Cheyenne Territory, 1836

Emily O'Hara was reading one of her books when it happened. She, her parents Joe and Mary, and her sister Margaret had joined Stephen Hoxie's wagon train two years ago.

Life on the prairie was hard, with people dying left, right and center. First had been Leah. Poor girl had drowned. After that was her sister Rachel. Then the free Jones family, with only its patriarch Absalom left alive.

And now the cholera had spread like wildfire. The O'Haras were safe, as they'd been closer to the front of the train and had no contact with poor Sally Jones. They were allowed to move forward. But so many others were left behind, most likely to die as well.

The sound of Cheyenne warriors and their war cries had reached Emily's ears before anybody else's. "Indians!" she yelled in her thick Belfast brogue. The scouts rode along the train, warning everyone. An arrow whizzed through the air and buried itself in Joe's skull.

Emily was too terrified to move. Her mother and sister had screamed and her mother had loaded Joe's rifle as fast as she could. But there was a difference of opinion between Mary and one warrior, the latter thinking she looked better riddled with bullets.

At last, after what seemed an eternity, the carnage finally subsided. Naomi Wheeler and Emily were the only two survivors. A brave with red paint on his face about Emily's age tied her up and put her on a horse, but not before she'd sunken her teeth into his hand, enough so to draw blood. "Piss off, savage!" She spat in his face for good measure.

He recoiled and said something to the man next to him, who had Naomi Wheeler tied up also. He shoved her onto the dun pony and she refused to look at him. Face Paint mounted his own horse and the band rode away.

It was a day's ride to the Cheyenne camp. When they got there, all the Cheyenne stared at the two white women. Some spat and gave them dirty looks. As Naomi and Emily were hastily yanked off their horses, the chief, named Prairie Fire, surveyed them.

A woman named Burned by the Sun spoke at Prairie Fire's behest. "Are you sick with fever?" Burned asked them.

"No," said Naomi.

"How are you called?"

"Naomi Wheeler...Guthrie. Mrs. Skate Guthrie. He was my husband." She sent an accusing, hateful look at Prairie Fire. "Your warriors killed him."

Burned by the Sun looked at Emily. "How are you called?"

Emily spat in her face. "Emily O'Hara. What do you care? You savages murdered my family."

Burned by the Sun looked at Prairie Fire and back at the two women. "He too has lost a loved one."

Prairie Fire said something neither girl could understand to Burned. "You will now be called Five Horses," said the old woman. "And you will be called Spitting Flame," she said to Emily. "Thank you kindly," said Naomi/Five Horses coldly, looking Prairie Fire dead in the eye. Emily was silent as the grave.

Burned by the Sun led Naomi/Five Horses into a tipi. Emily was left outside. She felt someone grab her arm roughly. It was Face Paint. "Do you speak English?"

He said nothing, only leading her into his tipi. He gave her a buckskin dress with fringes at the bottom. There were two buffalo robes on the floor by the fire.

She slept on that buffalo hide until Face Paint returned with a bowl of dried buffalo meat. "You...eat...now," he said slowly. He was clearly trying to speak as clearly as possible. His tone was surprisingly gentle. "Leaning...Bear," he said, pointing to himself. "Emily," said Emily. She didn't take her eyes off him.

She took the bowl and used the bone handled knife to spear herself a piece. They ate in silence. Emily wouldn't face Leaning Bear. He noticed her shivering. "Cold," he said. He wrapped a buffalo robe around her. His touch was warm and kind.

She watched him sleeping that night. This one seems...different.