The general store is a small, cluttered building with a floor made from poorly joined wood planks, all covered with muddy boot prints. I open my mouth to ask the clerk if he’s met anyone named Jefferson McCauley, but words fail me.

A gleaming Hawken rifle is mounted on the wall behind him. It’s Daddy’s. Which means the brothers who robbed me are here in Independence. The scent of rotting forest trash suddenly fills my nose, as if I’m still hiding in that pile of musty leaves.

“Sir? Can I help you?”

My hands are clammy cold, and my legs twitch, as if to run.

Don’t panic, Lee. The brothers could have traded it to someone bound for Independence. They’re probably still plundering the back roads of Georgia or robbing flatboatmen along the river.

“Sir?”

“I . . . How much for that rifle?” I ask, pointing. Maybe it’s not Daddy’s gun. The wood grain is different, the polish a bit worn near the trigger guard.

“Sixty dollars.”

I gasp. “Why so much?”

He shrugs. “People need guns to go west, and they’re willing to pay for ’em. Tell you what. You come back in a week, and if this gun hasn’t sold by then, I’ll let it go for fifty.”

“Sure. Thanks.” I stare at it, thinking of the twenty-four dollars I have left. The gun isn’t Daddy’s; I’m sure of it now. My fright made me stupid.

Even so, I can’t bear to be in this store a moment longer. I ought to pick up some hardtack and a new whetstone for my knife, but I don my hat and turn to go.

“I knew a man who had a gun just like that,” says a voice at my shoulder. A familiar voice.

I whirl, my hand flying to my five-shooter.

A tall Negro grins down at me. Though a graying beard sprouts on his jaw, and his eyes are crinkled with new lines, I recognize him at once. “Free Jim!”

He looks me over. “Well, hello, uh, Mr. . . ?”

“McCauley,” I whisper.

“Mr. McCauley! Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

It’s like God dropped a little piece of home right in front of me, and it’s all I can do to resist throwing my arms around him. Instead, I hold out my hand, which he clasps. “Nice to see you too, Mr. Boisclair.”

“Long way from Dahlonega,” he observes as his eyes continue to search my face.

“I’m not the only one who’s come a long way.” Though it’s only been a couple of months, Free Jim looks as though he’s aged years. A thousand questions dance around in my head. Why did you leave? Where is Jefferson? Is my uncle looking for me? Is he here? I manage, “Rough trip?”

His smile drops away, leaving only fatigue. “Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime.”