Beckwourth felt the warmth of Crow esteem along all the paths he walked. But as the weeks progressed into the Yellow Grass season, the specter of another winter away from home did not appeal. Perhaps Eliza did wait for him, perhaps she did not, but in any case, the lure of family and the riches his pelts would bring back home beckoned. This had been an unparalleled adventure, but it was time to go home.
Ever since the tiff over Little Wife, Hunts Alone had avoided him. Finally, Beckwourth went to his friend’s tipi, since by Crow tradition he could not be refused as a guest. Hunts Alone sulked. His wife offered Beckwourth a meal.
“Brother,” Beckwourth said. “You must not be angry with me. You know that I do not know Crow ways. I could not know that you would be so offended for favoring my
