“You get used to it.”

By afternoon, Maria had made a broom and a big bed. She had covered the bed with their blankets and fashioned pillows from some empty sacks. Everything smelled of fresh pine. She’d collected grasses and was working on a basket when Juana finally sauntered in. She sat and ate and watched Maria work.

“You need to learn to make baskets too.” The old woman had taught Maria well and she could make many baskets in a day.

“For what?”

“To trade. At that little village we passed. The people will trade food for them. We can keep from spending our money that way and no one will wonder how we got money in the first place. They won’t care if we have baskets to trade. That’s expected.”

Juana picked up some grass and half-heartedly mimicked Maria’s actions. She soon sliced her hand and stopped. “That hurts.”

“You get used to it.”

Juana began fidgeting around.

“Is there anything you know how to do, Juana?” Maria wasn’t cross with her friend. She was just teasing her a little.

“Oh, sure. I can sing.” She began singing very badly and Maria stopped her.

“You sound like a trampled puppy.” Maria's Trail