Not me. My head spins, and I lie awake for what feels like a long time, listening to Jefferson’s breaths mingling with the patter of the rain on the wagon covers, smelling the rich scent of wet dirt. I’ve got some happiness in me, I realize with a start, where there used to be only loneliness and grief. I’ve found Jefferson. I’m earning a wage. I’m on my way to the Promised Land and mountains of shining gold.
This thought is still in my head, as if I’ve only just drifted off to sleep, when Jefferson shakes me awake in the predawn chill.
“It’s another day,” he says.
“You don’t have to sound so cheerful,” I grumble.
“I know!” he says. “But it vexes you.”
We make twelve to fourteen miles a day for a week, through land so lovely it’s a pain in my chest. Thoughts of Uncle Hiram niggle at me like impure gold in a distant stream—faint and far, but always there. Each day is both a curse and blessing, bringing me closer to him, but also to the gold I was born to find.
So I push away thoughts of Hiram. For now, I want to enjoy the burn of hard work, the company of my best friend, and the prettiest sky I’ve ever seen. Hiram has taken so much from me. I’m not going to let him take this too.
One morning, it starts pouring rain and doesn’t stop. We cross one creek, then a second. After lunch, we come to yet another, and by now the water is high and fast; the path, churned and muddy; the banks, steep.
The wagons squish through the mud, creeping forward at a pace that makes a tortoise look like a hare. When it’s finally our turn to cross, the right front wheel drops into a sinkhole and sticks tight, and no whipping and yelling at the oxen can make it budge.
Jefferson and I unload everything, and the college men and Mr. Robichaud help lift and lever it free. Reverend Lowrey stands off to one side with his Bible and prays for us.
After the wagon is across and on dry ground, we load it back up. Mr. Joyner whips the team to hurry them, but they pay him no mind. By the time we overtake the rest of the company, the wagons are circled for the night, their campfires glowing.
As we ride up, Jefferson leans over and says, “Those mules move fast. Mark my words: One of these days the Missouri wagons are going to leave the rest of us behind.”
I’m afraid he might be right.
One Saturday, after a couple of weeks on the trail, Reverend Lowrey makes his wife drive the wagon so he can ride up and down the line exhorting everyone to spend the Sabbath as a day of rest. We’ve been neglecting the Lord, he says, and our travels are sure to go better when we remember Him as we ought. There’s not much enthusiasm for the idea, but Major Craven decides we could use the extra day to fatten up the cattle before crossing the Kansas River. He says there’s not much forage to be had between the Kansas and the Platte.
The next morning, everyone unloads what chairs they’ve brought along. The college boys fashion a quick pew from a split log and a pair of sawhorses. I sit on the Joyners’ wagon bench, which is close enough to look like I’m participating. Reverend Lowrey drones on about fearing God and the dangers of hellfire. I allow my eyes to drift closed and my chin to hit my chest, because if it’s a day of rest, then I’m going to rest. By the time services are over, I decide I like the Sabbath very much.
We set off the next day feeling restored. I gaze about as we ride, admiring the wild green fields and their copses of tall woods, stretching as far as the eye can see. The world has exploded with wildflowers—black-eyed Susans and blue chicory and yellow mustard—and the sun lounges heavy in the sky, casting the world in a golden haze.
I admit, it’s even prettier than Georgia. Mama and Daddy would have loved it.
The Kansas River fattens as we reach its confluence with the Big Blue, which is an odd name because it’s as muddy brown with spring rain as all the rest. Major Craven says we must ferry across the Kansas and follow the Big Blue north for a while.
I think longingly of Captain Chisholm’s flatboat, because these ferries are nothing but overgrown rafts made of weathered wood that looks near to splintering apart. I can’t imagine them carrying wagons and oxen and horses.
Just like we did for the flatboat, we unload the wagon, then lift off the box and fill it with the wheels. It’s too heavy for Jefferson and me alone, so all the families help one another—the college men and Mr. Robichaud help us, then we help them right back, which sets my back to aching and shoves a splinter into my left thumb.
Athena, the milk cow, rides across the ferry with us. She lows pitifully. Her pupils are huge and her muscles twitch, like her skin is covered with flies. Twice, she empties her bladder onto the deck.
Mrs. Joyner gathers up Andy and Olive and flees to the far end of the raft.
“What’s wrong with her?” I ask Jasper.
“I don’t know,” Jasper says. He kisses Athena’s muzzle, but she flinches away. “I hope she didn’t eat something disagreeable.”
The ferryman at the tiller says, “She been ettin’ a foul-smelling weed, about eh high?” He holds his hand midthigh. “Leaves are toothy, dark green on top, light on bottom?”
“Maybe,” Jasper says. “I haven’t been paying attention. Fellows?”
Henry gazes back toward the dwindling shore. “There was something like that where we stopped for lunch.”
Tom nods. “She was eating it, all right. There wasn’t much else. The whole trail has been grazed over by the argonauts who preceded us.”
The ferryman chortles. “That’s jimsonweed she et. Devil’s snare. Make sure she gets fresh grass, and she’ll be fine in a few days.”
“Poor girl,” I say, starting toward her. I have some grass in the pocket of my trousers that I pulled for Peony—a habit I picked up while riding the flatboat—but Athena is welcome to it. Tom and Henry have the same impulse, and her eyes go buggy as the three of us close in on her. She shakes her head, lowing mournfully. Quicker than I can blink, she stumbles off the ferry and plops gracelessly into the river.
We stagger over to the side as the ensuing wave sets us to rocking. Athena’s head breaks the surface, and she flounders, blowing water from her nostrils.
Mr. Joyner laughs. “She’s going to drown if she doesn’t get herself aimed toward shore,” he says.
“The children will miss the butter,” Mrs. Joyner says.
I gape at them both. “We’ve got to do something to help her!” But I have no idea what.