“I’ve tried, ma’am. He won’t hardly talk to me. He won’t pay me parting wages, because he says I can’t enter into contracts, so as far as I’m concerned that means I’m still working for him. But he won’t let me work, neither. He says it’s not right. But I’ve been doing the work for months, same as Jefferson. You’ve seen me.”

Her shoulders sag. “That’s not the point.”

“Well, what is?”

She pauses to flip the flapjacks. They’re burned, as usual. “You’ll have to talk to Mr. Joyner. He’s the head of this family, and his decision is final.”

“Ma’am, can’t you talk to him? He’s still not hale after the cholera and the measles. Him doing all the work I used to— It’s tiring him out something awful.”

“He knows best.”

Wind sweeps through camp and blows over one of the high-back chairs. Mrs. Joyner jumps as it hits the ground. I dash over and prop it again, making sure it’s square at the table like the others.

Her eyes meet mine. Her face is drawn and strained. “Don’t worry. I’ll still feed you, like we agreed. It wouldn’t be Christian to let you starve. Though, truth be told, we’re a little short.” At my perplexed look, she adds, “Someone’s been skimming our food stores.”

“I would never—”

She holds up a hand. “I know it’s not you. Mr. Joyner says Indians. Anyway, you’re welcome to whatever we have; just keep in mind that we’re short.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” I say, more concerned than I let on. She needs all the food she can get right now. “But honestly, I just want to be useful.”

She considers. Brightens. “I’m almost out of buffalo chips,” she says. The dried patties of half-digested grass are all we’ve been able to find for fuel lately. “That Hoffman girl is out gathering some.”

“I’ll see what I can round up.”

I find Therese swinging a big tin bucket while Carl, Otto, and Doreen run around looking for chips to toss inside. Doreen barely pretends to look. She has both arms out like windmill blades as she runs through the dry grass, her bonnet dangling behind her as usual.

“Guten Morgen,” I say to Therese.

“Good morning,” she says. “We are in America, we should speak American now.”

“You sound just like Lucie. Though, I think we left the United States a long time ago.” I peer inside her near-empty bucket. “No luck?”

She shakes her head.

Not as many buffalo pass through this arid place, and the wagon trains ahead have gathered up the easy pickings. “We might find more over there,” I say, pointing down a slope.

“How do you know?”