“Yes, son?”

“Do you have any saddlebags for sale? Just something small, maybe.”

He gives me another studied look, and I’m suddenly glad to be covered in filth. Hopefully, I look more like a beggar boy than a runaway girl.

He rummages through a pile of leather on his workbench. “Here,” he says, handing me a bag. “I was going to cut this up for scraps, but you might get some use out of it yet.”

I swallow, choked up by his kindness. It’s worn, the leather cracking, but with a good oiling it should last awhile. He grabs a hat from a peg on the wall and plops it onto my head. There’s a small tear in the brim, but it’ll do.

“That makes the set complete,” he says. “Good luck to you, wherever you’re headed.”

“Thank you,” I gulp out, and turn and flee.

Peony regards the new saddle with disdain. I let her give it a good sniff, and she stops fussing when I tighten the buckles.

The portage trail over the mountain is steep and rocky and ugly as sin, because the whole mountainside is stripped of lumber and trampled. There are so many people traveling it that no one gives us a second look, which suits me just fine. The plodding, heavy-laden mules keep everyone at an agonizingly slow pace, and it’s hours before we crest the ridge and start down.

Halfway to the bottom, Peony stumbles. Her gait takes on a slight lurch.

I hop off. People stuck behind me grumble, but they go silent when I pull up Peony’s left front foot and reveal that she’s thrown a shoe, the same one that I thought might have loosened during our scuffle with the brothers.

I check her hoof thoroughly. No cracking or wear that I can see. Still, there’s no galloping in our near future, even if I see Hiram himself striding toward me.

My heart is heavy as I lead her down the awful, rocky trail, every step a slow agony that puts Peony at risk. Another crowded settlement clusters at the bottom, where the railroad starts right back up again. I wander around, looking for a farrier or at least a blacksmith, but there is only a small boardinghouse, a tavern, and a handful of shanties.

As much as I’d love a soft bed and a watertight roof at the boardinghouse, I don’t dare show my face in town, or part with any precious coins, so we make camp in a clump of bare trees. I spend an hour searching for dry wood this time; can’t risk the smoke giving me away again. I check Peony’s feet, cleaning the bare one of excess mud. Finally, I’m warm, and my eyes are heavy with sleep. Still, I lie awake a long time.

I picture that creased map spread across Free Jim’s counter. Getting out of Georgia was always going to be the hardest part, I tell myself. But I’m almost there. I imagine the colored county squares marching all the way to the Mississippi. Maybe I can chop wood, do chores for food, like I did the other morning. There’s got to be a way.

Horses clop by, and I hear bursts of conversation, and once, even though it’s dark, the echoing ring of a hammer and nails. Gold seekers and merchants, tunnel workers and families—people like me—are all only yards away, but it feels like miles.

Peony and I cross into Tennessee and reach Chattanooga by late afternoon the next day. It’s such a pretty place, with a wide sparkling river winding through rolling hills that are stubbornly green, even in winter. It puts me in mind of Jefferson, who always appreciates a pretty view. I hope I’m following in his footsteps; that he traveled this exact road, looked down on this exact bend in the river. He was only three days ahead of me. Maybe I’ll run into him here.

No sense getting my hopes up. This is a mighty big country, and Peony throwing a shoe has put me behind.

Chattanooga is the first town I’ve seen to rival Dahlonega. It’s big enough that folks don’t look twice as we walk by; they just go about their business along the riverbank. The first blacksmith I find has a farrier’s horseshoe hanging over his door. I lead Peony into the stable area and ask a young man with an apprentice’s apron about getting her shod.

“Pretty girl you’ve got here,” he says, checking her over. “A dollar will get you two new shoes. So her front hooves have even wear.”

Five other horses already crowd his stable, waiting to be shod. “I’m in a hurry. I’ll give you two dollars if you do it right away.” I can’t afford two dollars. Neither can I afford another delay.

“Deal. Come back around suppertime.”

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.

“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.”