Dedication

For Martha Mihalick, editrix extraordinaire

Dramatis Personae

IN DAHLONEGA, GEORGIA

The Westfalls

Reuben “Lucky” Westfall, a gold prospector

Elizabeth Westfall, his wife

Leah “Lee” Westfall, their fifteen-year-old daughter

Hiram Westfall, Reuben’s brother

The McCauleys

Mr. McCauley, a gold prospector from Ireland

Jefferson McCauley, his sixteen-year-old son

The Smiths

Judge Smith, Lumpkin County judge and landowner

Mrs. Smith, his wife

Annabelle Smith, their sixteen-year-old daughter

Jeannie Smith, their slave

James “Free Jim” Boisclair, a storeowner

Abel Topper, unemployed mine foreman

TO INDEPENDENCE, MISSOURI

The Brothers

Zeke Tackett

Emmett Tackett

Ronnie Tackett

The Flatboat Crew

Captain Rodney Chisholm

Fiddle Joe

Red Jack

The Joyners

Andrew Joyner, a gentleman

Rebekah “Becky” Joyner, his wife

Olive Joyner, their six-year-old daughter

Andrew Joyner Jr., their four-year-old son

Matilda “Aunt Tildy” Dudley, their cook

THE WAGON TRAIN

From Missouri

Frank Dilley, leader of twenty wagons of Missouri men

Jonas Waters, Frank Dilley’s foreman

From Arkansas

Major Wally Craven, the wagon train guide

Josiah Bledsoe, a sheep farmer with ten wagons

Hampton, Mr. Bledsoe’s slave

The Illinois College Men

Jasper Clapp, studied medicine

Thomas Bigler, studied law

Henry Meek, studied literature

From Ottawa Valley

Charles Robichaud, a ranch hand

Lucie Robichaud, his wife

Jeremy and Samuel, their five-year-old twin sons

From Kentucky

Reverend Ernest Lowrey, a Presbyterian pastor

Mary Lowrey, his wife

From Ohio

Herman Hoffman, a farmer from Germany

Helma Hoffman, his wife

Therese, their fifteen-year-old daughter

Martin, their thirteen-year-old son

Luther, their twelve-year-old son

Otto, their nine-year-old son

Carl, their eight-year-old son

Doreen, their five-year-old daughter

Map

JANUARY 1849

Chapter One

I hear the deer before I see him, though he makes less noise than a squirrel—the gentle crunch of snow, a snapping twig, the soft whuff as he roots around for dead grass. I can hardly believe my luck.

As quietly as falling snow, I raise the butt of my daddy’s Hawken rifle to my shoulder and peer down the muzzle. A crisscross of branches narrows my view. The deer must be allowed to wander into my sights, but that’s all right. I am patient. I am a ghost.

I’ve tucked myself into a deadfall, the result of an ancient, dying oak looming above me. Snow fills the cracks between branches, creating a barrier to the wind. I can barely see out, but I’m almost warm. The snow around me clinks and tinkles like bells, melting in the early morning warm snap. The hem of my skirt and the petticoats underneath are ragged and soaked. If the girls at school saw me now, I’d hear no end of it, but it doesn’t matter. We have to eat.

Which means I have to make this shot. If only I could conjure up fresh game whenever we needed. Now that would be a useful magic.