Softly, he says, “This is one of the worst things I’ve ever done.”

“At least we put some out of their misery,” I reply.

“I can’t wait to get to California. Then we can be rid of Frank Dilley and his boys.”

“That would be nice,” I say.

“You sound doubtful.”

I pick at a blade of grass, pulling it apart. “It’s just that I’ve learned a few things on the road. About bad people. And good ones.”

“Like what?”

A few yards away, someone slaps Frank on the back, laughing over something he said.

“That bad people are everywhere,” I say. I think about the brothers who waylaid me and stole my gold and gear. They’d be right at home with some of these folks heading west. “Every place there’s people, there’s badness.”

“There’s goodness too.”

“Sure. When we get to California, there’ll be plenty of good people. Like the Hoffmans and the Robichauds and the college men. But there’ll be Frank Dilleys all over the place.”

“And your uncle.”

I try to toss the blade of grass away, but the breeze flips it right back into my lap. “Yeah. Him too.”

Jefferson brings his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them. Staring out at the Missouri men, he says, “Are you scared?”

I say nothing. Behind us, Peony’s bridle rattles as she tosses her head.

“Because I’m scared for you,” he says. “If he really killed your folks—”

“California is a big place.”

“Seems like he wants you for a daughter. Believes you ought be his. So, maybe he won’t hurt you?”

He says that like it’s a good thing, but the thought turns my stomach. “Parents hurt their kids all the time.”

He stiffens.

“Sorry, Jeff. I didn’t mean to—”

“Looks like lunch is ready,” he says, rising.

“Wait, Jeff,” I say, tugging on his pants’ leg.

He stares down at me.

“I just . . . Thank you. For saving me. The buffalo would have gotten me if not for you.”

“You’d do it for me,” he says, and he yanks his pants leg away.

Everyone gathers around the pot. We peel off the outer skin and eat the meat underneath. It tastes like beef, I guess, but it’s as tender as butter. Not that I have much appetite for it.

After eating, we retrace our steps. Along the way we pass dozens of buffalo corpses, a trail of brown and crimson breadcrumbs leading back to camp. Vultures circle in the sky like a cloud of blowflies. I used to feel proud when I’d shot something I could take home and feed to my family.

Near the end of the breadcrumb trail we find the group of Indian women and children clustered around the remains of a buffalo. The hide hangs on a makeshift frame. Most of the meat is cut into strips and smoking over a fire. I hope it’s the one I shot.

Frank and a few others kick their horses into a gallop, as if to run down the women and children.

Jefferson looks at me, and I shake my head. “Not going to do it,” I say.

“Good.”

I want to yell at them to stop, but I’m a coward and I say nothing. The women and children scream and scatter. Frank and his men turn aside at the last second. When Jefferson and I catch up, they’re still laughing about it.

Evening is falling by the time we return. Jefferson takes all his meat to the Hoffmans, saying they’ve been feeding him all along, and this is his chance to repay them a little.

I drop off some of mine with the Robichauds, who are grateful. Their little boys are nearly over the measles, and their appetites are coming back. I take more to the college men and Major Craven. Jasper says things are looking good so far, but his expression contradicts his words. The Major forces a grin and tells me he’ll eat every bite to get his strength back.

My next-to-the-last stop is the preacher’s wagon. I stand outside near the back curtain, nerving myself up to inquire about Mrs. Lowrey on behalf of Mrs. Joyner. Maybe I should ask Therese to do it. She would be a more appropriate choice.

A movement to my left catches my eye. It’s Reverend Lowrey, huddled in the shadowed lee of the wagon. He’s on his knees in prayer.

The wagon’s curtain is whisked aside. “Ma’am?” I say, expecting to see Mrs. Lowrey.

It’s Mrs. Joyner. Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, and her hands are bloody. It’s the first time I’ve seen her without a cap on her head, and her wet blond hair is plastered to her face. Her own belly swells as she stands on the back of the wagon bed, wearing the grimmest expression.

“I’m s-sorry,” I stutter, not knowing what I’m sorry for just yet.

She rubs sweat from her forehead with her upper sleeve. My gaze jumps between her bloodied hands and the wagon bed, which is silent and still.

“Not your fault,” she says softly. “Reverend came to get me right after you left. Mrs. Lowrey . . .”

I want to tell her it’s all right, that I understand, that she can speak plain to me, woman to woman. Her water broke. Her laboring came.

“. . . she fell sick last night, I gather. She strained all alone for hours. Reverend didn’t get help at first because he said the outcome would be God’s will.”

“What?”

The reverend jumps up at my voice. The Bible dangles from his arm like a piece of overripe fruit. Fingers jammed between the pages mark the passage he was reading. His face is a swirl of worry and hope. I don’t know how he can hope. Surely he hears the silence.

Mrs. Joyner shakes her head.

The reverend opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.

“I came too late,” she says. “I’ll tell the others. See if there’s someone who can come stay with you.”

“The babe?” he squeaks out.

“I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t respond, just stands frozen. For the briefest moment, his features twist with gut-wrenching pain.

Then he hefts his Bible and stalks off. “Blessing be to God!” he shouts at the top of his lungs. “Even the father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the father of mercies and the God of all comforts, who comforteth us in all our tribulation . . .”

“Can you help me down?” Mrs. Joyner says in a quiet voice.

“Yes, ma’am.”

I offer her my hand, and she practically falls into my arms. I’m lucky I don’t topple under her weight.

She steps away from me as soon as she’s steady on her feet and wipes her hands on her skirt, as if wiping away my touch. “I need to get back to Mr. Joyner,” she says, her voice trembling. “He still hasn’t recovered. This morning’s exertions nearly undid him.”

She staggers, and I move to steady her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “Let me help you.”

She stiffens, as if to fight me, but common sense prevails. “Thank you.”

I spare one more glance at the preacher’s wagon. There’s a dead woman inside. Not much older than I am. And she’s all alone. Her husband is off stomping around the camp. Mrs. Joyner has to take care of her own family. There’s no one to keep Mrs. Lowrey company until she can be prepared for burial. Not that she needs company. She’s dead; I know that. But someone should do something.