“I’m not going to mess up like that again,” I continue, to fill his awful silence. “For every Hiram I’ve met, there’s been a Therese or a Becky Joyner. People I end up taking a shine to, once we give each other a chance. And it’s too lonely out here, if you don’t give people a chance.”

The pain in his eyes fades and is replaced by something softer and calmer. “Lee . . .” he says, searching my face.

An invisible force pulls me toward him, like molten gold lighting up my insides.

“I . . . I’ll help,” he says, and he’s off before I can answer, bending to gather a few rocks of his own.

Hampton sees what we’re doing and adds more rocks to our pile. Gradually, the rest of our company trickles over and starts helping. The mound grows, higher and higher until we’ve built a proper monument, something no one passing this way could possibly miss. Mr. Hoffman hacks down two large pine branches and nails together a rough cross, which we stake into the ground and bolster with more rocks.

Jefferson pulls out his knife. He starts to etch letters into Mr. Hoffman’s wooden cross, but changes his mind. Using his sleeve, he wipes off the surface of one of the larger rocks and etches there instead: “Therese Hoffman.” He stares at his handiwork a moment, then he adds: “Andrew Joyner. Mary Lowrey. Josiah Bledsoe. Athena the Cow.”

We heave off the next morning, ready to tackle the Sierra Nevada.

For once, I expect the worst but get the best. The Sierras are even steeper than the Rockies, and we’ve no spare wagon parts left in case something goes awry. But the land is lush and beautiful, and we now have eighteen souls in our company, if you include the baby, and only one wagon to handle. We lose one more ox to sour feet, but the other animals thrive in the mountains, with its fresh supply of clean water and grazing.

Blue mountain jays flit between pine boughs. Trout dart through crystal streams, and late summer flowers bloom in wild meadows surrounded by granite edifices wondrous enough to make your heart stop. Lowering our single wagon down even the steepest slopes proves little burden when shared among us all.

In spite of all this, my soul is troubled. I keep to myself as much as possible, and I take every excuse to go off and hunt.

Becky walks beside me sometimes, content to endure my silence. She’s different now. Lighter on her feet, with an easy smile. Sometimes she lets me hold the baby, who gazes up at me with bright-blue eyes as she blows little spit bubbles through her lips.

“What’s wrong, Lee?” Becky asks one afternoon as we trek through a spongy alpine meadow. She has the baby against one shoulder and pats her bottom as she walks.

“Why do you say that?”