“I can’t imagine all their stuff will make it over the mountains. Not unless we carry it.”

“That’s probably what they hired us for.”

He points to a single, neat wagon. “That’s Mr. and Mrs. Robichaud from Canada.” A cheerful red-and-blue quilt hangs over the sideboard, as if on display. “They arrived last week. His wife speaks mostly French, but she’s practicing her English every day. She’ll weary you with questions if you get too close. They’ve got twin boys, five or six years old. It’s a sturdy wagon, well organized, and Mr. Robichaud knows a bit of blacksmithing. So they’re welcome.”

His gaze shifts to three young men crouching around a cook fire. Easy laughter rolls from their mouths.

“Those are the college men—Jasper Clapp, Thomas Bigler, and Henry Meek. From Illinois. Jasper says they left college before they graduated.”

We steer our horses into a flock of sheep, who bleat as they scatter. Nugget and Coney run to meet the herding dogs, and everyone gets in a good sniff. A short Negro with arms as thick as tree trunks waves to Jefferson as we pass.

“Those sheep belong to Mr. Bledsoe, and that’s Hampton, his shepherd.”

“Mr. Bledsoe is the one from Arkansas, with ten wagons?”

“That’s right. He’s got about a thousand head. He says sheep are smaller and more sure-footed than cattle, so they’re more likely to survive the trek across the mountains. Plans to get rich establishing a herd in the gold fields. It’s causing problems with the Missouri men because the sheep foul the grass, and the cattle won’t eat it. Right now the plan is to let the cattle go first and have the sheep bring up the rear.” He points. “That wagon over there is Reverend Lowrey and his wife.”

“Just the two of them?”

“And one more on the way.”

My face must register surprise that he would mention such a thing, because he quickly adds, “You’ll know it as soon as you see her. The reverend says God called him west to minister to the miners in the gold fields. To be honest, Lee, it’s a pretty misfit bunch. We’re the leftovers. People the other companies wouldn’t take, mixed with a few who arrived too late to set off with the rest.”

He’s about to say more, but we come to the end of the line.

“That’s Major Craven over there,” he says. The tent he points to is military style—plain and exacting.

“I heard he was a major in some kind of Indian war.”

Jefferson’s face darkens. “The Black Hawk War. An ugly bit of business. More than a thousand Indians killed. Craven was a sergeant. Only reason everyone here calls him Major is because of Mr. Joyner.”

“How’s that?”