“That’s good,” Jasper says, and I’m not sure whether he’s talking to the Major or to me. “Now loosen up so I can turn it.”
He rolls the leg to the side. Water flows over the wound, washing away the dust and blood and even bits of skin. The major kicks out with his good leg; his boot heel catches me in the thigh, and pain explodes through my leg. But I refuse to let go.
“Tom, Henry,” Jasper says. “Can you grab . . . ?” Both men have fled.
“I’m sorry,” the Major gasps at me. Tears pool in his eyes.
“It’s nothing,” I say, though my leg throbs something fierce.
“How are you doing so far, Major?” Jasper asks.
“Ready to start walking,” the Major says, and we laugh, because it’s unexpected, but then he laughs, and the effort sends pain like a cloud across his face.
“And you?” Jasper says to me in a low voice.
I’m going to be bruised, no question. “What next?”
“Run to my wagon,” Jasper says. “There are splints and clean bandages in the medical chest. It’s the small one, up front, right behind the seat.”
We’ve loaded and unloaded the wagons enough times by now that I know just the one, so I take off running. Neither Tom nor Henry is at the wagon to help. Still, Jasper will be wanting medicines next, so I lift the whole heavy chest. It bangs hard against my bruised thigh as I climb out of the wagon and run all the way back to Major Craven.
A crowd has gathered. Mr. Joyner stands with the Missouri men. Henry hangs back by Reverend Lowrey’s side. Jefferson and Mr. Hoffman are crouched at the Major’s feet. I catch Jefferson’s eyes. He gives me a quick relieved smile; he’s as glad to see me as I am to see him.
“The sorrel mare?” I ask Jeff, plopping the chest down beside Jasper.
“Fine. Nugget and Coney too. The Missouri men lost a few cattle; they got trampled when they broke out of the circle. One horse ran off.”
Jasper has wrestled off the Major’s boot. The leg is already swollen and misshapen. Another minute more, and we would have had to cut away the boot.
“Thanks, Lee,” Jasper says, flipping open the lid. It’s jam-packed with bandages and tinctures and things I don’t care to think of as medical equipment, like saws and knives.
“So much!” And I thought the Joyner chest was well stocked.
“I was studying to be a doctor,” Jasper says. He grabs some shears and snips along the leg of Major Craven’s trousers. “Sorry about your pants there, Major.”
“Judas pants . . . tripped me . . . when I was running.” His words come in short bursts, between pained breaths.
“What about Tom and Henry?” I ask, mostly to distract myself from the sight of a mangled leg.
“Huh?” Jasper says. “No, Tom wants to be a lawyer. Henry’s a poet.”
“I mean, they should be the ones helping you.”
“You’re doing fine. Just do what I tell you.”
The fabric makes a sticky sound as Jasper peels it away. I hold the Major’s leg down while Jasper uses the last of the water to rinse the wound again. The skin has a jagged tear, pushed apart by the snapped ends of bone. Beside it is a deep gash. Someone whistles, high and sharp. Frank Dilley. He holds a shotgun.
“Wally,” Frank says in a low voice.
“I know how bad it looks,” the Major says between gasps for breath.
“We’re out here in the middle of nowhere,” Frank says. “You can’t stay here; the savages’ll get you. And you can’t keep going.”
“I’ll be right as rain,” he says.
“We’ll make it work,” Jasper says.
“Maybe,” Frank says. “But you’d be better off if you’d left with the rest of Bledsoe’s men.”
“Little late for that now,” the Major says. I’m glad to hear the fight in his voice.
“Guess so,” Frank says. “But if you decide you want me to put you down, keep you from being a burden, and end your misery . . .” He holds up his shotgun.
“Get out of here,” Jasper snaps.
“Ain’t no crime to say the truth,” Frank says. “When that leg goes gangrene, you come find me.”
“I’ll walk over, get you myself,” the Major says. I haven’t cared for him much, not since he stood by and let Mr. Joyner put poxed blankets in Mr. Bledsoe’s grave. But maybe I haven’t given him enough of a chance. I like him a fair sight better than Frank Dilley, that’s for sure.
