Miranda held on to her seat as the wagon leaned one way then the other and lurched off the rocks. She wondered if there was anything else ahead that could be worse than all the country they had traveled in. The mud mired trail in Kansas and the potholes and gopher mounds in Nebraska were rough going. The chocking desert dust had been terrible. With such low visibility, Miranda couldn't see the scenery. Now she thought her eye teeth would be jarred loose by the wagon's jolt over boulders. The days all became alike. Until one dreadful afternoon when tragedy struck. Little Bobby Lee fell out of the Mast wagon. Sarie Lee screamed for Wilbur to stop. He tried, but it was too late. A front wagon wheel ran over the middle of the four year old. Anselm stopped their wagon, and the men behind them did the same. Everyone came running to see if they could help. Wilbur leap-ed off the wagon and went down on his knees. He scooped Bobby Lee in his arms. Sarie Lee sobbed, and Jefferson Davis was crying.
