“Get Tom or Henry.”
“Absolutely not,” says Henry. “The one time my father tried to show me how to butcher a hog, I passed out cold.”
Tom shakes his head. “I tried, but I vomit every time I get close enough to smell it.”
I yank my hand free of Jasper’s grip. “Get Jefferson. Or Mr. Robichaud. Or any of the other men.”
Major Craven raises a cadaverous hand toward me. His voice sounds far away. “I . . . want . . . you.”
“He says you’re good luck,” Jasper says. “You got help for him right away after the stampede. You went out and found that missing Joyner boy.”
“You’re . . . blessed . . .” the Major says.
Right about now, I feel a little cursed.
Jasper whispers so low I must strain to hear. “Doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. He wants you here, and a hopeful, cooperative patient is about a hundred times more likely to pull through.”
“Oh.” It’s hard to say no to a man who wants you to help save his life.
“We have to do it soon,” Jasper adds. “So the Major can spend his fuel healing up his broken ribs and other wounds. He can’t move his toes anymore. The wound hasn’t stopped seeping blood, not even after I stitched it up. And now it’s infected.”
“The shock could kill him,” I whisper.
“. . . heard that . . .”
“He’s going to die anyway—slowly, and in a lot of pain. If we amputate the leg, he has a chance.”
“I’ll take it. . . . Even a small . . .”
A knot of fear is forming beneath my breastbone, and I swallow against it. “What do you need me to do?”
“Be my assistant. Hand me the tools I need, when I ask for them. Do what I tell you.”
“All right.”
“Thank you. Now, go wash up—scrub with soap and hot water. Tom’ll show you. Do you have a clean shirt to put on?”
“I’m going to get all bloody! Why would I ruin a clean shirt?”
“Dr. Liston—the man who invented that splint I used— he’s shown conclusively that clean hands and clean clothes mean clean wounds, and that means less infection.”
It’s been weeks since I did laundry. “I don’t have any clean shirts.”
“You can use one of mine,” Henry says from outside the wagon. “Put it on over the other one. I’ll wash it when you’re done.”
“Thanks,” I say, relieved he doesn’t expect me to change in front of them.
“I’ve boiled some water for you to scrub with,” Tom says. “And I’ve got a fresh bar of soap.”
Jasper turns to the Major. “I don’t have any ether. It’s going to hurt bad.”
The Major closes his eyes tight. “Just . . . do it.”
I pause at the edge of the wagon. “The Joyners,” I say. “They have laudanum. Would that help?”
Jasper’s eyes widen. “That would ease things considerably.”
“I’ll be right back.”
I hop down and dash across the circle to the Joyners’ wagon. Jefferson is still curled up beneath it, snoring softly. I peek inside the bonnet. “Mrs. Joyner?” I whisper.
“Lee?” she responds blearily. “Everything all right?” Someone murmurs beside her, and she says, “Go back to sleep, darling.”
“We’re about to amputate the Major’s leg,” I tell her. “Jasper says it’s the only way to save his life. Could you spare some of the laudanum?”
She hesitates before saying, “Mr. Joyner needs it.”
Mr. Joyner must be sicker than I realized. “It would be a real blessing to the Major right now.”
A soft sigh. I hear rustling, the sound of a trunk opening, a slight thunk when it shuts again. “Here.” Her hand thrusts from the bonnet, holding a small glass jar with a cork. “Bring back whatever’s left.”
“Thank you so much.” I grab the jar. The skull-and-crossbones label gives the recommended dosage: only one drop for a three-month-old baby. Surely something suitable for babies isn’t truly poisonous?
I jog back to the college men and hand the bottle to Jasper.
“Hallelujah,” he says, popping the cork. “All right, Major, two full swallows, but no more, or that leg will be the least of your worries.” He holds the bottle to the Major’s mouth, so he can sip it. “That’s good. I need to scrub my hands again. We’ll be back in a minute, and it will be over before you know it.”
We climb down and find that Tom has set up a wash area with towels and soap and fresh water. I take off my hat and splash hot water on my face to wake up my eyes. Jasper starts scrubbing, and I follow his example.
“You ought to think about coming to San Francisco with us, Lee,” he says, rubbing suds all up and down his arms.
“Why’s that?”
“Gold mining is hard work.”
I laugh. If only he knew.
He grins. “Seriously. People work hard for gold, but they spend it easy. They might as well spend it buying services from the likes of us. Plus, I’ve seen how you look at Jefferson sometimes . . . You’re one of us. Scrub under your nails. That’s where the worst dirt hides.”
“You sound like my mama,” I say, but I clean under my nails, one at a time, making each one gleam. “What do you mean I’m one of you?”
“A confirmed bachelor. San Francisco is a new world, with more money than laws. There’s a place for us out there. To live the way we want to live, without interference.”
He looks up to gauge my reaction.
“I . . .” Tom and Henry are staring at me too, waiting to see what I’ll say.
Jasper must trust me completely to be so frank. Or maybe secrets have a way of making people so lonely that they eventually take a risk on someone.
“Do you want to get married someday?” he persists.
And never have anything of my own? “Lord, no. But . . .”
I shut my mouth. I have thought about marrying Jefferson. All because of that fool-headed proposal, which he probably wishes he could take back.
“So you’re a confirmed bachelor?” he says.
My breath feels tight in my chest. Jasper is on to the fact that I have a secret or two; he just hasn’t figured out what they are. Maybe I could trust him. Maybe I’m lonely enough to take a risk on someone.