We sat close to Joshua near one of several fires the group had built in a clearing. The men’s faces glowed from the warmth of the firelight as they chatted and drank. “Do you suppose God notices when men treat their animals bad?” Bart asked me quietly. In the near dark, I shrugged, then stiffened, worried Joshua would hear us, afraid I would not be able to hold back the tears if both of them showed concern. But Joshua was regaling the Irish lads with the story of a mule train that had taken a wrong turn near Sacramento. “Not you,” Bart added. “You didn’t do nothin’ wrong. Not one of us could have saved Sassafras. I mean Emerson.” Mr. Emerson sat at the next fire over, holding forth about this and that and whatnot, as loud and obnoxious as ever. “I hope the Good Lord has sense to notice those who care for beasts and those who don’t,” Bart said. A wave of horror washed over me again, as it had each time I thought about the moment when the rope flew from my hands and Sassafras tumbled to his death.
