“Washing is important too.”

She shrugs. “But not very heroic. And not much fun.” Ahead of us, Doreen takes a tumble, then she bounces back to her feet, laughing. Gazing at her sister, Therese adds, “I miss fun.”

“Well!” I put an arm through hers, and we continue down the slope, our elbows joined. “When we get to California, I’ll teach you everything I know about the fun, fun job of panning for gold. Squatting for hours on end is really fun.”

She nods solemnly. “I’m sure getting your skirts soaked to the knees is fun.”

“Oh, yes. And all the mud and gravel getting lodged under your nails? No church social was so much fun.”

She is silent a long moment, watching her siblings disappear down the slope. Then: “Lee? I’m glad you turned out to be a girl.”

From the base of the South Pass, a twisty road leads up the Rocky Mountains. It’s a well-earned name, because the steep slopes are covered in giant rocks split open and turned on edge every which way, like God started a quarry and got distracted. Major Craven calls it the backbone of America. I tell him it looks more like a backbone breaker.

Our oxen and mules strain to pull the wagons uphill, which turns out to be the easy part. The first downhill slope is so steep that we unhitch the animals and lower the wagons on ropes. We’re lucky to make four miles all day.

We repeat the process the next day and the next. The Missouri men lead the way each morning—first out, first up the slope, first down into camp. Their mules move so much faster than our oxen, and I worry that Jefferson was right, that they’ll leave us behind someday.

I tell myself that I’m glad they’re so far ahead. I hate the way they stare at me now, especially that Jonas Waters.

On the fifth day into the Rockies, the Missouri men are well out of sight by the time we top the first rise. The downward slope is the steepest yet, and mostly gravel, interspersed with dry brush and stunted pines. Peony balks at the path, and I don’t blame her. I don’t know how we’ll get our wagons down safely.

Mr. Joyner and the men all confer, deciding on wagon order. I stand off to the side with the women, too far away to hear what’s being said. I kick at pebbles with the toe of my boot, glaring at them as they skitter away.

Finally, the men gather their ropes and gloves and get to work. They tackle the Robichauds’ wagon first. Though it’s the lightest, it still takes all the men braced together against the ropes to lower it. Reverend Lowrey’s wagon goes next. The men pour sweat, and gravel clatters down the slope ahead of the wheels, but the lowering goes smoothly. The dogs sport around at the bottom of the incline while Olive plays tag with Carl and Otto, as if it’s a holiday and not the most dangerous part of our journey so far.

Mrs. Hoffman and Therese roll two barrels from the back of one wagon and toss a trunk out of the other. The abandoned goods of previous wagon trains litter the slope too: a box stove toppled onto its side, several broken barrels, spare wagon parts, a dressing table with a cracked mirror. Mrs. Joyner runs a finger over the wooden frame of the discarded mirror. I’m suddenly terrified she’ll see everything as a treasure, needing to be rescued.

“You ought to think about doing the same thing,” I say quickly. “That big carved headboard, the table and chairs.”

She looks back and forth between the dressing table and her own wagon. “I . . . We will not live like savages,” she says, but her voice lacks its usual conviction. “It’s up to us to bring civilization to California.”

“They’re just things.”

“It’s Mr. Joyner’s decision.”

I hold back a retort. I never know if she says this because she truly believes it, or if she just wants to end the discussion. I stare after her as she gathers her children and waddles down the steep slope to wait.

The Hoffmans’ wagons bounce down a little faster but reach the bottom safely. As does the college men’s wagon. Morning turns to afternoon. I catch Jefferson staring at his hands. They’ve become raw from the rope sliding through sweat-slippery palms.

“I have an idea!” Therese says. She runs back to her abandoned trunk and lifts out some linens, which she distributes to everyone who has thin gloves or no gloves at all. Jefferson gives her a grateful smile.

The remaining women and children skid to the bottom. I let Major Craven ride Peony down, on the promise that he’ll watch her for me. I remain at the top of the ridge, ready to jump in. Jefferson wipes sweat from his forehead and gives me a nod. But when I look to Mr. Joyner for permission to help, he ignores me.

“C’mon,” he says, clapping his hands. “One more wagon to go. Let’s get this done and get back on the road.” He whips off his gloves to study his hands. Scabs have ripped off, and when he wipes his palms on one of Therese’s linens, they come away bloody.

He re-dons the gloves and lashes the rope around the wagon’s tongue so it can be lowered backward. His hands tremble as he knots it, but his face has a fierce determination I’ve never seen before. This is probably the hardest he’s ever worked in his life.

They push the wagon over the lip of the ridge and let it start rolling. It slips forward and then jerks to a stop, slips and then jerks. Jefferson shoots me a worried look.

Permission be damned. I run to the end of the rope, behind Mr. Hoffman, who’s the biggest member of our group, and loop it around my waist and brace my legs.

The rope slips again and nearly pulls me off my feet.

“We have to slow it down,” Mr. Joyner yells.

Nobody answers. We just grit our teeth and strain as more rope slides through our hands.

Something crashes, splinters apart.

“No!” Mr. Joyner says. The wagon blocks my view, and I don’t dare let go to have a look, but I assume some bit of precious furniture has tumbled from the wagon bed.

“Hold on, hold on,” Mr. Joyner says. “I’m going to push that dresser out of the way so we can keep lowering it.”

“Andrew, no!” Mr. Hoffman yells. I grip the rope with all my strength. My heels start to slide. The veins in Mr. Hoffman’s neck bulge.

Jefferson yells, “Hurry!”

“Be careful, darling!” Mrs. Joyner shouts from the bottom of the slope, but she’s wasting her breath. She might as well tell a dog not to lick up its own mess.

“Almost got it,” Mr. Joyner calls out.