She wore a ragged blue dress. Her feet were bare, dirty and covered with scratches. She did not stir. From this side of the pony White Bear could not see her face. A sickening suspicion gripped him, and he hesitated, not wanting his fear confirmed.
Wolf Paw, frowning down at him angrily, was still wearing his yellow and red war paint, faded by the ride of several days.
"I raided the town where you lived, White Bear. I took forty head of cattle and twenty horses from your pale eyes relatives."
"I am glad to hear of the cattle," said White Bear. "Our people are starving."
Wanting, and not wanting, to know who Wolf Paw's captive was, he walked around the brave's horse for a better look at the bound woman.
"We killed many pale eyes," Wolf Paw said. "They will never forget Wolf Paw's raid. Tonight we will have a scalp dance for the warriors who have become braves."
White Bear stopped walking. People he knew and loved on both sides had died; he had to learn which ones.
After a moment he collected himself. "And will you dance for the braves and warriors you did not bring back?" It was a cruel thing to say, but Wolf Paw deserved it. Wolf Paw did not answer.
White Bear had to fight himself to keep from crying aloud in anguish. He no longer had any doubt who the captive woman was who hung head down over the spotted pony.
One yellow braid was still tied with a blue bow. The other had come undone, and loose locks of blond hair hung down, almost brushing the ground.