“Which is why we need more than fifteen minutes,” I insist.

“Don’t get your skirts in a twist, Georgia. Just take it or leave it. We’ve cut most of the grass already, but there’s a bit left on the other side of the sink.”

I lead Peony through the water, muttering curse words that would make my mama ashamed. Peony snorts and kicks up her knees to splash water onto her baking hide. On the other side, we find an abandoned wagon, its wood splintering from the heat. Its shade has allowed a large clump of grass to thrive unnoticed. I let Peony free to graze.

Major Craven gestures for everyone to gather round, so I hurry back to the wagons. “We need to figure out what to do next,” he says. Jefferson and the dogs catch up just then. Nugget and Coney are bouncing with their recent meal, tails wagging and ears pricked.

“Our oxen are weak,” Mr. Hoffman says gravely. “We’re going to put everything in one wagon, leave the other behind. They should be able to pull us through. Maybe we’ll have enough to start over, once we get to California.”

The Hoffmans definitely have enough to start over, if the gold I’ve sensed is any indication.

“That’s smart,” Major Craven says. He looks at the college men, and they look at me. They’ve got something planned.

“Therese took the boys downstream to cut and bundle any grass they find,” Mr. Hoffman says. “But we don’t mean to take it all. We’ll share.”

We nod in thanks. It saves time to have his children do the work.

Reverend Lowrey says, “This is the last water we’ll see for days. The Missouri men have fires already going. We should mix dough now, cook all our flour into bread, so we can feed it to the animals while we cross.”

It’s the most sensible thing I’ve ever heard him say. “Can we do it in fifteen minutes?” I ask.

“I’ve got baking soda left—I can make quick bread if I get started now,” he says.

“That’s a good plan,” Jasper says.

The reverend runs off to his wagon.

“I’ll go mix up whatever we have left,” Henry says. “It’s not a lot.”

“What about the Widow Joyner?” the Major asks.

I shake my head. He knows the answer. “She’s as big as a house that’s about to give birth to a woodshed,” I say. “The road’s been shaking her hard for days. She’s in no shape to cook.”

“I know that,” the Major says. “What I’m asking is, her being a particular sort of lady, do you think she’ll mind if I interrupt her to get the flour out of the wagon?”

How should I know? I say, “I’m sure she’ll understand.”