“No, you’re not, Henry Meek,” I say. “You’re coming with us, and that’s that, because you’re my friend, and I’m not leaving you behind. You wouldn’t leave a man behind, would you?” I say, with a pointed look toward Hampton. “We go together. All of us. We’ll help one another. We’ll trust one another. Together, we can make it to California. We can. Even if we have to crawl on our hands and knees. Even if I have to drag you by that fancy beard.”

Mrs. Hoffman is on her feet now too, along with her boys. To my surprise, Jefferson suddenly fills the space beside me. “Break’s over,” he calls. “Roll out!”

Becky hitches her baby onto her shoulder and starts walking west, Olive following at her heels. Martin Hoffman trails after them.

“Do you want to ride Peony for a while?” I ask the Major.

He leans on his crutch. “The rest of you are using two legs, but I’m only using one—I think that means I can walk twice as far.” He heads off after Becky before I can tell him that’s the worst logic I’ve ever heard.

One by one, everyone heads west, even Henry Meek. Even Mr. Hoffman, aided by Mrs. Hoffman and Luther.

“My knapsack,” he mutters to his wife. “We left it behind, didn’t we?”

The candlesticks are so close that my insides hum. I walk over to the wagon and reach inside.

Mr. Hoffman’s eyes go wide when I pull one out to show him. “How . . . ?”

“I know what these are,” I say. “I . . . could tell by the weight. My father used the same trick once.” Maybe it’s the hunger and thirst, maybe it’s the way everything else has been stripped away, but the gold purrs like a living thing in my hand.

Mrs. Hoffman looks to her husband, confused. “Those ugly things?”

I can’t return Therese to them, but maybe I’ve helped a little. I put away the candlestick and fall back to allow them their privacy. The presence of gold fades with distance, but never leaves me. Maybe, in California, it will infuse me constantly, like the warmth of my own private sun.

I’m the last in line, giving me a clear view of everyone stretched out on the trail ahead of me, shoulders braced against the desert. The air cools rapidly with nightfall, and the stars brighten in the sky like beacons leading us onward. For the first time in days, I feel like we might make it.

Chapter Thirty-Four

We started across the Humboldt Sink on Monday evening. When dawn rises on Friday, we see the lush grassy meadows and bright waters of the Truckee River straight ahead. Real water, clear and running, not at all like the mirage that led the Hoffmans astray. It’s September 14, 1849, and we are in California.