We unyoke the oxen and set the horses loose. Miraculously, every single animal finds enough strength to pick up their hooves and dash toward the river, where they all stand neck deep. The oxen cry rapturously. Peony and Sorry paw at the water and splash it over their backs with their tails. The dogs chase each other through the shallows, flinging spray that soaks a delighted Andy. We all drink deep of the clearest, cleanest water we’ve had in weeks. If all of California is this sweet, golden times are surely ahead.

We agree that we’re in no danger of meeting winter in the mountains if we stay a few days and get back our strength. So we let the animals graze their fill while Jefferson and the Major spend the days fishing.

It’s tempting to let myself be idle, to rest up a bit, but I don’t dare. Idle time brings idle thoughts, and mine turn inevitably to my uncle Hiram. He’s probably in this territory already. He could be waiting around the next bend in the trail. It’s a big place, I tell myself. You could fit three Georgias in California Territory. I might go the rest of my life without running into him.

I know it for a dangerous lie as soon as the notion takes me. So to keep my thoughts from my uncle, I busy myself with hunting. Game is scarce this late in the year, but I still bag a small deer, two snowshoe rabbits, and five golden squirrels. Becky makes stew from the squirrels. It’s terrible—watery and oversalted, with spongy onions and a single shriveled turnip for flavor. We eat every single drop.

“You named that baby yet?” I ask her one night as we’re scraping dishes.

“Not yet,” she says.

As I set out to hunt the next day, I find myself remembering the people we’ve lost, like Therese and Mr. Joyner. Even Lucie, who left. So on the last day of our respite, I start collecting rocks. I pile them one atop the other until I’ve made a noticeable mound.

“What are you doing?” Jefferson asks, happening by.

I think of my parents’ rickety wooden crosses. Soon enough they’ll be gone, worn by sun and ice or toppled by wind. “We couldn’t bury Therese,” I say. “But we can still leave a marker for her.”

“You didn’t even know her!” he says.

I’m about to snap back, but the sadness in his face makes me say, “I’m sorry, Jeff. I didn’t mean anything bad. It’s just . . . She was going to teach me how to knit.”

His frown deepens.

Quickly, I add, “What I mean is, I’ve never had a lot of friends. Just you. I feel like I lost a good friend before I even had her.”

He stares at me, long and hard.