Poker Joe dined with us that evening on a memorable stew that Blue Mountain Woman whipped up, possessing all the consistency and flavor of a cow’s cud. I would be hard put to describe it, but I think the main ingredient was that moss left over from my monthly needs several weeks ago. No one complained, but I wanted to. Instead, I tried to think about my puny place in Blue Mountain Woman’s great circle and act a little Nimiipuu for a change.

After dinner, Poker Joe pulled out a deck of cards. He spoke to Hawk, who nodded and walked with him to another campfire. Blue Mountain Woman watched them go, a frown on her face.

“I hope he remembers that is his only shirt,” she muttered to me.

We sat by our own small fire, listening to camp sounds. I was ready to sleep, but too tired for the exertion of going inside the shelter. This lethargy had been growing on me with each day there was less to eat. Oh poor poor me! I had only been traveling like this since Yellowstone Park, and not on the move for months. I stayed where I was, piling little bits of pebbles into groups of ten, thinking about decimals, of all things.

When I was just about to force myself to go inside, Hawk returned barefoot, but still wearing his shirt. Blue Mountain Woman looked him up and down, sniffed, and went inside the shelter. I couldn’t help myself. I laughed as quietly as I could. Hawk mumbled something about white women and stalked back into the dark.

I would prefer to forget what happened the next morning. I cannot. As it is part of the journey, I must be honest and include it in this account.

Meopwits had been lagging behind, ever since Catherine’s death. This morning, he shook his head when Blue Mountain Woman offered him the dregs of our cream of moss soup, and started singing to himself.

We broke camp that morning in a cold drizzle, Meopwits watching us and not helping. He motioned to Hawk, who squatted on his heels by his grandfather. They sat together, not looking at each other, but with their shoulders touching. Blue Mountain Woman called to Meopwits, but the old man shook his head and stayed where he was. His daughter paused in the motion of mounting her horse, then went ahead and threw her leg over. She looked back once, then sat straighter and rode away from her father. Meopwits pulled his blanket over his head.

I had been watching this scene play out for more than a week now, but this was Meopwits. When he didn’t get up, I ran to Hawk, who had left his grandfather and was walking to the horse herd.

“You can’t just leave him there,” I said, grabbing his shoulders.

He shook me off. “I do not have a choice, Elizabeth Ann.”