“He says his name is Smooth Stone, or something like that,” Rowan told her as he stood there. “Obviously he’s having some trouble with sign language at the moment, what with one arm bent out of shape.”

He peered into the wagon. “How’s Private Lemaster doing?”

“Well enough, I think. I made a strong pad for the wound and bound it tight, but he needs a surgeon.”

“We’ll get him one. Help me with Mr. Smooth Stone, who I don’t think is a day over twelve, if that.” He sighed. “Bring along more of your fabric. We have some scrapes and nicks to bandage.”

Will opened his eyes when she released his hand. She took a moment to lift the blanket and check the brown paper. No stains, which relieved her heart and mind. “I have to help someone else,” she told him. “Go back to sleep.”

“I’ll watch Will.” The teamster leaned his carbine against the wagon seat. “Don’t think he’ll want to hold my hand, though.”

The rest of her own material in hand and holding the shears, Mary let the corporal help her from the wagon. She leaned into the wagon for another blanket and spread it on the ground for the sergeant to deposit his burden, who looked none too pleased.

To call him twelve years old was generous. Mary would have thought closer to ten. “You’re a little young to be doing this,” she told him.

“Wasichu. Wasichu,” Smooth Stone said.

Mary looked at Rowan and shrugged.

“I think he wants to know if you are white,” Sergeant Blade said. He looked over his shoulder. “Private McIntyre, front and center.”

Private McIntyre came forward, his hand against his head, blood on his fingers. “Thought I was just going to feel the whistle as the bullet passed, but it took a little detour, Sarge.” He sounded apologetic that he hadn’t leaped out of the way.

“How’s your Sioux, Private?”

“Not bad, Sarge,” McIntyre said cheerfully. “It’ll get better once the little lady lets me have a strip of that material. Pretty stuff.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” Sergeant Blade said drily. “Sorry, Mary.”

“At this point, I don’t care,” she said and ripped off a strip. “Sit down. I can do this better than you.”

With a glance at Rowan, who nodded, Private McIntyre sat down. Practiced now in the art of medical improvisation, Mary dabbed the bullet furrow with water, then bandaged the private’s head, with the knot over the wound for best pressure. “That should do until something better comes along,” she said. She looked back at Smooth Stone, who waited more or less patiently because he didn’t have much choice.

“Can you tell him that I am an Indian?”

“I’ll show you how to sign it,” McIntyre said. Despite what she suspected was a massive headache, he seemed to be enjoying himself.

He showed her, rubbing the back of his left hand twice with his right hand. Smooth Stone added some commentary of his own.

“He wants to know what nation.”

Her nation. I have a nation, same as Smooth Stone, she thought. The Keepers have traveled the path of the white man longer than the Sioux. Whether that is good or bad, who can tell?

“My nation,” she said softly. “Private, tell him I am a Keeper of the Western Door.” Pride filled her heart. “Tell him I live very far away from here, to the place where the sun rises.”

“Your wish is my command,” McIntyre said and signed her message. “Don’t know what he understands, because I’m not so good.”

“Better than I,” she said. Once back home, she would improve her education. The Seneca let their women speak and make decisions. She could ask to learn more and not be ignored.

When Private McIntyre finished, Smooth Stone reached out his good hand and touched Mary’s hand. He said something, and she looked at McIntyre.

“‘Cure,’ as near as I can translate it.”

“Tell him I’ll do my best.”

“You tell him. It’s like this.”

She watched the trooper, then signed. The boy closed his eyes.

“Better tell him it might hurt,” she added.

“He knows that.”

“I’ll help you, Mary,” Rowan said. “Private, get Casey to find sticks about eighteen inches long. I signed a bill of lading for window shades, so he should find some slats inside those.”

Rowan ran his hand along the odd-shaped upper arm as the boy steeled himself. Gently he manipulated the area where the bone digressed from its usual path. Mary pressed her hand against Smooth Stone’s chest.

“It’s bent for certain, but it’s not snapped off completely,” Rowan said. “I think I can realign it.”

Mary touched the boy’s face and looked deep into eyes much like her own. His stoicism vanished, but she saw no fear. “I want to be this brave someday.”

“You already are,” Rowan said. “Maybe you needed a reminder. Here goes.”

It was over quickly. Smooth Stone tensed and gasped, and Mary tightened her grip. He lapsed into unconsciousness long enough for Sergeant Blade to probe a bit, then nod. Rowan cut Casey’s window slats and held the boy’s arm as Mary ripped off more strips of her beautiful calico and bound the arm and the improvised splint from shoulder to elbow.

Smooth Stone opened his eyes and looked at his arm. He raised it tentatively and nodded. Sergeant Blade signed, and he nodded again. Mary took another length of fabric and made a sling. Smooth Stone sat up so she could circle it around his neck and secure his forearm inside.

“We need to get him back to his people, and then I am riding for the surgeon,” Rowan said. “We’re much closer to Fort Russell than Laramie, and I want the surgeon to see to Private Lemaster.”

“That sounds too dangerous,” Mary said.

“I would have agreed, if Smooth Stone hadn’t fallen off his horse and landed, so to speak, in your lap.” He touched her shoulder. “Do you feel brave?” He leaned closer. ”There’s really only one answer, oh Keeper of the Western Door.”

“Since you put it that way, yes, I feel brave,” she told him, even though she didn’t, not at all.

“We’ll ride him back to his people. I doubt they’ve gone far.”

“That sounds terrifying.”

“Less than you think. I have no idea who Smooth Stone’s parents are, but they’ll be happy to see him.”

“Certainly they will,” Mary said. “Perhaps Private McIntyre could come along, too, if we need to say something. Would he mind?”

“You forget who he works for,” Rowan said with a smile. “It’ll be an order.”

“Why doesn’t this frighten you?” she asked.

“They weren’t a war party. We surprised them, which I was afraid might happen. I believe they’re Brulé, heading north to Spotted Tail’s Whetstone Agency, because winter is coming.”

Rowan clapped his arm around Mary’s shoulder, then turned her toward the supply wagon. “Check on Private Lemaster, if you please, and pull on your riding boots.” He gestured to Private McIntyre. “Tell Smooth Stone we are returning him to his people.”