Page 50 of Caroline’s Compass

“This party contains a dangerous concentration of authority,” Thomas said.

“You may remain here,” Caroline replied.

He mounted at once. The company laughed while the four riders finished their preparations. Beyond the first ridge, the joking would give way to careful measurements and the broken evidence left by those who had chosen the road before them.

Nathaniel approved the change. “Stay together. Mark your turns. If you are not back by midafternoon, I send riders.”

“We will be back by noon,” Thomas said.

Caroline mounted beside him. “That sounded like a promise made to annoy Providence.”

“It was an estimate.”

“Providence may not distinguish.”

Rebecca snorted and led them onto the cutoff.

The first mile encouraged every foolish hope printed on the notice. The road crossed open grass on firm ground, and the slope remained gentle enough for loaded wagons. Thomas measured the grade with his level while Caroline studied the width between cottonwoods. Mr. Hall tied strips of faded cloth to branches so they could find their way back even if the morning haze thickened.

At the second mile, the ruts deepened. At the third, the land narrowed into a shallow ravine.

Thomas unfolded the copied notice. “There should be a stone marker near a double-trunked elm.”

They found the elm. They did not find the stone.

A raw bank of mud stood where the road should have crossed the ravine. Spring water had chewed through the slope, carrying brush, soil, and anything resembling a marker into the bottom.

Mr. Hall dismounted. “Perhaps the stone moved.”

Rebecca looked down at the flood debris. “To Nebraska.”

Thomas paced the edge, taking measurements. Caroline walked farther along the bank, searching for a slope broad enough to turn twelve wagons if the road failed ahead. New grass covered most of the ground, but broken stems showed where a heavy load had passed.

“Here,” she called.

A wheel rut ended beside a scarred cottonwood. Beneath the grass lay a splintered length of axle, weathered only at the edges.

Mr. Hall picked it up. “Someone tried to turn.”

“And failed,” Caroline said.

Thomas joined them and studied the marks. “They backed the wagon twice. The downhill wheel slid, and the axle struck the tree.”

“Could they have continued?”

“Perhaps after unloading.”

Caroline looked along the washed bank. Twelve wagons could descend if men cut a broader approach, laid brush over the wet soil, and controlled each vehicle with ropes. The work would take most of a day. If rain returned, the road might fail beneath the rear wagons.

Thomas climbed the ridge to examine the route beyond. Caroline watched him move among the trees, then forced herself to study grazing instead. Courtship, she had discovered, did not improve a man's balance or make looking at him useful.

He returned with mud on one knee. “Beyond the ravine, the road is passable for at least two miles. This is the worst ground.”

“That is not the same as safe.”

“No.” He drew the approach in his notebook. “With twenty men, axes, and two hours of brush work, we could make it safe enough.”

“For the first wagon.”