“Grab your gun and gear. Let’s get inside the wagon circle.” I’ve got nothing but a blanket and the saddlebag I use for a pillow. I throw them over my shoulder and cut between the Joyners’ and the Robichauds’ wagons.
The camp is in an uproar, just as Major Craven intended. The animals churn in confusion. The Missouri men have formed a credible line of defense just inside the wagon circle, guns held at the ready. Mr. Bledsoe has done the same with his Arkansas men. Even his slave, Hampton, grips a long shepherd’s staff, ready to thrash somebody on the head.
Our side of the circle has performed poorly. The college men stand outside in their long underwear, scratching their heads and yawning. The reverend wanders around, Bible in hand, as though looking for someone to preach at. The Hoffman children huddle around Therese and her mother, with the littlest ones clutching their skirts.
The Joyners are the worst. Little Andy wails, tears running down his cheeks, while Olive cries softly in her mother’s arms. Mrs. Joyner snaps at Mr. Joyner to get his gun, and Mr. Joyner curses at the Major, demanding to know that all the women and children are accounted for.
The Major ignores him, instead climbing up onto a trunk and ringing a bell. Silence gradually descends on our company. Even Andy’s wailing turns to quiet sniffles.
“When I was in the militia, this is what we called a drill,” Major Craven says. The Missouri men nod knowingly.
Jefferson hobbles over with only one boot on. His blanket is in one hand, and his rifle is in the other. “Wait— None of this is for real?”
“It’s real enough,” I say, thinking of the sleep we’ve lost.
The Major says, “But next time it could be Indians! So you have to be ready.”
“I must have kicked away my other boot,” Jefferson whispers, looking around. “Blast it, I’ll never be able to find it in the dark.”
“We are now deep in Indian territory,” Craven says. “We’ll be going deeper, all the way to California. In my experience, we’ve nothing to fear by day. They’ll come to trade, and they may have food and other valuable information. For our part, it’s a chance to resupply and lighten our loads.”
He looks pointedly at those of us standing by the Joyner wagon. But my conscience is clear. I can hold everything I own in my hands.
“But if they come at night, it’ll be to rob us. They’ll steal our horses and our cattle if they can. So be on guard and be ready to defend yourselves!”
“Hey, Wally!” someone calls. One of the Missouri men. “How many Induns you kill in the Black Hawk War?”
The Major’s face blanches.
“Ten? A hundred?” the caller persists.
In a voice almost too low to hear, the Major says, “Too many. And hopefully not a soul more. Now get back to sleep.” He hops down from the trunk.
“As if anyone could sleep after that alarm,” Mrs. Joyner grumbles.
“The man’s just doing the job we elected him to do,” Mr. Joyner says. “Back into the wagon.”
Jefferson glares after Major Craven. “That was a lot of ruckus about nothing,” he says.
“Guess we better sleep under the wagons or inside the circle from now on,” I say.
“It’s not true, what he said.”
“He’s not talking about the Cherokee.”
“But back home they said all that about the Cherokee—that we were thieves and worse—and it’s not true. You remember when Dan Hutchings killed his brother-in-law?”
“Sure.” It was a big scandal in Dahlonega. They’d been arguing over a piece of land that Dan said was his, through his wife. He hung for it.
Jefferson stares off at nothing. “Dan was a white man, as white as they come,” he says. “And nobody ever said he did it because white men are savages. But one Indian does something bad, and suddenly all of them are bad.”
In the moonlight, his profile looks more Cherokee than ever. Mama used to say that Jefferson had a noble dignity about him, which was her way of pointing out his Indian blood while pretending to be polite. He doesn’t seem noble to me. He’s just Jeff.
“No one thinks you’re bad,” I say softly.
He turns on me, eyes flashing. “That’s not . . . I mean . . .”
“I knew a lot of Indians back when I was a little girl, and not a one of them was bad. And I know you, and you’re the best person I know. Do you want me to walk on over to Major Craven and spit in his eye?”
“Course not,” he says, but I’ve coaxed a little smile out of him.
“I could probably hit it at five paces.”
He says nothing, but his eyes rove my face, and he gets a strange expression.
My cheeks warm. “Come on,” I say, tossing my saddlebags and blanket under the Joyners’ wagon. “Let’s go find your boot.”
Chapter Twenty
Late the next morning, we spot a mound of dirt ringed with rocks, staring down at us from high on a hill. A small wooden cross made of not-quite-straight branches stands guard over it. The grave can’t be more than a week old, but already the cross lists to the side. There’s no headstone that I can see—no name, nothing to mark who this person was, who they left behind, or who carries on without them.
Major Craven and some of the Missouri men climb the hill to investigate. Moments later, they gesture wildly at one another, their angry voices carrying on the wind.
Mrs. Joyner leans over from the wagon seat. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know, ma’am.”
“Well, go find out.”
So Peony and I climb the hill and discover that the grave has been scraped open. I catch a glimpse of pale, gray skin before Major Craven and his men shovel dirt to quickly cover it up.
“What happened?” I asked.
Major Craven shakes his head sadly. “The grave was desecrated.”
I’m about to ask about the person buried here, but Mr. Joyner crests the rise. “Go back to the wagon and make sure Mrs. Joyner keeps it rolling,” he orders.
“Yes, sir.” I turn Peony around and go right back the way I came.
“So, what was it?” Mrs. Joyner asks.
“Something dug up the grave,” I tell her. “Maybe wolves or wild dogs. They’re covering it up again.”
“But who was in it?”