“Course not,” he says, but I’ve coaxed a little smile out of him.

“I could probably hit it at five paces.”

He says nothing, but his eyes rove my face, and he gets a strange expression.

My cheeks warm. “Come on,” I say, tossing my saddlebags and blanket under the Joyners’ wagon. “Let’s go find your boot.”

Chapter Twenty

Late the next morning, we spot a mound of dirt ringed with rocks, staring down at us from high on a hill. A small wooden cross made of not-quite-straight branches stands guard over it. The grave can’t be more than a week old, but already the cross lists to the side. There’s no headstone that I can see—no name, nothing to mark who this person was, who they left behind, or who carries on without them.

Major Craven and some of the Missouri men climb the hill to investigate. Moments later, they gesture wildly at one another, their angry voices carrying on the wind.

Mrs. Joyner leans over from the wagon seat. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, ma’am.”

“Well, go find out.”

So Peony and I climb the hill and discover that the grave has been scraped open. I catch a glimpse of pale, gray skin before Major Craven and his men shovel dirt to quickly cover it up.

“What happened?” I asked.

Major Craven shakes his head sadly. “The grave was desecrated.”

I’m about to ask about the person buried here, but Mr. Joyner crests the rise. “Go back to the wagon and make sure Mrs. Joyner keeps it rolling,” he orders.

“Yes, sir.” I turn Peony around and go right back the way I came.

“So, what was it?” Mrs. Joyner asks.

“Something dug up the grave,” I tell her. “Maybe wolves or wild dogs. They’re covering it up again.”

“But who was in it?”

I shake my head. “Don’t know, ma’am.”

She frowns.

As we ride on, she cranes her neck, keeping the hill in view for as long as possible.

I can’t stop thinking about my glimpse of dead flesh. Maybe it was a girl like me. I’ve got no family, no friends besides Jefferson. If I die, I’ll end up in a shallow grave like that one, unnamed and unremembered.

About an hour later, the wagons stop for a short break, and Mr. Joyner catches up with us.

“It was Indians,” he announces.

“Oh, how terrible,” Mrs. Joyner says, covering her mouth.

“Indians killed him?” Jefferson asks. He’s tight and coiled on the sorrel mare, like a thunderstorm about to let loose.

“It was a her, not a him. And no, looks like natural causes did it,” Mr. Joyner says. “But Indians dug up the grave. They stole the girl’s clothes. Even the blanket she was wrapped in.”

Mrs. Joyner shakes her head in vigorous denial.