So when Jefferson says “someone like me,” he means “a stupid, motherless Injun,” which is one of the dumber things people call Jefferson, if you ask me, because he’s the smartest boy I know.

“Daddy will want to go,” I whisper at last. And I want to go too, to be honest. Gold is in my blood, in my breath, even in the flecks of my eyes, and I love it the same way Jefferson’s da loves his moonshine.

But, Lord, I’m weary. Weary of trying to be as good to Daddy as three sons, weary of working as hard as any man, weary of the other girls scorning me. And I’m weary of bearing this troubled soul, of knowing things could go very badly if someone learned about my gold-witching ways. If we moved west, to a place where there was still gold to be had, it would start all over again, harder and more troublesome than before.

Then again, maybe California is a place where a witchy girl like me wouldn’t need an explanation for finding so much gold. Maybe it’s a place where we can finally be rich.

“Da will want to go,” Jefferson says. “But we don’t have enough money to put an outfit together. Look at this.”

He unfolds the newspaper, and the bottom of the article is a list of all the items a family needs to go west: four yoke of oxen, a wagon, a mule, rifles, pistols, five barrels of flour, four hundred pounds of bacon . . .

“That’d cost more than six hundred dollars,” I say.

“For a family of three, like yours. But even one person needs at least two hundred.” He shakes his head. “There’s got to be a different way.”

I know from his tone, as surely as I know Mama’s locket doesn’t contain a lick of brass, that Jefferson wants to go west more than anything. “You’re going to run away,” I say.

“Maybe. I don’t know.” He scuffs his bare foot against the step, sending a wave of sludge over the edge. “I could take the sorrel mare. Hunt my way there. Or work for somebody else, taking care of their stock. It’s just that . . . It’s just . . .”

“Jeff?” I peer close to try to figure him. He has a wide mouth that jumps into a smile faster than lightning. But there’s nothing of smiling on his face right now.

“Remember the year the creek dried up, and we caught fifty tadpoles in the stagnant pool?” he says softly.

“Sure,” I say, though I have no idea why he’d bring it up. “I remember you dropping a handful down my blouse.”

“And I remember you screaming like a baby.”

I punch him in the shoulder.

He jerks backward, staring at me in mock disapproval. “Your punches didn’t used to hurt so much.”

“I like to get better at things.”