I could tell myself this was so, even as some part of my brain wanted this capable, charming man. I also knew – how, I wouldn’t tell you – that if I touched his shoulder and he raised his buffalo robe for me, there would be no going back, no looking away ever again.

I lay there in utter frustration, knowing my situation was impossible. Once I returned to civilization, everything would end. Chief Joseph and Looking Glass might not know it, but their day was done. I think Poker Joe knew it, and Hawk, too. A great winnowing was sweeping the land and the Indians of all nations were as chaff in the wind.

Dreary thoughts! My head ached from cold and hunger, but my senses seemed to sharpen. I started to smell things that weren’t there, like bacon and eggs and pepper, then corned beef and cabbage. The imagined odors made me want to weep. I was such a poor excuse for a Nimiipuu; I was a counterfeit Indian. Shame on me for trying to blend in.

I heard horses nosing around on the frost-covered ground, searching, as I did, for something that wasn’t there. The herd that had looked so endless to me in Yellowstone Park had shrunk noticeably. Every day, more and more of the beautiful spotted animals lagged behind like some of the old men and old women. Sometimes a horse collapsed from sheer exhaustion and lay there as we passed by, beseeching us with a glance almost human.

Some of the fallen horses whinnied to each other, as if speculating on the nature and depravity of man. The People let others wander away, some limping, all worn down past bearing. I asked Hawk once if it wouldn’t be better to shoot them. He said no man could bring himself to do that. “Some will live, and they will grow strong on prairie grass,” he told me.

“But you’ll never find them again,” I protested.

“Probably not, but at least they won’t be dead, and that is something.”

Many in the camp were still awake. I lay there listening to a mother singing to her baby. Over there, someone laughed. I heard the loud slap of cards, and wondered if some man had lost his moccasins. Looking Glass had broadcast it about that there would be a buffalo hunt tomorrow. Many of the young men were readying their rifles for the occasion, the same rifles that had protected the people from Bluecoats who wouldn’t, couldn’t, leave them alone.

I wrapped my blanket closer around me. The sky had been overcast earlier, but the clouds cleared away. Our joke of a shelter let the stars in, which suited me well that night. They appeared to hang so close that I reached up. The points of light tipped and leaned toward me as I stared in fascination.