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diggings.”
    Of course he’d heard. He was with the judge when I told him. He must have thought I hadn’t recognized him.
    “Maybe,” I said.
    “Going to meet him?”
    “Could be.”
    “And he’s done well, I suppose.”
    “I don’t know that for certain,” I replied, not pleased with the drift of his questions.
    “Mr. Early,” he said, “there is much that is uncertain in this world.”
    Any hopes I had that he was not interested in Jesse vanished: his words were a warning.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

    Mr. Mawr
    May 8, 1859
    I T BEING Sunday, we rested—though we really had not gone very far. But the Lord will be served, even going west.
    Mr. Griffin and his son, Peter, played fife and drum, and so we sang some old hymns. Lizzy, for such a tomboyish creature, surprised me with a fine voice. The songs she sang, one of which was “Home Sweet Home,” filled me with affecting thoughts of our farm.
    Had some dried fruit soaked in water as a Sunday treat.
    May 9
    In the morning, we were held up by a strong rain. Mr. Bunderly urged me to join his family as they huddled in the wagon. The rain beat on the canvas as if it were a drum, and there was some leaking. Thunder rumbled near. When lightning came the canvas lit up like a magic lantern. Apollo, Lizzy’s pig, rested his head in her lap and now and again grunted. When he did, Lizzy looked at me, and we struggled to keep from laughing.
    Mr. Bunderly sighed and said, “Laughter, as the poet said, is the soul of youth turned to sound.”
    “Don’t you ever laugh, Mr. Bunderly?” I asked.
    “Mr. Early, consider: I now reside in a wagon with all my earthly possessions, my beloved wife and daughter, and you, Mr. Early—plus a pig. Outside, a deluge. A genuine summation of what my existence—so far—has achieved.” He spoke with such solemnity that Lizzy and I could not hold back our laughter.
    “Miss Eliza!” cried Mrs. Bunderly. “Be a lady!”
    The poor woman spread her misery.
    When the rain cleared, we discovered one team of oxen had strayed, so our start was late. That said, we went six miles, but stopped when we found some old fence posts. I set them to fire while, as usual, Lizzy cooked our dinner: bacon, rice, corn cake, and coffee.
    Eating with the Bunderlys was not like eating with my family. My family talked and argued—at least Jesse and Adam did. And there was no better bread than my mother’s. But at camp, Mrs. Bunderly rarely spoke, save to criticize Lizzy. Their corn cake was heavy. Mr. Bunderly gave long speeches, which made Lizzy roll her eyes or appeal to me with impish looks.
    I missed my family.
    May 10
    We continued on. The slowness of our progress weighed on me. I worried much about Jesse and his predicament. Then I reminded myself that worry would not move me faster. All I could do was keep going. But I could not keep from fretting about Mr. Mawr.
    At one point Lizzy walked by my side, her long skirt dragging in the muddy road, her bonnet, as usual, dangling down her back.
    “Early, you mustn’t be bothered by my mother. She can’t scold her illness, so she scolds me. I try not to mind.”
    “It’s all right,” I said.
    We went on in silence for a bit and then she said, “Early, I so do wish to know why you are going to the diggings.”
    I considered her question, shrugged, and said, “Same as everyone else. To get the gold.”
    “Early,” she said, “by now you should know that I will take pride in keeping your secrets.” She put a hand to her heart as proof.
    I glanced at her sideways. She was looking at me, too. “A shared secret is an honor shared,” she said, trying to make her words solemn. Next moment she sputtered and laughed. “When I talk like Father, I sound thick.”
    I returned her honesty by blurting out, “I’ve an uncle at Cherry Creek.”
    “Does he know you’re coming to him?”
    I shook my head.
    “He get any gold?”
    “Think so.”
    “He going to give you some?”
    “Don’t know.”
    She considered