The camp is a trampled mess. The fire pit is wrecked, and ochre bits of broken jug lay scattered about. My saddlebags are gone, and along with them my knife, the roll of extra shirts, my hat, all my food, even my guns.

My throat tightens to think of Daddy’s Hawken rifle. I loved that gun.

The cut end of Peony’s lead is still hitched to a tree, so I undo it and coil it up. That’s one piece of rescued gear.

I explore the clearing, toeing at leaves and mud with my boots. My bedroll is intact, though it’s thoroughly stomped. I start to roll it up and discover the most wonderful surprise underneath: the cap-and-ball revolver, sitting there, nice as you please. I hardly have time to celebrate before I realize the back of my throat itches, making itself known even through my jangled nerves.

Gold.

I drop to my knees and crawl through the leaves, brushing cold ash and half-burned sticks aside, following the pull. I find them lodged under a small log—four coins total; two tens and two fives. Thirty dollars. They must have gotten kicked aside in the scuffle.

My heart pounds. Can I make it all the way to California with a total of forty dollars? Maybe with a bit of luck. I’m Lucky Westfall’s daughter. If anyone can do it, it’s me.

After shoving the coins into my pocket, I continue circling through the trees. I let out a little yelp. My saddle lies lodged against a trunk at the bottom of the hill. They sliced the straps and tossed it, and I suddenly regret cutting the straps to Hiram’s saddle. The harm we do others always comes back around, Daddy used to say.

I skid down and retrieve the saddle, hefting it over my shoulder. Strange that the brothers didn’t take it. It’s beautiful, and worth a decent price, with diamond patterns punched into the well-oiled leather. Daddy liked his tools and said a smart man always bought the best and took good care of them. Peony’s saddle was another tool to him, and he spared no expense.

Making the climb back to camp with a heavy saddle over my shoulder nearly proves too much. My feet keep slipping, and Daddy’s enormous boots are rubbing a painful blister onto my right heel. The pain evaporates with a sudden thought: They never would have left the saddle behind if they’d caught Peony.