The small band is also following the herd, and we pass them about a quarter mile out. Frank aims his rifle at the leader and holds it to his shoulder until the Indians notice. “Bang,” he says. Then he laughs, lowers his weapon, and waves to the Indians all friendly-like.

They don’t wave back.

“Suspicious beasts,” he says. “We could shoot all of them from here before an arrow ever reached us.”

“They’re sneaky,” offers one of his companions. “Come up and slit your throat in the night.”

“That’s why you shoot them first.”

Their talk puts my belly in a bad way. I glance over at Jefferson, whose lips are pressed tight.

“The Missouri men are snakes,” I whisper to Jeff. “The lot of them.”

“Men are men,” he says with a shrug. “It’s men thinking other men are snakes that’s the problem.”

Shame clenches my throat. He’s right.

The buffalo ended their stampede a mile or so beyond our camp, where a few small hills rise from the flat prairie. There are thousands and thousands of bison, as far as the eye can see. I’ve never seen that many of anything in all my life. Even ants on an anthill can’t compete.

Under Frank’s direction, we spread out to either side. He explains that we’ll shoot at stragglers to drive the herd back together and start them moving again, away from the Indians.

My first shot is good, even with the unfamiliar rifle, and the animal crumples. The nearest buffalo trot away, but the herd doesn’t spook.

“Nice shooting, Georgia,” Frank says.

“Show-off,” Jefferson whispers.

“Let’s go get it,” I say, grinning.

“Not yet,” Frank says. “We don’t stop until we’re done hunting.”

Maybe it’s not safe to dismount with so many buffalo nearby. I look to Jefferson for an explanation, but he shrugs, equally confused.

While I reload my rifle, the others start shooting. Gunfire cracks all around me, and burned powder fills the air. The buffalo take off running.

The men shoot indiscriminately and laugh at the cries of agony. They ignore wounded animals to shoot at others. All Jefferson and I do is follow behind and put down animals too injured to run.

It’s a slaughter. We kill more animals than our entire company can possibly eat, and then we kill some more. Finally, after driving the herd for miles, the men get bored, and Frank gives the command to pull up.

We gather around a dead buffalo, and I dismount to get there first. My daddy field-dressed a bear once, so I know it’s possible to handle something so large. I put my knifepoint to the buffalo’s hide. Frank grabs my shoulder.

“Like this,” he says. He pushes me out of the way, reaches into the buffalo’s mouth, and yanks out the giant tongue. He hacks it off with a knife. “Tongues and humps, that’s all we’re taking,” he says. “The delicacies.”

“What about the rest?” I ask, astonished.

“Leave ’em out here to rot. We can kill ’em all, far as I’m concerned. If the Indians can’t find anything to eat, maybe they’ll go live somewhere else.”

Even taking only the simplest cuts, we’ve killed far too many buffalo to take them all. The sun climbs past noon, so we stop and cook up dinner. Someone unhooks a pot from his saddle and sets a tongue to boil. It must steep a while, he explains, so the men stretch out on the grass and trade stories and joke about lingering until the mess is cleaned up back at camp.

Jefferson and I sit off to one side. His face is dark, his eyes troubled.

Softly, he says, “This is one of the worst things I’ve ever done.”

“At least we put some out of their misery,” I reply.

“I can’t wait to get to California. Then we can be rid of Frank Dilley and his boys.”

“That would be nice,” I say.

“You sound doubtful.”

I pick at a blade of grass, pulling it apart. “It’s just that I’ve learned a few things on the road. About bad people. And good ones.”

“Like what?”

A few yards away, someone slaps Frank on the back, laughing over something he said.

“That bad people are everywhere,” I say. I think about the brothers who waylaid me and stole my gold and gear. They’d be right at home with some of these folks heading west. “Every place there’s people, there’s badness.”

“There’s goodness too.”

“Sure. When we get to California, there’ll be plenty of good people. Like the Hoffmans and the Robichauds and the college men. But there’ll be Frank Dilleys all over the place.”

“And your uncle.”

I try to toss the blade of grass away, but the breeze flips it right back into my lap. “Yeah. Him too.”

Jefferson brings his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them. Staring out at the Missouri men, he says, “Are you scared?”

I say nothing. Behind us, Peony’s bridle rattles as she tosses her head.

“Because I’m scared for you,” he says. “If he really killed your folks—”

“California is a big place.”

“Seems like he wants you for a daughter. Believes you ought be his. So, maybe he won’t hurt you?”

He says that like it’s a good thing, but the thought turns my stomach. “Parents hurt their kids all the time.”

He stiffens.

“Sorry, Jeff. I didn’t mean to—”

“Looks like lunch is ready,” he says, rising.

“Wait, Jeff,” I say, tugging on his pants’ leg.

He stares down at me.

“I just . . . Thank you. For saving me. The buffalo would have gotten me if not for you.”

“You’d do it for me,” he says, and he yanks his pants leg away.

Everyone gathers around the pot. We peel off the outer skin and eat the meat underneath. It tastes like beef, I guess, but it’s as tender as butter. Not that I have much appetite for it.

After eating, we retrace our steps. Along the way we pass dozens of buffalo corpses, a trail of brown and crimson breadcrumbs leading back to camp. Vultures circle in the sky like a cloud of blowflies. I used to feel proud when I’d shot something I could take home and feed to my family.

Near the end of the breadcrumb trail we find the group of Indian women and children clustered around the remains of a buffalo. The hide hangs on a makeshift frame. Most of the meat is cut into strips and smoking over a fire. I hope it’s the one I shot.