The Great Alone by Janet Dailey

trickled from a hole in his temple. She gasped in horror, then saw more bloodied bodies lying on the ground, none of them strangers. The resistance of the Attuans was broken. The remaining men started to flee, but the raiders pursued them. She saw three of them catch Stone Lamp, the aging headman of the village, and fall on him with their knives.
    Struck with terror, she feared they would all be killed. Her one thought was to run to the cliff trail and hide in the mountains. But when she started toward it, Weaver Woman stopped her.
    “No. There is no escape that way.” Tears streamed down the cheeks of the old woman, but her eyes held no panic. “They chase everyone down and hack them to death.”
    “Walks Straight.” She cupped her hand over the back of his head, pressing him tightly against her. “I must hide him from them.”
    “Come.” Weaver Woman hurried up the earth slope of the barabara to the roof entrance, then pushed Winter Swan onto the log ladder to descend first. Her old legs were not as agile as Winter Swan’s and she was slower climbing down the notched steps. “Hide him in the wall hole.” She gestured impatiently in the direction of a cubicle.
    “Yes.” At last Winter Swan understood.
    She ran to the private cubicle along the wall, partitioned with grass matting, and lifted aside the long woven mat. Behind it, a compartment had been dug into the earthen sides of the dwelling to create a small storage area. She hugged Walks Straight very tightly for an instant, wondering if she would ever hold his small body again, then set him in the hidden compartment. There was little room for him. He had to sit with his knees drawn up and his head brushing the earthen top.
    “Listen very carefully to me.” Her voice wavered. There was fear and bewilderment in his eyes. Winter Swan struggled to achieve a measure of calm. “You must stay here and hide. Make no sound. No matter what happens—no matter what you hear, stay where you are … until … all those strangers have gone away.”
    “Where will you be?”
    “Do not worry about me.” Weaver Woman smiled to keep from crying. “Stay here.” The shouts and shrieks of terror from outside were lessening. Soon the strangers would be coming to see if anyone was inside.
    Wrenching her gaze from her son’s face, Winter Swan forced her hand to lower the matting and conceal him from her sight—and that of the strangers. Weaver Woman helped her smooth the woven grass covering so it hung straight. Then quickly they moved away from it to the center of the barabara.
    A face appeared in the roof opening—a full-whiskered face with round eyes. Winter Swan recoiled, but there was no place to run. Weaver Woman stood quite calmly. Instinctively she moved closer to her. The man turned his head and shouted something, then started down the ladder carrying his thunderstick. Almost immediately another stranger crouched beside the hatch.
    The first man climbed halfway down the ladder, then jumped to the floor. He moved warily about the barabara, searching the cubicles and constantly glancing back at them. Winter Swan held her breath, afraid he would find her son’s hiding place. Her throat muscles strained with a silent cry for him to be still. Finally the man approached them and motioned them to ascend the ladder. Winter Swan let the old woman go first, wanting to stay behind near her son as long as she could. She felt the hard prod of the thunderstick push against her back, but dared not cry out for fear Walks Straight would forget and come running out to see what was wrong.
    From atop the dwelling, she could view the carnage, the scattered bodies of the men twisted in their death throes, the women going from one to the other weeping, and the children wandering about, tears streaking their bewildered faces. All the men were dead, every one. The strangers had spared only the women and children. Winter Swan supposed they intended to carry them off to their village across