But I wasn’t giggling now in some dark corner of the library. The full horror of what awaited me settled down and stayed for the afternoon. I had heard the word rape before, when we were studying early Roman history and ever so lightly touched on the Sabine women. When the obviously uncomfortable teacher corrected himself with a harrumph or two, and settled on ravish instead, I naturally looked up both words after class.

While rape was grim and matter-of-fact, ravish was milder, as in “seize and carry off someone by force,” and almost pleasant: “fill someone with intense delight.” I spent some time wondering about point of view, and those noble Roman republicans. The thought never crossed my mind that I would be no better off than those poor Sabine women. I didn’t think the Nez Perce had intense delight in mind.

As we pounded along, I spent a disquieting amount of time wondering what it would be like. Would all of them rape me? Would they kill me when they were done? Would they leave me to die?

We rode all afternoon, stopping for nothing. The horsemen were tireless. They gnawed on what looked like beef jerky, hung in pouches over their saddles, if they had them, or around their necks if they didn’t. We kept a steady pace, not fast but not slow, and Methuselah astounded me by keeping up.

I watched the riders as we traveled farther away from my family, who, for all I knew, were dead. I watched in fear at first, terrified one of them would make a sudden move my way, and then out of curiosity, because that seems to be how I am constructed.

The Nez Perce who had held his knife under my throat rode by me occasionally, muttering something under his breath until I was nearly reduced to tears. He wore the most vivid war paint, but he kept wiping his nose with the back of his hand. I wondered if he was allergic to the goldenrod that carpeted the meadows and passes.

The two Indians on the same pony were only boys. They sometimes rode ahead or behind the main body of warriors until the man I thought was the leader hollered at them. I didn’t know what he said, of course, but they didn’t stray from the group again.

The warrior who ripped away my watch pinned the timepiece to the front of his loincloth. He held up the loincloth to put the watch to his ear, giving anyone with any sensibilities cause to blush.

The red-and-white-painted man eventually gave me back Methuselah’s reins and rode by my side off and on throughout the afternoon. He whistled to himself part of the time; I thought I recognized the tune, but that couldn’t be. He held the reins loosely and carelessly, as if riding were second nature. When I felt brave enough to look around, I saw that same stance among the others.

The red and white warrior seemed to have appointed himself my chief jailer. I noticed with puzzled gratitude that he always kept himself between me and knife-wielding Nez Perce. As the shadows signaled late afternoon, Red and White rode more often with the leader. I watched their earnest conversation, complete with gestures and sharp words. I wondered only a little about the subject of their discussion, especially when Red and White kept looking back at me.