Phil stood on the other side of the clearing, as motionless as when we used to play Statues on the side lawn at home. He carried his saddle and stood there, his face chalk white. I had read that phrase before in an overheated novel and scoffed. No, it is possible to go chalk white.

He would have gone even paler if he had looked over his shoulder. Behind him in the trees I saw other riders.

The original four riders walked their mounts into the center of our camp. Two of them rode brown horses and the other two rode spotted horses similar to the one Father and I had come across yesterday.

I thought at first that the Indians were entirely naked, but as they came closer, I saw they wore loincloths. Three of them wore their hair hanging down in thin braids on the sides, with hair on top swept back in a pompadour and the rest hanging free. The fourth man wore his hair straight. It came only a little past his ears, and looked as though it had been lopped off in a dark room with pinking shears.

Their faces were painted for war, but not recently, as it had rubbed off in spots. They looked somehow rumpled, as if they slept in their clothes, but since they weren’t wearing many clothes, I know my description is hardly apt. Perhaps the better word was tired, as if they were part of a camping trip that had gone on too long.

As the four braves filed their horses into our clearing, the others rode in, too. I counted seventeen in total. These were dressed, or undressed, like the original four, with the addition of a blue flannel shirt on one man, and another with leggings. Several of them had cropped hair. One horse carried two riders, which made me wonder if the horse we saw yesterday belonged to one of them. Some men had saddles; others rode bareback.

Father has always looked like a natural leader. One of the four kneed his horse closer and stared at Father, who started back. He had been shaving, and he was all lathered up, presenting a ludicrous appearance, if anyone could have seen any humor in the moment. I know I couldn’t.

Someone did. I heard a chuckle and looked around to see an Indian not far from me and Eugenie. He smiled at Father.

Since I didn’t know where to look, I looked at him, noting his interesting war paint. One half of his face was painted a dull white, and the other side a deep red. Little dart-like arrows on his forehead crossed over from the white side to the red side. I didn’t see a rifle, but his bow was slung over his shoulder.

Muskrat Watkins broke the silence. He walked toward the Indian who had moved closest and held up his hand. “What Indians are you?” he asked in English, which I thought positively foolish. It seemed unlikely to me that any of this barely clothed bunch had ever been near a mission school.