Max was an out-and-out bully, and Francis wouldn’t talk to him at all under normal conditions. But in the wagon train he had to. Max kept finding him when the wagons stopped for the night, and it was either talk or fight. They had fought several times, before Francis had found it easier to talk.

And in fighting they were pretty evenly matched. Their worst fight had taken place the time Max had teased Ike—short for Ichabod. Ike wouldn’t fight, no matter how many bad names Max called him. Finally Max had hit Ike on the shoulder. That had made Francis mad and he’d torn into Max and given him a bloody nose, which got him a licking from his father that night, but he didn’t care. The licking hadn’t been much—he knew his father was doing it because there was no other way to keep Max’s mother from complaining all over the train—and his father hadn’t used a switch the way he did when Francis did something really bad. He had used his hand, and had smacked only twice, lightly, hiding a grin.

So Francis wasn’t all that eager to share his cake with Ike and Max, but it pleased his mother—and he hadn’t expected a cake anyway.

The idea of getting a present wasn’t even on his mind that Tuesday morning. The nearest store was over five hundred miles away and he knew, or thought he knew, every item in the wagon. He’d helped load it, and there hadn’t been any presents, or anything that had looked like presents. But they’d fooled him again. When he got back to the front of the wagon, to help his father finish with the oxen, he was handed a long, thin bundle wrapped in butcher’s paper.

“Happy birthday, Francis,” his father said, smiling. “We figured that it was about time you had one of these.”

Francis was really puzzled, until his fingers tore away some of the paper. He didn’t need to unwrap it all to know what it was. Already the sun hit a brass fitting, some dark, hand-rubbed walnut, and the brown sheen of polished steel.

“A rifle.” His voice was soft. “A new rifle. But how … I mean, I helped load the wagon, and I didn’t see it.”

“The Petersons carried it in their wagon for me,” his father said. “I brought it over to ours last night while you were sleeping. Do you like it?”

By this time Francis had torn off the rest of the paper and was finding it hard to keep from bouncing in excitement.