He grabs it out of my hands, squints at it closely, turns it over. Then he squints at me and my admittedly ragged condition.

“I’ll make you an offer, son,” he says. “You trade me this saddle for one that’s already fixed.”

While I hesitate, he retrieves it from a wooden saddle rack and hands it to me.

It’s plainer than my daddy’s saddle, smaller and worn. But all the straps are new, and it seems sturdy enough.

“That’ll carry you all the way to California, no lie,” he says, and I recoil. How did he know? But no, gold fever is in the air, and he’s only talking in a general way.

“Well. Maybe. I . . .”

“Tell you what, you leave your name, and if you decide to come back this way again, I’ll trade you back my saddle for yours, plus the cost of my supplies and labor.”

“That seems fair.” Not that I ever expect to come back this way again, but knowing I could makes it easier to let go. “My name’s Lee . . .”

“Lee?” he says, scratching it into a ledger.

Jefferson’s last name is the first one that comes to mind. “Lee McCauley.”

“All right Mr. McCauley, it’s a deal.”

I don’t have to spend any money, which makes it a bargain for me. Even so, giving it up leaves me hollow and empty. First Daddy’s rifle, and now his saddle.

“Sir,” I say, remembering one more thing. My remaining coins are going to disappear so fast.

“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.