Mary pulled on her riding boots, her eyes on Private Lemaster, who smiled faintly and returned to the half doze of a wounded man.

She stopped Casey before he swung her down from the wagon. “We should probably bring along gifts. If you don’t think the army will be too upset with me, could you fill the pail with raisins? And please hand me the rest of my material and those shears.”

She set the full pail beside the wagon and eyed the beautiful calico. She kept back three yards so she could change Private Lemaster’s bandage, then folded the rest. Maybe Smooth Stone’s mother could use it.

She let the sergeant throw her into the saddle again, then waited while he tied the fabric to the saddle.

He swung into the saddle and held out his arms for Smooth Stone, handed up by Private McIntyre, who mounted his own horse. The sergeant wrapped Smooth Stone in an army blanket, careful not to jostle him.

“How do you know where to go?” Mary asked.

“I don’t. I’m following the direction where they last fired on us,” he said. “I can’t help but think they haven’t gone far.”

They rode west through terrain that the teamster had earlier told her was perfect for buffalo and Indians. “You might think it’s all level ground, but see how it dips,” he had pointed out. “The whole Sioux Nation could probably hide here and we’d be none the wiser.”

Down in one dip, up another, rinse and repeat, and then there they were, a gathering of Indians that made Mary suck in her breath and hope Sergeant Blade hadn’t heard.

As they rode up out of the gully, a line of horsemen turned and faced them, effectively barring passage. Behind them she could make out horses pulling travois, and women with babies on their backs. She remembered that Mama still kept the beaded cradleboard into which she had popped a much younger Mary.

“It will be yours someday,” Mama had said. At the time, Mary had politely refrained from shaking her head over old-fashioned ways in modern times. As she watched Lakota babies in their cradleboards, she knew she wanted that pretty thing now. It was practical and lovely, and a woman could carry her baby and have hands free for housework.

Smooth Stone was leaning forward now, straining toward his people. “We’ll get you there, buddy,” Sergeant Blade said.

Rowan kneed his horse ahead, and Mary and the private fell in behind. She held her breath as the warriors moved into a v shape and effectively funneled them toward the main body of the travelers. She heard the horses and riders closing the gap once they passed through.

One warrior came close enough to strike Sergeant Blade on his shoulder, then cup that same hand against Smooth Stone’s cheek. He smiled, and Mary let out the breath she had been holding.

“Imagine that. He just counted coup on me,” Rowan told her. “Here goes.”

He pulled back the army blanket so Smooth Stone’s father could see his son’s splinted arm and sling. “He fell pretty hard,” Rowan said.

Private McIntyre started to translate, but the warrior held up his hand. “I understand,” he said slowly, as if he were trying out his English for the first time in a while. “He is too young, but he argues. His mother wanted to kill me.”

Sergeant Blade laughed at that, and the warrior smiled. Between the father and the sergeant, they lowered the boy carefully to the ground.

Rowan dismounted next, then held his arms out for Mary, who lifted her leg over the upper pommel and let him help her down. She touched Smooth Stone’s shoulder. “He was very brave and did not cry out once,” she said.

The warrior made no comment to her but turned at another sound. A woman had dismounted and pushed her way through the warriors. Mary tried not to smile as she shook her finger at Smooth Stone, said something succinct that needed no translation, then carefully pulled him close.

Mary glanced at Rowan, who watched the whole scenario with appreciation all over his face, mingled with relief.

“We should probably go now,” the sergeant said. “You know, while the going’s good.”

Mary nodded. It was enough to see Smooth Stone back where he belonged and to get her first up close glimpse of the power and might of the Sioux. She wondered if her own people had once looked this way. Now the Seneca were farmers and clerks like her own father, living different lives. Again she felt a strong urge to know more about her own.

“I have gifts,” she said to Rowan. She unhooked the pail from the saddle and untied the fabric from its binding. Gifts in hand, she held out the raisins to Smooth Stone’s mother.

Mary handed her the fabric next, which made her eyes widen in appreciation. The woman smoothed down the fabric, then put it to her cheek. She held it up against Mary’s face and took a good look. She spoke to her husband, who cleared his throat against more English.

“Woman asks, who are your people?”

“I am a daughter of the Keepers of the Western Door,” she said, pointing east. “We are of the Iroquois League, many, many sleeps that way. I am Mary Blue Eye.”

He nodded and told his wife, who came closer, pressed her forehead against Mary’s, and looked into her eyes. She spoke to her husband, who laughed and said, “No blue.”

“It is an old family name,” Mary said. “I am proud of my people.”

“Good for you, Mary,” Rowan said. He looked around. “Let us see if we can extricate ourselves gracefully. Personally, I think Smooth Stone should stand in a corner for a while, if tipis had corners.”

“Oh, you!”

“We need to leave, and you need to be on your way,” Rowan told the warrior.

The father held up his hand to stop them because his wife was whispering to him with some energy. He answered and she hurried away.

“Now we wait,” he said.

Did nothing faze Sergeant Blade? Looking as casual as if the warrior sat in a parlor chatting about the weather, he asked, “Are you going toward Spotted Tail’s camp?”

“We are. The winter moon comes soon.” The warrior gestured overhead and made the obvious sign for birds. “In the moon of green leaves, we will return to seek buffalo.”

“May you have good hunting,” Sergeant Blade said. “Look, Mary.”

Smooth Stone’s mother had returned quietly. Shy, head down, she held out a small deerskin pouch on a leather cord. She gestured for Mary to bend down.

Mary did as she asked, and the woman put the pouch around her neck. Mary admired the quillwork on the small bag. “How do I sign ‘thank you’?” she whispered to Rowan.

He showed her, and she made the sign. “What is it for?” she asked Smooth Stone’s father.

“Good medicine,” he said. “Thank you for my son.” His voice hardened. “The Crow or Arikara would not have brought him back.”

The warrior turned away and mounted his horse. His wife walked alongside him, her hand firmly on Smooth Stone’s neck. The other warriors followed, and soon the three of them were alone again.

“They just vanish,” Mary said.

Sergeant Blade helped her into the saddle. She breathed deep of the deerskin and touched the buttery softness of the pouch.

“What’s my good medicine?” she asked Rowan.

“Whatever makes you happy,” he replied and mounted.

They rode back to their makeshift bivouac in silence. Private McIntyre peeled off to join the other troopers standing by a fire. Mary smelled coffee.

“I’m taking two troopers with me to Fort Russell,” he told her, after helping her down. “There might be cloth blown into Private Lemaster’s wound. The surgeon will take him back to Russell and probe around a bit. He doesn’t need an infection.”

“But . . . but . . . you don’t know that those Indians will not hang around here and try again,” she said. He couldn’t be seriously thinking of leaving them.

“They are not going to bother us,” he said. “Don’t worry, Mary. My corporal is in charge, and I have taught him everything I know.”

“It’s not me. What about you? Can’t you send someone else for the surgeon?”

He seemed genuinely surprised at her concern. “What kind of a leader would that make me? Hey, don’t worry.”

He prepared to mount again, then stopped and looked down at his uniform. She had noticed earlier that one of his brass buttons was starting to dangle on its thread. As she watched, he worked the button loose, leaned close to open the pouch around her neck, and dropped it in.

“It’s only twenty miles. Think of me, Keeper of the Western Door, and I’ll be safe.”