He’s been bedridden since his amputation and hasn’t left the wagon except to relieve himself, and then only with Jasper’s help. He sees us staring at him, frowns, then bellows, “I can’t believe you started the celebration without me!”

I let out a whoop of joy. Someone else follows. Then everyone is yelping and laughing and clapping him on the back. Mr. Robichaud starts fiddling “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” and everyone sings at the tops of their lungs.

Only Frank Dilley holds back.

Major Craven spots Frank, extricates himself from his congratulators, and hobbles over.

“Good to see you up and about, Wally,” Frank says, but his arms are crossed and his eyes are hard.

The Major braces himself on the crutch while lifting a hand to clasp Frank’s shoulder. “Thanks for leading the company, Frank. You’ve done a fine job.”

Frank nods but says nothing.

“I’d take it as a personal favor if you kept at it,” the Major adds. “I’m still stove up.”

Frank unclasps his arms and offers the Major a hand to shake. “Sure thing, Wally.”

Everyone breathes a little easier, and the fiddles start up again.

As the sun sets over tomorrow’s road, our singing winds down, and the dishes are cleared and scraped. I head off into the darkness to take care of my personal necessities, thinking that this has been the best Fourth of July ever. I’m a quarter mile up the creek when I sense it—a tingle in my throat that intensifies until it’s buzzing like mosquitos at the base of my skull. I hone in on the source and drop to my knees, right in the middle of the creek. A water bug skitters away as I sift through the gravel of the creek bed. I can hardly see what I’m doing, but I don’t have to.

Warmth washes through me when I touch it. To my fingertips, it feels like any other pebble, but my soul knows it’s anything but. I lift it from the water and hold it up to the stars. The tiny gold nugget is no larger than the nail of my pinky finger. Probably worth about ten dollars.

I smile. I can’t wait to get to California.

Jefferson and I have ridden out ahead with our rifles, hoping to spot some game. My eyes hurt from squinting against the sun, even though I wear a hat all day long.

“See that mountain up ahead?” Jefferson points to a low, rounded mound on the horizon. “I think that’s it.”

“It’s called Independence Rock, not Independence Mountain,” I say.

“Everything is bigger out here. Just look at me.” He straightens in his saddle and puffs out his chest and fails to keep a straight face.