“Unfortunately, in case you hadn’t noticed, you are a child.”

“Just don’t treat me like one.”

“Okay, I won’t.  So what do you want to talk about?”

“Ask me questions, any ones, and I’ll answer them.”

“Questions?” Charlotte said.  “I don’t have any.”

“Think about it.”

Charlotte furrowed her brow but what passed through her mind was that talking to a twelve-year-old was exhausting.  “What do you know about Indians?”

“Nothing,” Ada said.  She would never tell her what she knew about Indians.

“You’re useless.”

“Ask me something else.”

“Do you think Miller Dawson’s nice to look at?”

“That’s a stupid question.  Something else.”

“You have no opinion on Miller Dawson?”

“I’m too young.”

“Oh no, lady,” Charlotte said.  “You can’t have it both ways, too old and too young.  And just for your information, he is nice to look at.  Keep your eye on him for when you grow up.”

“If you’re going to ask silly questions about people like that, then pick somebody your own age.”

“He is my own age.”

“Somebody like Captain Gray.”

Charlotte fought the impulse to pull on the reins.  “Do you know how close I am to throwing you off that seat?  Captain Gray is at least halfway to my father’s age.  Which means about a hundred years older than me.”  Or maybe ten.  Fifteen at the outside.  But still.

“When they think no one hears them, they talk about him.”

“Who talks about him?  Where in Jesus’ name are you going with this?”

“Don’t swear.”

“I’ll swear if I want to.”

“The women.”

“What women?”

“There’s only so many.  All of them.  And they look like they’re far away when they’re doing it.”

“You are such a strange child.  So you spy on them?  But I’ll tell you what.  That’s sad to me because Ellis Gray is as likely to be the answer to their problems as a prairie chicken is likely to come walking up and lay itself down in the fire and say here, please roast me for dinner.”

“You don’t understand.”

“That’s so true.  I don’t.  Help me out.”

“He’s got a tragedy.  That’s what they talk about.  How they want to go over and hold his head against their heart.  Did I say that right?”

“Stop right there.  You can’t be listening to that kind of thing ever again.  But what tragedy?”

Ada sighed, her thin shoulders moving up and down in her ill-fitting dress.  She pushed the wild hair back from her face and Charlotte, watching her, saw how terribly young she actually was, especially for all the burdens placed on her.

“He was a soldier,” Ada said.

“He was?”

“And he had a wife.”

“He did?”

“And she was an Indian.”

“What?”