“He knows Indians and he knows the area like the back of his hand. But that’s not all. The guide doesn’t just do his work: he also helps out the wagon master.”

“How?” asked the girl.

“The wagon master’s a little bit zouave,” said the man. “Whenever he has to make a decision, he hesitates. He says it’s because his head’s full of fog. Do you understand what I’m getting at?”

“Seems pretty obvious. He’s special, too.”

“That’s right. In the end, it’s Théo who decides when we stop, when we start up again, where we ford a river, how we fix a broken axle, where we have the best chance of killing a bison or an antelope, how we interpret signs along the trail and the Indians’ smoke signals and all the rest. Look, he’s just galloped by on his horse. Did you see? He was heading for the wagons at the rear and he waved to us as he passed. Now and then the guide checks on things at the end of the convoy: that’s where they keep the cows and horses they’ll be taking to Oregon, to the Willamette Valley, where they’re going to farm the land and raise livestock. The problem with cows is, they always want to wander off and graze. But the horses, they follow the wagons and don’t give us any trouble, though you still have to keep an eye on them because of the Indians and also because they might break a leg if they fall in a gopher hole. There are people on horseback whose job it is to keep an eye on the livestock, but the guide would rather check himself, to see that they’re doing their job and don’t have any problems.”

Jack broke off for a moment. He wasn’t used to talking so much. When he’d got his breath back he continued.