But then the reverend launches into a lengthy and effusive eulogy, enumerating the many outstanding Christian virtues of Mr. Bledsoe, which ought to serve as an inspiration to us all. I can’t imagine he knew the man any better than the rest of us, but he sounds sincere enough, and more than a few people are moved to tears.

The only people not present are the Robichauds.

It turns out la rougeole means the measles. Major Craven broke the news last night that the Robichaud twins were exposed at a trading post a couple weeks ago. He assured everyone that even though the measles spreads rapidly, it’s less likely to prove deadly than cholera. The Robichauds have agreed to quarantine themselves until the sickness passes, and anyone who shows symptoms is to tell Major Craven at once.

The sun is high and heat is rolling off the plains by the time they lower Mr. Bledsoe into his final resting place. They’re about to shovel dirt on top of him when Mr. Joyner returns and says, “Stop. Hold your horses.”

Everyone looks at him expectantly.

“Can it wait?” Reverend Lowrey asks. “This is a Christian burial.”

Mr. Joyner looks to Major Craven. “The Indians are going to dig up this grave, aren’t they?”

This sets everyone to mumbling among themselves. “I don’t think we can stop ’em,” Major Craven admits.

“Maybe we can leave them a gift.” He turns to me. “Run to the Frenchman’s wagon and get the blankets from their children.”

“But they’ve got measles,” I say.

“That’s the general idea. Rub those blankets all over the boys first.”

“No, sir.”

“I’ll give them new blankets,” he says, misunderstanding my refusal. “Fine, I’ll do it myself. Wait until I get back before you fill in that grave.”

I turn to look for Jefferson, but he’s gone.

Though weak from the cholera, Mr. Joyner strides away with purpose. Someone calls out, “Don’t do this, Joyner!” Henry, maybe.

But he ignores the voice, disappearing behind the Robichauds’ wagon. A moment later comes the sound of Mrs. Robichaud yelling in French.

He returns with his arms full of blankets.

I glance around at everyone else. Surely someone will put a stop to this? A few of the men shift uncomfortably on their feet. Major Craven looks down at the ground.

“This is a terrible notion,” I say.

“It’s none of your business, boy,” he says. His eyes are red-rimmed, and his face is gaunt and pale under days of beard growth.

I step forward, but a hand grips my upper arm. “Let him be,” says Frank Dilley.

Mr. Joyner staggers to the grave and throws the blankets over Mr. Bledsoe’s body. “You can finish covering him up now,” he says. “If anybody disturbs this burial, I hope they get exactly what they deserve.”