For some months after they had arrived here, the lack of a weapon to hand left the Mexican journeyman feeling insecure, feeling like he was unable to protect his daughter. But he had recognised this as a form of madness. She was much better off living in a place where people did not routinely carry firearms. Particularly given the number of Indians and Pakistanis working in the city, he thought, just quietly. He had lost count of the number of fights he’d broken up at the railway yards, just as the Heartland resettlement authorities had long since given up trying to intermingle the two populations. The Indians tended to live down in the dilapidated buildings in the West Bottoms, spreading across the Kansas River to another part of the city. The Pakistanis ended up near the River Market, where Sofia was sulking right now.

In any case, over the weeks and months, he got used to sleeping in a bed each night, to not riding a horse every day, to not worrying about road agents, bandits or crazed wanderers stealing into camp to slit his throat and have away with the women. He did not want to get used to the idea of being without his family, however. For some reason he felt that keeping the jacket he had worn around his home, lately in Texas, and before that in Mexico, might help maintain a link with the past. For that reason too, he repaired his boots rather than picking up a pair from an empty store. There was the picture of Mariela and the children, also, which he carried with him – the one he had taken from the silver frame in the bedroom, the day he’d been forced to spirit Sofia away. He felt around inside the soft woollen interior of the jacket now until he found his wallet, where he knew the photo was safe. It gave him no ease, though.

The bus rolled onto Burlington Avenue and accelerated southbound past the warehouses and store-fronts. A loud, angry whine filled his ears as another military transport took off from the local airport. For a time, the planes were flying non-stop, bringing new settlers and equipment into the city while flying out valuable goods needed elsewhere in the country. When he’d first arrived in KC, the jets and the rumbling of the trains conspired to keep him awake at night. The trains still kept him up, but the planes now came every other day, always in waves, never alone.

Looking ahead, Miguel could see the ice-flows on the Missouri River float beneath the Heart of America Bridge. The bus was the only vehicle not powered by muscle that was crossing at the moment. Everyone else walked, rode a bicycle or used a draft animal of one type or another. The smell of droppings reassured him in an odd way. It was as familiar to this old vaquero as his coat.