He stares down at me.

“I just . . . Thank you. For saving me. The buffalo would have gotten me if not for you.”

“You’d do it for me,” he says, and he yanks his pants leg away.

Everyone gathers around the pot. We peel off the outer skin and eat the meat underneath. It tastes like beef, I guess, but it’s as tender as butter. Not that I have much appetite for it.

After eating, we retrace our steps. Along the way we pass dozens of buffalo corpses, a trail of brown and crimson breadcrumbs leading back to camp. Vultures circle in the sky like a cloud of blowflies. I used to feel proud when I’d shot something I could take home and feed to my family.

Near the end of the breadcrumb trail we find the group of Indian women and children clustered around the remains of a buffalo. The hide hangs on a makeshift frame. Most of the meat is cut into strips and smoking over a fire. I hope it’s the one I shot.

Frank and a few others kick their horses into a gallop, as if to run down the women and children.

Jefferson looks at me, and I shake my head. “Not going to do it,” I say.

“Good.”

I want to yell at them to stop, but I’m a coward and I say nothing. The women and children scream and scatter. Frank and his men turn aside at the last second. When Jefferson and I catch up, they’re still laughing about it.

Evening is falling by the time we return. Jefferson takes all his meat to the Hoffmans, saying they’ve been feeding him all along, and this is his chance to repay them a little.

I drop off some of mine with the Robichauds, who are grateful. Their little boys are nearly over the measles, and their appetites are coming back. I take more to the college men and Major Craven. Jasper says things are looking good so far, but his expression contradicts his words. The Major forces a grin and tells me he’ll eat every bite to get his strength back.

My next-to-the-last stop is the preacher’s wagon. I stand outside near the back curtain, nerving myself up to inquire about Mrs. Lowrey on behalf of Mrs. Joyner. Maybe I should ask Therese to do it. She would be a more appropriate choice.

A movement to my left catches my eye. It’s Reverend Lowrey, huddled in the shadowed lee of the wagon. He’s on his knees in prayer.

The wagon’s curtain is whisked aside. “Ma’am?” I say, expecting to see Mrs. Lowrey.