When I dared raise my eyes from the bald spot between Methuselah’s ears, I saw that I was surrounded by Nez Perce. One of them came close as we pounded along leg to leg. He leaned closer as I drew back and snatched the gold watch pinned to my riding habit, taking a circle of material with it. (Incidentally, he later returned the watch and apologized, but it had run down by then and I had no idea what time it was. I let him keep it.)

I was joined on the other side by a fellow who appeared considerably exercised. He shrieked and screamed in my ear, shaking a hunting knife in my face as we tore along. I cried and pleaded with him, but he kept that knife right under my ear.

All this time I thought I was still pulling back on the reins, but Methuselah ignored me completely, charging on like one possessed. Detestable horse. The Nez Perce with my watch fell back, to be promptly replaced by the man with the strange war paint. He leaned across me and shouted something at the Indian on my other side, the one with the knife against my jaw. With a wolf’s howl, he sheathed his knife and shot ahead.

The red and white painted Indian rode by my side as we galloped on. I suppose we passed some of Yellowstone’s most magnificent scenery, but I don’t remember any of it. As a tourist, I was a positive failure that morning. I cried and still sawed at the reins. Nothing. Finally, the Nez Perce took the reins from my hands. He had to pry my fingers loose.

Methuselah came to himself then. With the Nez Perce warrior in the lead, he trotted along like a colt and left me to my thoughts.

Chapter Six

My thoughts were not profitable. In this part of my narrative, it will be hard for me to express on paper how I felt. I assure you, I still remember those feelings. I am sitting here at the rolltop desk and I am sweating, even though the room is cool with that early morning breeze so welcome in Oregon.

As we rode, I said, “No, no, no,” over and over again like a two-year-old ordered to eat her beets. The word eventually had no meaning. I felt almost claustrophobic, as if I had been crammed into one of those new-fangled phonebooths I noticed a few weeks ago on our trip to Portland. I was smothering in terror almost as if someone were wrapping me tighter and tighter in a blanket.

I am certain you can gather what topic fully occupied my mind. The Indians hadn’t killed me outright; as we loped along, I wished they had. There could be only one reason they were keeping me alive and I did not want to think about it.

Even in my sheltered life in Omaha, we had heard about the last bullet that the husband ordered his wife to save for herself, in the event of Indian attack. Women never talked about it, but we all knew it was better to die by one’s own hand than suffer that fate worse than death.