I was now in the camp of The People.

Chapter Eight

We rode to the edge of a huge pony herd, took off those saddles – those who weren’t bareback riders – and turned the animals loose. I never saw so many horses in one place at once, many of them those lovely spotted creatures that intrigued me. Although it was too dark to pick out individual horses, the bulk of the entire herd took away my exhaustion for a moment.

“How many?” I asked Hawk as he handed me my saddle.

He shrugged, so I guess no one had bothered with a census. I would have thought far more than a thousand horses, probably the wealth of an entire nation.

We carried our saddles to the ring of shelters, me lagging back not out of fear now – I had been beyond that since our mad dash away from the scouts – but shyness. I looked around at tipis and brush shelters bunched together in separate encampments. I stumbled along behind Hawk, trying to hold up the train of my skirt and manage the saddle growing heavier with every step.

Hawk led me to a shelter made of partially burned canvas and set down his saddle at the entrance. I did the same. He ducked inside the shelter and motioned me to follow.

A woman knelt over a small fire in the center of the shelter, dropping stones into a tripod affair holding up a brass bucket. The woman rocked back on her heels and stood up when Hawk entered. Her smile lit the shelter. I waited for her to hug him, but she only touched his shoulder. Her gaze was so deep into his eyes that it went beyond touch.

Hawk turned to me. “My mother, Blue Mountain Woman.” He said it simply, but I heard all the love.

If Blue Mountain Woman was surprised to see me, she didn’t show it, which made me think that Hawk was the kind of kid who probably brought home strays when he was younger. She looked me up and down, but I saw no hostility.

Hawk spoke to her, telling her where I had come from, I suppose. When he finished, she touched my shoulder, such a light touch. (As a side note, let me mention a comment from a white friend only a year ago, who complained about how light Indian handshakes were. I said something placating, but I was thinking, “Dummy, did you ever suppose maybe they’re not used to touching in that way?”)

When Hawk left the shelter, I couldn’t help my tears, the quiet type this time. I already knew that the men didn’t raise their voices, so I doubted Blue Mountain Woman would have cared much for histrionics.

Instead, she gestured for me to sit by the fire. She pulled off my boots and stockings and rubbed my feet between her hands, chatting all the while. I nodded and smiled back and wished I understood. I did hear a few English words. The way she gestured toward the shelter opening with her lips made me think she was irritated that her son hadn’t treated me better. It’s only a guess, but since I have sons of my own, I can own to motherly irritation now and then.