“See you then,” Frank says. He and the other Missouri men turn and walk away.
Reverend Lowrey steps forward to kneel by the Major’s side. “If you take my hand, we’ll pray together,” he says. “Or maybe there’s something you’d like to say to your loved ones back east?”
“Pray somewhere else,” Jasper says, waving dismissively with his hand. “At least five to ten feet away.”
The preacher stares wide-eyed, as if wounded, and he opens his mouth to protest, but Jasper cuts him off.
“You’re blocking my light,” Jasper says. “I need to see what I’m doing.”
The preacher doesn’t move.
“Give him the light!” Jefferson snaps, and Lowrey jumps back. Jasper shoots Jeff a grateful look.
“This next part’s gonna hurt the worst,” Jasper says.
The Major looks faint, with sweat beaded on his forehead and the pulse in his leg pounding as fast as a steam engine. “Pretty sure the part that hurt the worst . . . when . . . the buffalo stomped me . . .”
Jasper grins. “I’m going to align the bones now.”
A sudden jerk. The bones scrape. The Major’s eyes roll back, and he goes limp.
I gasp. “Jasper—I think he’s dead!”
“He just passed out, which is a mercy. See? His chest is still moving. Brace him now.”
I hold tight as he sticks his fingers right into the wound and adjusts the bones until he’s satisfied with how they align. His fingers come out slippery with blood, and he looks for something to wipe them on.
“Grab my neckerchief,” I say, pointing with my chin. It’s tucked into my shirt, which makes it as clean as we’re going to get at the moment.
I lift my chin so Jasper can grab the kerchief. He wipes his hands and pulls a glass bottle labeled “Hawes’ Healing Extract” from his medicine chest. He pours it liberally over the leg, which makes the Major jerk around in spite of being passed out. Jasper packs the wound with a clean bandage and wraps the whole thing up with what he calls a “Liston splint.” As he ties it down, the Major’s eyes flutter open.
“Lord, I hurt,” he moans.
“That’s to be expected,” Jasper tells him.
“Was hoping it was all a dream,” he says.
“Then close your eyes and keep on dreaming,” I tell him.
“Thanks for finding me,” he says. “You saved me.”
I didn’t do anything. Just waved for Jasper. But I duck my head to give him a quiet, “You’re welcome.”
Jasper gets to his feet and stretches his lower back. “Henry, go find Tom—We’ll need his help to carry the Major back to our wagon.”
Jefferson steps forward. “I can carry him.”
As his eyes meet mine, I realize Jefferson was right; the trail is good for him, with all its wide-open space and no da to slap him down. He’s the one we ought to be thanking—for picking me up when I fell, for getting everyone to safety. I open my mouth to tell him so, but Jasper steps between us and leans down over the Major.
“I’m not putting you out of your wagon,” Craven says.
“Nonsense,” Jasper says. He pauses long enough to give my shoulder a squeeze. “I want to keep an eye on that leg the next few days, and I can do it easier if you’re close.”
While Jefferson and the college men get the Major settled, I wander back toward the Joyners’ wagon. My limbs tremble
, and my mind is a haze as the memory repeats itself over and over: Major Craven trying to wave off the buffalo and then disappearing so fast it was like the very earth sucked him away.
A large group of men huddles beside the smashed wagon. I approach their circle to see what the fuss is, and a couple Missouri men step aside to make room.
“With Wally dying, I’ve got the most experience,” Frank says. “I’ve been as far as Fort Laramie twice, taking supplies. I already lead the biggest group of wagons. Wouldn’t be any trouble to lead everyone else.”
The last thing we need is a good-for-nothing pattyroller in charge. I step forward to protest, but Mr. Robichaud speaks up first: “Dilley’s right. He has the most experience.” But he says it with a furrowed brow, as if it’s grave news. Half a dozen others nod and murmur agreement.
I clamp my mouth shut.
