Okay there are two key points to this story. . . one is about the narrorator, and the second one is about what they are doing . . .did I make it clear enough? More detail? More time to reach this point? thanks! Oh. . .the name of the novel is Bitterness of Quiet Chapter One Close to Watertown, Dakota Territory June 16, 1867 For miles all around---there was nothing but an endless sea of grass, and the constant breathing of the wind. It breathed its hot breath across the green grass which rippled and danced, changing its colors with every movement---from dark green to blue-green to black in some places. The sun was high in the sky, almost noon. I glanced up toward the wagon seat to slumped but burly figure that sat there. The hat brim was pulled down low, graying brown hair sticking out at all sides and around the pink-tipped ears that would always remind her of a sow’s, and the thread-bare once white shirt, which’s front was permanently stained with tobacco juice and whiskey. The head was slumped forward, the reins limp and held loosely in one large fist, and the other hand wavered and bounced with the motion of the wagon, gripping firmly the handle of a tan and white jug of whiskey. My eyes slid down to the coiled whip that was tied neatly to the side of the wagon seat by a leather cord. An involuntary shudder went up my spine. Master Clark Thompson was temperamental sober; dangerous drunk; enraged and drunk--- lethal. Nothing, nothing must go wrong today. . . A sting of pain went through the slash that curved its way from my right shoulder to the left side of my waist. A slash that was only now starting to heal, although it had been more than a week since. . . Don’t think about that. Don’t. In that instant, the whiskey jug fell, striking a rock as it landed beside the wagon wheel. The horses flicked their ears and kept walking, and Master Thompson mumbled drunkenly in his sleep. I reached forward, carefully, slowly, and pulled the horse closest to me to a stop. “Reckon I put enough laudanum in there?” Bella asked hoarsely from behind me, her hands clenching the front of her worn, patched gingham dress. Her skin was dark brown, her eyes too large, too wise for such a young face. One so young shouldn’t be so old. “I figure he’ll be out for at least a full day, Quiet----put enough in there to drop a horse.” He’s out cold. I grinned at her, and nodded for her to get into the back of the wagon. She grinned back and disappeared as I set the wagon break and began to unhitch the horses from the wagon. They were well fed and strong, one a black-bay, the other a sorrel who’s color seemed to fade into a strange sort of pink. Master Thompson didn’t name his animals, but I thought of the bay as Mooner and the sorrel as Pinky. Bella called them Bay and Sore---Sore because the sorrel was nasty tempered, and had bitten her multiple times because of her slowness in unharnessing them. Bella reappeared, throwing two sacks of belongings down beside the wagon as she jumped down. “Which one are we taking, Quiet?” she made a face as Pinky’s ears flattened cautiously at her closeness. Mooner, of course. I waved toward the bay and then motioned toward the wagon again. Bella stared at me blankly for a moment, and then jerked, “Oh!” and disappeared back into the wagon. I finished unharnessing Pinky and slipped his headstall off, reaching up to wipe at the sweat stained muzzle and brush the thick flaxen forelock from his glinting, grumpy eyes. Off you go, old fellow. I grasped his mane and pulled him forward a few steps, and then smacked his rump and watched as he trotted off a few feet and then stopped to graze. I frowned and shook my head. It’s going to be harder than that to lose him. He can’t stay here; we’ll have a hard enough time shaking Master off our trail if he’s horseless. . . Maybe the sense of companionship would get him to fallow Mooner. Maybe.