I woke in the very early morning; sunrise was perhaps a half an hour away. I let my senses stretch outside and into the camp, listening for any telltale sounds of stirring. Upon hearing none, I reached for my new shawl, draping it around my shift in the chilly air. Cautiously I made my way out into the dew-wet morning, my gaze skimming to the other tents, then the remains of the fire. The sky was deep indigo, the eastern horizon just streaked with a slim band of yellow. Clouds blotted out the stars directly above me as I walked a distance away for privacy’s sake, wondering just when I may be in the vicinity of an actual outhouse again. No matter; I would make do like the thousands of others who’d journeyed northwest before me. The horses lifted their heads as I passed them and I studied Whistler with a sense of longing, but I didn’t dare repeat last evening’s actions. Angus was up and crouching beside the fire when I returned, and I wanted to kneel beside him and beg him to tell me what Sawyer had said; clearly he wished to leave me behind at first possible opportunity.
