Mary Blue Eye was no snob. It was an unlikely title for someone serving as a maid to a friend. To be honest, maybe less of a friend than Mary had thought last summer, when she grudgingly agreed to accompany newly married Victoria Masterson from New York to Fort Laramie.

Yet here she stood in front of the dining room mirror, staring at a woman sort of tan, with dark hair and eyes. True, she was Seneca, but far superior to the luckless Sioux and Cheyenne lurking around Fort Laramie, begging for handouts. Wasn’t she?

Sergeant Blade was the only person in the entire garrison who might understand her growing doubts, but he wasn’t available for idle chat. She didn’t even know his first name. She couldn’t ask Victoria’s husband, Lieutenant Silas Masterson, if he could send G Troop’s first sergeant over for cookies and milk when there was nothing better to do.

The best Mary could hope for was to run into him in the sutler’s store, which so far hadn’t happened. She did enjoy watching the sergeant lead new recruits through the mysteries of equitation on the parade ground. He had a brisk air of command that brooked no disobedience from man or beast. He was also not a man to idle away his time anywhere appropriate for Mary to meet him.

Not that she ever wanted to recreate the one time when she had him all to herself, albeit briefly. They were a day out of Cheyenne, traveling to Fort Laramie in an army ambulance, which amused Victoria Masterson until she realized it was the common mode of transportation for army dependents, and not as comfortable as her father’s carriage back home.

They had bumped along over nasty trails, mashed together in the ambulance with the wife of G Troop’s first lieutenant and their three children, the wife growing more irritated with each mile that her darlings were crowded tighter than clams in a basket.

Ignoring Mary, the woman finally addressed Victoria. “Mrs. Masterson, tell your maid to ride with the baggage so Anthony can stretch out before he pukes.”

Startled, Victoria had nudged Mary. “Would you mind?”

“Mind? Mrs. Masterson, she is your servant,” the woman said. “Tell her.”

Victoria spoke to the driver through the canvas barrier. He stopped his horses, and Mary got out without a word, humiliated.

Sergeant Blade had been riding beside the ambulance. He dismounted and asked what the problem was.

“Where’s the baggage wagon?” Mary asked. “Not enough room in here for me.”

“Lieutenant Caldwell’s wife is not known for tact,” he said as he walked her to a blue-painted wagon with red wheels. “Let me help you up.”

The help-up meant hands on her waist and a boost that landed her beside the driver, who saluted the sergeant with a casual two fingers to his cap. “I’ll look after her, Sarge.”

“See that you do,” Sergeant Blade said. Coming out of his mouth, it was no suggestion.

That was that, almost. The sergeant mounted and rode beside the wagon, pacing his horse. “I’m afraid you have to eat dust back here. I’ll see what I can do.”

When she didn’t say anything because she was too embarrassed, he side stepped his mount closer to the wagon. “May I help you?” he asked.

She saw so much concern on his face. She knew there was nothing he could do, but he was kind to say it, and so she told him. He nodded.

“You’re not used to being a maid, are you?”

“No, sir,” she said, not sure how to address a sergeant. “I thought I was a friend.”

She looked away so he wouldn’t see her tears, and he rode to the top of the detail after one backward glance. It was then that she understood something about the army—sergeants were in charge of everyone in the command. The knowledge warmed her heart and made the dust almost bearable.

They had camped that night beside the Chugwater. Lieutenant Caldwell’s wife had included a cook in her entourage, so the Mastersons fared well enough. Unsure of herself, Mary stood close to Victoria.

“Should I take a plate?” Mary whispered.

“I don’t know,” her childhood friend whispered back. “I don’t see any of the other servants eating here.”

I’m hungry, too, Mary thought. She looked around until she saw another woman who had been riding in the other baggage wagon. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

She walked to the other campfire and waited there, not sure what to do. The woman glanced at her briefly, then glanced away, hunching her shoulder as if she didn’t want to know her.

Startled, Mary walked away. If she could find a water barrel, at least there would be something to drink. She remembered longhouse elders smoking their pipes and talking about starvation marches as they fought with the British against the American colonists.

I should have brought along some pemmican, except I can’t stand pemmican, she thought, which made her smile. I’m a pretty poor Seneca.

She found a water barrel with a tin cup beside it and dipped herself a drink. She relished the coolness, even though the water tasted of wood, with just a hint of tar, probably from the lining. She rolled it around in her mouth, thinking of Papa and his favorite brandy, an annual Christmas gift from Victoria’s father, Judge Wilkins.

“I can offer you something better,” she heard behind her, and knew she was about to be cared for.

Sergeant Blade held out a tin plate with what looked like smashed hardtack. She took the plate, her mouth watering from the bacon that the mangled crackers were cooked in.

He handed her a fork and indicated a log. She sat down and he joined her. Too shy to speak and hungry, she ate in silence, relishing the odd combination.

“Why does this taste so good?” she asked, knowing about manners and conversation, and after all, he had found her a meal.

“One of two things,” he said. “You’re either really hungry, or food cooked over a buffalo chip fire is well . . . uh . . . seasoned.”

She laughed out loud. “Doesn’t even need pepper.”

“Good to hear you laugh,” Sergeant Blade said. “You were looking pretty glum earlier.” He was silent for a moment, then, “And I don’t blame you.”

Her stomach was full. She wasn’t thirsty. The sky had darkened, and Mary felt bold enough to ask the man seated beside her something that had been bothering her since she and Victoria Masterson had seen their first Indians in Nebraska.

“Sir, do I look like an Indian?”

She asked it quietly, partly because it seemed like a frivolous question, and partly because she doubted she should even mention the matter.

“Everyone calls me Sarge,” he told her. “You can too.”

“Very well.” Maybe he wasn’t going to answer her question.

“Yes, you do,” he said, “but you don’t. Tell me more.”

“Are you certain?” she asked, doubtful. Maybe it was time for her to return to the ambulance and see if Victoria needed her for anything. But that would mean walking past the other servant who had turned away, and facing the lieutenant’s wife again.

“I’m interested. I’ve never met an eastern Indian, if that’s what you are.”

“I am Seneca,” she told him. “My family is descended from Mary Jemison, a captive who chose to stay with the Keepers of the Western Door. Her second husband was Hiakatoo, a Seneca. Their daughter Jane is my grandmother. We live in a nice house on property belonging to Victo . . . Mrs. Masterson’s father, Judge Wilkins. My mother is his cook, and my father is the judge’s secretary. We’re Methodists.” So maybe I am not much of an Indian, she thought.

“If I’m not being rude, do most Seneca look like you?” he asked.

“Some do, some don’t,” she said, hearing nothing in his question but curiosity. “There’s been some marrying back and forth.” She looked toward the other campfire. “I suppose I had better go over there.”

“Do you want to?”

That was precisely what she had been asking herself ever since she was evicted from the officers’ ambulance. She glanced at Sergeant Blade and again saw nothing but goodwill in his expression.

“Part of me does, and part of me doesn’t,” she said, which made him chuckle. “I don’t think I belong in the West, but I promised Mrs. Masterson I would stay for six months, and so I shall. Goodnight, Sergeant.”

She didn’t ask, but he walked her back to the officers’ campfire. “I’ll tell the teamster to shift around some boxes in the baggage wagon,” he said as they came closer. “Throw your bedroll in there. You’ll be safe, and I won’t worry.”

“Why would you worry at all?”

“You’re part of my job, and I like you,” he said simply. “Good night, Miss Blue Eye. Things will go better tomorrow.”