For the next hour or so, we zigzag back and forth along the bank of the Platte. The air cools. Coyote silhouettes skim the land in the distance. Twice, the dogs take off after something rattling in the grass, but they return when we call. Once, we startle a small herd of antelope drinking at the river’s edge. But Andy never answers our cries, and when we come to a tributary stream that’s too deep for him to have crossed, we turn inland and start cutting the pie.

We make it all the way back in sight of the wagons with no luck. The only gold nearby is the Hoffmans’ hidden treasure, and I’m used to the weight of it in my head now. The dogs dash past us to return to camp, and we have to call them when we turn and head out again.

“Tom searched this direction already,” Jefferson says, stifling a yawn.

“We checked every direction once,” I say. “Now we’re checking again.”

His shoulders slump, and his face is wan. If he says he wants to grab some shut-eye and start again in the morning, I’ll let him go.

Instead he takes a bite of Therese’s cornbread and a swig from his canteen, rolls his shoulders, and leads us back into the night.

We follow a dry creek that cuts into the hills. It’s just low enough that we can’t see our campfires from the creek bed. I have a good feeling about it, like it’s a place that might feel cozy and interesting to a child. We follow it for miles, long after I think we must have gone too far. I sniff the air, detecting a zing of moisture. If a storm comes up, a wash like this could flood in minutes.

“What’s your problem with the Hoffmans?” Jefferson says all of a sudden.

“What? I don’t have any problem with them.”

“They’re the only family you never visit. You’ve made friends with everyone else.”

“Well, there are so many of them, it seems like they don’t need friends.” That sounds ridiculous the moment I say it. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Therese thinks you hate her.”

“I don’t even know her.”

“That’s why she thinks you hate her. You avoid their wagon. She’s convinced it’s because she talks funny or because you don’t like Germans. I told her that’s nonsense. It is nonsense, right?”

“I . . .” It’s not her I’ve been avoiding. It’s the two of them, together—something I’m not sure I can bear. “I’ll keep company with whomever I choose. I don’t have to explain it to anyone.”

He’s silent a long moment. Then: “That’s not like you, Lee. You’re a better person than that.”

“There isn’t any good or bad about it. I just—”