We left the trail, Blue Mountain scanning the ground as her horse picked its way through the undergrowth, as if looking, too. She dismounted and gathered handfuls of moss, so I did the same. When we had gathered a goodly amount, she motioned me to dismount. We walked farther into the trees, where she smoothed together a smallish handful, gestured between her legs, then handed it to me. I lowered my drawers and applied the moss to the critical area, then cinched my drawers tighter, hoping they might hold the moss in place. I must admit that the moss did fine, and certainly felt less scratchy than cotton or linen.

We gathered more moss and tucked it in my saddlebag. On the way back to The People she asked, “What you do before now?”

Through elaborate gestures that made her smile, I explained how we tore up old sheets, used them, washed them – me scrubbing an imaginary washboard – dried them – I pinned them on my imaginary clothesline – and used them again – me sticking a wad where the moss was. It was a virtuoso performance in feminine hygiene. I told my husband about it a few years later, and he just shook his head.

Blue Mountain Woman wasn’t amused. She looked shocked. “Same rags over and again?”

“Well, yes.”

She shuddered. “Not clean,” she stated, with such a look on her face. I’m certain she thought my method was a relic of barbarism. She probably wondered how I had arrived at the advanced age of eighteen with such unhygienic monthly practices. She rode a little ahead of me, shaking her head over the mad methods of white women. I laughed to myself. So much for civilization.

I rode into our new camp by my myself, not because I was embarrassed, but because Methuselah could barely clop one hoof in front of the other and he worried me. The sight of a new camp going up relieved my mind. I was admiring the view – camp activity, horses cropping grass, the jagged peaks of the Absaroka range, wildflowers here and there – when Methuselah started to stagger. When he began to sway, I got off quickly and dropped the reins. He looked deep into my eyes, gave a belch, broke wind, then toppled over, dead.

I own to being startled but I felt no remorse. He had caused me nothing but trouble from the beginning, by thinking he was Pegasus and charging after the Nimiipuu. I pulled the saddlebag and saddle away and walked into camp. For a nitwit of a horse who was the author of my current troubles, I don’t know why I cried, but I did. Poor Methuselah. Poor me.

When I dried my tears and told Blue Mountain Woman what had happened, she sent several of the older children on horseback to tow old Ancient of Days into camp. She handed me a knife and told me to get to work. I shook my head and backed away, so she commissioned some young women my age to introduce me into the mysteries of butchering. Methuselah was going on the Nimiipuu menu.