“I must have kicked away my other boot,” Jefferson whispers, looking around. “Blast it, I’ll never be able to find it in the dark.”

“We are now deep in Indian territory,” Craven says. “We’ll be going deeper, all the way to California. In my experience, we’ve nothing to fear by day. They’ll come to trade, and they may have food and other valuable information. For our part, it’s a chance to resupply and lighten our loads.”

He looks pointedly at those of us standing by the Joyner wagon. But my conscience is clear. I can hold everything I own in my hands.

“But if they come at night, it’ll be to rob us. They’ll steal our horses and our cattle if they can. So be on guard and be ready to defend yourselves!”

“Hey, Wally!” someone calls. One of the Missouri men. “How many Induns you kill in the Black Hawk War?”

The Major’s face blanches.

“Ten? A hundred?” the caller persists.

In a voice almost too low to hear, the Major says, “Too many. And hopefully not a soul more. Now get back to sleep.” He hops down from the trunk.

“As if anyone could sleep after that alarm,” Mrs. Joyner grumbles.

“The man’s just doing the job we elected him to do,” Mr. Joyner says. “Back into the wagon.”

Jefferson glares after Major Craven. “That was a lot of ruckus about nothing,” he says.

“Guess we better sleep under the wagons or inside the circle from now on,” I say.

“It’s not true, what he said.”

“He’s not talking about the Cherokee.”

“But back home they said all that about the Cherokee—that we were thieves and worse—and it’s not true. You remember when Dan Hutchings killed his brother-in-law?”

“Sure.” It was a big scandal in Dahlonega. They’d been arguing over a piece of land that Dan said was his, through his wife. He hung for it.

Jefferson stares off at nothing. “Dan was a white man, as white as they come,” he says. “And nobody ever said he did it because white men are savages. But one Indian does something bad, and suddenly all of them are bad.”

In the moonlight, his profile looks more Cherokee than ever. Mama used to say that Jefferson had a noble dignity about him, which was her way of pointing out his Indian blood while pretending to be polite. He doesn’t seem noble to me. He’s just Jeff.

“No one thinks you’re bad,” I say softly.

He turns on me, eyes flashing. “That’s not . . . I mean . . .”

“I knew a lot of Indians back when I was a little girl, and not a one of them was bad. And I know you, and you’re the best person I know. Do you want me to walk on over to Major Craven and spit in his eye?”