Sweet Sarah Ross. Julie Tetel

satisfy the most immediate of her bodily needs. She continued in the direction of the river. At the edge of the trees, a thought struck her. She paused and said, “You haven’t warned me about arrows in the heart and such, but I note that you’ve kept the fire low, which I suppose is to avoid giving the Sioux a sign that we’re here.”

      “I’ve kept the fire low so as not to burn the frogs to a crisp, and I’m thinking the Sioux have no further interest in this area. But now that you mention possible dangers, keep your eye out for the prairie wolf stalking our campsite.”

      Indians, rattlesnakes, prairie wolves. What next? “How kind of you to mention it,” she said with exaggerated civility, “for I had completely forgotten about the prairie wolves following your trail.”

      “Wolf,” he corrected. “Just one. You’ll recognize him by his cropped ear. I think I saw him a couple of hours ago, but I can’t be sure. Not to worry, though. I’d say he weighs less than a hundred pounds, and wolves have always feared humans, so I’m guessing this one will keep his distance.”

      “How reassuring,” she said, and resolutely left the shelter of the trees. As she made her way toward the river, she dared to wonder whether the man-beast had mentioned the wolf so that she wouldn’t run away from him and leave him to fend for himself. However, just in case he wasn’t the kind to stoop to scare tactics, she kept a nervous eye out for the wolf.

      She saw nothing to disturb her at the river and performed her morning ablutions to the extent that the primitive conditions would allow. She dearly wished for a comb and a brush and a mirror, but made do with her fingers. She spent the whole of the time dressing her hair mentally arguing with that vexatious man-beast, who always seemed to be putting her in the wrong. She donned her bonnet, then knelt down by the river, cupped her hands and dipped them in the water. When she tasted the freshness on her tongue and the chill against her teeth, she was arrested by memories of the thoughts she had entertained the day before when drinking from the river at this very same spot.

       She had judged the trip to be more like a pleasant outing? She had reckoned that difficulties might lie ahead?

      Hah! She hadn’t guessed the half of it!

      Then, an uneasy thought occurred to her. Was this the “Someday” that her mother had predicted for her? Had she, in some mysterious fashion, brought this present calamity upon herself?

      Sarah recalled her mother’s reaction upon being informed that her daughter had turned down William’s offer of marriage. Her mother began gently enough. “Sarah, love, you’ve had everything your own way for too long, I’m afraid, and I don’t know what to tell you anymore except that you will simply have to stop leading these poor men on.”

      “Now, Mother, I didn’t lead William on.”

      Her mother’s normally serene expression had set into lines of disapproval. “You toyed with Mr. James’s affections as if he were a parlor poodle, and if you haven’t determined your effect on men by now—especially after all the ruckus you raised in England—”

      “Gossip! Malicious gossip, all of it!”

      “Then you are a far more insensitive young woman than I had ever imagined! And I don’t want to hear another word about ‘malicious gossip.’ A woman who looks like you and behaves like you can expect tongues to wag on occasion, and given your reputation, I can only wonder how poor Mr. James allowed himself to fall prey to your toils!”

      Sarah had been unwise enough at this point to observe, somewhat flippantly, “William isn’t poor.”

      “Indeed not!” her mother had instantly agreed. “Everyone knows he comes from one of the richest families in Baltimore, and he’s a fine-looking man, I might add. As much as I love you, I’m beginning to think that my love has been blind and that the gossips have been right. Could it be, young lady, that the only reason why you would crush such an eligible man beneath your heel is that you think far too highly of yourself?”

      “But William dotes on me, Mother! I couldn’t bear a man who dotes on me all day long!”

      “Since you don’t seem to be able to inspire in a man any other desire but to dote on you, you will be pleased to accompany us on the journey we must make to join Laurence and Cathy.”

      Sarah had been aghast. “To the Oregon Territory? Me? You must be joking!”

      But her mother hadn’t been joking, and nothing Sarah had said afterward had persuaded either her mother or her father from their unreasonable position. She had left that particular discussion angered by her mother’s gross mis-representation of her character.

      And now, here she was, standing at the edge of a river in the middle of nowhere, recalling her mother’s final words. “Someday, Sarah Ross Harris,” her mother had said on a note of threat. “Someday, you will get what’s coming to you.”

      For one hideous moment, Sarah was seized by the idea that she had been deliberately abandoned by her mother and father to the Sioux, the rattlesnakes, the prairie wolves and the man-beast. But then her reason reasserted itself. She hadn’t imagined the war whoops or the Widower Reynolds’s dead body, and her parents had had other opportunities before now to abandon her along the way. Besides which, they wouldn’t be capable of doing anything so despicably underhanded to her, would they. Would they?

      She returned to the clump of trees, repeating to herself that she hadn’t wanted to come on this journey, no she hadn’t, which was proof enough in her mind that she wasn’t responsible for having brought any of her present misfortune upon herself. And the General? What would he have said about the events of the past day? Why, to be sure, he would have agreed that none of this was of her making, and he would have reminded her to be on her mettle.

      Once within the shelter she noted that the man-beast had finished his breakfast, for the fire was banked, and he was sitting under his tree, his back against the trunk. The pieces of her shawl were wrapped around his feet, but they were no longer bloody. He looked as if he was about to say something to her, but since she was feeling hungry and out of sorts and unable to take one of his disagreeable comments just then, she said, “I’m going to return to the Widower Reynolds’s wagon and see what provisions may be there.”

      “The Sioux would have already taken all of use and value.”

      “They didn’t take his trousers.”

      “They don’t tend to touch dead white men, and they’ve no need for white man’s clothing.”

      “I’ve a mind to go to the wagon anyway.”

      “Before you go, I want to—”

      She held up a hand. “To warn me. I know. Rattlesnakes.”

      He made no further comment. She left the glade, scrambled up the slope, where she discovered that the broken-down wagon had been picked clean, and returned to the shelter of the trees empty-handed. At least the man-beast didn’t annoy her with obvious remarks about having been right.

      Instead, he asked, “How many petticoats are you wearing?”

      She was so surprised by the question that she answered it. “Two.”

      “Give me one.”

      The ensuing discussion roused her indignation, which brought her out of her dejection and partially restored her spirits. It ended with the surrender of one of her petticoats, but she decided to make a virtue of necessity and offered up the white cotton as if it were a magnificent sacrifice. She soon discovered that its fate was even more ignominious than that of her shawl, for the half of it was reduced to long strips that she was told would serve as jackrabbit traps. The other half would be saved for the future.

      She was put to work and obliged to carry out the man-beast’s instructions while he lounged against the tree trunk. She set up the rather ingenious traps, as directed, which were composed of sticks and strips of cloth and clover. She fetched the man-beast water in her shoes. She gathered the plants that he told her to gather. She flipped