The terrain changed from the heart-stopping canyons and rims of the Clark’s Fork region, as that later geophysical map showed me, into the broad valley of the Yellowstone River. Wind played freely over the buffalo grass, whispering secrets. This was buffalo country and we had left most of the trees behind.

We hadn’t left any soldiers behind. Thanks to the miracle of the talking wire, we were about to meet up with a new enemy, the Seventh Cavalry, Department of the Dakotas, bent on revenge for something The People never did.

Chapter Eleven

Wrong place. Wrong time.

I have never been able to understand how generals and historians tie up battles in neat bundles. To study Chancellorsville or Gettysburg, one would think that battle is well-defined and rational. I cannot agree. My first taste of action against the Nimiipuu was of such complete confusion that I can’t tell who did what.

I know this exasperates my husband, who has a real eye for detail (ahem, except when he went a whole winter without noticing that I grew out my bangs). All I remember is that men I hadn’t even met were firing at me, and that I was trying my dead level best to get into a canyon before I went the way of Methuselah.

Such singleness of purpose was rarely a feature of my life until Canyon Creek. I mean, I had a drawerful of unfinished samplers back in Omaha. I was never considered by any Everett as a sterling example of perseverance. I wish my family could have seen me in Canyon Creek.

The People made a rapid march that morning in the valley of the Yellowstone. My adopted family – well, they were – had trouble getting started. Catherine refused to get on the pony drag. Blue Mountain Woman argued with her, but Catherine folded her arms and sat on the ground.

Meopwits entered into the discussion, but Catherine wouldn’t listen to her husband, either. At last he said something that sounded final, at least to my ears, picked her up and set her on the travois. He must have meant whatever he said, because she stayed there. I did notice that Blue Mountain Woman kept a closer watch on her mother that morning.

Once underway, I idled away the hours watching the youths keep the horse herd in line and enjoyed my new and unaccustomed smooth ride on Fair One. To be sure, riding bareback required more of an effort at first, until I started to imitate the rhythmic, hip-gliding motion of the riders around me.

If you are wishing for something exciting here, there was nothing. Travel is travel, in this case, dull and slow. I started fixing my sight on a distant landmark, but ended that pretty quickly after years passed until I reached it.

Call it impolite if you wish, but I spent a lot of time watching Hawk. He fascinated me. After he told me that his father was a Scot, I frittered away boring stretches of the march sneaking surreptitious glances, trying to see in Hawk’s appearance any resemblance to Scots I knew or had read about. I saw none. He was a pleasant shade of tan like his friends around him, and his eyes were the color of good chocolate. His hair did look a little lighter than some and showed a tendency to curl over his shoulders. He mostly wore it hanging free, or sometimes tied back like mine.