Not a minute later, a whistle shrieks and a column of dark smoke rises above the trees. It moves closer, picking up speed until the column stretches long, like reins trailing a runaway horse.

“Is that the train?” I ask.

“Well, it sure ain’t a steamboat,” he says with a wink. “It’ll be there when you get into town. You should take a gander.”

“I’ll do that, sir.”

“It’s going to change everything!” he says. “Once that tunnel’s done.”

“That’s what my daddy always says.” Said. That’s what my daddy said.

Sure enough, an hour later I steer Peony into Dalton and discover that the town’s main feature is the train.

I stare agape. It’s a metal behemoth, bigger than any machine I’ve seen or imagined. It makes me glad I’m not an iron scryer, if such a thing exists, because if it set off my witchy powers, it would leave me dead senseless for a day.

When the train chugs away from the station, Peony and I set out on the Chattanooga road, which follows parallel to the now-empty tracks. I imagine how fast we could get to California if a train headed that way. It might only take weeks instead of months. Truth be told, I’m not sure it’s safe to ride in something so huge and fast.

I’m a mile north of town when horses clop up behind me. I’ve been swift, passing lots of folks on the road. But no one has been passing me. I glance back, just quick enough to mark three riders—men in thick beards, weathered coats, and slouched hats.

They gain on me slowly. The first comes up on my right and gives me a friendly nod. The second fellow pulls even on my left. The third rider closes in at my rear.

Peony’s ears go back.

They have a rangy look about them, with sun-blasted skin and unkempt hair. But their guns are shiny and new.

The one beside me grins, and I feel like a deer in his sights. “Howdy,” he says.

“Howdy,” I say with forced cheer.

“Saw you at the station in Dalton. That train is something else, ain’t it?”

“Never seen anything like it,” I say, because it seems like a safe thing.

“Ever seen those steamboats on the Mississippi?”

“Never been to the Mississippi.”

He whistles. “They’re a sight too, blowing out a cloud of smoke and running down the water like a thousand horses. We’re headed that way. Go down to the Mississippi every winter. Where you headed?”

“North to see some cousins.”

“Whereabouts? If it’s around here, me and my brothers probably know ’em.”

“Oh, I don’t think you would. They’re up close to Chattanooga.”

His eyes narrow. “Know pretty much everybody around those parts. Ain’t that so, Ronnie?”