Tom carries Carl, and Henry picks up Otto. Jasper and Hampton drape Mr. Hoffman’s arms across their shoulders. He tries to shrug them off, head lolling, but he doesn’t have the strength to resist.
“They have supplies,” Jefferson says.
“Grab any food and water and leave the rest behind,” Jasper tells him.
Jefferson slips Mr. Hoffman’s knapsack over his shoulder, staggering under its weight. “No wonder Mr. Hoffman collapsed,” he says, reaching inside. He pulls two tarnished candlesticks from the bag. “Do we need these?”
“They’re just heirlooms,” Mrs. Hoffman says. “Rubbish. Leave them.”
Jefferson drops them onto the hard-packed ground, where they roll a ways before lurching to a stop against a jutting boulder. He hefts the pack over his shoulder again. “Better. Let’s go.”
I hang back while the others head toward the barren slope and the wagon. Beneath that layer of dull brass, the candlesticks are solid gold. A small fortune, disguised for travel. And Mrs. Hoffman doesn’t know.
I put down Doreen and pick up the candlesticks. They sing to me, vibrating through my fingertips.
“You heard her,” Jefferson says, and I jump. “We can leave those behind.”
“Mr. Hoffman has come so far,” I say. “And he just . . .” I swallow hard. “He lost his daughter. I don’t want him to lose these too.”
His stares at me. Then at the candlesticks. His eyes narrow.
Ignoring him, I drop one into each pocket, and their weight makes my suspenders feel like knives at my shoulders. I gather up Doreen again. This time my “oof” is even more heartfelt.
Jefferson walks beside me. “I’m a better tracker than you are,” he says. It’s true. He always tracked; I always shot. We bagged dozens of critters that way. “I didn’t see any tracks leading this way.”
“I must have stomped over them,” I say.
“That’s your story?”
“We found the Hoffmans—that’s proof right there.”
He mutters something angry under his breath.
My heart races, with heat and exhaustion and guilt. Not telling Jefferson is one thing. But lying feels worse, somehow. Once an omission becomes a straight-out lie, you can never take it back.
We stumble onward. My lungs heave, and my legs are brittle and aching, like they’re about to snap. Maybe this time, the Major will be the one holding my shoulders down as Jasper does his work.
Jefferson struggles beside me, carrying a supply bag even heavier than Doreen. His breaths are gasping and dry, and his steps skid and slide, like he doesn’t have quite enough strength to lift his feet.
I think of Therese, and I keep going, one foot after the other.
When we arrive, the dogs lie panting in the shade of the wagon, not bothering to stir. Becky relinquishes her spot to the Hoffmans, and I’m more than a little relieved to hand Doreen over and drop the candlesticks inside the wagon bed. The oxen groan when we whip them forward.
Still so far to go. Everyone is weak, moving slowly, feet dragging through the dust. Our lips are cracked, our eyes swollen, our skin bright with sunburn. Waiting for the Joyner baby cost us dearly, but maybe not so much as our dash to rescue the Hoffmans in the full heat of midday. I don’t know how we’ll make it.
After a mile of slow plodding, the Major pulls the wagon to a stop. “If we don’t lighten the load, the oxen will die. How about we put the children on Peony and Sorry and let them ride?”
I stare at him, puzzled. “‘Sorry’?”
“Ain’t that the name of Jefferson’s horse? Sorry mare.”
“Sorrel mare,” Jefferson says.
“Well, she’s awful sorry looking, if you ask me.”
I laugh, though it sounds more like a wheeze.
“We have been saving the horses in case we need them,” Jefferson says.
No, I saved my horse because I couldn’t bear to lose one more thing from my life before. “And now we need them,” I say, staring at Peony’s ribs and drooping neck. “Oh, Peony, my sweet girl.”
Peony snorts and tosses her head when we put Carl and Doreen in her saddle, but with the children riding, the wagon moves a little faster.
Becky Joyner walks beside me for a spell, her tiny daughter swaddled in her arms. I can’t believe how quickly she’s on her feet after such a hard labor. Or maybe riding in the shade for so long put her in better shape than any of us.
“Have you given her a name?” I ask, even though it hurts to talk around my swollen tongue.
She shakes her head. “Not until she’s lived long enough to earn one.”
“All right.” Some families are like that, especially during hard times. My baby brother never got a name.
“Listen, Lee, I said some things to you. In the wagon, when I was in my way. About being married and having babies and . . .” Her voice trails off.
“You did.”
“They weren’t proper,” she says. “And I didn’t mean them.” Her finger traces a soft circle on the baby’s forehead.
“She’s so beautiful,” I say, peering over at her bundle. She’s been a good baby on this first day of her life, with wide-clear eyes and little fuss, which is a wonder given this godforsaken heat. Unlike her brother and sister, she’s dark-haired.
