The buffalo were gone from that nutritious range. Maybe they were already going going gone, sold to the highest bidder, slaughtered for bone and hide, which was used to make belting in factories back East. These men I rode with were already relics; they just didn’t know it yet.

I decided to seize the moment, the same as they did, but for different reasons. For the first time in my life, I felt that I not only lived on the earth, but that I belonged to it. I was part of Blue Mountain Woman’s great circle, inseparable to my surroundings. The feeling was heady and altogether satisfying. I am certain none of The People wanted to lose that mastery of their land, and I wasn’t going to be the person who told them that loss was inevitable. Now was a moment to cherish.

I wanted to talk to Hawk about what I felt, but his eyes were closed, and he had tipped his face toward the sun. I watched him, liking what I saw and wishing for a tiny moment that we had been that couple last night. What an impish thought! I waited for it to go away, but it didn’t. I thought of the times in the shelter when he was preparing for sleep and he told me to look away. I always did. I decided then that if he said “Look away” again, I wouldn’t.

I suppose the feeling was too radical to discuss. When Hawk opened his eyes and looked my way – he is one of those people with a sense to know when someone is watching – I settled for a blush and half smile.

To my pleasure, he tugged on Fair One’s bridle until I stopped. “I’ll race you, lassie,” he said.

I came in last, of course, although Hawk had the charity to slow down as we neared The People and allow me a less-dignified loss. Blue Mountain Woman burst into tears all over again when she saw me, and it took nearly all evening to assure her that I would not leave her again.

When we moved on in the morning, our journey ended at the Bear Paw Mountains.

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Nineteen

We have a neighbor, Bill Barton from Georgia, who lives on the ranch adjoining ours. After dinner at our house one night, I chatted with Mr. Barton about the Civil War, in which he participated on the losing side. “You know, Mrs. Stuart, every time I think about the surrender at Appomattox, I can’t help (‘cain’t hep,’ as he says), wish the ending would be different. Like mebbe this time we’ll win.”

He said it apologetically, certain we would laugh at him. Neither of us did. We knew what he meant.