Sometimes, though, Mr. Joyner rides his gelding, and Jefferson and I take turns driving the team. It is the most god-awful, bone-rattling, thankless job you could ever hope to have. Each rut is a kick to the seat of my trousers; some days it kicks me down the road from morning till night. Mrs. Joyner and the children always walk behind the wagon, out of sight, when one of us drives.

At noon, we break for an hour to feed and rest the animals and to eat lunch. Jefferson and I unload the dining table and spread the tablecloth. Mrs. Joyner adjusts it to her satisfaction, making sure the corners drape just right. Honest to God, sometimes she even unpacks the china and arranges place settings. I’m glad to take my tin plate and sit elsewhere.

Mr. Joyner has a clever device called a “road-o-meter.” It’s attached to the rear wheel of the wagon, and through a set of cogs and levels, it records the miles traveled. He checks it after lunch each day—we’ve usually made five or six miles by then.

It’s my job to clean up afterward and store everything away—including the china, which I must wrap in paper and pack up tight, so it doesn’t break. Someday, inevitably, the wagon will hit a particularly big rut, smashing the china all to pieces, and I know just who Mrs. Joyner will blame.

We go all afternoon until we find a spot with the three necessities—water, grass, and timber. Frank Dilley’s Missouri men and Mr. Bledsoe, the Arkansas sheep farmer, always get there first because the horses and mules travel faster. By the time our oxen teams bring up the rear and close off the circle, they’ve had their pick of the best grazing, cleanest water, and driest spots to sleep.

We let the cattle out to graze, feed the horses some oats if they haven’t found themselves enough grass, and get everything set up for the night. Then we eat supper, and people gather around one of the campfires to tell stories or sing songs or share dreams of what we’re going to do when we’re all rich with gold. I don’t go in for all that, because my singing voice would surely reveal my secret, and because it’s a good time for me to sneak away to take care of my personal necessities.

The college men have a brown milk cow named Athena, who has the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a cow. They milk her each morning and put the cream in a churn inside their wagon. The rough road does all the work. By the end of the day, they have a nice fat roll of butter, which they are happy to share with the families. They make the rounds every night to pass it out.