Beckwourth applied red ochre to Little Wife’s face, then framed it with white chalk, the same that she used to soften buffalo robes. Hunts Alone watched nearby.
“Such is your beauty, One Who Strikes Three,” Beckwourth said, “that the flowers will bow down to you when you pass.”
“When I was a child and we played grown up, I was different,” she said. “The other girls would let a boy kiss them when he brought them a coyote skin, pretending it was a scalp. No boy ever kissed me. So has it been since I became a woman.”
“You bring honor to Crow women, One Who Strikes Three,” he said.
She rose, her soft elk skin dress resplendent with geometric patterns made of colored porcupine quills and glass beads. She swayed for a moment, weakened by her fast.
“Go, my husband, make a place for yourself.
