The Joyners had several delays on their journey, he tells me, including an inauspicious layover in St. Louis that involved riverboat gambling, where Mr. Joyner tried to increase their stake and would have, if not for that cheating Ohioan. But the good Lord watched over him, and he managed to come out even, more or less, by which I gather he means “less.” But wonderful memories were made, and now they’re here and ready to go, and all’s well that ends well and every other phrase he can think of to make things sound good when they’re not.

“We’ve had terrible luck finding a wagon train that would take us,” he says.

“Oh?” Peony’s ears twitch; Mr. Joyner’s gelding has veered too close for her comfort. I pat her neck to soothe her.

“Many of the so-called leaders of these expeditions are puffed-up martinets,” he explains. “Uncouth men who feel that the miles on their boot soles entitle them to pass judgment on their betters.”

“I see.”

“I saw right through them, of course, and they resented a man who could so easily smash their pretensions.”

“I’m sure.” I’ve been wandering the staging area for weeks, so I know full well that no one wants to take on an overloaded wagon.

“We finally found a small company of God-fearing men,” he continues. “Mostly from Missouri, with a few other families besides. The group is led by an excellent man, Major Wally Craven, a veteran of the Black Hawk War, who knows how to deal with Indians.”

We near the camp, which is a tight bundle of wagons and campfires and small tents. He says, “I’m off to tell Major Craven the news. He’s eager to depart.”

“What should I do?”

“Familiarize yourself with the company and then come find my wagon. It’s the big one.”

“I remember your wagon.”

“I’ve hired one other young man. He came west with a German family from Ohio. They’re part of our company too, though he works for me now. He’s congenial and hardworking, so don’t you worry about his deficiencies.”

I have no idea what he means by “deficiencies,” and I’m making up my mind whether it would be impolite to ask when he says, “Speak of the devil, and he appears.”

He points to a rider coming across the field. “There’s the fellow now. Go on, introduce yourself and ask him to perambulate the camp and familiarize you with our traveling compatriots, as well as the procedures we’ve agreed to follow. I’ll meet you at the wagon later.”

Mr. Joyner leaves my side, and the distant rider approaches. Two dogs dash forward to greet me, tails wagging. One is the Joyners’ floppy-eared hound dog, my old friend Coney.

The other is Nugget.

I snap the reins, and Peony surges forward. “Jefferson!” I shout.