I tried not to be rude as I watched The People. It was a bewildering thing to be coasting through the age of Victoria for eighteen years, then find oneself thrust back among Stone Age people that one has been conditioned from the crib to fear, or at least be wary around. My curiosity generally overruled my hesitation, but not at first, not before I invested myself in them.

That moment came twice that afternoon. I have never forgotten either event.

Poker Joe generally rode with Joseph toward the front of the untidy, straggling body. They took turns riding back through the moving clans, greeting friends, hurrying stragglers, counting children, observing the horses, encouraging the old ones. Joseph waved to me once. I felt shy about his dignified acknowledgment, but I waved back and felt better for it.

The pace never let up. Poker Joe was leading us in a northeasterly direction, the sun at our backs now. I didn’t mean to complain, especially when only the thinnest of margins kept me in the good graces of people would could have cut me loose any time they wanted, but I was tired. When Poker Joe passed me, I called out, “Do we get to stop for the night?”

He looked back at me, a sharp expression on his face, and waited for me to reach him. “Come with me, Liz. I want to show you something.”

There now. I had finally done it. He must have noticed the fear in my eyes. He held up his hand. “I won’t hurt you.”

Did I have a choice? I followed him back down the trail, with older youths accompanying us. My uneasiness only increased. I told myself that if I got out of this mess I had blundered into by my complaints, I would not repeat it.

He led out little party to a nearby bluff. He dismounted and I followed him to the top of the ridge, where he bellied down. I dropped down, too, and looked where he pointed.

Directly parallel to us and not far I saw a great cloud of dust. Behind the cloud about a half mile was another cloud. Poker Joe pointed to the first fast-moving cloud. “Our men have tied branches behind their horses,” he explained. “Old Day After Tomorrow thinks he is following many Indians.”

I nodded, too frightened to speak, lesson learned. I had no more argument in me. In silence we returned to the travelers and I did not complain again.

The other lesson, a worse one that still haunts me, happened as we were winding down an anonymous ridge toward a river below, probably the Yellowstone. The trail was a figment of someone’s imagination so I closed my eyes, hoping Methuselah would dig deep into his tiny mind and keep us where we belonged. I shouldn’t have worried; he was as scared as I was, if his quivering was any indication.

Not wishing to appear totally bereft of brains, I opened my eyes and began to relax a mite. Blue Mountain Woman rode ahead on the trail in front of the family travois, looking over her shoulder often to watch Catherine, who was singing, but softly.