By the time the first wagon reached Jawbone Gulch, the light had gone the color of old bruises.
Evening gathered strangely there. It did not descend so much as seep upward from the ravine itself, climbing the shale walls in threads of violet shadow. Sagebrush hissed in the wind. The oxen rolled their eyes white and would not be urged forward.
Brother Elias Morrow stood in the wagon bed with the reins in his fists and told himself beasts were foolish by nature.
“Move,” he snapped.
The oxen lowered their heads, trembling.
