I nearly told Hawk about the many-course dinners that formed our usual gluttonous habit in Omaha, but figured he wouldn’t believe me. When I think about all the food we wasted in one sitting, I don’t believe it even now – steak, fowl, venison, pork, and that was just one course.

I used to dabble with this and poke at that, then slide it all away and settle for a nibble of vegetable cloaked in a white sauce, with maybe a macaron to finish it off. I had set myself a determined goal to achieve the appropriate sylph-like thinness for fashion’s sake. And now here I was, getting thinner by the minute, surrounded by slim people and babies crying because they wanted more. I don’t know what The People looked like when they began their flight in western Idaho, but here in Montana Territory, there were no plump Nimiipuu.

We made slow travel in the rain. I will always remember the suck and pull of the horses as they stumbled through the glop. Every moment we expected for the troopers to ride out of the mist. Hawk rummaged around and found me an antique musket that was probably made especially for the War of the Roses. He loaded it and handed it to me carefully, telling me not to shoot anyone who looked like one of The People.

I got a little sharp then as asked what in the Sam Hill I was supposed to do with the thing. With that superior look he was so capable of flashing my way, he told me again to save the ball for unfamiliar Indians. When I laughed, he frowned and rode into the rain, making a point to avoid me for the rest of the morning.

I used to think that misery was having to help the second parlor maid polish the silver. That only goes to show you the scope of my life before September of 1877. Misery was an empty stomach and riding all day in cold rain. And of course, constant fear.

My hair hung in lank, ugly strings, rain dripped off my nose, and I felt a cold coming on. I debated all morning whether to beg Joseph or Poker Joe to just leave me behind here. I had stood all the adventures with The People that I wanted. I said nothing, though, because I was more afraid of what lay beyond that gray curtain of rain.

I rode close to Blue Mountain Woman, who had whacked off her long hair in mourning. Out of long habit, she kept looking back at the pony drag where Catherine had perched until yesterday afternoon. I didn’t know how to comfort her and felt too shy to try. I knew it would help if I did not complain, so I didn’t.