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Ten minutes later, I led the horse away by his bridle, on his back an ancient military saddle, but one very like the one my father had used on old Wellington, the one I had taught myself to ride in.

Mrs. Bush, Mrs. Jenkins, and Susannah, who rose from her bed and came out to look at the horse, were full of consternation at my foolishness. "A mule," said Mrs. Bush, "would have been a far wiser choice, my dear. Or a pair of oxen." She shook her head. We corralled the horse down the street, and I paid the man who owned the lot a dollar for hay. It was clear to everyone, even me, that if Thomas had not been out at the claim with the other men, building our cabin, there would have been no horse, and of course I regretted buying the animal. Mrs. Bush said, "Maybe you can sell it, dear. How much did you pay?"

I told her. From the expression on her face, I surmised that that was a lot to pay. The next morning, another hot one, I rose before dawn and had already fetched the water for the day by the time the others were up. I had also laid the fire in the stove and set a pan of water at the back to heat up. As soon as our breakfast of corncakes and bacon was over—the only hot food we would have all day, because the leaning house became simply too intolerable if we kept a fire in the stove—I leapt up and washed the dishes; then, even before Mrs. Bush had a chance to say anything, I rolled the blanket beds and swept out the dirt floor and straightened the few chairs and the two little tables that served as furniture. I chased away the mice, who were more of a problem at night, anyway, and made sure all of our food was tightly sealed. Mrs. Jenkins and Mrs. Bush were astounded at my industry, until I solved their perplexity by saying, "I am going to ride my horse now."

"Oh, my dear, I hate to see you going out on the streets by yourself unless it is absolutely essential. Those Missourians are always starting such brawls—" Mrs. Jenkins began, but I was already out the door. When I looked back, a moment later, I saw Susannah, no longer shaking, standing with the tablecloth door in her hand, staring after me. I waved to her, and she smiled.

The horse came over to the fence when I approached. The day before, I had given him some prairie hay three or four times and spoken to him, and now I intended to ride him, but I realized that all the assurance I had been feeling the previous day was based on what the reverend had said, that he was well broke to ride and drive. Well, from the dealer’s point of view, every horse in the United States and its territories is well broke to ride and drive. All I really knew was that when he threw the saddle over the horse’s back, the horse didn’t seem to mind. I looked at the horse and said, "Jeremiah. That’s your new name. You’re Jeremiah." His ears swiveled back and forth. There was a kind of shed, very tiny and made of cottonwood, that sat beside the corral, and there I went to find Jeremiah’s saddle and bridle. The bridle was old enough, but all in one piece. The saddle, though, was perfectly dilapidated—rough and discolored, with a couple of little rips. He took to them well enough, standing steady while I cinched up. It was early yet, and even the owner of the corral was still in his house, two lots away. That was fine with me. I stepped up on the fence and climbed aboard, spreading my skirt underneath me and pulling it behind, over the cantle of the saddle, the way I had always done in Quincy. I settled my weight. Jeremiah’s ears flicked forward and backward, and he gave a little grunt, shifting his weight to his back legs and coming up a little in the front. This, I knew, was a bad sign; he might still be hesitant, but he was thinking about bucking. The flesh over his haunches shivered, as if my skirt was bothering him, and I quickly swept my hand over it, bunching it toward the saddle. Still no movement, but now it felt as though he wasn’t just standing still, rather as if he was getting ready to explode. I lifted the reins slightly.