IT WAS Impossible! A girl of twelve, left to her own devices on an Arizonian ranch, had a million ways to occupy herself; yet her parents decided that Sunday was best spent not exploring these myriad possibilities, but engaging on a ramble with them. Annabelle Somerset was too young to defy her parents and, in any case, would never dream of such disrespect; surely, though, her parents detected her frustration at being impressed into the excursion.
Her father, the great walker, decided the family should explore the Chiricahua Mountains. Her mother suggested the range, handsome though it might be, was too dangerous, particularly for Annabelle. Her father, however, stood firm and eventually won out, hence she found herself beneath the blazing sun of an Arizona midday. Their journey was largely confined to the lower mountains and Annabelle wondered why her mother held the opinion this range was dangerous. A giraffe would scarcely have difficulty on this walk.
When they paused for a picnic luncheon some echoing noises attracted the attention of young Annabelle. The noises indicated the presence of life other than their own in the mountains, animal life from the sound of clattering hooves.
“Mountain goats!” cried Annabelle, clapping her hands and running in the direction of the sound.
“Annabelle, no!” her mother cried after her.
“Let her go, Joan,” her father said languidly, spreading some jam on a slice of bread. “There is hardly a case for arguing with Annabelle in this mood. Besides, you can hear the hooves, it’s quite clear that it is nothing more than animals. Be careful not to frighten them, Annabelle!”
“Yes, yes,” replied Annabelle dismissively. Had she known what was to follow, her response would not have been so casual.
THE NOISES came from a cavern approximately twenty feet from where the Somersets had broken for lunch, and which went some way back into the mountain. Hoisting her petticoats up, Annabelle clambered over rocks to enter the cavern and then ducked her head to pass under the low ceiling of the entrance. The ceiling quickly rose, leaving Annabelle in a cavern some eight feet high and at least twice as broad. There was no sign of the mountain goats, however.
“Here, goats,” Annabelle said, walking towards the centre of the cavern. She still heard noises from the far end, but she could not ascertain their source and the light dwindled the farther she moved from the cavern mouth. She recognized the noises as the clopping of hooves and snorts of a horse, or perhaps a team of them, and then heard a distinctly human voice. She could not make out the words, but the intent was clear: the speaker attempted to quiet the horse.
Suddenly, she realized what she had fallen into and she had barely time to turn on her heels before someone grabbed her.
Of course, even a mere slip of a girl such as Annabelle would hardly stand for seizure by an unknown assailant, and her bawling and kicking almost forced the kidnapper to release her. He clapped a hand over her mouth to regain control, but this only produced further squeals and a painful bite.
“Annabelle!” came her mother’s voice from outside the cavern. “Ezekiel, hurry!”
Before Annabelle could cry out again, her assailant dodged behind a rock, concealing himself from sight and holding Annabelle in a rough choke that left her unable to breathe or speak. As the villain finally loosened his grip and as her eyes adjusted to the light, Annabelle realised that he and she were not alone. Indeed, the man had a number of confederates, pressed against the sides of the rock. She could, however, see no glint of steel at the hips of the men, so these were not the pistol-toting desperadoes rumoured at her school.
“Annabelle, I hope this is no joke,” said her father nearby.
“Ezekiel, I did say this was no place for her!” said her mother, in a tone which blended reproach and anxiety.
“No time for that now. If you heard her here, she must have wandered into the cave; let’s see what we can find.”
Her parents’ figures appeared, silhouetted against the light. Annabelle strained to call out, but the man reapplied his choke and hissed at her in a language she had no hope of understanding. It was at this stage that she realised who her captors must be. Indians!
She knew she had to warn her parents. She threw her hands against the strong forearm of the man and, finding some purchase, gave a strangulated cry which she hoped would serve as warning. The call, however, was incoherent and she realised to her dismay that it only drew her parents further into the cave.
“If someone is holding my daughter against her will,” her father said, “then I insist you release her. I have some standing in the city; you would attract a higher ransom with me than with a child.”
Something in her father’s tone caused Annabelle to hold her breath. Never had she heard his voice shake so.
To their left and right, Indians drew their tomahawks. Their intent was apparent, made all the more horrific to Annabelle because she had no means of preventing it.
She gave one final scream and, at the same time, the Indians flung their tomahawks, succeeding in both instances, catching her parents in the skulls. As the bodies slumped forwards, Annabelle became acutely aware of two things: the first, that she was now orphaned; the second, that she was the captive of a group of hostile savages.