I hold tight as he sticks his fingers right into the wound and adjusts the bones until he’s satisfied with how they align. His fingers come out slippery with blood, and he looks for something to wipe them on.

“Grab my neckerchief,” I say, pointing with my chin. It’s tucked into my shirt, which makes it as clean as we’re going to get at the moment.

I lift my chin so Jasper can grab the kerchief. He wipes his hands and pulls a glass bottle labeled “Hawes’ Healing Extract” from his medicine chest. He pours it liberally over the leg, which makes the Major jerk around in spite of being passed out. Jasper packs the wound with a clean bandage and wraps the whole thing up with what he calls a Liston splint. As he ties it down, the Major’s eyes flutter open.

“Lord, I hurt,” he moans.

“That’s to be expected,” Jasper tells him.

“Was hoping it was all a dream,” he says.

“Then close your eyes and keep on dreaming,” I tell him.

“Thanks for finding me,” he says. “You saved me.”

I didn’t do anything. Just waved for Jasper. But I duck my head to give him a quiet “You’re welcome.”

Jasper gets to his feet and stretches his lower back. “Henry, go find Tom. We’ll need his help to carry the Major back to our wagon.”

Jefferson steps forward. “I can carry him.”

As his eyes meet mine, I realize Jefferson was right; the trail is good for him, with all its wide-open space and no da to slap him down. He’s the one we ought to be thanking—for picking me up when I fell, for getting everyone to safety. I open my mouth to tell him so, but Jasper steps between us and leans down over the Major.

“I’m not putting you out of your wagon,” Craven says.

“Nonsense,” Jasper says. He pauses long enough to give my shoulder a squeeze. “I want to keep an eye on that leg the next few days, and I can do it easier if you’re close.”

While Jefferson and the college men get the Major settled, I wander back toward the Joyners’ wagon. My limbs tremble, and my mind is a haze as the memory repeats itself over and over: Major Craven trying to wave off the buffalo, and then disappearing so fast it was like the very earth sucked him away.

A large group of men huddles beside the smashed wagon. I approach their circle to see what the fuss is, and a couple Missouri men step aside to make room.

“With Wally dying, I’ve got the most experience,” Frank says. “I’ve been as far as Fort Laramie twice, taking supplies. I already lead the biggest group of wagons. Wouldn’t be any trouble to lead everyone else.”