Across the camp, Frank Dilley and his men are combining their own wagons. Like us, they’re leaving half of them behind. Unlike us, they’ve packed the remaining wagons with pickaxes and shovels and mining supplies. I’ll have to witch up some gold to pay for our own equipment.

“Are our fifteen minutes up yet?” I yell at him.

“You’ve got a few more if you want to come with us,” he says.

I turn to Jasper. “What do you think? Do we hurry up so we can leave with them?”

“The oxen go faster, more consistently, when they see other wagons in front of them. And I know we’ve had our disagreements with those men, but all in all, I want to believe they’re decent specimens of humanity. If something were to happen to one of our wagons, they’d no sooner leave us behind to die than we would them.”

I hope he’s right.

Tom approaches, his sweat-soaked shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He takes off his hat and waves it beside his red cheeks. “You trust them more than I do,” he says. “But the longer we wait, the weaker our animals will be.”

That makes sense to me.

Major Craven hobbles over. “Do you want me to tether the weakest to the back again? Rotate them in yoke when we take breaks?”

“They won’t get stronger by trailing behind,” I say.

“So we yoke them all and let them pull until they drop,” the Major says. We all nod in agreement. “Seems cruel, but the least cruel thing to do.”

“Let’s hook them up,” Jefferson says.

We have the wagon loaded and ready to go by the time the last of the Missouri wagons is pulling out. Frank Dilley was yanking our chain with his “fifteen minutes” line, but I’m proud of how fast we worked and how well we all worked together. The smell of fresh quick bread fills the air as we square our shoulders and walk into the blinding, yellow-white desert.

“That’s making me hungry,” Jefferson says, walking beside me.

Therese sidles over, careful to keep me between herself and Jefferson. “If my mouth wasn’t so dry, I’m sure it would water,” she says.

We lead our horses. The dogs trot along beside us, tongues lolling in the heat. “How long do you think it will take us to cross?” Jefferson asks.

“According to the Major, about three and a half days,” I say, looking at the sky. “It’s Monday afternoon. Maybe we’ll be across by Thursday at sunrise.”

He whistles. “I was happier before I knew that.”

“Think of it this way: Once we cross, we’re in California. Give or take a mountain range or two.”

Therese says, “Then we’re practically almost there.” Suddenly she tenses. Ahead, Mr. Hoffman has twisted on his wagon seat to stare at the three of us.