“I’m not putting you out of your wagon,” Craven says.

“Nonsense,” Jasper says. He pauses long enough to give my shoulder a squeeze. “I want to keep an eye on that leg the next few days, and I can do it easier if you’re close.”

While Jefferson and the college men get the Major settled, I wander back toward the Joyners’ wagon. My limbs tremble, and my mind is a haze as the memory repeats itself over and over: Major Craven trying to wave off the buffalo, and then disappearing so fast it was like the very earth sucked him away.

A large group of men huddles beside the smashed wagon. I approach their circle to see what the fuss is, and a couple Missouri men step aside to make room.

“With Wally dying, I’ve got the most experience,” Frank says. “I’ve been as far as Fort Laramie twice, taking supplies. I already lead the biggest group of wagons. Wouldn’t be any trouble to lead everyone else.”

The last thing we need is a good-for-nothing pattyroller in charge. I step forward to protest, but Mr. Robichaud speaks up first: “Dilley’s right. He has the most experience.” But he says it with a furrowed brow, as if it’s grave news. Half a dozen others nod and murmur agreement.

I clamp my mouth shut.

Mr. Joyner says, “Major Craven was an officer in the militia. He led a disciplined outfit. It’s no aspersion cast upon your character, Frank, to acknowledge him as your better.”

Frank spits tobacco juice at Mr. Joyner’s feet. “How’s that for casting a ’spersion?” The mob of men behind him chuckle like it’s the funniest thing. “Sounds like they know who their leader is.”

I can’t keep quiet any longer. “Jasper’s a doctor. He cleaned the Major’s wound and splinted it. The Major’s going to be fine.”

“And if that works out, we’ll all hold hands and sing hosanna,” Frank says. “In the meantime, I’ll take care of things.”

“We ought to pray together,” Reverend Lowrey says. “Ask for God’s guidance in our hour of need.”

Everyone nods, but no one drops their head to pray.

“All I’m saying is we ought to choose a natural leader,” Mr. Joyner says. “Someone with the proper background, with command experience.”

“Just because you’ve bossed slaves doesn’t mean you’re qualified to boss me,” Frank says. Some of the men shift uncomfortably.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Reverend Lowrey says. “Let us come together in Christian accord and ask for God’s guidance. All of this is part of His plan for us—”

I’ve heard enough. I return to the college men’s wagon, wanting to assure myself that I told the truth, that the Major will be fine.

Jefferson is gone, and the Major is settled in. Jasper crouches over him, holding a cup of water to his lips. The stains on the Major’s bandages are darkening to brown instead of continuing to bloom with bright red. I take that as a good sign.

Jasper notices me. “What are they doing?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “But I feel confident they’re going to be blockheaded about it.”

“We’re lucky no one else was seriously hurt,” he says in an exhausted voice. “Just a few cattle.”

“I suppose so.” I glance at his medicine chest. It seemed so heavy when I carried it out to Major Craven, but it’s already half empty. If anyone else is badly injured, Jasper won’t have anything left.

I watch him tend to the Major for a little while, but he doesn’t have anything more to say, and I realize I don’t either.

I drift through camp, looking for Jefferson so I can thank him for saving me, maybe even just sit down and talk for a spell. But I find him with the Hoffmans, helping Mr. Hoffman and the two oldest boys as they make repairs. Mrs. Hoffman and Therese are picking up a trunk that had burst open, spilling clothes and linens. Therese steals a glance at Jefferson.

“You working two wagons now?” I say.

“Just helping out,” he answers. “Mrs. Joyner is looking for you.”

“Of course she is.” I don’t want to talk to him after all. I turn away, knowing I’m irritable and not fit for company, and I have no idea why, except the memory of the Major getting trampled keeps flashing in my mind’s eye. If not for Jefferson, the same would have happened to me.

I’m halfway to the Joyners’ wagon when I hear the cry: “Indians!”

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Indians follow the herd of buffalo, and we are in their path. Our men are still arguing over who should lead the company as the first few stride calmly into our camp.

Frank Dilley’s hand moves to his gun holster. “They incited that stampede on purpose, mark my words,” he says.

“We should tell them of the blood of Christ,” Reverend Lowrey says, eyes bright with the same fever that always took my daddy when he talked of gold. “If we hold services now, they’ll stop out of curiosity. I’ll fetch my Bible—”

“Hold on now,” Mr. Joyner says, grabbing his arm. “We’re not doing anything until we know our belongings are safe.”

I study the Indians as they drift among us, looking for people interested in trade. The men wear buckskin suits decorated with quills and colored beads. Some have cloth blankets thrown over their shoulders; others have buffalo hides. Most have feathers sticking out of their glossy black hair. There are a dozen or so, and by the way they whisper to one another while eyeing Frank and Mr. Joyner, I figure they understand English just fine. Many of their faces are pocked with scars. One has blue eyes; another, freckles.

The thought hits me like a raindrop out of the clear sky: Put Jefferson in different clothes, and he would blend right in with this group. The same thick black hair and sharp cheekbones, the same broad mouth and dark skin. I glimpse him watching the Indians from behind a wagon. He catches me looking at him, and I swear he knows what I’m thinking. He frowns and ducks away.

A handful of women follow after the men. Some carry babies in baskets that hang down their backs, held in place by nothing but bands around the mothers’ foreheads. My neck hurts just looking at them. One of the babies starts crying. The mother lifts it from her head, basket and all, and affixes the babe to her breast, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

A girl, probably a few years younger than me, spies the gold locket around Andy’s neck and gestures that she wants it.

I dash forward to interpose myself between the curious little boy and the Indian girl. “No, absolutely not.”

She cries as if I’ve wounded her, reaching around me to get at Andy. Several of her companions come to her aid. I scoop up Andy and bundle him to my chest, but he tries to squirm free, as interested in the girl as she is in my locket.

“What’s going on here?” Mrs. Joyner says.

“Just friendly introductions,” I tell Mrs. Joyner. The girl’s wailing grows louder. Andy squirms harder. I look toward the men for help, but they’re still busy arguing. “You can’t give them my locket.”

“I would never . . .” She pauses. “Is that what they want?”

“They just want to trade. I think.”

“I . . . have some things.”