I close my eyes and stretch my gold sense out to its limits. The hidden treasure in the Hoffmans’ wagon shines like daylight, and Major Craven’s cuff buttons tickle the back of my throat. But the familiar tug of Mama’s locket is definitely nowhere near. “We need search parties,” I say, opening my eyes. “In case he wandered away. I’m going out with whoever wants to go with me.”

Frank shares a meaningful glance with another fellow. “We know where he is,” he says.

“Where?” cries Mrs. Joyner.

“The Indians were eyeing him and his pretty blond hair. They wanted that boy of yours. We find the Indians, we’ll find your son.”

“We don’t know that,” I say.

“Well, you look wherever you want,” Franks says. “We’ll be the ones to find him.” He and several others grab their powder horns and start loading.

The Indians didn’t take Andy. We passed them on our way back from hunting buffalo, and I didn’t sense the locket once. But there’s no way I’m saying so to Frank Dilley, a man who raised a shotgun to his own leader just for getting hurt. How much worse would it be for me if he found out I had witchy powers?

I grit my teeth as I watch the Missouri men ride out in a pointless pursuit. Jasper must stay behind and tend to Major Craven. That leaves me, Jefferson, Mr. Hoffman, Mr. Robichaud, Tom, and Henry to search. I ask Jefferson, “Think Nugget or Coney could track him?”

“With all the people and animals that have muddled through here, they’d be lucky to track him if they could see him.”

He’s right. “So we spread out and think like a little boy and try to figure out which way he went.”

“We need a signal,” Mr. Robichaud says. “If anyone finds him, fire two shots into the air.”

We all agree, and we split up and spread out from camp.

The land grows shadowed with dusk. Tiny bugs rise from the grass, fogging my path, while frogs chirrup endlessly. My throat is hoarse from shouting Andy’s name, but there has been no sign of the boy, not even the faintest tickle of gold sense.

A gunshot rings out from the direction of camp. In its echoing aftermath, I can’t tell if another shot follows. I turn Peony around and breeze her all the way back.

The campfires are burning bright when I arrive. I dismount and walk Peony between wagons into the circle. Everyone else is there—Frank and his men, Tom and Henry, Mr. Robichaud, Mr. Hoffman and his two oldest sons, Jefferson.

“Who found him?” I ask. “Where was he?”

Jefferson shakes his head. “No one found him.”

“I heard a gunshot.”

“Rattlesnake.”

“Is anyone bit?” My heart will burst if one more person gets hurt today.

Jefferson’s face is grave.

“Who? Who was it?”