He took out the map again but this time he studied it carefully in the light of the information provided in The Oregon Trail Revisited. He saw then that the Platte River split into two branches, north and south, and that the Oregon Trail ran along the northern branch. At the same time he saw that from Ogallala, the road that followed the Oregon Trail was not route 80 but 26: the girl had turned right and got on the proper road without saying a word.

“This is the right road,” he said. “I was acting like a . . .”

He couldn’t find the appropriate word.

“Like a zouave?” she suggested.

“Just about.”

“Do you feel like a total idiot?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve plumbed the depths of ignominy?”

“That’s right.”

She started to laugh, while he managed a kind of nervous snicker.

To atone for his absentmindedness as navigator and to hide his confusion, he went back to studying the maps. He announced that they would arrive shortly at a place that was frequently referred to in the emigrants’ diaries.

“It’s called Ash Hollow,” he said. “And there’s a campground just outside. But I guess you already knew that . . .”

“I vaguely remember. What kind of ash is it named for?”

“The tree. The guide’s just told the emigrants that their troubles are about to begin. And he was quite right. The terrain has been rising gradually, and now the emigrants are on a high, arid plateau. They have to go down a slope that’s so steep that they must lock the wagon wheels by fastening them to the body with chains; they make the wagons glide along as slowly as possible by holding them back with cables or even with a winch, but if the cables break, the wagons will go hurtling downhill at a tremendous rate and smash to smithereens when they land in the valley!”

“I hope the cables hold and everybody gets to the bottom of the hill safe and sound!” said the girl.

“Thank you,” said Jack. “Ash Valley is the first shady place they’ve been in after two months’ travelling. And there’s also a wonderful fresh-water spring.”

“Sounds to me like a good place for a rest,” she said.

“We’re there,” he said.

WITH THE EXCEPTION of five or six government employees busy emptying wastebaskets into a garbage truck or mowing the high grass at the edge of the property, the Ash Hollow campground was deserted. It was a primitive site, with neither electricity nor running water, and the only conveniences were what were commonly known as pit toilets; however, a fountain with a tap in the middle of the campground provided drinking water.