Jefferson mulls that over for a moment. He glances eastward, as if expecting Hampton to materialize on the horizon.

I brace myself for his protest. Instead, he says, “So much for that bread. I guess we’ll have burned flapjacks for breakfast. Again.”

I smile gratefully. “I reckon we’ll survive. Let’s go see if the Major wants to come help with the cooking.”

We stop to resupply at Fort Hall, which is less of a fort and more of a trading post consisting of two rickety blockhouses and a small stable. A constant stream of humanity flows through: trappers, Indians, argonauts, and settlers. It’s too many people. After being in the wilderness so long, I can hardly breathe.

California is bound to feel crowded too. Maybe that’s a good thing. With Hiram looking for me, the last thing I want to be is uncommon or noteworthy.

The meadows nearby are dotted with tents and wagons and even a few teepees, but otherwise, filled with lush, fast-growing grass. We let the cattle and mules graze freely to regain their strength. Meanwhile, we take our laundry down to the hot springs. I wear Lucie Robichaud’s skirt again while I scrub the rest of my clothes against Mrs. Joyner’s washboard.

Now that Mrs. Joyner knows I’m a girl, she has no problem assigning everyone’s laundry to me, and I spend the whole day scrubbing and scrubbing, until my hands are red and chapped and I can’t feel my fingertips. I almost never did laundry back home in Georgia. While I was out helping Daddy, Mama must have done a lot of work that I took for granted. Now I understand what Therese meant by wanting to give her hands a chance to heal.

Near the trading post is a military encampment made up of low tents. On our second day at Fort Hall, their leader, General Loring, rides out to speak with the wagon companies. He’s younger than I would expect for a general, despite his long beard. One of his sleeves swings empty at his side; someone whispers that he lost an arm in the Mexican War. He dismounts from his giant roan gelding and walks among us, making conversation. His uniform shows the same dirt and wear as the common soldiers’.

“You ought to go to Oregon,” he tells Frank Dilley. “California is filled with bad men—runaways and thieves. The gold will be gone in a year or two, but good rich soil lasts forever. You can pass that down to your children.”

Their conversation attracts attention. The rest of the Missouri men gather around. A few Mormons bound for Salt Lake trickle over from another company. Even Reverend Lowrey and Mr. Robichaud creep closer, ears pricked.

“Any saloon is happy to take my gold,” Frank says. “But I always get the boot when I try to pay with buckets of soil.”