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Father bows his head. He begins to thank God for our meal when, as sudden as the quiet, the cabin door crashes open. Stunned, I stare at the sunlit doorway, imagining chickens exploding into flight, a gust of air. Two dark figures are poised within it. They carry rifles. Aimed at us.

And in that awful moment, I hear the sudden pounding of my heart, like raindrops on an empty, upturned barrel. I grab my sister's hand and squeeze it, as if Barbara's strength could still the pounding; drive away these figures casting shadows on our floor. These . . . Indians.

Christian pushes himself away from the table and Father grabs his arm. Father clears his throat while holding tight to Christian's tanned and muscled arm. "We ask for your blessing, Lord, in these, our times of trial," he prays, although he can see the Indians as clearly as I. "And may we be filled with the strength and beauty of your peace. Amen."

Father releases Christian and gives him a warning look. My brother's jaw is clenched. His hands have tightened into fists. But he obeys Father's unspoken words, remaining seated while the Indians approach our table, one on either side. The smell of bear grease fills the room. It must come from the Indians' scalp locks. From the red and black paint streaked across their faces.

The taller Indian grabs my father, yanks him out of his chair and onto his feet. Christian grips the edge of the table, his fingers turning white as stone. The Indian runs his hands up and down my father's homespun shirt, his pants. The Indian's hands are dark; his fingers, short, stubby and insistent. Father's hands are pale. They hang limply by his side, as if Father were saying, "We have no cause to war with you."

The Indian laughs. "You smart white man. You no carry weapon." He shoves Father backward. Father lurches against the table. A pewter plate crashes to the floor.

"Dirty savage!" Christian springs at the Indian. The Indian whips his rifle across my brother's face.

"No!" I scream, and Barbara rises to her feet. The second Indian, with two feathers in his scalp lock, aims his rifle at her.

"Barbara!" Father shouts.

I grab Barbara's arm. It takes all my strength to pull her down beside me. Barbara is foolish. She cannot fight these Indians. They have guns and knives. If we were to sit still and silent, maybe they would let us be.

Christian sprawls on the floor. His face is bruised and bloodied. Christian was always kind and gentle. He never hurt anyone. Tears well in my eyes as the tall Indian searches him for weapons, then drags him over to the bench across the table from Barbara and me. What do the Indians want? Why won't they go away?

The taller Indian . . . approaches . . . us. I cringe when his hand touches my hair. Sobbing, I stare at my plate. The bread my mother baked on Monday. Where is Mother? At the mill? Did the Indians attack the mill? I raise my eyes, searching for Father's reassurance. Father stares at Christian.

Christian is eyeing Father's hunting knife which hangs from a peg beside the fireplace. Oh, Christian, no, please, don't try.

The Indian with two feathers in his scalp lock grabs the knife. He laughs and runs his finger down the sharpened blade. He frightens me. He frightens me more than the tall one standing at my back.

Two Feathers turns to my father. "You have rum?"

"We have no rum," Father says.

"Then give tobacco."

Father nods to Christian. My brother's nose is bleeding. His mouth is fixed in a thin and angry line as he takes tobacco out of the pewter box Mother brought with her from Germany. He hands the tobacco to the Indian then stands behind my father as if his strong sturdy body could protect my father's back. I cannot stop crying.

The taller Indian grabs the three-legged stool we keep before the fire. He sits down and lays his rifle across his lap. Two Feathers stands beside him.

I swallow my tears and watch the Indians fill their pipes and smoke. No one says a word. The silence makes my stomach ache. Bessie moos from her pen outside, as if this were just another day.

Father's hands are folded. They rest upon the wooden table as still as silence. My father's eyes are closed. I believe that he is praying. I wish I were beside him. I wish that I could hold his hand and, feel the power of his prayer.

"What do you want from us?" Christian finally says.

Two Feathers lays his pipe on the table. He takes out the tomahawk he has kept strapped to his side. "We are Allegheny Indians." His dark face turns ugly. "We are your enemies."

Two Feathers stands. He turns toward my father and my brother. Sunlight glancing through a windowpane catches the sharp edge of his tomahawk. My head feels dizzy with the burning light. I close my eyes. Out of darkness, I hear his words.

"You must all die."