Mr. Joyner says, “Major Craven was an officer in the militia. He led a disciplined outfit. It’s no aspersion cast upon your character, Frank, to acknowledge him as your better.”
Frank spits tobacco juice at Mr. Joyner’s feet. “How’s that for casting a ’spersion?” The mob of men behind him chuckle like it’s the funniest thing. “Sounds like they know who their leader is.”
I can’t keep quiet any longer. “Jasper’s a doctor. He cleaned the Major’s wound and splinted it. The Major’s going to be fine.”
“And if that works out, we’ll all hold hands and sing hosanna,” Frank says. “In the meantime, I’ll take care of things.”
“We ought to pray together,” Reverend Lowrey says. “Ask for God’s guidance in our hour of need.”
Everyone nods, but no one drops their head to pray.
“All I’m saying is we ought to choose a natural leader,” Mr. Joyner says. “Someone with the proper background, with command experience.”
“Just because you’ve bossed slaves doesn’t mean you’re qualified to boss me,” Frank says. Some of the men shift uncomfortably.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Reverend Lowrey says. “Let us come together in Christian accord and ask for God’s guidance. All of this is part of his plan for us—”
I’ve heard enough. I return to the college men’s wagon, wanting to assure myself that I told the truth, that the Major will be fine.
Jefferson is gone, and the Major is settled in. Jasper crouches over him, holding a cup of water to his lips. The stains on the Major’s bandages are darkening to brown instead of continuing to bloom with bright red. I take that as a good sign.
Jasper notices me. “What are they doing?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But I feel confident they’re going to be blockheaded about it.”
“We’re lucky no one else was seriously hurt,” he says in an exhausted voice. “Just a few cattle.”
“I suppose so.” I glance at his medicine chest. It seemed so heavy when I carried it out to Major Craven, but it’s already half-empty. If anyone else is badly injured, Jasper won’t have anything left.
I watch him tend to the Major for a little while, but he doesn’t have anything more to say, and I realize I don’t either.
I drift through camp, looking for Jefferson so I can thank him for saving me, maybe even just sit down and talk for a spell. But I find him with the Hoffmans, helping Mr. Hoffman and the two oldest boys as they make repairs. Mrs. Hoffman and Therese are picking up a trunk that burst open, spilling clothes and linens. Therese steals a glance at Jefferson.
“You working two wagons now?” I say.
“Just helping out,” he answers. “Mrs. Joyner is looking for you.”
“Of course she is.” I don’t want to talk to him after all. I turn away, knowing I’m irritable and not fit for company, and I have no idea why, except the memory of the Major getting trampled keeps flashing in my mind’s eye. If not for Jefferson, the same would have happened to me.
I’m halfway to the Joyners’ wagon when I hear the cry: “Indians.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Chapter Twenty-Three
The Indians follow the herd of buffalo, and we are in their path. Our men are still arguing over who should lead the company as the first few stride calmly into our camp.
Frank Dilley’s hand moves to his gun holster. “They incited that stampede on purpose, mark my words,” he says.
“We should tell them of the blood of Christ,” Reverend Lowrey says, eyes bright with the same fever that always took my daddy when he talked of gold. “If we hold services now, they’ll stop out of curiosity. I’ll fetch my Bible—”
“Hold on now,” Mr. Joyner says, grabbing his arm. “We’re not doing anything until we know our belongings are safe.”
I study the Indians as they drift among us, looking for people interested in trade. The men wear buckskin suits decorated with quills and colored beads. Some have cloth blankets thrown over their shoulders; others have buffalo hides. Most have feathers sticking out of their glossy black hair. There are a dozen or so, and by the way they whisper to one another while eyeing Frank and Mr. Joyner, I figure they understand English just fine. Many of their faces are pocked with scars. One has blue eyes; another, freckles.
The thought hits me like a raindrop out of the clear sky: Put Jefferson in different clothes, and he would blend right in with this group. The same thick black hair and sharp cheekbones, the same broad mouth and dark skin. I glimpse him watching the Indians from behind a wagon. He catches me looking at him, and I swear he knows what I’m thinking. He frowns and ducks away.
