“Please,” she says brusquely. “We ladies can manage an agreement without spitting into our palms.” She turns away and crouches to comfort Andy.

“Well, I’ll be,” Jefferson whispers.

“I wouldn’t mind rescuing that one table for her,” I say. “And the tablecloth.”

He nods. “I’ll help.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

It’s nighttime, with a waning moon to light my view. It took us three days to catch up to the Missouri men, but catch up we did, and we are now camped in a beautiful grove between the Soda Springs, which bubbles gently with soda water, and Steamboat Spring, which shoots steam high into the air. Reverend Lowrey has been telling the little ones that demons’ work engines are hidden underground. But I think anything so wondrous must be the work of angels.

The springs whoosh and spout while I lie hidden beneath a cottonwood tree, my rifle aimed at our wagon. I’m covered with brush, which makes me itch, and I fight the temptation to scratch the back of my neck. At least the itching keeps me awake. I’ve been lying here for hours, watching, seeing nothing. But that’s all right. I am patient.

The regular theft of supplies has continued. Since Mr. Joyner died, we’ve twice awakened to discover that the loaf of bread Widow Joyner cooked overnight in the Dutch oven is gone. Last night, Widow Joyner prepared another loaf and left it sitting by the coals. I could never shoot an Indian, or any man, but I plan to catch someone in the act and be as frightful as possible.

Jefferson sleeps beneath the Joyner wagon. He promised to jump up at my warning cry and help me make a dreadful racket. If the thief doesn’t come tonight, we’ll swap places tomorrow; Jefferson will keep watch while I sleep with my rifle beside me.

Yawning, I break off another piece of chicory root and put it my mouth. Chewing it floods my tongue with invigorating bitterness.

I expect our thieves to approach from outside the camp, so I almost miss two dark shapes creeping among the animals inside our wagon corral. I shift my rifle in their direction.

They’re not Indians; I can tell even in the dark. Their silhouettes are rumpled and bulky, like argonauts. One wears a broad-brimmed straw hat, just like the one worn by Henry Meek.

Coney is curled up in his usual spot between Peony’s front legs. He lifts his head as the shapes approach. The man with the hat crouches to scratch his ears, and Coney thumps his tail before lowering his heads back to his paws. My low opinion of the dogs’ guarding abilities is somewhat mitigated. At least they know friend from foe.

The men glance around and tiptoe over to the cook fire. The one in the hat bends to remove the Dutch oven’s lid.