feet. She was desperate for water, but her desperation to escape was more urgent.

      Emma had no idea where they were in relation to the ranch. West Texas was immense, and she could be miles from civilization, but that didn’t dampen her urge to run. After a quick glance to pin their location, Emma took a deep breath and charged up the creek bank. She heard the Indians laughing as she grabbed on to a sapling and pulled herself over the top. She pulled up short when she discovered the wide-open prairie extended for as far as she could see, with no signs of civilization in any direction.

      That’s all Emma got to see before the Indians were on her. The Indian who had grabbed her ripped off all of her clothing and threw her on the ground. Emma cried when he began his assault and that earned her a beating, the brave repeatedly slapping her. By the time the third Indian knelt on the ground and lifted his breechcloth, Emma was resigned to the fact that she was powerless to stop them. She squeezed her eyes shut and let her mind drift, flashing on images of her family, wondering if she’d ever see them again or even if they’d want her after this. But those thoughts were too painful to ponder so Emma turned her mind to the gnarled branches of an old post oak tree that shaded a portion of the creek. She focused on tracing the branches from the trunk to their tips, with not a foot of straight in any of them. Some twisted up, some down, the others this way and that with apparently no predetermined path. A lone tear formed in her left eye and drifted across her face and into her hair before the Indian on top of her could see it.

      Eventually—finally—their appetites were sated. Emma looked down to see her thighs covered with her own blood and before that thought could register, her captor grabbed Emma by the hair, dragged her down to the creek, and rolled her into the water. Emma looked up to see the other three savages cutting her calico dress into shreds, each taking a piece of material and tying it around their heads like victors of a conquest. In the back of her mind she was hoping—praying—that they’d maybe let her go now that they got what they wanted. But, as she suspected, an Indian pulled her up by the hair, threw Emma over his shoulder, and tied her to one of the horses they’d stolen somewhere along the way. Naked as the day she was born, tears streamed down Emma’s cheeks as the Indians mounted up and, leading her horse, rode up out of the creek.

      Emma winced in pain with each step of the horse. To add to her misery, the sun was now riding high in the sky and she could feel her pale skin already roasting and knew she’d be burned and blistered by the end of the day. The Indians kicked the ponies into a gallop and each lunge of the horse sent shockwaves of pain radiating through her body. If she hadn’t been tied to the horse, she would have gladly jumped off and been content to die where she fell.

      Through sheer force of will, Emma mentally suppressed the pain from raging to a level just below unbearable and tried to focus on her captors. She still had no idea which tribe the four Indians called home, or if it even mattered. Due to the location of the ranch, it could be any of a dozen tribes, but judging from their brutality Emma was thinking they were either Apaches, Kiowas, or Comanches. Not that there was a whit of difference between the three—all were known to be sadistic and all took pleasure in devising new ways to torture their captives. The only thing that kept her from going crazy was that she knew her grandfather had a good relationship with a good number of tribes and his contacts could possibly lead to a quick recovery. Before she could give that further thought, her mental wall collapsed, and a wave of intense pain washed out any other thoughts.