A handful of women follow after the men. Some carry babies in baskets that hang down their backs, held in place by nothing but bands around their foreheads. My neck hurts just looking at them. One of the babies starts crying. The mother lifts it from her head, basket and all, and affixes the babe to her breast, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
A girl, probably a few years younger than me, spies the gold locket around Andy’s neck and gestures that she wants it.
I dash forward to interpose myself between the curious little boy and the Indian girl. “No, absolutely not.”
She cries as if I’ve wounded her, reaching around me to get at Andy. Several of her companions come to her aid. I scoop up Andy and bundle him to my chest, but he tries to squirm free, as interested in the girl as she is in my locket.
“What’s going on here?” Mrs. Joyner says.
“Just friendly introductions,” I tell Mrs. Joyner. The girl’s wailing grows louder. Andy squirms harder. I look toward the men for help, but they’re still busy arguing. “You can’t give them my locket.”
“I would never . . .” She pauses. “Is that what they want?”
“They just want to trade. I think.”
“I . . . have some things.”
She runs to her wagon and returns with a silver hairbrush. I cling to a wriggling little boy while she engages in some quick negotiations, coming away with a buffalo hide. The Indian girl’s wailing evaporates. She and her friends take turns touching the shiny, silver handle. Then she unravels her left braid and starts brushing her hair.
Others, perhaps sensing the angry mood of the camp, gesture southward toward the herd of buffalo. Moments later, all the Indians melt away much as they arrived. The girl follows slowly, brushing, brushing, brushing as she goes.
Mrs. Joyner stares after her, beaming. “Maybe next time I can trade some salt pork for fresh buffalo meat,” she says.
She’d be better off trading away some of that big furniture before we get to the mountains.
“Ma’am?”
“You don’t like buffalo meat?”
“I don’t know—Never had any. Jefferson said you wanted to see me? Before the Indians arrived.”
The joy va
nishes from her face. “Ah, yes. I’d like a favor.”
“Anything.”
“I’m worried about Mrs. Lowrey.”
“How come?”
Her brow knits. “She should be . . . Forgive me for speaking indelicately, I hope I don’t offend you.”
“Not at all.”
Everything comes out in a rush. “She ought to have delivered that baby by now. She’s long past due, but she won’t ask for help. Mrs. Robichaud can’t go to her because of the twins’ measles. Mrs. Hoffman is already overburdened with her six children. Six births, can you imagine! And Reverend Lowrey . . . Well, the reverend puts all his faith in God, as he should. He’s a good man and a loving husband, and I’m sure he just wants to protect his wife, and I’d go myself, but you see . . .” She leans forward and whispers, “They’re Presbyterians. It doesn’t foster casual relations, you understand? I asked them to dinner, but the reverend . . . Anyway, I’d like to do what I can to help her.”
This is the kind of conversation you have with another woman. I can’t help glancing down at my chest to make sure Mama’s shawl is in place beneath my shirt. It’s been harder and harder to tuck in every day; the material is ragged and stained now, the edges unraveling. But everything seems to be secure. “I . . . What do you want me to do?”
Mrs. Joyner’s hand goes to her own belly, a gesture I’m not sure she’s aware of. “Just make an excuse to stop by her wagon, like you did before. I have to stay and help Mr. Joyner—He wears himself out so quickly. Find out how she’s doing, perhaps? Maybe if the Lowreys ask for help . . .” Her quivering voice trails off.
I haven’t seen her so frightened and white-faced since we shot through The Suck on the flatboat, and I’m not sure why Mrs. Lowrey’s situation has her in such a state. “I’m glad to do it,” I say, even though it’s something a boy would probably never agree to.
“Hey, Lee!” Jefferson rides over on the sorrel mare. “Do you still have Mr. Joyner’s rifle? A few of the men are heading out to hunt some buffalo. The ones we downed here are all trampled and useless.”