“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mrs. Joyner says.

“So am I.”

“It’s soft,” Andy says.

It’s not, glued in like it is, but I’m glad he likes it. “This is a treasure to me, Andy,” I say. “Do you understand what a treasure is?”

He nods, his eyes big.

When I was his age, Mama would hand me things—mixing spoons or bits of fabric or a whisk broom—depending on the task she was working on. She said that children were happiest when they felt useful. “I’m busy all day and I have to do lots of work,” I say to Andy. “If I let you keep it, will you guard it for me? Maybe it will give you strength and courage too.”

He nods again.

“It’s an important job.”

“I’m big.”

“I know you are, or I wouldn’t have asked. So, will you do it?”

“Okay, Lee.”

We reach the wagon. Mrs. Joyner clutches him to her chest for a moment, but he squirms away and runs to the water barrel to drink and wash up. Olive hops down, and though she stares after her baby brother, she throws her arms around Mrs. Joyner’s waist, who squeezes back.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Mrs. Joyner tells me over her daughter’s head. “That’s a family heirloom.”

“Well, I don’t have any family out here,” I say.

“He might lose it.”

“He’s a good boy. I trust him.”

I do not trust him to keep my locket. Not one bit. But the locket is doing its work, and even now, I feel it close by. So long as he wears it, I’ll know exactly where he is.

“Darling?” comes Mr. Joyner’s plaintive cry. “What’s going on?” He sounds even weaker than yesterday.

“I better go see to him,” Mrs. Joyner says.

As I watch her clamber into the wagon, my hand comes up to clutch the locket, but of course it’s not there.

Chapter Twenty-One

At dawn two days later, the Arkansas crew finds Mr. Bledsoe, the sheep farmer, dead in his wagon.

Major Craven calls off travel for the morning. Mr. Bledsoe’s men dig a grave, and after we all view his earthly body, they wrap him in the bed comforter he died in, which is noticeably fouled anyway, binding him up with strips of cloth.

I barely spoke two words to Mr. Bledsoe, but my heart is heavy. He did nothing at all to get himself killed. Just pointed his boots west. It could have happened to any of us.

Reverend Lowrey reads from his Bible about death and resurrection and follows up with a prayer. We all think he’s done, and Mr. Bledsoe’s men stoop to roll him into the hole. Mr. Joyner, whose health has improved enough to attend, excuses himself and dashes away to take care of his personal business.

But then the reverend launches into a lengthy and effusive eulogy, enumerating the many outstanding Christian virtues of Mr. Bledsoe, which ought to serve as an inspiration to us all. I can’t imagine he knew the man any better than the rest of us, but he sounds sincere enough, and more than a few people are moved to tears.

The only people not present are the Robichauds.

It turns out la rougeole means the measles. Major Craven broke the news last night that the Robichaud twins were exposed at a trading post a couple weeks ago. He assured everyone that even though the measles spreads rapidly, it’s less likely to prove deadly than cholera. The Robichauds have agreed to quarantine themselves until the sickness passes, and anyone who shows symptoms is to tell Major Craven at once.

The sun is high and heat is rolling off the plains by the time they lower Mr. Bledsoe into his final resting place. They’re about to shovel dirt on top of him when Mr. Joyner returns and says, “Stop. Hold your horses.”

Everyone looks at him expectantly.

“Can it wait?” Reverend Lowrey asks. “This is a Christian burial.”

Mr. Joyner looks to Major Craven. “The Indians are going to dig up this grave, aren’t they?”

This sets everyone to mumbling among themselves. “I don’t think we can stop ’em,” Major Craven admits.

“Maybe we can leave them a gift.” He turns to me. “Run to the Frenchman’s wagon and get the blankets from their children.”

“But they’ve got measles,” I say.

“That’s the general idea. Rub those blankets all over the boys first.”

“No, sir.”

“I’ll give them new blankets,” he says, misunderstanding my refusal. “Fine, I’ll do it myself. Wait until I get back before you fill in that grave.”

I turn to look for Jefferson, but he’s gone.

Though weak from the cholera, Mr. Joyner strides away with purpose. Someone calls out, “Don’t do this, Joyner!” Henry, maybe.

But he ignores the voice, disappearing behind the Robichauds’ wagon. A moment later comes the sound of Mrs. Robichaud yelling in French.

He returns with his arms full of blankets.

I glance around at everyone else. Surely someone will put a stop to this? A few of the men shift uncomfortably on their feet. Major Craven looks down at the ground.

“This is a terrible notion,” I say.

“It’s none of your business, boy,” he says. His eyes are red-rimmed, and his face is gaunt and pale under days of beard growth.

I step forward, but a hand grips my upper arm. “Let him be,” says Frank Dilley.

Mr. Joyner staggers to the grave and throws the blankets over Mr. Bledsoe’s body. “You can finish covering him up now,” he says. “If anybody disturbs this burial, I hope they get exactly what they deserve.”

I don’t hear a word of complaint. A few murmur agreement. Frank says, “I like the way you think.”

Mr. Joyner slumps over, exhausted now. He staggers back to the wagon, Mrs. Joyner and the children in tow.

“Let’s sing a hymn,” Reverend Lowrey says in a shaky voice. He demonstrates, and we repeat it, except I just move my mouth, pretending.

Come, Thou Fount of every blessing,

Tune my heart to sing Thy grace:

Streams of mercy, never ceasing,

Call for songs of ceaseless praise:

Rescued thus from sin and danger,

Purchased by the Savior’s blood,

May I walk on earth a stranger,

As a son and heir of God.

The last shovelful of dirt patters down onto Mr. Bledsoe’s body. They tamp it down, mound it up, and step back. It’s less than any person deserves, but there’s nothing more we can do.