I rode directly behind a young mother with a little one, maybe a year and a half old. The child had been patient in the cradleboard all afternoon, but I saw unrest brewing. During a brief pause, the mother took her little one from the cradleboard and held him in front of her to nurse. Later, she shifted him to her shoulder for a burp, and kept him there as she adroitly handled the reins and he played with her hair.

My auburn hair, wild about my head again, must have caught his eye. I waggled my hand at him and he smiled, showing off big dimples and two teeth. We spent a few minutes shaking heads at each other and laughing softly. Well, softly on my part, after I intercepted several glares from other travelers. I became aware then how quiet everyone was. This was not a regiment of noisy Bluecoats with banging canteens and creaking leatherwork, but people fleeing in silence.

Chastened, I knew I could easily have beguiled away the remainder of the afternoon entertaining that little fellow, or entertaining myself, if the truth be told. I never got the chance.

One moment he and I were making big eyes at each other, and the next, his mother’s horse stumbled and went down hard on one knee. I watched in horror as she was thrown in one direction toward the trail’s edge, and her boy somehow clung to the horse’s saddle.

I was nearest to her so she pointed to her horse, who struggled to regain its footing. My heart in my throat, I leaped off Methuselah, who was stepping around now in agitation, and ran to the struggling horse, who struck out wildly, slowing me down.

“Please, please, please,” went through my mind as I edged toward the flailing horse. I reached for the child just as the horse gave a mighty heave and flung itself into the canyon. I came away with a saddle blanket only.

We all watched in horror as the horse sailed out and down, the child still hanging on to God knows what, until it was too much. He let go and with arms outstretched and screaming, plummeted beside the horse, as if in a weird race to the bottom. I watched the baby fall, tumbling against rocks, bouncing off trees until what was left of him splashed into the river. I could not look away, as badly as I wanted to. None of us could.

I screamed, but only once. Poker Joe was beside me then, his hand over my mouth. “No, Liz, no,” he whispered in my ear. “No.” He took his hand away after giving me a good shake.

All around me was silence. The mother was still too out of breath to get to her feet, but she crawled to the edge and peered down, all in total silence. The only sound was her ragged breathing.

An older woman dismounted and dragged her away from the precipice. When the mother pulled out her knife, I shook off Poker Joe and ran toward her, determined that she wouldn’t kill herself, even if I had failed to reach her son. Poker Joe yanked me back with a hand in the waist of my riding skirt. I watched as the mother, her face stony, her eyes fixed, sawed away at her long hair, then gashed her face and arms. She held her arms out as the blood dripped onto the stones. Silence filled the trail until it seemed to hang over the whole canyon. I know that sounds silly, but I swear to God, that was a terrible and lonely silence.