Will hadn’t thought to bring a gun or ammunition. The only weapon he had was the Bowie knife he used for whittling.

The lights in the farmhouse flickered out, and the night was darker than Will thought possible. He’d camped on occasion with Mac and Cal, but they’d been near their claim. Once Jonah had gone with them. It had seemed like an adventure, but he’d felt safe with Mac in the bedroll next to him.

Now he and Jonah were alone. No one knew where they were.

“Do you think they’re looking for us?” he whispered.

“Most likely,” Jonah said. “But they won’t find us.”

Jonah quickly fell asleep. In the dim light of the ebbing fire, Will took his blank notebook and pencil out of his saddlebag. He felt self-conscious—what should he write? Most of Mac’s journal entries had been brief notes about distances traveled and where they camped. But Mama sometimes wrote more.

Will hesitated, then wrote:

April 29, 1864. Left for Jacksonville this morning. Took the Molalla Ferry. Made about 20 miles.

The sky lightened after a long night. Will hadn’t slept much—worried, then scared. He hated frightening Mama by leaving, but he’d been miserable at home. He had no idea what lay ahead.

“Let’s pack up,” Jonah said, sooner than Will wanted to leave his bedroll. “We don’t want that farmer finding us on his land.”

After relieving himself against a tree, Will scrabbled his belongings back into his saddlebags and reached for a biscuit.

“We’ll eat as we ride,” Jonah said.

“Who put you in charge?” Will demanded. “I’m hungry now.”

“Come on,” Jonah urged. “We need to go.”

Will stuck the biscuit in his pocket and mounted Shanty. “I’m ready.”

They crossed a couple of streams flowing west. “Should we follow a creek?” Will asked. “They all reach the Willamette sooner or later. Doesn’t the Applegate Trail follow the Willamette as well?”

“Ferryman said to head for Roseburg,” Jonah replied.

“Roseburg is on the Willamette,” Will argued.

“But we’d have to pass through river towns to get there. We best stay on back roads,” Jonah countered. “You don’t want to go through Salem and Albany, do you? Them places is too big.”

“I’ve been as far south as Eugene by boat,” Will said. “I’d recognize the way along the river. How far have you gone?”

Jonah shrugged. “I ain’t never been south. I only been to Portland once. Daniel keeps us on the farm.” And he began ranting about Daniel’s unfairness again.

They came to another creek with a scattering of buildings on both sides of the stream. A sign on one building read “Silverton Mill.”

“This is Silverton,” Will said. “Road west from here goes to Salem. I’m heading that way.”

Jonah complained but followed Will.

They rode west and in midafternoon came to a high hill that looked out over the Willamette Valley. Will pointed at the silver line of the river in the distance. “There’s the Willamette. Salem’s on the far side.”

“Well, we’re stayin’ on this side,” Jonah said.

Will let Jonah have his way, and they turned south, trying to stay on paths that kept the Willamette in sight. Though so long as the creeks continued to flow west, Will wasn’t too worried they’d lose their way. He liked knowing where the river was—a landmark that could take him back home if he wanted.

They camped in the open again on their second night out, risking a bigger fire because they couldn’t see any human habitation nearby. Their supper was meager, and in the morning, Will ate the last of the food he’d brought. “What do you have left?” he asked Jonah.

“Only enough for our noon meal,” Jonah said. “I best hunt for a rabbit or bird to shoot now. Game’s more apt to be out in the early mornin.’ You stay with the horses.”

Jonah crept away from their fire, leaving Will alone. Tall evergreens loomed overhead, with the rising sun barely shimmering through the pine boughs. His stomach growled, wanting more than the one biscuit and slice of bacon he’d eaten for breakfast. He hoped Jonah would return soon.

While Jonah was gone, Will wrote:

May 1, 1864. Made another 20 miles or so yesterday. Now past Salem. Weather is warm. Jonah hunting.

A shot rang out through the woods. Soon Jonah came crashing back. “Got a duck,” he said. “She was on a nest, and I got her eggs, too. Six of ’em.”

“Where’s your pan?” Will asked, ready to cook the eggs.

“Pan?” Jonah said, sounding chagrined. “I ain’t got one. I ain’t thought of that.”

Will shrugged. He’d seen eggs cooked in their shells, and he’d try that in the coals. He went about the task while Jonah dressed the bird.

When he tapped the shells off the eggs, they were solid—too solid with half-formed embryos inside. He didn’t relish eating the embryos, but he swallowed down his portion anyway.

“Duck for dinner,” Jonah crowed, holding up the plucked and gutted carcass of the bird. “We’ll feast tonight.”

They rode south all day, again keeping the Willamette visible on their right. The forests grew denser, and the trail moved closer to the river. As they approached the water, however, the land grew marshy and difficult for the horses to walk.

“Ain’t there a road in these parts?” Jonah complained.

“There should be,” Will said. “We passed Albany earlier. I saw it off to the west. But I haven’t seen any sign of Corvallis yet.”

They rode on until Will spotted buildings on the far side of the Willamette. “There it is—there’s Corvallis.”

“How’d you know it’s Corvallis?” Jonah asked.

“I’ve been there,” Will said.

“Your pa brung you this far south?” Jonah seemed skeptical.