A boy, no more than ten, bounded from behind a tree and scampered to Hosea. The top of his head barely reached Hosea’s holster, but he showed no fear. He grabbed the pack and tugged.

“You got to bend over, English,” the boy said, scratching one round ear.

Hosea bent down, his mouth tucked in. My hope of rescue perished. The satchel transferred to the leader without incident.

“The sack is heavy,” the leader confirmed, nodding his approval.

“We’re peaceful travelers,” Hosea said. “We lost our way in the storm. Take what you want, only leave us one horse and water.”

The leader emptied Hosea’s pack onto the ground, revealing bandages and medicine. He nodded for another of his men to guard me, then he riffled through the items. He opened one tin tub and sniffed, disappointed. He walked over to Hosea, his one eye unblinking.

“What do you say, men? Shall we leave them water?”

Inexplicably, the little boy, called Fly Man, covered his mouth and giggled.

“Here is your water, English,” the leader declared. All at once, the circle of jackals spat onto the ground. Wet flecks touched my cheek. A glob of red stained Hosea’s moccasin.

Hosea looked from the mess, to the leader. “I’m not English,” he said.

The leader growled, spat again—and missed.

At the last second, Hosea stepped out of range.

With a growl, the leader knocked Hosea’s chest with the side of his spear. He reared back for a second blow, aiming with the point.

“No!” I cried.

The leader jerked to a halt. In a flash, he crossed the circle to shove his face close to mine. His eye snapped to Hosea, then back to me.

“What was that? Say it again—English.”

Every eye turned in my direction. The point of his weapon slid across my jaw and prodded my throat. Fear flooded me. Seeing Hosea in danger, I spoke without thinking, recalling, too late, his weapon. And what do you have to defend yourself, you fool! My heart skipped violently as the leader slid his spear over my shoulder. He tapped twice on my bag.

“I’ll have your sack,” he said. “And, English, it had better be heavy.”

“I—I have nothing of value.”

“Give it to me!”

I obeyed, shaking. He riffled through it with one hand as dark lines of fear blurred my vision.

Finally, he cried triumphantly. Turning in a circle, he extended his arm so everyone could see. I squinted at his bounty. In his hand was a simple scroll of parchment. On it was a worker’s story. He stepped forward and hit me across the face with the scroll.

I cried out in surprise. It hadn’t hurt.

Across the way, William grunted.

“You call this nothing, English?” the leader shouted, so his chin glistened with spittle.

I didn’t know what to say.