Major Craven makes rounds to check that everything is in order and to assign a line number. Jefferson returns with crumbs on his shirt—I assume he got breakfast with the Hoffmans—and together we hurry to load the Joyners’ many possessions before the Major reaches us.

Less than an hour later, Major Craven gives the call. My heart leaps. This is it. I’m going to California.

As the first wagon pulls out, I’m grinning like a cat who got into the cream. One by one the others fall into place until our company is a line stretching across the plain. The Joyners’ wagon is one of the last to go. Mr. Joyner drives the oxen, with Mrs. Joyner and the little ones walking beside it. Jefferson and I ride behind and slightly off to the left to avoid the mud kicked up by the rear wheels.

The sun breaks through the clouds as we leave Independence, sending streamers of bright yellow to cut the mist. I take off my hat and lift my face to the sun, feeling its warmth on my skin.

The first few days are pleasant enough, though I work as hard as I’ve ever worked. Every morning, Jefferson and I are the first to rise. Before the sun comes up, we check on the oxen and start the cook fire. When the sky brightens, the Joyner family climbs out of the wagon. Mrs. Joyner cooks breakfast, careful to ignore me, while Jefferson and I reload everything back into the wagon—a dresser and chairs, sacks of flour and coffee and bacon, traveling trunks—everything except the table with the checked cloth, which the family will have breakfast on. After the furniture is loaded, we roll the water barrel down to the river to refill it. Jefferson does that by himself some mornings so I can slip away from camp to take care of my personal needs.

When I return, Jefferson and I lift the heavy water barrel onto the sideboard. If we’re lucky, breakfast is ready, along with something hot to drink. Frost still covers the ground some mornings, and I’m cold down to my bones, so I don’t care whether it’s real coffee, or chicory root, or tea, though I always hope for coffee. Coffee is the one thing Mrs. Joyner gets right.

We only have a few minutes to eat, so I gobble my flapjacks, even though they’re burned on the outside and mushy in the middle. I always thank Mrs. Joyner and tell her they’re delicious. On the third day, she gives me a quick nod in response, which I take as progress.

After breakfast, we load the dining table, yoke the oxen, and hook them up to the wagons, which is a lot easier than working with mules, apparently; Frank Dilley cusses at his mules and his Missouri men alike until he’s red in the face. I’m happy to have the ox team instead, no matter how slow they plod.

Then it’s my turn to let Jefferson off to do his business, which as far as I can tell means swinging by the Hoffmans’ wagon to say good morning to Therese and get a second meal. He’s eating better than anyone else in our company.

While he’s gone, I take the grease bucket from the back axle and climb under the wagon to grease the wheels. I nail down any boards jarred loose by the rough road and make sure the spare tongue and axles are lashed firmly in place. I store the tools in the box up front, latch it tight, and announce that we’re ready to roll out.

Then we wait. I always make sure we’re done early, because you don’t want to be the wagon everybody’s waiting for. Most mornings we end up waiting on Reverend Lowrey. He can’t do the work alone, and he expects the rest of us to help out in exchange for a prayer and a bit of preaching. Everybody takes a turn, even me. Some do it out of the goodness of their hearts. I do it to get us on the road.

Jefferson shows up again about the time the wagons pull out, and we ride side by side. The road is barely more than ruts in the ground, pushing through an endless muddy plain filled with the budding tips of yellow-green grass. The rising sun steams the land dry as we go while meadowlarks trill in greeting. It’s the best part of my day.

Sometimes, though, Mr. Joyner rides his gelding, and Jefferson and I take turns driving the team. It is the most god-awful, bone-rattling, thankless job you could ever hope to have. Each rut is a kick to the seat of my trousers; some days it kicks me down the road from morning till night. Mrs. Joyner and the children always walk behind the wagon, out of sight, when one of us drives.

At noon, we break for an hour to feed and rest the animals and to eat lunch. Jefferson and I unload the dining table and spread the tablecloth. Mrs. Joyner adjusts it to her satisfaction, making sure the corners drape just right. Honest to God, sometimes she even unpacks the china and arranges place settings. I’m glad to take my tin plate and sit elsewhere.

Mr. Joyner has a clever device called a “road-o-meter.” It’s attached to the rear wheel of the wagon, and through a set of cogs and levels, it records the miles traveled. He checks it after lunch each day—we’ve usually made five or six miles by then.

It’s my job to clean up afterward and store everything away—including the china, which I must wrap in paper and pack up tight, so it doesn’t break. Someday, inevitably, the wagon will hit a particularly big rut, smashing the china all to pieces, and I know just who Mrs. Joyner will blame.

We go all afternoon until we find a spot with the three necessities—water, grass, and timber. Frank Dilley’s Missouri men and Mr. Bledsoe, the Arkansas sheep farmer, always get there first because the horses and mules travel faster. By the time our oxen teams bring up the rear and close off the circle, they’ve had their pick of the best grazing, cleanest water, and driest spots to sleep.

We let the cattle out to graze, feed the horses some oats if they haven’t found themselves enough grass, and get everything set up for the night. Then we eat supper, and people gather around one of the campfires to tell stories or sing songs or share dreams of what we’re going to do when we’re all rich with gold. I don’t go in for all that, because my singing voice would surely reveal my secret, and because it’s a good time for me to sneak away to take care of my personal necessities.

The college men have a brown milk cow named Athena, who has the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a cow. They milk her each morning and put the cream in a churn inside their wagon. The rough road does all the work. By the end of the day, they have a nice fat roll of butter, which they are happy to share with the families. They make the rounds every night to pass it out.

Jasper always has a twinkle in his eye when he sees me. One night he chucks me under the chin, which makes me flinch away.

“That’s a terrible haircut,” he says cheerfully.

“It’s Jefferson’s fault!” I blurt.

He rubs a hand through his own curly brown hair. “Next time it needs trimming, you come to us.” Jasper’s friend Henry has a neatly manicured beard that’s as pale and thin as the rest of him, and Tom keeps his chin clean but waxes his mustaches into sharp points. It’s like they have a barber stashed in their wagon.

“I’ll do that,” I say. “Somebody’s got to keep up the standards of civilization around here.”

He laughs. “You sound like Mrs. Joyner. Here’s some fresh butter for you and Jefferson. That’s about as much civilization as we can manage tonight.”

Mrs. Joyner has made a loaf of bread in the Dutch oven. I tear off a piece and let a clump of butter melt into the hot, almost-cooked dough. Jasper’s butter makes even Mrs. Joyner’s bread taste good.

“This is harder than I thought it would be,” Jefferson says that night as we lie beneath the wagon.