I stare at his back, wondering if I said something wrong. Sleep comes harder for me, as it always does. I’m just starting to drift off when gold tickles the back of my throat.

It’s Major Craven. He always takes a turn at watch, which means walking the perimeter. But he’s awful quiet this time, creeping along like a hunter after a spooked deer.

He peeks inside all the family wagons, though I’m not sure what he’s looking for. After peering in on the sleeping Joyners, he steps back and lets out a whooping cry. “Indians! It’s Indians!” He waves his arms and starts running.

Maybe it’s a test; Major Craven watches the wagons, instead of focusing his attention outward. Still, I leap to my feet, grab my five-shooter, and start loading.

Jefferson startles from a deep sleep and stumbles to his feet. He hops on one foot, trying to pull on his boot. “What is it? What’s happening?”

“Grab your gun and gear. Let’s get inside the wagon circle.” I’ve got nothing but a blanket and the saddlebag I use for a pillow. I throw them over my shoulder and cut between the Joyners’ and the Robichauds’ wagons.

The camp is in an uproar, just as Major Craven intended. The animals churn in confusion. The Missouri men have formed a credible line of defense just inside the wagon circle, guns held at the ready. Mr. Bledsoe has done the same with his Arkansas men. Even his slave, Hampton, grips a long shepherd’s staff, ready to thrash somebody on the head.

Our side of the circle has performed poorly. The college men stand outside in their long underwear, scratching their heads and yawning. The reverend wanders around, Bible in hand, as though looking for someone to preach at. The Hoffman children huddle around Therese and her mother, with the littlest ones clutching their skirts.

The Joyners are the worst. Little Andy wails, tears running down his cheeks, while Olive cries softly in her mother’s arms. Mrs. Joyner snaps at Mr. Joyner to get his gun, and Mr. Joyner curses at the Major, demanding to know that all the women and children are accounted for.

The Major ignores him, instead climbing up onto a trunk and ringing a bell. Silence gradually descends on our company. Even Andy’s wailing turns to quiet sniffles.

“When I was in the militia, this is what we called a drill,” Major Craven says. The Missouri men nod knowingly.

Jefferson hobbles over with only one boot on. His blanket is in one hand, and his rifle is in the other. “Wait— None of this is for real?”

“It’s real enough,” I say, thinking of the sleep we’ve lost.

The Major says, “But next time it could be Indians! So you have to be ready.”