A brother and sister struggle to survive a harrowing trip across Death Valley—the most dangerous part of the Mojave Desert and the hottest spot in North America—in this entry in the historical fiction middle grade Survivors series. California, 1849. Jess, Will, and their father are in grave danger, stranded in the Mojave Desert. They’ve gotten separated from the rest of their west-bound party, their now-useless wagon has a broken axle, and Pa is seriously ill from an injury that Will feels is his fault. In a valiant attempt to save their family, Will and Jess set off on foot over the endless sands to find help. Each day of their journey brings a new peril but nothing more frightening than the constant, overpowering thirst that muddles their minds and threatens their very will to survive. With so much at stake, can Will and Jess win their desperate battle with the unrelenting desert? Kathleen Duey (1950–2020) wrote the middle grade American Diaries and Survivors series, as well as the well-reviewed chapter book series The Unicorn’s Secret and its companion series, The Faeries’ Promise. She was also the National Book Award–nominated author of Skin Hunger . She lived in Fallbrook, California. Karen A. Bale grew up in southern California and graduated from the University California Riverside. She has written seventeen historical romances, including the successful seven-book Sweet Medicine’s Prophecy series . She has done freelance work for several years, including helping to write two nonfiction books. Karen still resides in southern California, ten miles from the Pacific Ocean. Death Valley Chapter One Will was tired. He glanced at his father. How much farther were they going to walk? There was no game here. There hadn’t been so much as a rabbit for three days. He shouldered his rifle. “Why don’t we just go back to camp, Pa?” His father turned, tugging his hat brim lower. “Your mother and sister can’t go much longer without meat. Nor Eli, nor Jeb.” “Van Patten’s brindled ox is about to die, anyway, Pa. Jess told me they’re saying they’ll still share—” “I don’t like depending on anyone’s charity, Will.” Will pressed his lips together to keep from saying what was on his mind. If they had stayed in Illinois, if his father’s dreams of California gold hadn’t interfered with his good judgment, they would all be sitting around the hearth, stringing popcorn for the Christmas tree. Outside the windows would be snow on the ground, solid and white. “Over there, Will.” Will followed his father’s gesture. There were sparse clumps of sage growing from the rocky soil. As he stared, Will thought he saw the leaves vibrate. Something was crouched between the stalks, hiding. Will felt his mouth water, imagining rabbit stew. “I’ll get around to the side, Will. I’ll flush it out toward you.” Will nodded without looking away from the wind-beaten sage. His father’s boots ground against the rocky soil. There was no way to move silently here. The howling winter winds had scoured the topsoil, exposing a layer of gravel. “Watch carefully,” Will’s father said quietly. “If it makes a run back this way, call out. Maybe I can get a shot at it.” Will glanced up, then his eyes returned to the sage. His father walked closer, as intent as any mountain lion, knees bent, his rifle half raised. Will said a little prayer and raised his own rifle. They had almost used up the bags of flour and rice they’d bought from the Mormon storekeep in the new little settlement on Salt Lake. Will held the rifle steady, breathing evenly, waiting. Without meaning to, he pictured their old kitchen table, the one they’d left beside the trail a few weeks out of Fort Laramie the first time they had had to lighten the wagon. It felt like their lives were scattered behind them all the way back to Illinois. Most of their furniture was gone; they had traded his mother’s trunk for new iron tires on the wagon wheels. Will glanced at his father—he was slowly advancing on the clump of sage. Will allowed himself to think about what a real supper would be like. He could see it so clearly, smell the inviting scents of his mother’s chicken and dumplings, her fruit pies, steamed sweet corn and yams. His mouth flooded with saliva again. “Will!” He jerked his head up to look at his father. “Is it still in there? Did you see it run?” Will shook his head, pretty sure he hadn’t actually closed his eyes. He was so tired. They hadn’t had enough water for days—or enough food, really, even though the families were sharing meat whenever anyone had to kill one of the oxen. The sage shook suddenly, and Will pulled the hammer all the way back, waiting tensely. Then he settled the rifle snug into his shoulder and aimed at the blur of motion that burst clear a second later. Steady, deliberate, he pulled the trigger. “You got him! He’s a big one,” Will’s father called, holding the rabbit up by one hind leg. Will smiled, tapping powder into his rifle