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 diseased 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.