“I’m looking for a horse. Well, a horse thief. I expect—”

“Do you mind?” the fine gentleman interrupts. “We are in the middle of a business transaction.”

“Your pardon. It’s just that time is precious—”

“I assure you, there are no horse thieves in Chattanooga. They stay to the back roads.”

“Yes, but—”

“I’d lay odds your thief fled north into Kentucky. That’s the quickest way to lawless lands, where folks like him would feel right at home. Now, please allow me to conclude my affairs.”

“North into Kentucky, eh?” Topper says.

“You a sheriff?” the clerk asks. “A marshal?”

“Naw. Just trying to get in good with the horse’s fancy owner, if you know what I mean.”

“I’m sure I don’t,” the gentleman says.

“Do you have a leaflet?” the clerk asks. “I’d be happy to post it at my door.”

My heart races like a thousand galloping hooves.

“Naw. Never got a good look at the fellow.”

If he doesn’t know I’m the one who took Peony, then he struck off on his own. My uncle didn’t send him. But my relief is short-lived; Abel Topper could describe my horse to anyone, easy as pie.

The gentleman loudly clears his throat.

“Fine!” Topper snaps. “I’m leaving.” Boots tromp away as he mutters something about uppity rich folks under his breath.

“Uncouth fellow,” the clerk says.

“Can’t trust a man with only half his teeth,” the gentleman agrees.

They continue to dicker over supplies, but I pay no attention. I have to get out of here. I have to retrieve Peony from the blacksmith and flee before Abel Topper sees her. And maybe I shouldn’t take the road north like I’d planned. Not if that’s the way Topper aims to go.

“So who’s your captain?” the clerk says.

“Rodney Chisholm.”

“I heard he’s crewing with Fiddle Joe and Red Jack,” the clerk says.

“I don’t know any gentlemen graced by those sobriquets. But perhaps they have Christian names with which I would be more familiar?”

“Perhaps they do,” the clerk says. “But those are the only names I know. Great musicians both, fiddle and guitar.”

“Thank the good Lord you said guitar— I thought I might have to suffer a banjo.”

“Whatever you say. Is this everything?”

“Yes. Put it on my father’s tab and have your boys carry it down to the landing.”

“When do you need it?”

“At once. The river’s high, good for passage over the shoals.”

Free Jim warned me against taking a flatboat, but it might be my best option. If this Andrew Joyner fellow and his family are heading west, maybe I can follow. Or better yet, join up. It’d be a whole heap safer; those brothers would never have robbed me if I’d been traveling in a group, and it’s the last thing my uncle would expect.