I don’t hear a word of complaint. A few murmur agreement. Frank says, “I like the way you think.”

Mr. Joyner slumps over, exhausted now. He staggers back to the wagon, Mrs. Joyner and the children in tow.

“Let’s sing a hymn,” Reverend Lowrey says in a shaky voice. He demonstrates, and we repeat it, except I just move my mouth, pretending.

Come, Thou Fount of every blessing,

Tune my heart to sing Thy grace:

Streams of mercy, never ceasing,

Call for songs of ceaseless praise:

Rescued thus from sin and danger,

Purchased by the Savior’s blood,

May I walk on earth a stranger,

As a son and heir of God.

The last shovelful of dirt patters down onto Mr. Bledsoe’s body. They tamp it down, mound it up, and step back. It’s less than any person deserves, but there’s nothing more we can do.

“Let’s roll out,” Major Craven says, and everyone flows away from the graveside and back to their own wagons.

The hymn echoes in my head while I ready our wagon to leave. I’ve never felt so far from God’s grace. I suppose I am a stranger walking on earth, but I’m no son of God. I’m no son at all.

The wagon train is markedly shorter than before. A glance eastward reveals a handful of wagons going back the way we came. Major Craven comes by to explain things to Mr. Joyner.

“Mr. Bledsoe’s group feel they have neither the authority nor motivation to carry on to California without him,” he says. “Seeing as how we’ve haven’t yet reached the divide, they’ve decided to go back.”

“They’re fools,” Mr. Joyner says.

“Maybe,” Craven says.

“You aren’t leaving with them?” I ask. Major Craven was hired by Bledsoe’s group.

“I reckon I’ll stick around until we get to California. I’ve got my gear, and Bledsoe’s men paid off my wages in food. Frank Dilley will carry it for me in one of his wagons.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it well in hand, then,” Mr. Joyner says.

“Probably.” He turns to go and then stops. “Oh, and you’ll want to keep an eye out for Bledsoe’s slave.”

“The shepherd?” Mr. Joyner asks.

“Hampton,” I say. “The one who found Andy.”

Craven frowns. “He ran off last night.”

“You don’t think he had anything to do with Bledsoe’s death, do you?” Mr. Joyner asked.

“Not unless he could do witchcraft,” Craven says.

I jump a little at the word.

“No,” Craven continues. “Bledsoe died from the cholera. But his slave was gone when Bledsoe’s men got up this morning.”

“Maybe the Indians’ll find him,” Mr. Joyner says.

“Yeah, and then they can give him measles,” I say, and I don’t regret it, even with Mr. Joyner glaring at me.

There’s no reason to antagonize people, Mama always said.