“I shouldn’t have complained. I ought to face my lot with faith and courage.”
I’m plumb out of faith and courage. I don’t think I have anything left but stubbornness. Maybe that’s all I ever had. “Everyone’s afraid of something,” I tell her.
“Oh? What are you afraid of, Lee?”
I don’t have to think even one second. “I’m afraid of my uncle Hiram, the man who killed my parents. And I’m afraid of being alone again.”
Her smile is humorless. “And I’m afraid that my children will be alone.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re still with us.”
“So am I.” She sounds surprised by the fact. Then she looks up at the sky, where buzzards continue to circle. “For now.”
We take a short rest when the sun goes down. The moment we stop walking, everyone collapses to the earth. Jefferson plunks down beside me, back against the wagon. He folds his arms on his knees and lays down his head.
Major Craven half jumps, half falls from the wagon bench. He hobbles a few feet and lowers himself to the ground to massage the back of his short leg. “Only one barrelful of water left,” he says.
One barrelful is not nearly enough for us and our animals.
“We should turn around and go back,” Henry Meek says. He lies on his back, staring at the darkening sky. “Before it’s too late.”
“Are you daft?” Tom says. “We’re more than halfway there. If we go back, we’re dead.”
“We’re dead if we go forward,” Mrs. Hoffman says bitterly. “If we go back, at least we know there’s water at the end of our journey.”
The Major shakes his head. “We’d never make it. We covered too much ground today, too fast, chasing after you and your family.”
“If your husband hadn’t run off after that Frank Dilley—” Henry starts, but Becky Joyner jumps in.
“They were just doing what they thought was best for their family!”
Her baby starts to wail. Jefferson raises his head for a moment, but then drops it back to his forearms, shutting the rest of us out.
“Henry has a point,” Tom says. “Therese would still be alive if—”
“Don’t you dare talk about Therese!” Mrs. Hoffman yells. Her son Martin jumps to his feet and strides toward Tom, fists clenched and murder in his eyes.
“Martin! Stop!”
It’s Mr. Hoffman, clambering, with Jasper’s help, from the back of the wagon. He is wan and haggard, with red blisters swelling his chapped lips. Becky’s baby wails and wails.
Mr. Hoffman
sways on his feet. “What was that about Therese?” he asks. “Where is she?”
Mrs. Hoffman stares at her husband, unable to speak.
“She didn’t make it,” Jasper says gently.
“What? She . . . My girl . . .” Mr. Hoffman looks around desperately, as if Therese might suddenly appear. I see our group through his eyes: filthy lumps of weakness and despair, huddled low as if hoping the earth will swallow us and take us away.
Mr. Hoffman wilts, like a drying summer flower. He collapses to the ground and buries his face in his hands. His shoulders shake, and he rocks back and forth, keening in chorus with the Joyner baby.
“I’m telling you, we should go back,” Henry says, shouting to make his voice heard. “We’re falling apart here.”
“No!” Becky yells.
Everyone starts arguing again, except Hampton and me, who watch helplessly, and Jefferson, who ignores everyone.
“We’re going to die here, don’t you get it?” Henry says. “Fine. Go on if you have to, but I’m going back.”
Fear tears through me. We can’t separate. We can’t. I open my mouth to protest, but I’m not sure what to say. I don’t know that I have the right to tell someone how they ought to die, whether going forward or back.
Little Andrew Joyner, who has been huddled at his mother’s side this whole time, rises shakily to his feet. His tiny nose is peeling from the sun, and his cheeks are flushed bright red. He ambles over to Mr. Hoffman, who continues to rock back and forth, back and forth.
“Herr Hoffman,” Andy says, and for some reason, his quiet child’s voice silences everyone. I didn’t realize the boy had picked up any German.
Andy reaches beneath his shirt and pulls out my locket. He lifts the chain over his head.
Mr. Hoffman stills.
Andy holds it out to him. Solemnly, he says, “This locket has given me strength and courage. You should carry it for a while.”
We all stare at him. Wind whips against the canvas of the wagon. A buzzard screeches somewhere high above.
As Mama’s locket dangles between the little boy and the grieving man, her voice fills my head. Trust someone. Not good to be as alone as we’ve been.
Shakily, I unfold my legs and gain my feet. My limbs thrum—with the gold of my locket and with purpose. “Take it, Mr. Hoffman,” I order.
He looks at me, back at Andy. Slowly, he extends his arm, and the boy pours it into his open palm.
“Now, get on your feet.” I look around. “All of you. On your feet.”
No one moves.
“Now!”
Becky Joyner rises first. Then Major Craven.
“I’m going back,” Henry says. “I’ll take one canteen and—”
“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.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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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.
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. r />
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.
“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 one another 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.