Winter on the Belle Fourche

***

"I am grateful for what you have done," Emily said. "I owe you my thanks, Mr. Johnston."

"Nothin' to thank me for," Johnston said. The troopers had stopped fiddling about and seemed ready to depart. He wondered why a soldier took an hour to turn around. The lieutenant had eyed the Indian ponies but didn't ask where their riders might be. If he recognized Johnston or knew his name, he didn't say.

"We have had our differences, I suppose," Emily said.

"I reckon so."

"God has a reason for what he does, Mr. Johnston. I am sure this adventure serves a purpose in His plan."

Johnston couldn't figure just what it might be. "You have a safe trip, Miz Dickinson," he said.

"I will do just that," Emily said. "I expect Massachusetts will seem dear to me now. I doubt I'll stray again."

She walked away through the snow, and the lieutenant helped her mount. Johnston watched till they were well out of sight, then went inside to get his things.

As he rode through the flat white world with the slate-dark sky overhead, he thought about the Bitter Root Mountains and the Musselshell River. He thought about the Platte and the Knife and the Bearpaw Range, every peak and river he'd ever crossed clear as glass in his head. He thought about Swan, eight years dead in the spring, and it didn't seem that long at all, and in a way a lot more. Dead all this time, and he still saw her face every day.

Before dark, he found a spot near the Belle Fourche and staked the horses out safe. One Crow pony had a blaze between its eyes. He favored an Injun horse with good marks. He wondered if Del Gue was still waiting at Fort Pierre. They'd have to get moving out soon to get some hides. He thought again how he'd waited too long to get in the trapping trade, the beaver near gone when he'd come to the mountains and hooked up with old Hatcher. Just bear and mink now and whatever a man could find.

Scooping out a hole in the snow, he snapped a few sticks and stacked them ready for the fire, then walked back and got his leather satchel and dipped his hand inside. Johnston stopped, puzzled at an unfamiliar touch. He squatted on the ground and started pulling things out. There was nothing but an old Army blanket. His paper was all gone.

"Well, cuss me fer a Kiowa," he said aloud. That damn woman had filched the whole lot. He was plain irritated. It wasn't like he couldn't spark a fire, but a man fell into easy habits. A little paper saved time, especially if your wood was all wet. Came in handy, too, if you had to do your business and there wasn't no good leaves about.

She'd gotten every piece there was. He hadn't ever counted, but there were likely near a thousand bits and scraps, rhymes he'd thought up and set down, then saved for the fire. This was by God pure aggravation. He grumbled to himself and found his flint. A man sure couldn't figure what was stewing in a white woman's head. An Injun wasn't like that at all.