Jefferson takes a deep breath, opens his mouth into an O, and exhales onto the glass, forming a cloud of fog. With his forefinger, he writes:

 

 

It takes me a second to parse it. Tomorrow. I nod.

He wipes the glass with the side of his fist, then breathes on it again. This time, he writes:

 

 

He repeats the process once more and adds:

 

 

My heart races. Can I do it? Can I sneak out of this cabin right under my uncle’s nose?

He presses his palm to the glass. The work of the day is evident on his skin—tiny cuts filled with dirt, a blister at the base of his thumb.

Slowly I reach up with my hand and place my palm against the glass, too, fitting my fingers inside the outline of his larger ones.

Jefferson gives me a quick grin. He rubs at the window to erase any trace of what just happened, then he ducks away and disappears.

I watch the empty camp for a while to make sure no one saw. A couple of the Chinese tents glow from within, with either candles or lanterns, but everyone else seems fast asleep.

Hiram said they would tie Jefferson up at night. How did he get free? How could he take such an awful risk to come see me?

I slip down onto the bed and sit with my back against the wall, knees to chest. Tomorrow. Midnight. Behind the stable.

The next morning, Mary shows up to make breakfast. One of her sleeves is torn, and a dark bruise swells along her left cheekbone. I know a hitting bruise when I see one; Jefferson used to have them all the time. I try to meet her eye, to gauge whether or not she’s all right, but she ignores me.

Uncle Hiram doesn’t seem to notice. He eats his scrambled eggs slowly, his gaze distant as if his thoughts are far away. I hate to admit it, but my uncle is a fine-looking man. Finer looking than my daddy, though he shows nothing of Daddy’s warmth or kindness or joy. He’s better groomed, too, with a close-shaved jaw and hair neatly parted and slicked.

Mary comes to remove our dishes from the table, which is when I finally gather the gumption to say to my uncle what’s on my mind.

“Frank Dilley killed a man yesterday.”

It might be my imagination, but Mary’s step stutters a little before she bends to scrape the dishes.

“Yes,” Hiram says casually. “I heard.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin.

I gape at him. “Well, aren’t you going to do something about it?”

My uncle folds the napkin neatly and places it on the table before him. “I already have.”

“Oh?”

“I gave Frank a stern talking-to about being more careful. Topper tells me that Indian was well respected among the savages. A leader of sorts. He’s not the one I work with, an Indian by the name of Muskrat. But the other savages looked up to him almost as much. Frank should have made an example of someone different.”

I blink, trying to sort out what he just said. It’s like we’re having two different conversations. I might as well have asked, “Will you mend the back fence?” only to have him answer, “Sure, I’ll fetch you a cup of water.”

“Who’s Muskrat, exactly?” I ask, remembering the man at the mine who wouldn’t let himself be pushed around.

“He spent a few years in one of the Spanish missions. Got himself half civilized. Speaks English and Spanish as well as that savage gibberish, so he works as an interpreter for the foremen. I don’t think Muskrat is his real name.”

“It isn’t?”

“They don’t reveal their true names to Christians. He’s been a useful creature, though.”

“Will he be in charge of burying the man Frank Dilley killed?” I don’t know much about Indian customs, but maybe I should go and pay my respects.

“There won’t be any burial,” Hiram assures me. “We’ll bring in the Indian’s head and collect the bounty, then we’ll fetch ourselves another.”

“Wait . . . bounty?”

“Don’t worry. None of my men will go killing Indians just to collect that bounty themselves. I pay them too well.”

“And the Indians? You pay them, too?”

“They’re generously compensated with food and shelter and a chance to turn from their heathen ways and embrace the truth of our Lord. Speaking of which, Reverend Lowrey will be paying us a visit soon. He travels a circuit through the nearby camps, preaching. It’s a nice break for my men.”

I wouldn’t mind if I never saw that uppity preacher again.

“And the Chinese? Do you pay them? I’ve never seen a group of folks work so well together.”

“They get protection and rations like everyone else. On their own time, they’re allowed to conduct trade with other members of camp. Some of them are making a tidy profit.”

Mary’s work at the washtub has ceased, but just as we’re noticing the silence, it starts up again with a splash and clatter of dishes.

“That Indian did nothing wrong, Uncle Hiram,” I say, trying to bring the conversation back to where I intended. “And Frank Dilley is a murderer.”

“You’re so softhearted, just like your mother.” He bestows a fond smile. “It’s a fine quality in a young lady.”

My heart feels the opposite of soft. It feels like a hard, mean, red-hot coal.

He continues, “It’s a complicated moral question, sure, and I don’t think your education and gender are quite up to the task of understanding the debate’s finer points. But trust me, sweet pea. It’s not murder to kill an Indian.”

I don’t pretend to have a lot of book learning, but everything he’s saying is as wrong as a fish in a tree. “I don’t think you’re listening—”

“Today I want you in the upper tunnel,” he says, scooting his stool back. He rises to his feet and looks down at me. “We’ve lost the vein, and we’ve hit bedrock or granite or something going forward. It will save us a lot of time and expense if you . . .” He glances at Mary. “If you offer an opinion on where the gold is most like to be. Being a miner’s daughter and all.”

Mary is scrubbing at the dishes so hard I fear her fingers will fall off.

“I’ll do my best, sir. I don’t mind telling you, though, that I’d find it a real inspiration to know the Indians were treated better.”

Hiram dons his hat. “I’ll see to it that everyone gets an extra ration of wheat tonight, how’s that?”