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it comes to sex, I thought.
    “Look how big we once were,” Ward said, pointing at a map of Kansas Territory. Until 1861, Kansas had reached from the Missouri River all the way to the Rockies. Our eyes were drawn to the Smoky Hill River, where Ward lived, and to the Middle and Little Beavers, whose dry beds had both wound through the countryside where I grew up. The Smoky appeared much more often on the maps because it had always had reliable water in it. In the late 1850s, when gold was discovered in Colorado, the Smoky Hill Trail had been the most direct route to Denver. It had also been the most dangerous. The Cheyenne, who camped and hunted on the plains, were understandably threatened by the incursion. They were prone to burning stage stations and torturing and killing the passengers.
    Despite these dangers, instead of crossing Nebraska on the Oregon Trail, some travelers headed for the far West came through Kansas, then turned north onto the Overland Trail, which ran along the eastern face of the Rockies.
    I traced my finger from Laramie south along the Overland to Denver. “Our paths join.”
    Ward gave me a sideways hug. Standing that close to him after a sleepless night grounded me, like leaning against a sun-warmed tree trunk. He removed his hand from my shoulder and lifted another map from the stack we’d made. Close to where we met on the Little Beaver, I spotted a north-south dotted line. “The Ladder of Rivers!” I said.
    Tribe after tribe had climbed the ladder across the High Plains, going from one watering hole to the next as they hunted bison. Some had settled beside the springs long enough to grow corn and squash—all thanks to the gift of surface water. Even my modest Little Beaver had been a rung on the ladder. Along with Ward’s Smoky Hill and themightier Platte and Arkansas, it had made High Plains trade and travel possible all the way back to the Paleo-Indian Clovis culture.
    “The Ladder of Rivers,” Ward mused. “That phrase sounds familiar. I think I ran across it in that book I sent you about Dull Knife’s escape from Oklahoma.”
    He was referring to the epic flight, in 1878, of the Northern Cheyenne from Oklahoma. The military had coerced them to move there, onto the Southern Cheyenne reservation. But the northerners escaped, fighting their way through Kansas and Nebraska, fending off the attacks of better-armed, more numerous cavalry. Some of the tribe had made it to their home in the Black Hills, but many had died in Nebraska, gunned down as they huddled in the freezing hills.
    “It was terrible what we did to the Indians,” I said.
    “I know just what you mean, even if I did always root for the cowboys in the shoot ’em ups.”
    “I rooted for the Indians,” I said.
    “I never would have guessed.” He softened the sarcasm with an affectionate smile.
    “I want to go to all these streams,” I said. “I want to find the springs where the Indians camped and the pioneers settled. I’m drawn to those places.”
    “I would be honored to join you in that. Dull Knife’s band crossed the Smoky not far from my place. I’ll take you there.”
    “That would be great!” I stifled a yawn.
    Ward studied me for a second. “You know, I can see I’ve worn you out. Let’s go back to the hotel and rest.”
    •   •   •
    I SANK INTO THE LEATHER PASSENGER SEAT of his vintage Continental, the kind of car you’d expect to see a cigar-chewing, country real estate agent driving. Except for its color: powder blue. “My buddies rib me about it,” he said, “but at least it’s not pink.”
    At the stoplight, I closed my eyes. “Make yourself at home. Lean back,” he said, pushing a button on the console to tilt the seat.
    I trusted him to bear me along on this cushion, then up the elevator to his room. I would sleep, or we would make love. Both sounded equally appealing. We could linger the rest of the day. I didn’t care if I missed my plane. There’d be another one in the