I cover my nose with my hand, though it does little good. My belly quivers.

Wilhelm pulls me forward into the reeking stockade.

Ahead are a few crooked lean-tos, mixed in with some small buildings that seem to be made of mud. There are no horses anywhere, which makes me glad. I don’t know what I’d do if I saw Peony being housed in this awful place.

To the right is a trough, filled with muddy rainwater and a few bobbing lumps—potatoes, maybe? At the other end, across the expanse of mud and slop, is a roofed tower. A man stands looking down at us, rifle at the ready.

“Where are the animals?” I say to Wilhelm. “There’s no feed here. The lean-tos would only house the smallest burros, and the . . .”

Something catches my eye beside one of the lean-tos. A bit of paleness against the dark mud. I peer closer.

It’s flesh colored and scaly, like a molting snake. I step toward it, and tiny flies lift from the ground as my boots squish through the mud. Something is wrong; my belly knows it.

Another step, and suddenly I recognize what I’m looking at. It’s a leg, sticking out from behind the lean-to, the foot burrowed in mud.

Why would someone lie down in this muck?

I’m lifting my skirts and running forward, my limbs understanding what my mind is struggling to accept, and sure enough, I round the corner of the lean-to and there’s the body, lying on its side, naked and muddy and scaly. It’s a young man, though his limp black hair is half fallen out, leaving ragged patches of scalp. A cloud of flies lifts from his face, exposing a pale, open mouth and a filmed-over eye, sunken way too far beneath a delicate brow.

I whirl and make it two strides before all my flapjacks come rushing up my throat and pour out onto the fetid mud. I choke and cough, my eyes tearing from the acid in my throat.

Someone thrusts a kerchief in front of my face. No, it’s the napkin, Wilhelm’s napkin, the one that contained the flapjacks I gave him.

I grab it and wipe my mouth, spitting once or twice to clear it. “Thank you,” I manage. Then I wince at my words because it seems like the deepest, nastiest wrong to thank an awful man for a napkin when an innocent person lies dead beside us, probably poisoned and starved to death.

Jonas Waters has followed us inside. He’s as bearded and sun blasted as any of my uncle’s men, and he has nothing but frowns for me.

“Why haven’t you removed that body?” I demand. “Why haven’t you seen to his burial?”

Jonas shrugs. “It’ll keep.”

I gape at him.

“Tonight, when they get back from the mines, we’ll let ’em tidy up a bit.”

I glance around the stockade, seeing it with new eyes. So this is where the Indians live. I didn’t think I had any more breakfast to give up, but suddenly I’m not so sure. It’s more like a giant pigpen. A pigpen for humans.

Along the far wall are a few huddled lumps. I didn’t notice them before because they’re covered in mud, possibly on purpose for warmth and protection, because not one has a stitch of clothing. One is a very old woman. Another is a younger woman nursing a baby. A few children crouch beside her.

“No one should live like this,” I say.

“We give ’em food,” Jonas says with another shrug. “Safety. It’s more than they’d get on their own.”

I peer at his bushy face. He can’t be serious. The Indians we saw near Glory seemed perfectly healthy and safe, much better off than the ones here. “What will they do with the body?” I ask.

“There’s a pit outside. Every two or three days, we let ’em dump their trash there.”

I open my mouth to protest, but nothing comes out. It’s too awful for words.

This is what Muskrat wanted me to see. This is the kind of man my uncle is.

One of the tiny children shifts listlessly, and a cloud of bugs lifts away, swirls a bit, and settles back down on his muddy skin.

Suddenly my feet are pounding through the mud toward the entrance and I’m banging, banging, banging on the huge swinging doors and yelling at the sentry to let me out and finally he does and I half run, half fall out of the stockade into cleaner air.

Chapter Seventeen

I bend over, my hands on my knees, and suck in breaths, trying not to vomit again. My skirt is filthy now, at least six inches deep in mud. Which terrifies me. What will my uncle do when he sees that I’ve ruined the hem of the dress he so painstakingly created to remind him of my mama?

A tiny whimper bleeds from my lips. I’m a horrible person. More horrible than Frank Dilley. Because after seeing that awful pigpen for people, I’m still terrified for myself.

Peony. I need my horse. Or Jefferson, but he’s working in the mines right now. So Peony it is.

I stand up straight and take a deep breath as the stockade doors swing shut behind me. I hear the latch slide home as I face Wilhelm and say, “Thank you for bringing me here. Next, I’d like to see where we keep all our stock.”

Once again, Wilhelm offers me his arm, and this time I take it without hesitation. He leads me beyond the stockade, past a large pit I choose not to look at, toward a large stand of cottonwoods hugging a steep slope. With a start, I realize exactly where we are. Up that slope beyond the cottonwoods is my uncle’s cabin, and we’ve circled around behind it.

If I ever tried to escape through those trees, this is where I’d end up. I remember thinking the cottonwoods and steep slope might indicate water, and sure enough, a few steps later we come across the creek again, which has curved back into the meadow before disappearing into a tree line of scrub oak and stunted pines.

That creek might be our way out. It leads into California’s big valley, for sure and certain.

We follow the creek a ways. The earth here is a little less churned up, with clumps of stubborn grass poking up here and there. Deer visit this creek to drink at night; I see pebbly scat and forked hoofprints at regular intervals.

The land slopes sharply downward, and there it is. A large, muddy corral stretching across both creek banks. It’s guarded by several rough-looking men, and inside are a few mules, a handful of burros, and even some horses.

“Peony?” I call out, wrenching my arm away from Wilhelm. I lift my skirts and dash forward. “Peony!”

“Whoa, there, little lady, just where are you going?” someone says, but I don’t care because there she is, standing tall and proud, ears pricked forward at the sound of my voice.