But it was true. Phoebe was an exceptional Easterner, and though her tongue could be sharp and her stand on cussin’ severe, I’d come to respect her for far more than her looks and coffee.

Deflectin’ the conversation, Phoebe said, “So Paul and Molly are newlyweds?”

“Well, they’re recently married,” I said.

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

I laughed. “They ain’t likely to put you in mind of newlyweds.”

“Why not?”

I thought about how best to say it. “Neither of ’em are partic’larly good with people.”

“Perhaps they’re good together.”

“I hope so.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, Paul’s an odd duck, and Molly’s a sharp-tongued nag.”

“They sound like a rather unpleasant sort.”

“To you and me, maybe. But it takes a certain temperament to live in poverty, away from people. They’re probably a good fit. If he ain’t killed her by now.”

“I’m sure that’s just an expression, meant to amuse me.”

“Did it?”

“No. I don’t find any facet of this situation amusing. You’re the one who brought her west to live with Paul. If they were mismatched you shouldn’t have left her there.”

“I didn’t make her stay. It was her choice. And anyway, odd as he is, I think she’s the one got the bargain, if there’s one to be had.”

“So you think they’re happy?”

“Happy?”

“Aren’t newlyweds supposed to be happy?”

“If there had been any happy,” I said, “it probably wore off by suppertime.”

We trudged on.

As a former gunfighter, horseman, and buffalo hunter, I wasn’t used to this type of travel. My muscles kept lockin’ up on me and I was afraid my arms might go numb and I’d drop my corner of the lean-to. Because I had to walk in such an awkward position, I tried to find a way to stretch my neck and shoulders while carryin’ my part of the load. But nothin’ worked.

We got a mile and a half before takin’ our first break, which lasted long enough for Monique to pour some water on Scarlett’s hair and wash her face. She traded places with Phoebe. Rose took a funnel from her bag and poured canteen water through it into Scarlett’s mouth. I stretched my back for a couple of minutes, and we went at it again, with Phoebe on the left corner this time, and me on the right. I hoped it would help my back to rotate positions each time we stopped, but I feared I was only givin’ the lean-to a different angle to punish me.

For a city woman, Phoebe was strong. Like Monique, she made no complaints. But the goin’ was slow, and gettin’ slower, due to the painful nature of our journey. It weren’t just the weight of the lean-to that was breakin’ us down, it was a combination of things, like the numbness in our necks, shoulders and lower backs and the blisters under our gloves and inside our boots. Had we been tryin’ to cross a mountain, or even a series of hills, we couldn’t a’done it. But we were on the plains, just past the Kansas border, and the land was flat and mostly grass, far as the eye could see.

Not that the grass was green, or fun to walk through, ’cause it weren’t. It was brown and brittle, like over-cured hay, and crunched under our feet like crusted snow. I’d never seen grass this dry. Even our horses wouldn’t eat it! But dead as it was, the grass was still thick and long enough to cover most of the surface holes you’ll find on prairie land.