The small band is also following the herd, and we pass them about a quarter mile out. Frank aims his rifle at the leader and holds it to his shoulder until the Indians notice. “Bang,” he says. Then he laughs, lowers his weapon, and waves to the Indians all friendly-like.

They don’t wave back.

“Suspicious beasts,” he says. “We could shoot all of them from here before an arrow ever reached us.”

“They’re sneaky,” offers one of his companions. “Come up and slit your throat in the night.”

“That’s why you shoot them first.”

Their talk puts my belly in a bad way. I glance over at Jefferson, whose lips are pressed tight.

“The Missouri men are snakes,” I whisper to Jeff. “The lot of them.”

“Men are men,” he says with a shrug. “It’s men thinking other men are snakes that’s the problem.”

Shame clenches my throat. He’s right.

The buffalo ended their stampede a mile or so beyond our camp, where a few small hills rise from the flat prairie. There are thousands and thousands of bison, as far as the eye can see. I’ve never seen that many of anything in all my life. Even ants on an anthill can’t compete.

Under Frank’s direction, we spread out to either side. He explains that we’ll shoot at stragglers to drive the herd back together and start them moving again, away from the Indians.

My first shot is good, even with the unfamiliar rifle, and the animal crumples. The nearest buffalo trot away, but the herd doesn’t spook.

“Nice shooting, Georgia,” Frank says.

“Show-off,” Jefferson whispers.

“Let’s go get it,” I say, grinning.

“Not yet,” Frank says. “We don’t stop until we’re done hunting.”

Maybe it’s not safe to dismount with so many buffalo nearby. I look to Jefferson for an explanation, but he shrugs, equally confused.

While I reload my rifle, the others start shooting. Gunfire cracks all around me, and burned powder fills the air. The buffalo take off running.

The men shoot indiscriminately and laugh at the cries of agony. They ignore wounded animals to shoot at others. All Jefferson and I do is follow behind and put down animals too injured to run.

It’s a slaughter. We kill more animals than our entire company can possibly eat, and then we kill some more. Finally, after driving the herd for miles, the men get bored, and Frank gives the command to pull up.

We gather around a dead buffalo, and I dismount to get there first. My daddy field-dressed a bear once, so I know it’s possible to handle something so large. I put my knifepoint to the buffalo’s hide. Frank grabs my shoulder.