He’s been bedridden since his amputation and hasn’t left the wagon except to relieve himself, and then only with Jasper’s help. He sees us staring at him, frowns, then bellows, “I can’t believe you started the celebration without me!”
I let out a whoop of joy. Someone else follows. Then everyone is yelping and laughing and clapping him on the back. Mr. Robichaud starts fiddling “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” and everyone sings at the tops of their lungs.
Only Frank Dilley holds back.
Major Craven spots Frank, extricates himself from his congratulators, and hobbles over.
“Good to see you up and about, Wally,” Frank says, but his arms are crossed and his eyes are hard.
The Major braces himself on the crutch while lifting a hand to clasp Frank’s shoulder. “Thanks for leading the company, Frank. You’ve done a fine job.”
Frank nods but says nothing.
“I’d take it as a personal favor if you kept at it,” the Major adds. “I’m still stove up.”
Frank unclasps his arms and offers the Major a hand to shake. “Sure thing, Wally.”
Everyone breathes a little easier, and the fiddles start up again.
As the sun sets over tomorrow’s road, our singing winds down, and the dishes are cleared and scraped. I head off into the darkness to take care of my personal necessities, thinking that this has been the best Fourth of July ever. I’m a quarter mile up the creek when I sense it—a tingle in my throat that intensifies until it’s buzzing like mosquitos at the base of my skull. I hone in on the source and drop to my knees, right in the middle of the creek. A water bug skitters away as I sift through the gravel of the creek bed. I can hardly see what I’m doing, but I don’t have to.
Warmth washes through me when I touch it. To my fingertips, it feels like any other pebble, but my soul knows it’s anything but. I lift it from the water and hold it up to the stars. The tiny gold nugget is no larger than the nail of my pinky finger. Probably worth about ten dollars.
I smile. I can’t wait to get to California.
Jefferson and I have ridden out ahead with our rifles, hoping to spot some game. My eyes hurt from squinting against the sun, even though I wear a hat all day long.
“See that mountain up ahead?” Jefferson points to a low, rounded mound on the horizon. “I think that’s it.”
“It’s called Independence Rock, not Independence Mountain,” I say.
“Everything is bigger out here. Just look at me.” He straightens in his saddle and puffs out his chest and fails to keep a straight face.
“Your head is bigger, that’s for sure.” But he’s right. Jefferson has grown at least an inch. His neck has thickened, his shoulders broadened. He’s hardly the lanky boy with giant knees I knew back in Georgia. I’ve grown too, but not in height. I shift uncomfortably, resisting the urge to check on the shawl hidden beneath my shirt. It’s getting harder to keep my chest wrapped tight.
Jefferson urges the sorrel mare on, and I wish I could feel as cheerful as he does. Things have gone well for us. Major Craven continues to improve. We resupplied at Fort Laramie. We’ve traded with Indians along the way and haven’t had any problems except for minor bits of theft—a blanket, some food, a single gun.
Frank Dilley has kept the wagon train moving seven days a week. Which is how we’ve come to reach Independence Rock only a week after the Fourth of July. We’re almost on schedule, in spite of starting out so late.
But I can’t shake this mood, like something’s going to happen and I ought to see it coming.
“That’s the rock, Lee,” Jefferson says. “I’m sure of it. Doesn’t it look like a piece of the moon fell down from the sky?”
“Yeah, it kind of does.”
It’s a big gray dome, big enough that you could fit the entire town of Dahlonega inside, rising from the flat golden plain, like God dropped a giant ball in the mud and left it half-buried. Everything is bigger out here in the west. I suppose I should feel smaller by comparison, but it makes me feel bigger too, like the whole world is growing inside me.
We reach the rock and dismount, then hobble our horses to graze. “Oh!” Jefferson exclaims, brushing the rock with his fingertips. Names and dates are scratched into the stone, and some of the lettering is as fine as anything you’d see in Mr. Anders’s schoolhouse back home. There are hundreds of names. No, thousands.
“Look at all these people,” Jefferson says. “You think they were going to California for the gold?”
“Nah, look at this one—‘Wm. Shunn, 1846.’”
“Here’s one from just two weeks ago.”
“The Mormons came this way. And folks going to Oregon. People have been passing by this rock for a long time.”
Jefferson pulls out his knife and starts carving letters. I peer over his shoulder. He’s picked a small spot for such a big name, squeezed between other etchings.
“Wait,” I say. “I want . . . Our names should be together.”
He freezes, like a rabbit who just heard the cry of a hawk. “Okay.” He lowers his knife, and his gaze shifts to my face, lingers on my lips, and I’d give all the gold in California to know what he’s thinking.
I swallow hard. “Right there?” I say, pointing to an untouched area.
“Sure.”
I pull out my own knife and start scoring the rock. He goes to work beside me, and we have a comfortable silence with nothing but the scritch-scritching of our knives and the wind in the grass.
“Lee, I’m sorry I left.”
“What?”
“It’s been eating at me. Your parents had just been killed. You were my best friend, and you were in a bad way, and I abandoned you.”
I dig in harder and blunt the tip of my knife. It will need a good sharpening tonight. “You were in a bad way yourself. I didn’t blame you for leaving. Not one bit.”
“Truly?”
Well, maybe for a moment or two. “Truly.”
“It’s just . . . I did the thing I swore I’d never do.”
“I don’t understand.” But my knife stills as suddenly I do. Jefferson was abandoned too. “You swore you’d never leave someone, same way your mama . . . You were the eighth brother. The one who stayed.”
“And maybe I was a little mad. From when I asked you to . . . you know.”