“I would, sir. It’s very pretty.”

Drew continued describing the flora and fauna they’d seen through the day. He also recounted the debacle leading to Burton’s death. Will’s arm ached by the time Drew bade him leave, but he scrawled in his own journal:

July 20, 1864. Camped in Goose Lake Valley after making 18 miles today. I scribed for Lt. Col. Drew this evening. The work is harder than it sounds.

The next day was hot, and the caravan passed through both forests and parched earth in Goose Lake Valley. Will relished the time under canopies of pines and firs. Birds chirped as the wagons and mules passed, and the occasional deer watched them while grazing. By contrast, grasshoppers and ground squirrels were the only signs of life where sage and scrubby brush sprouted in open red earth. Later in the day, the forests gave way to marshes that sucked at horses’ and mules’ feet.

As they rode through Goose Lake Valley, Jonah seemed morose. “What’s wrong?” Will asked.

“It’s my birthday,” Jonah muttered. “I’m seventeen. And here I am pulling mules to who the hell knows where.”

Will could have retorted that it had been Jonah’s idea to run away, but he just let Jonah talk.

“I wish I had one of Esther’s white cakes.” Jonah licked his lips. “Light as a feather. Covered with berries and whipped cream. Instead, I’m eatin’ stewed beef, tough as leather.”

“Might be able to catch some fish this evening,” Will said. “Or a jackrabbit.”

“Them rabbits ain’t much better’n the quartermaster’s beef,” Jonah complained. “Meat’s too stringy.”

Joel hooted at Jonah. “Be a man,” he told his younger brother. “You think I got cake on my birthday when we come to Oregon?”

“Your birthday’s in December,” Jonah said. “You wasn’t travelin’ on your birthday that year. Family was settlin’ in on the claim.”

“Ma was dead,” Joel said, “and Esther was married. No one made me a cake.”

When they stopped for their noon break, Will used a scrap of soft leather to polish the whistle he’d made and handed it to Jonah. “Happy birthday,” he said.

Jonah grinned. “Thanks.” He blew a piercing blast on the whistle, which startled the mules. Another packer hollered at him to stop the racket so he didn’t start a stampede.

“Fandango Valley,” the colonel dictated to Will that evening, “where we are camped tonight, is so named because a group of unfortunate settlers engaged in a noisy celebration when they met up with friends from California. They neglected to guard their camp and were attacked by Indians who took advantage of their inebriation.” He paused and sipped his whiskey.

Will looked up from writing. “Is that true?”

Drew shrugged. “It’s the story. And true enough. One can never assume the tribes are friendly. Travelers in these parts must always stay alert.”

“But surely, sir—” Will rubbed his pockmarks.

Drew stared at him over another sip. “Never assume they are peaceable,” he repeated. “Some Indians are, like those Snakes that came through camp recently. But question them severely before you accept their protestations of goodwill.” Then he looked toward the ceiling of his tent and continued his dictation. “This valley affords excellent grazing and good water. I suggest the Army build a permanent outpost somewhere between the northern end of Goose Lake Valley and here.”

By the time Will finished taking notes for Drew, his hand was so cramped he couldn’t write in his own journal.

The next day the expedition traveled only six miles. They made a difficult crossing of a pass from Fandango Valley into Surprise Valley. To get their wagons up the steep route out of Fandango, the emigrants were forced to hitch double teams of oxen to their wagons.

The packers waited at the summit, watching settlers lead their oxen up the slope. “This’ll take twice as many trips,” Jonah complained. “Plus all the time to yoke and unyoke the oxen betwixt wagons.”

Joel shook his head. “Almost as steep as California Hill,” he said. “And that was just the first of our bad slopes. Laurel Hill on Mount Hood was the last, and maybe the worst.” Joel nodded at Will. “Your pa almost died when a wagon got loose.”

Will had heard that story—Samuel Abercrombie stopped the wagon from careening down on Mac.

“But them oxen can pull anything,” old Felix Bagley said. “You can bellyache about their slowness, but mules’d have a hard time pullin’ a wagon up this mountain. Good thing the quartermaster has eight mules on his wagon, and they’re still strugglin’.”

Joel drank from his canteen. “Oxen’ll pull as long as they got breath, that’s for sure. And mules can be ornery.”

“All depends on whether you want speed or distance,” another packer said. “But mules got more personality.”

At that, Joel hooted. “Personality? That’s what you want in a beast? Then give me a dog. Draft animals need to pull without complaint.” And the men took to comparing each other to mules and dogs.

Will stared down the far side of the pass. Mountains ranged both to the north and south. “Are those the Sierra Nevadas?” he asked Joel, pointing south.

Joel nodded. “Yup. Wild terrain.”

“Will we travel through them?” Jonah asked, sounding subdued.

“Depends where Drew takes us,” Joel said.

That evening, after all the wagons straggled down from the summit into Surprise Valley, Drew called Will into his tent again. He dictated, “Today we were required to double team the wagons, which were only moderately loaded. Our travel was slow and tiresome. I recommend the trail be moved to lower ground, on the spur of mountains about a mile northward of its present location, which would render the grade comparatively easy.”

As he wrote Drew’s words, Will nodded in agreement.

July 22, 1864. A long day with only a few miles made. Camped in Surprise Valley. Most of the time, I agree with Drew. He knows this land.

The wagons and their militia escort remained in Surprise Valley for four days so the emigrants and their animals could recuperate from the steep climb over the pass. Meanwhile, the packers and soldiers busied themselves in camp, checking their horses’ and mules’ harnesses and making sure the food in the packs was still edible.

Drew rode out each day with his scouts and a small cavalry guard to survey the valley. And in the evenings, he called Will into his tent to scribe for him.

Jonah seemed morose after his birthday passed. “What’s wrong?” Will asked him one night when he returned to the packers’ campfire after supper. Jonah lay on his bedroll, and Joel sat on a log smoking.

“I dunno.” Jonah blew a tentative toot on his whistle.

“Keep that damn thing quiet,” Joel said. “Or you’ll have the horses runnin’ off.”

“Homesick, I guess,” Jonah muttered. “Still wishin’ I had a slice of Esther’s cake. Or even her cornbread.”

“The quartermaster’s corn pone is all right,” Will said.

Jonah blew another short toot. “It ain’t just the food. I don’t like all this waitin’ around. This ain’t the adventure I thought it would be.”

“You want to go home?” Will asked.