itself, but nature conspired to put the matter forefront in her mind as the first day trudged on.
Just before dinner, with everyone in camp occupied by the eveningâs chores, Annabelle slipped away with a sheet of Gayettyâs medicated paper, waiting like a child at a cookie jar until certain no one watched.
Discreetly separating from a camp of so many people proved no easy task. Annabelle came across a copse of prickly bushes growing near the banks of a stream. Squatting behind them, she felt confident enough of her solitude to relax. The ridiculousness of her position brought on a fit of laughter she stifled for fear of drawing attention.
From Caroline, less inured by the inhibitions of propriety, she learned not to be so troubled by the chore. Annabelle watched with amazement one morning as her cousin walked not twenty paces from the wagon and squatted, her dress spread around her as a natural screen. She lingered but a moment before bouncing up as if completing a dance step and leaving the daintiest of puddles on the sun-scorched dirt.
Proof that youth had its advantages in these matters came in the example of Annabelleâs mother, whom she suspected had not fully relieved herself for days after leaving Omaha. As willful as her mother could be, Annabelle wondered if she intended to reach Montana in her constipated state.
Then one night the sounds of her mother rising in the hours before daybreak awakened Annabelle. She smiled to realize her mother had stowed a sheet of medicated paper where it would be handy upon a nocturnal departure. Her father never stirred on her motherâs return. Annabelle remained still, preserving her motherâs sense of privacy.
C HAPTER F IFTEEN
Josey and Lord Byron rode to the meadow where the stock grazed, maneuvering around the herd to steer them to camp. Good grass wasnât hard to find this early in the season. While there was little to fear from Indians here, the oxen and cattle were safer within the wagon corral, where the men took turns standing overnight guard.
After an afternoon in the field, the cattle were contented and docile. The sounds of barking dogs and the clatter of tin plates and iron cookware carried from the camp as they approached. The waning sun brought a breeze that dried the sweat on Joseyâs back and carried the sweet smell of frying bacon from the cook fires. His stomach rumbled.
The men worked without speaking. They could ride all day while hardly exchanging a word, and then, when they did, not even finish a sentence before one understood the otherâs meaning. This habit drove the Colonel to distraction. When the three of them rode together, the old man maintained a running monologue to fill the silence and then cursed the other two for not interrupting. Sometimes Josey remained silent longer than he naturally would, just to wind up the Colonel. He suspected Byron did the same, though they never spoke of it.
The big manâs silence came from a different place than his own. Byron had suffered not just through the war but all his life. He bore the scars of savage and repeated beatings that made Joseyâs battle wounds look like scratches. Years before the war, the man they first knew simply as Hoss had been taken from his wife and children. They died without him, and Josey knew his friend prayed for the souls of his family every night. Then he slept.
Josey envied the peace of mind that permitted such easy slumber. He tried prayer, too, but talking to God only stirred him up. As they settled in one night Josey asked Byron how he fell asleep so easily.
Byron must have thought the question a joke. Josey rarely japed, so he was eager to hear the rest. âI just close my eyes and breathe.â
Josey wondered if counting breaths would steer his mind from darker thoughts. âDo you think about your breathing?â
âI donât think of anything.â Byronâs deeply lined forehead creased with concern.
Just before dinner, with everyone in camp occupied by the eveningâs chores, Annabelle slipped away with a sheet of Gayettyâs medicated paper, waiting like a child at a cookie jar until certain no one watched.
Discreetly separating from a camp of so many people proved no easy task. Annabelle came across a copse of prickly bushes growing near the banks of a stream. Squatting behind them, she felt confident enough of her solitude to relax. The ridiculousness of her position brought on a fit of laughter she stifled for fear of drawing attention.
From Caroline, less inured by the inhibitions of propriety, she learned not to be so troubled by the chore. Annabelle watched with amazement one morning as her cousin walked not twenty paces from the wagon and squatted, her dress spread around her as a natural screen. She lingered but a moment before bouncing up as if completing a dance step and leaving the daintiest of puddles on the sun-scorched dirt.
Proof that youth had its advantages in these matters came in the example of Annabelleâs mother, whom she suspected had not fully relieved herself for days after leaving Omaha. As willful as her mother could be, Annabelle wondered if she intended to reach Montana in her constipated state.
Then one night the sounds of her mother rising in the hours before daybreak awakened Annabelle. She smiled to realize her mother had stowed a sheet of medicated paper where it would be handy upon a nocturnal departure. Her father never stirred on her motherâs return. Annabelle remained still, preserving her motherâs sense of privacy.
C HAPTER F IFTEEN
Josey and Lord Byron rode to the meadow where the stock grazed, maneuvering around the herd to steer them to camp. Good grass wasnât hard to find this early in the season. While there was little to fear from Indians here, the oxen and cattle were safer within the wagon corral, where the men took turns standing overnight guard.
After an afternoon in the field, the cattle were contented and docile. The sounds of barking dogs and the clatter of tin plates and iron cookware carried from the camp as they approached. The waning sun brought a breeze that dried the sweat on Joseyâs back and carried the sweet smell of frying bacon from the cook fires. His stomach rumbled.
The men worked without speaking. They could ride all day while hardly exchanging a word, and then, when they did, not even finish a sentence before one understood the otherâs meaning. This habit drove the Colonel to distraction. When the three of them rode together, the old man maintained a running monologue to fill the silence and then cursed the other two for not interrupting. Sometimes Josey remained silent longer than he naturally would, just to wind up the Colonel. He suspected Byron did the same, though they never spoke of it.
The big manâs silence came from a different place than his own. Byron had suffered not just through the war but all his life. He bore the scars of savage and repeated beatings that made Joseyâs battle wounds look like scratches. Years before the war, the man they first knew simply as Hoss had been taken from his wife and children. They died without him, and Josey knew his friend prayed for the souls of his family every night. Then he slept.
Josey envied the peace of mind that permitted such easy slumber. He tried prayer, too, but talking to God only stirred him up. As they settled in one night Josey asked Byron how he fell asleep so easily.
Byron must have thought the question a joke. Josey rarely japed, so he was eager to hear the rest. âI just close my eyes and breathe.â
Josey wondered if counting breaths would steer his mind from darker thoughts. âDo you think about your breathing?â
âI donât think of anything.â Byronâs deeply lined forehead creased with concern.
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