“Mr. Joyner ordered me to tell you about our company,” he says. He points out a group of twenty or so wagons and twice that many men, all set apart from everyone else. “That lot from southern Missouri decided to head out at the last minute. We’ve been waiting for them to pull their gear together.”

“A rough-looking bunch.”

“Maybe so. But there aren’t enough for them to feel safe from Indians, so they needed to merge with another group. It’s all men, no families. And, Lee, they don’t know a lick about gold mining. You and I have more experience than the whole group put together.”

Jefferson doesn’t know the half of what I can do. “They good folk?”

“The opposite of good folk. Their leader is a fellow named Frank Dilley. You don’t want to cross him.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Is that the group Major Craven came with?”

“No, Craven is a guide, hired by Mr. Bledsoe, who’s a sheep farmer from Arkansas.” Jefferson waves toward a smaller group of wagons, all filled to bursting and sunken deep in the mud. “He owns all ten of those wagons. He’s a late arrival too, just like the Missouri group. All the other wagons belong to families. The families don’t trust the bachelors, and the bachelors don’t like the families, but everyone seems to get on with the Major.”

“The families?”

“You’ll see. That wagon over there? That’s the Hoffmans.”

Three small children chase one another around the wagon wheels. An older girl with blond hair spilling out from under her bonnet keeps an eye on them. She sits on a stool, knitting a stocking and whipping through her stitches without looking down once. When she sees Jefferson, a huge smile lights her face.

“Who’s that?” I ask. She’s a lovely girl, with a tiny nose and rose-flushed cheeks and eyes the color of an indigo bunting. Even Annabelle Smith back home couldn’t hold a candle to her.

“That’s Therese,” Jefferson says, tipping his hat to the girl. “She’s nice. You’ll like her.”

“I see.” My gut is suddenly in knots. Therese is the real reason he followed the German family from Ohio. It’s written all over his moony face. Maybe Jefferson wasn’t waiting in one spot in Independence so I could find him. Maybe he wasn’t even looking for me.

“Hallo,” she says as we approach.

“Therese, this is my old friend Lee. Lee, this is my friend Therese.”

“Pleased to meet you,” she says, her consonants soft and clipped.

“Nice to meet you too,” I reply, and I mean it. If Jefferson says she’s good people, then that will have to be enough for me. At the last second, I remember to tip my hat like a proper young man.