I glance around at everyone else. Surely someone will put a stop to this? A few of the men shift uncomfortably on their feet. Major Craven looks down at the ground.

“This is a terrible notion,” I say.

“It’s none of your business, boy,” he says. His eyes are red-rimmed, and his face is gaunt and pale under days of beard growth.

I step forward, but a hand grips my upper arm. “Let him be,” says Frank Dilley.

Mr. Joyner staggers to the grave and throws the blankets over Mr. Bledsoe’s body. “You can finish covering him up now,” he says. “If anybody disturbs this burial, I hope they get exactly what they deserve.”

I don’t hear a word of complaint. A few murmur agreement. Frank says, “I like the way you think.”

Mr. Joyner slumps over, exhausted now. He staggers back to the wagon, Mrs. Joyner and the children in tow.

“Let’s sing a hymn,” Reverend Lowrey says in a shaky voice. He demonstrates, and we repeat it, except I just move my mouth, pretending.

Come, Thou Fount of every blessing,

Tune my heart to sing Thy grace:

Streams of mercy, never ceasing,

Call for songs of ceaseless praise:

Rescued thus from sin and danger,

Purchased by the Savior’s blood,

May I walk on earth a stranger,

As a son and heir of God.

The last shovelful of dirt patters down onto Mr. Bledsoe’s body. They tamp it down, mound it up, and step back. It’s less than any person deserves, but there’s nothing more we can do.

“Let’s roll out,” Major Craven says, and everyone flows away from the graveside and back to their own wagons.

The hymn echoes in my head while I ready our wagon to leave. I’ve never felt so far from God’s grace. I suppose I am a stranger walking on earth, but I’m no son of God. I’m no son at all.

The wagon train is markedly shorter than before. A glance eastward reveals a handful of wagons going back the way we came. Major Craven comes by to explain things to Mr. Joyner.

“Mr. Bledsoe’s group feel they have neither the authority nor motivation to carry on to California without him,” he says. “Seeing as how we’ve haven’t yet reached the divide, they’ve decided to go back.”

“They’re fools,” Mr. Joyner says.

“Maybe,” Craven says.

“You aren’t leaving with them?” I ask. Major Craven was hired by Bledsoe’s group.

“I reckon I’ll stick around until we get to California. I’ve got my gear, and Bledsoe’s men paid off my wages in food. Frank Dilley will carry it for me in one of his wagons.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it well in hand, then,” Mr. Joyner says.

“Probably.” He turns to go and then stops. “Oh, and you’ll want to keep an eye out for Bledsoe’s slave.”

“The shepherd?” Mr. Joyner asks.

“Hampton,” I say. “The one who found Andy.”

Craven frowns. “He ran off last night.”

“You don’t think he had anything to do with Bledsoe’s death, do you?” Mr. Joyner asked.

“Not unless he could do witchcraft,” Craven says.

I jump a little at the word.

“No,” Craven continues. “Bledsoe died from the cholera. But his slave was gone when Bledsoe’s men got up this morning.”

“Maybe the Indians’ll find him,” Mr. Joyner says.

“Yeah, and then they can give him measles,” I say, and I don’t regret it, even with Mr. Joyner glaring at me.

There’s no reason to antagonize people, Mama always said.

But sometimes there’s no reason not to, is how I would reply.

“He’ll likely make for Iowa or one of the free states,” Craven says. “So I don’t expect him to be a problem.” His face becomes stern. “Some of the Missouri men, former pattyrollers, are talking about organizing a party to go after him, but you should know that this company won’t wait around. If you leave, it’s at your own peril.”

“We’ll keep an eye out,” I say. But I make no guarantees about how hard I’ll look or what I’ll do if I see him. With any luck, Hampton is already half a day’s journey to Iowa. I wish him luck.

The next day the temperature drops, and the rains return. The wagons get stuck in the mud over and over. By evening, Mr. Joyner’s road-o-meter measures only six miles. We make camp, and everyone gathers water and relieves themselves nearby, because it’s too miserable and dark to wander any distance.

With everyone remaining close, I don’t have to stray far for my own privacy. Even in the rain, I linger to enjoy the time alone, taking time to clean my clothes and gear and fill my canteen and take care of my other needs.

Night has fallen when I return, and Jefferson has already spread his blanket under the wagon and stretched out to sleep.

“Aren’t you afraid of Indians?” he says, and his voice has a mocking edge.

“No,” I say, not wanting to get drawn into an argument.

“Why do you spend so much time out there?” he says.

“I don’t know.” I settle my head down onto the saddlebag. I whisper, “Maybe because it’s the only time I don’t have to lie to anyone.”

“You don’t have to lie to anyone.”

“Yes, I really do.”

“Well, you don’t have to lie to me,” he whispers back.

I open my mouth to tell him I know that, and maybe thank him, but two hard thumps sound on the bed of the wagon just above our head.

Jefferson sighs.

Please don’t roll over again, I think.

He rolls over.

I stare at his back a long time.

When we reach the Platte River, my heart sinks, because it’s as wide as the Missouri. But it turns out to be as shallow as a puddle. It’s less of a river, and more of a muddy, rolling ribbon of slurry water and quicksand.

“It’s a mile wide and an inch deep,” Major Craven tells us when the wagons stop.

“Too bad it’s not the other way around,” I say to Jefferson. “Then we could step across it without getting our feet wet.”

He smiles, his first in a long time, and it does my heart good.

We come to Fort Kearny two days later, which isn’t how I imagined a fort to look like at all. It’s no more than a small scattering of low buildings made of sod blocks. But the rooftops are bright green with grass, and they sit beside the lazy Platte as pretty as a painting. The soldiers stationed here are indistinguishable in clothes or character from the Missouri men in our own wagon train. Mrs. Joyner and several others drop off letters for family back home. We refresh our supplies, and the blacksmith shoes our animals and mends our wagon wheels. Peony’s shoes are worn thin, and it costs four dollars to get new ones. I make the mistake of counting what’s left: eleven dollars and forty-two cents. Staying a long time in Independence cost me dear.

“How’s the sorrel mare holding up?” I ask Jefferson the evening before we depart.

He shrugs.

Something in his face makes me peer closer. “Jeff? Does she need shoes?”

“She’s fine.”

“Our trail gets steep and rocky, and—”