On October 10, we reach Sutter’s Fort. It’s not as big as Fort Laramie, but it’s a lot busier. Walls form a huge square. They’re almost twenty feet high, but an even taller building peeks out from behind them, capped by a waving American flag. Three little girls play with corn-husk dolls just outside the entrance, and men and women kneel over cook fires. Laundry flaps in the breeze between wagons, and dogs run from camp to camp, begging for scraps.

Guns thunder constantly—men discharging their rifles to be let inside. As we approach, I see signs of wear on the fort itself: cracked adobe, a tilting well cover, gates that don’t quite hang straight.

“Any sign of Frank Dilley?” Jefferson asks as we dismount.

“None,” I reply, scanning the crowd. “It wouldn’t make me sad to never see him again.”

“Agreed,” says Mr. Hoffman, walking beside the wagon. “Though I want him to see me. I want him to know we made it.” Then, in a softer voice, “Most of us, anyway.”

We park the wagon outside the walls and gather together. “I’ll stay with the children,” Mrs. Hoffman says. “You all go inside and figure out this claim business.” Luther and Martin agree to help Mrs. Hoffman keep an eye on things, and the rest of us head up the slope toward the fort.

We haven’t gone three steps before a voice rings out. “That’s my horse!”

It’s like being socked in the gut. My lungs refuse to draw breath, and my hands holding the rifle begin to tremble.

Slowly, inevitably, I turn.

Uncle Hiram stands straight and tall and impeccably groomed, wearing a shiny top hat and a black suit with silver buttons. Abel Topper stands at his right shoulder, a tall Negro at his left. Hiram took the sea route and arrived ahead of me, just like Jim said. Wouldn’t surprise me one bit to learn he’s been right here at Sutter’s Fort for weeks, charming everyone in sight, knowing I’d show up eventually. By now, the entire territory of California probably thinks him a fine, upstanding gentleman.

I’ve been wondering what I’d do when I saw him again. Run like the wind? Shoot? Burst into tears?

Instead I say, cool as ice, “Hello, Uncle Hiram.”

That name gets everyone’s attention. Becky moves to stand beside me. Jefferson calmly begins loading his rifle. For a moment, the only sound is that of a ramrod sliding down a barrel.

My uncle puts up his hands. “Now, now, I don’t want any trouble. But that’s my girl you’ve got there, and I’ve come a long way to fetch her, so I’ll be taking her back now.”

“No, sir,” says Henry Meek, stepping forward. His thumbs are cocked in his vest pockets like he’s a man who knows his business.