While Mrs. Joyner industriously burns flapjacks over the cook fire, a huckster with a coonskin cap weaves through the wagons, a wheelbarrow squelching through the mud before him, calling out, “Pickaxes, pans, and pickles for the argonauts!” He sells two pickaxes to a man in the wagon next to us, then he approaches Mrs. Joyner.

“Pickaxes, pans, and pickles for the argonauts! Surely you’d like a jar of pickles, ma’am? Argonauts are a notoriously hungry bunch.”

She recoils, bristling. “I’m no argonaut. I am a Methodist.”

The smile goes clean off his face. “Of course, ma’am. Your pardon, ma’am.” He tips his cap to her and moves on to the next wagon.

Major Craven makes rounds to check that everything is in order and to assign a line number. Jefferson returns with crumbs on his shirt—I assume he got breakfast with the Hoffmans—and together we hurry to load the Joyners’ many possessions before the Major reaches us.

Less than an hour later, Major Craven gives the call. My heart leaps. This is it. I’m going to California.

As the first wagon pulls out, I’m grinning like a cat who got into the cream. One by one the others fall into place until our company is a line stretching across the plain. The Joyners’ wagon is one of the last to go. Mr. Joyner drives the oxen, with Mrs. Joyner and the little ones walking beside it. Jefferson and I ride behind and slightly off to the left to avoid the mud kicked up by the rear wheels.

The sun breaks through the clouds as we leave Independence, sending streamers of bright yellow to cut the mist. I take off my hat and lift my face to the sun, feeling its warmth on my skin.

The first few days are pleasant enough, though I work as hard as I’ve ever worked. Every morning, Jefferson and I are the first to rise. Before the sun comes up, we check on the oxen and start the cook fire. When the sky brightens, the Joyner family climbs out of the wagon. Mrs. Joyner cooks breakfast, careful to ignore me, while Jefferson and I reload everything back into the wagon—a dresser and chairs, sacks of flour and coffee and bacon, traveling trunks—everything except the table with the checked cloth, which the family will have breakfast on. After the furniture is loaded, we roll the water barrel down to the river to refill it. Jefferson does that by himself some mornings so I can slip away from camp to take care of my personal needs.