The morning was distinguished from the sameness of others by another incident with the Crow scouts of Colonel Sturgis. We had just finished off a hearty breakfast of water and questionable rabbit scraps when we heard horses running through the encampment. The scouts trampled an old woman and scattered possessions before they were driven away. The Crows seemed to enjoy what they were doing, rather like pesky hoodlums tipping over outhouses on Halloween.

We packed in a hurry – it took less and less time because each day we seemed to have less and less – and left the area heading north, always north. I looked back and noticed with dismay that we had left several of the old ones behind. I tugged on Hawk’s shirt. “Shouldn’t someone go back for them?” I asked.

“No. Their time has come. They want to die.”

I was such an annoyance, such a white woman. “But the Crows will get them. Doesn’t anyone care?”

He looked at me without speaking and I was shamed to see tears in his eyes. Everyone cared, but there wasn’t a lot they could do about the old people who cared more deeply about their children than themselves.

There were no more raids that day. Hawk and other young warriors followed Ollokot and White Bird to the rear and prevented the Crow scouts from inflicting any more damage. One brave came back with a fresh scalp. That was the only time on the journey that I knew any hair had been lifted by one of The People. There may have been other scalps taken, but this is my narrative of what I saw. You want another story? Find another account.

Poker Joe rode with me off and on that day. He had a blow-up earlier that day with Looking Glass, who wanted to slow the pace, despite the threat of the Crow. No one had seen hide nor hair of Sturgis since Canyon Creek, and General Howard probably lurked somewhere, but even I, a novice at anything connected with this flight, knew this was no time to linger.

Poker Joe nodded at my commentary. I realize now how kind he was to let me talk, even when he knew I knew nothing. Perhaps he was merely humoring me. I never asked.

I could not deny that Looking Glass had his reasons. Anyone with eyes could see that the families were worn down to the bone. Little children tossed and turned at night, and old people thought more and more of death as a relief. Most were out of food, as our family was, and some resented Poker Joe’s constant hurry that gave no one time to stalk game.