“Like this,” he says. He pushes me out of the way, reaches into the buffalo’s mouth, and yanks out the giant tongue. He hacks it off with a knife. “Tongues and humps, that’s all we’re taking,” he says. “The delicacies.”

“What about the rest?” I ask, astonished.

“Leave ’em out here to rot. We can kill ’em all, far as I’m concerned. If the Indians can’t find anything to eat, maybe they’ll go live somewhere else.”

Even taking only the simplest cuts, we’ve killed far too many buffalo to take them all. The sun climbs past noon, so we stop and cook up dinner. Someone unhooks a pot from his saddle and sets a tongue to boil. It must steep a while, he explains, so the men stretch out on the grass and trade stories and joke about lingering until the mess is cleaned up back at camp.

Jefferson and I sit off to one side. His face is dark, his eyes troubled.

Softly, he says, “This is one of the worst things I’ve ever done.”

“At least we put some out of their misery,” I reply.

“I can’t wait to get to California. Then we can be rid of Frank Dilley and his boys.”

“That would be nice,” I say.

“You sound doubtful.”

I pick at a blade of grass, pulling it apart. “It’s just that I’ve learned a few things on the road. About bad people. And good ones.”

“Like what?”

A few yards away, someone slaps Frank on the back, laughing over something he said.

“That bad people are everywhere,” I say. I think about the brothers who waylaid me and stole my gold and gear. They’d be right at home with some of these folks heading west. “Every place there’s people, there’s badness.”

“There’s goodness too.”

“Sure. When we get to California, there’ll be plenty of good people. Like the Hoffmans and the Robichauds and the college men. But there’ll be Frank Dilleys all over the place.”

“And your uncle.”

I try to toss the blade of grass away, but the breeze flips it right back into my lap. “Yeah. Him too.”

Jefferson brings his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them. Staring out at the Missouri men, he says, “Are you scared?”

I say nothing. Behind us, Peony’s bridle rattles as she tosses her head.

“Because I’m scared for you,” he says. “If he really killed your folks—”

“California is a big place.”

“Seems like he wants you for a daughter. Believes you ought be his. So, maybe he won’t hurt you?”

He says that like it’s a good thing, but the thought turns my stomach. “Parents hurt their kids all the time.”

He stiffens.

“Sorry, Jeff. I didn’t mean to—”

“Looks like lunch is ready,” he says, rising.

“Wait, Jeff,” I say, tugging on his pants’ leg.