Blogtober 2020 Day Eight Entry
Phin and Murphy had never pointed a gun at a man until the day before, much less pulled the trigger, and facing a dozen Indians on horses charging toward them motivated them to unified action: they dropped their guns and stood with both hands high above their heads.
The Indians surrounded them, and two braves dismounted. They had dark skin and long, black hair braided with beads and eagle feathers. Phin tried not to look scared, but he could feel his hands shaking. Murphy closed his eyes, unwilling to face the other man.
The braves each took a hood from their saddlebags and placed it over Phin and Murphy’s heads. They felt themselves lifted and laid sideways like baggage on the horses. The ride to the village was swift and furious, and they held on for their lives.
The horses stopped, and they were pulled off and thrown to the ground. Their wrists and ankles were bound, and they were dragged into a tent.
“Phin,” Murphy whispered. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Phin replied. “You?”
“Scared shitless, but not hurt. What do you think they want with us?”
“I’m trying not to think of the worst right now,” Phin said.
They laid in the dark for so long they fell asleep. They awoke when someone pulled off their hoods. They opened their eyes and squinted at the light burning from an oil lantern. A girl about their age looked down.
“I’m Meadow,” she said. “Looks like you boys are in a pickle.”
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