I was able to keep up with Father and that marvelous lieutenant for five minutes or so, until that miserable nag plodded slower and slower until I could barely keep up with the baggage wagon. I eventually abandoned my attempts at flirtation with the lieutenant while on the march, and resigned myself to the bone-jolting discomfort of the touring carriage.

After several days of steady, uphill travel we arrived at Tarnation. Yes, that was the name. I doubt you’ll find it on a map. While Muskrat set off to dicker for additional supplies with the local merchants, Phil and I scouted the town in search of a less daunting horse than my current mount.

No luck. A diligent canvass of Tarnation’s one-block business district turned up one livery stable. The only horse for sale looked like the grandfather of the one I was trying to get rid of. I asked the owner of there were any other horses available, but he shrugged and turned back to shoveling manure. We left him to his happy task.

We chanced upon Father and Tom as they were leaving the stage office, which also housed the town’s telegraph key. Father frowned and Tom shook his head.

“Is anything the matter, Father?” I asked.

They looked at us, startled. Father coughed. “Well, not really.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked Tom.

He attempted a smile. “Probably nothing. Seems there’s a disturbance near the Bitterroot Mountains. We’re not headed that way,” he hastened to add.

“What kind of disturbance?” I asked.

“Indians.”

The lieutenant seemed to hesitate then, as if wondering to disclose more. My father raised an eyebrow and said, “Say on, sir.”

McCormack did. “It’s a kerfuffle that started in eastern Oregon, as far as I know. The Nez Perce were heading onto a reservation there, when some hotheads shot up some farms and killed a few whites.”

“A small tribe?” Father asked.

“Yes, sir. Some of them are even Christians.” He chuckled. “Presbyterians. Apparently they were going peacefully enough, but the others…”

He looked at me, maybe wondering if he should stop. I wanted to know more, and thank goodness, so did Father. Tom McCormack seemed to enjoy an audience. “The others – we call them the Non-Treaty Nez Perce – took off heading east. They’re being pursued right now by General Howard and his troops from the Department of the Columbia.”

“I know Oliver Howard,” Father said. “He’ll stop’um.”

“I imagine he will, sir,” the lieutenant agreed. He scratched his head then plunged on. “Last we heard, though, there was another fight in western Montana.”

“That’s starting to sound a little close,” Father cautioned.

McCormack took another look at us and smiled. “Nothing to worry about. They’re not so close, and they’re heading to Canada.” He presented his clinching argument with some triumph. “And we’re not!” (Looking back, let me add here that Lt. McCormack was none too bright.)

“Gosh and geewillikers.”

I forgot for a moment that my brother was listening to all this, too. Phil’s eyes widened, and I knew exactly what was going through his mind. He was hoping this summer would turn into something interesting after all.