They found him at the pass — or rather, he found them.
The column had been climbing for the last hour, horses wheezing, wagons crawling like beetles up a tilted board. Ahead — a line of sky between summits, meaning the ascent was ending. Fifty more steps. Thirty. Ten.
And there, on the very crest, silhouetted against the sky, sat a man.
He sat on a rock as if he'd been waiting for them. A long fringed leather jacket. A coonskin cap. A rifle across his knees — long, thin-barreled, a Kentucky long rifle. Beside him — a dog: lean, red, with a torn ear.
Beiler stopped the column and walked ahead alone.
"Good day," he said in English with a heavy German accent. "We are going to Ohio."
The man looked at him, then at the column — seven wagons, horses, cows, sheep, children, women in bonnets.
"I see. Amish?"
"Ja."
"First time through the mountains?"
"Ja."
The man stood. He was short — half a head below Beiler — but broad, with hands that looked like they could bend a horseshoe.
"Tom Kincaid. Live here. Sixteen years."
Kincaid knew what Beiler's map did not.
"Your trail through Laurel Ridge — forget it. The bridge over the Conemaugh washed out three weeks ago. The creek became a river. You won't get through."
"Another way?" asked Beiler.
"There is. Over Chestnut Ridge, then south to Uniontown, then west on the National Road. Three days longer. But a road, not a trail. Your wagons will make it."
He pulled a piece of birch bark from inside his jacket and a charcoal stub. Drew quickly — lines, crosses, arrows. Here a creek — safe to drink. Here a spring — clean, cold. Here a clearing — good camp. Here a cliff — careful with wagons. Here an Indian marker — stones stacked in a column, means the trail is right.
"Indians?" asked Moses, and in his voice Jakob heard fear.
Kincaid looked at him.
"Lenape. Delaware. They're heading west — same as you. Ten years ago there were many here. Now — remnants. If you meet them, don't be afraid. Offer food. They're hungry. Like you."
Beiler offered Kincaid supper. He declined — politely but firmly.
"I have my own business. But this: in two days, descending Chestnut Ridge, there'll be a fork. Left trail is shorter but through swamp. Right is longer but solid ground. With wagons — right only. Remember."
"Thank you," said Beiler. "Why are you helping us?"
Kincaid looked at the children, the women, the wagons.
"Because I've seen those who didn't make it. Three years ago a family from Maryland took Laurel Ridge in October. Found them in December. Frozen. Four of them. Youngest was two."
He fell silent. Stroked his dog.
"Take the right trail."
And left. The dog followed. Within a minute the forest swallowed them both, as if they had never existed.
They met the Lenape the next day.
Three — a man, a woman, a boy about ten. They sat by a dead fire on a clearing the trail crossed. The man was sick — fever, wet cough, sweaty temples. The woman sat beside him, holding the boy. Their belongings — a deerskin bundle, an axe, a knife — lay at their feet.
The column stopped.
"What do they want?" asked Moses.
"Nothing," said Beiler. "They're simply here."
Rachel climbed down from the wagon. Jakob wanted to stop her but didn't make it — and honestly wouldn't have. She walked to the Lenape woman and offered her a flatbread. The woman looked at Rachel — long, carefully — and took it.
Then Rachel returned to the wagon, took out a jar of elderberry syrup — their cold remedy supply — and brought it to the sick man. Gestured: drink, three times a day.
The Lenape man looked at her from beneath feverish lids and silently nodded.
The woman removed a string of beads from her neck — blue, red, white — and held it out to Rachel. Rachel shook her head. The woman insisted. Rachel took it.
The column moved on. Rachel sat in the wagon, holding the beads in her fist, and was silent.
"Why did you give away the elderberry syrup?" Jakob asked. Not angrily — curiously. The syrup was valuable. They might get sick themselves.
"Because he is sick now," Rachel said. "And we are not."
That was all the logic. Simple, like Amish faith. Simple, like bread.