I drift through camp, looking for Jefferson so I can thank him for saving me, maybe even just sit down and talk for a spell. But I find him with the Hoffmans, helping Mr. Hoffman and the two oldest boys as they make repairs. Mrs. Hoffman and Therese are picking up a trunk that had burst open, spilling clothes and linens. Therese steals a glance at Jefferson.

“You working two wagons now?” I say.

“Just helping out,” he answers. “Mrs. Joyner is looking for you.”

“Of course she is.” I don’t want to talk to him after all. I turn away, knowing I’m irritable and not fit for company, and I have no idea why, except the memory of the Major getting trampled keeps flashing in my mind’s eye. If not for Jefferson, the same would have happened to me.

I’m halfway to the Joyners’ wagon when I hear the cry: “Indians!”

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Indians follow the herd of buffalo, and we are in their path. Our men are still arguing over who should lead the company as the first few stride calmly into our camp.

Frank Dilley’s hand moves to his gun holster. “They incited that stampede on purpose, mark my words,” he says.

“We should tell them of the blood of Christ,” Reverend Lowrey says, eyes bright with the same fever that always took my daddy when he talked of gold. “If we hold services now, they’ll stop out of curiosity. I’ll fetch my Bible—”

“Hold on now,” Mr. Joyner says, grabbing his arm. “We’re not doing anything until we know our belongings are safe.”

I study the Indians as they drift among us, looking for people interested in trade. The men wear buckskin suits decorated with quills and colored beads. Some have cloth blankets thrown over their shoulders; others have buffalo hides. Most have feathers sticking out of their glossy black hair. There are a dozen or so, and by the way they whisper to one another while eyeing Frank and Mr. Joyner, I figure they understand English just fine. Many of their faces are pocked with scars. One has blue eyes; another, freckles.

The thought hits me like a raindrop out of the clear sky: Put Jefferson in different clothes, and he would blend right in with this group. The same thick black hair and sharp cheekbones, the same broad mouth and dark skin. I glimpse him watching the Indians from behind a wagon. He catches me looking at him, and I swear he knows what I’m thinking. He frowns and ducks away.