A handful of women follow after the men. Some carry babies in baskets that hang down their backs, held in place by nothing but bands around the mothers’ foreheads. My neck hurts just looking at them. One of the babies starts crying. The mother lifts it from her head, basket and all, and affixes the babe to her breast, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

A girl, probably a few years younger than me, spies the gold locket around Andy’s neck and gestures that she wants it.

I dash forward to interpose myself between the curious little boy and the Indian girl. “No, absolutely not.”

She cries as if I’ve wounded her, reaching around me to get at Andy. Several of her companions come to her aid. I scoop up Andy and bundle him to my chest, but he tries to squirm free, as interested in the girl as she is in my locket.

“What’s going on here?” Mrs. Joyner says.

“Just friendly introductions,” I tell Mrs. Joyner. The girl’s wailing grows louder. Andy squirms harder. I look toward the men for help, but they’re still busy arguing. “You can’t give them my locket.”

“I would never . . .” She pauses. “Is that what they want?”

“They just want to trade. I think.”

“I . . . have some things.”

She runs to her wagon and returns with a silver hairbrush. I cling to a wriggling little boy while she engages in some quick negotiations, coming away with a buffalo hide. The Indian girl’s wailing evaporates. She and her friends take turns touching the shiny silver handle. Then she unravels her left braid and starts brushing her hair.

Others, perhaps sensing the angry mood of the camp, gesture southward toward the herd of buffalo. Moments later, all the Indians melt away much as they arrived. The girl follows slowly, brushing, brushing, brushing as she goes.

Mrs. Joyner stares after her, beaming. “Maybe next time I can trade some salt pork for fresh buffalo meat,” she says.

She’d be better off trading away some of that big furniture before we get to the mountains.

“Ma’am?”

“You don’t like buffalo meat?”

“I don’t know— Never had any. Jefferson said you wanted to see me? Before the Indians arrived.”

The joy vanishes from her face. “Ah, yes. I’d like a favor.”

“Anything.”

“I’m worried about Mrs. Lowrey.”

“How come?”

Her brow knits. “She should be . . . Forgive me for speaking indelicately, I hope I don’t offend you.”

“Not at all.”