It feels awful to leave her in the care of a stranger, even if it’s only a few hours. But once she’s shod, we can gallop right out of here and north to Kentucky, just like Free Jim suggested. In the meantime I’ll work up my courage to get some supplies.

I find the feed store first. My heart is aflutter the whole time, even though all I do is buy a small sack of grain. But the transaction goes smoothly enough that by the time I reach the general store, my nerves have calmed. This time, I remember to remove my hat.

Inside, I head toward an iron rack hung with pots and pans. If I buy a small skillet and some flour, I can make flapjacks. I’d planned to supplement my supplies with hunting, before the brothers stole my Hawken. I’m grateful to have the five-shooter, but I’m not well practiced with a revolver, and I’d be lucky to bag even a rabbit or a squirrel. So, flapjacks it is. Flour weighs a lot, but it won’t cost much, and I can make better time if I don’t have to stop for supplies.

Another customer is already at the counter—a tall, handsome young man with magnificent sideburns and a fine coat. He puffs on a cigar while a clerk peruses a list he just handed over.

The clerk frowns. “These are overland supplies, Andrew. Please tell me you didn’t get the fool notion to go gold hunting.”

“It’s just lying on the ground,” the gentleman says around his cigar, “waiting for a man of action to pick it up. But you have to be an early bird, or it’ll be too late. Just like the gold rush in Georgia.”

I inch closer, ears pricked like a cat’s.

“You’re taking everyone? Mrs. Joyner and the little ones too?”

He nods. “I aim to stay on. A prosperous man in California can live like a king.”

“If he’s prosperous enough, he can live like a king wherever he is. The railroad’ll be bringing a lot of opportunities for a smart fellow with connections in these parts.”

“A smart fellow with connections makes his own opportunities wherever he is.”

The clerk laughs and gives up. They dicker over a few items on the list, like shovels and pans and coffee.

“Excuse me! Sirs!” comes a familiar voice. My mouth goes dry.

I catch the barest glimpse of Abel Topper—ragged hat in hand, left suspender strap busted and dangling at his side—before I melt into the shadowy corner.

“Can I help you?” the clerk asks in an annoyed voice.

Topper is between me and the door. If I tried to sneak out now, he’d see me for sure and certain. I keep my back turned and pretend to study a bolt of canvas.