He makes it three steps before he drops and disappears beneath a cloud of dust and hooves.

“Major!”

A buffalo slams into my wagon. It teeters violently, and I slide across the bench, grabbing the footboard to keep from falling off. Their wet noses and glossy eyes are close enough to touch as they twist aside.

The herd breaks on the wagon circle like a river flowing around an island. I clutch the footboard with all my might for a minute or ten or maybe twenty. Dust clogs the air, filling it with a heavy, musty-fur scent, choking me. Buffalo snort and pound. Wagons rattle and shake. Oxen scream.

My arms tremble from clinging to the footboard. I raise my head, praying that I will see Jefferson, sheltered somewhere safe. He’s nowhere to be found, but I watch, heart in my throat, as two wagons topple over. Buffalo get tangled in the hoops of one. They stomp and knock it about with their heads until it’s in splinters, dusted over with white flour and sprinkled with feathers from someone’s pillow.

I can’t tell if there are bodies in the wreckage.

Suddenly, the buffalo are a trickle. And then they’re gone, disappeared as quickly as they came. The thunder of their hooves fades; the dust settles. I cling to the footboard a few seconds more, unable to make my limbs move.

Finally, I slide from the bench seat. Oxen and horses mill about in panic. People call out to one another. Mrs. Joyner climbs shakily from their wagon bed, Andy in her arms. The college men are whooping and slapping one another on the backs, like they’ve just seen the greatest wonder of their lives. Mrs. Hoffman’s brood is gathered around, like a clutch of chicks. I suck in a breath when I spot Jefferson safe among them.

“Peony!” I call out frantically. “Peo—” There she is, right by the Joyner wagon. Her sides heave, but she seems unharmed. The other animals seem unharmed too. Except for the two toppled wagons and one trampled cook fire, our camp is mostly untouched.

I stagger toward the area where I saw Major Craven go down, afraid of what I’ll find. A weak voice drifts toward me.

“Help . . .”

I’m trembling, like wheat in the wind, and my knees are so wobbly I can barely run.

“Oh, Lord, help me. . . .”

An ox lies on its side in the dirt, its ribs caved in, blood pooling around it. Rope from a clothesline is twisted around its neck. I leap over it. “Major! Where are you?”

“Here . . .” He’s crumpled in the dust, at least twenty yards from the spot where he went down. Everything about him is the gray-brown color of dirt, except for the leg of his trousers, which shows a splash of red and a snow-white splinter of bone.