Who are they, Mama? Katharane asked as she and the Squaw Woman watched the dust rise above the lost horizon of the plains like a large gray cloud. They could not see the riders, only the dust from their horses hooves.

The Squaw Woman took Katharanes hand and led her back into the dugout. The squat Comanche rolled the bulky feather mattress to the far side of the wooden frame. She pointed at the leather trampoline which supported Katharanes bed. Katty stay.

Why? Whats wrong? We dont even know who they are. Katharane began to argue, but she stopped when she saw the desperate look in the Squaw Womans eyes, which the squaws ancestors, bred, reared and destroyed with violence, had left with her, eyes which caught, mirrored and reflected hopelessness and resignation in their gaze. Katharanes father called it the look of the Kiowa that he had seen in the squaws eyes that first morning in April in the canyon.

Kiowa. Katty hide.

But Mama, there are no more Kiowa.

Kiowa. Katty stay. The Squaw Woman shook the mattress. Katty stay. No move. No say.

Katharane knew that the unseen riders were not Kiowa. But the churning in her stomach, the Squaw Womans insistence and her fathers warning that many riders approaching from the plains meant danger frightened her. We could ride out, Mama.

The Squaw Woman shook her head. They look. They find.

I have my guns. We can fight. Katharane pleaded, and she put her hands on the grips of her pistols.

The Comanche woman took the girls face in her hands. Too many. The squaw, old by the ways of the Comanche, almost forty, spoke quietly, softly, lovingly to the white girl who called her mama. Katty stay. Katty no move. Katty no say. Katty do for Mama. Katty wait for black gun and Stuart.

Katharane surrendered and lay down on the leather trampoline. The Squaw Woman nodded at her daughter and folded the thick feather mattress back over her. Silence and darkness came to Katharane with the mattress. She listened. At first she heard only the sound of the Squaw Womans moccasins scuffing the dirt floor of the dugout, then she heard the vague and indistinct voices of men, and then a curse, swearing, harsh and bitter and frightening and loud, almost as if it were uttered into her ear, followed by a crushing weight upon the mattress. She could barely breathe underneath the weight upon her and the grip of the fear inside her chest. She heard the Squaw Woman whimper. She could see nothing, she could not move and she could not shut out the voices of the men that cursed and that of her mother that prayed the Kwerhar-rehnuh prayer to the wind to carry her daughter safely away.

Come on, Hank. Stick it in her dammitt!

Shit! I cant find it for all the fat. Damn pussed up squaw.

Here. Ill make it easy for you.

Katharane heard the Squaw Woman cry out, then she felt her body jerk, stiffen and become still where it lay on top of her.

Christ! You ripped her almost to her navel. Aint no good in it now.

Then get off and let me at it.

Katharane felt weight rise from the feather mattress, then a heavier weight slammed the mattress down into her face, almost smothering her. The mattress shook, rose and then pounded down against her, against her spread legs, against her stomach and against her hot face. She tried to swallow, could not, heard the Squaw Woman try to begin again her prayer to the wind, and then a grunt, a groan and another curse drowned out her mothers voice.

Did you get it done?

Damn right! I got it done. Now Ill finish it.

Again, Katharane felt the Squaw Woman jerk. She heard a snap, like a green cedar branch snapping, then the sound of something being ripped apart like the sound old well worn buckskin made when it was torn apart.

Jesus! You done gutted the bitch alive.

Katharane smelled sweat, blood and a rancid scent of flesh she could not identify. Again the weight rose from the feather mattress. This time it did not return. She heard gun shots and shouts from outside of the dugout, a horses agonized scream and old Casners dog whimper and howl. Pop. She prayed silently. Let it be my Pop. But she knew it was not the report of the black pistol and she lay very still.

The girl, The Comanchero demanded.

The two men hesitated. They feared the Comanchero, his look, his voice made them sweat and stutter. They said some...sometimes she rode with them two. She...she must be with them cause she aint here. The one holding the bloody knife stammered.

Just my luck, The other one said more boldly. I could sure stand me a young girly to go at. Then he fell silent before the Comancheros cold eyes.

She is the black guns. The Comanchero said. Do you wish a go at him? He waited. No one answered. No? He taunted. If you do not wish a chance before the black gun, leave her to me if you find her.

Katharane prayed softly until she heard a voice from outside of the dugout and she stopped. Come on! Torch that dump and lets ride. A warm wetness now penetrated through the feathers of the mattress and moistened Katharanes cheek, mixing with her tears. More of the wetness penetrated the mattress and covered her hands and stomach. She began to smell smoke through the mattress and the dugout became unbearably hot. But she lay still and stopped, and she waited for the gunman and her father as the Squaw Woman had told her to do.