It’s Henry Meek, leaning down toward me. His eyes are red-rimmed, his beard ungroomed, for once. “So sorry to wake you, Lee,” he says. “But can you come to our wagon? Jasper needs some help, and he says it’s got to be you.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Jefferson mutters something, rolling over. I clamber to my feet, yawning, and follow Henry. The angle of the sun indicates late morning. At least I got in a couple hours of shut-eye. I’m not the only one late abed—the camp is silent and still as a graveyard as Henry and I wade through cold campfires toward their wagon.

Tom stands outside, hat twisted in his hands.

“I’m really sorry about Athena,” I say. “She was a good cow. Everyone liked her.”

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “Everyone liked her butter,” he says, not meeting my gaze. He indicates the wagon with a tip of his chin. “Jasper needs you in there.”

I push aside the flap. It’s warm and bright inside. An Argand lamp hangs from one of the bows, and two candles rest on the front edge of the box. It’s a fire waiting to happen, and I’m about to say so, but speech leaves me.

Jasper leans over Major Craven. The Major is in a bad way. He’s pale and dry with fever. His trousers have been removed, leaving flannel drawers that are cut off at the knee. The bandages wrapping his broken leg are yellowish brown with pus and blood.

I flash back to Frank Dilley offering to put him down.

“I . . . I can’t do anything here,” I say before he even asks.

Jasper reaches over to clasp my wrist. “His leg has to come off if we want to save his life. I need your help to amputate it.”

“Get Tom or Henry.”

“Absolutely not,” says Henry. “The one time my father tried to show me how to butcher a hog, I passed out cold.”

Tom shakes his head. “I tried, but I vomit every time I get close enough to smell it.”

I yank my hand free of Jasper’s grip. “Get Jefferson. Or Mr. Robichaud. Or any of the other men.”

Major Craven raises a cadaverous hand toward me. His voice sounds far away. “I . . . want . . . you.”

“He says you’re good luck,” Jasper says. “You got help for him right away after the stampede. You went out and found that missing Joyner boy.”

“You’re . . . blessed . . .” the Major says.

Right about now, I feel a little cursed.

Jasper whispers so low I must strain to hear. “Doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. He wants you here, and a hopeful, cooperative patient is about a hundred times more likely to pull through.”

“Oh.” It’s hard to say no to a man who wants you to help save his life.