I tell myself that I’m glad they’re so far ahead. I hate the way they stare at me now, especially that Jonas Waters.

On the fifth day into the Rockies, the Missouri men are well out of sight by the time we top the first rise. The downward slope is the steepest yet, and mostly gravel, interspersed with dry brush and stunted pines. Peony balks at the path, and I don’t blame her. I don’t know how we’ll get our wagons down safely.

Mr. Joyner and the men all confer, deciding on wagon order. I stand off to the side with the women, too far away to hear what’s being said. I kick at pebbles with the toe of my boot, glaring at them as they skitter away.

Finally, the men gather their ropes and gloves and get to work. They tackle the Robichauds’ wagon first. Though it’s the lightest, it still takes all the men braced together against the ropes to lower it. Reverend Lowrey’s wagon goes next. The men pour sweat, and gravel clatters down the slope ahead of the wheels, but the lowering goes smoothly. The dogs sport around at the bottom of the incline while Olive plays tag with Carl and Otto, as if it’s a holiday and not the most dangerous part of our journey so far.

Mrs. Hoffman and Therese roll two barrels from the back of one wagon and toss a trunk out of the other. The abandoned goods of previous wagon trains litter the slope too: a box stove toppled onto its side, several broken barrels, spare wagon parts, a dressing table with a cracked mirror. Mrs. Joyner runs a finger over the wooden frame of the discarded mirror. I’m suddenly terrified she’ll see everything as a treasure, needing to be rescued.

“You ought to think about doing the same thing,” I say quickly. “That big carved headboard, the table and chairs.”

She looks back and forth between the dressing table and her own wagon. “I . . . We will not live like savages,” she says, but her voice lacks its usual conviction. “It’s up to us to bring civilization to California.”

“They’re just things.”

“It’s Mr. Joyner’s decision.”

I hold back a retort. I never know if she says this because she truly believes it, or if she just wants to end the discussion. I stare after her as she gathers her children and waddles down the steep slope to wait.

The Hoffmans’ wagons bounce down a little faster but reach the bottom safely. As does the college men’s wagon. Morning turns to afternoon. I catch Jefferson staring at his hands. They’ve become raw from the rope sliding through sweat-slippery palms.