This thought is still in my head, as if I’ve only just drifted off to sleep, when Jefferson shakes me awake in the predawn chill.

“It’s another day,” he says.

“You don’t have to sound so cheerful,” I grumble.

“I know!” he says. “But it vexes you.”

We make twelve to fourteen miles a day for a week, through land so lovely it’s a pain in my chest. Thoughts of Uncle Hiram niggle at me like impure gold in a distant stream—faint and far, but always there. Each day is both a curse and blessing, bringing me closer to him, but also to the gold I was born to find.

So I push away thoughts of Hiram. For now, I want to enjoy the burn of hard work, the company of my best friend, and the prettiest sky I’ve ever seen. Hiram has taken so much from me. I’m not going to let him take this too.

One morning, it starts pouring rain and doesn’t stop. We cross one creek, then a second. After lunch, we come to yet another, and by now the water is high and fast; the path, churned and muddy; the banks, steep.

The wagons squish through the mud, creeping forward at a pace that makes a tortoise look like a hare. When it’s finally our turn to cross, the right front wheel drops into a sinkhole and sticks tight, and no whipping and yelling at the oxen can make it budge.

Jefferson and I unload everything, and the college men and Mr. Robichaud help lift and lever it free. Reverend Lowrey stands off to one side with his Bible and prays for us.

After the wagon is across and on dry ground, we load it back up. Mr. Joyner whips the team to hurry them, but they pay him no mind. By the time we overtake the rest of the company, the wagons are circled for the night, their campfires glowing.

As we ride up, Jefferson leans over and says, “Those mules move fast. Mark my words: One of these days the Missouri wagons are going to leave the rest of us behind.”

I’m afraid he might be right.

One Saturday, after a couple of weeks on the trail, Reverend Lowrey makes his wife drive the wagon so he can ride up and down the line exhorting everyone to spend the Sabbath as a day of rest. We’ve been neglecting the Lord, he says, and our travels are sure to go better when we remember Him as we ought. There’s not much enthusiasm for the idea, but Major Craven decides we could use the extra day to fatten up the cattle before crossing the Kansas River. He says there’s not much forage to be had between the Kansas and the Platte.