I scowl at them. Never once on the wagon train did they show this kind of respect. Either my uncle gave them a dressing-down, or they’re out of their heads because of my dressing up.

“It’s break time for the foremen,” Dilley explains.

Never have I seen a mine with so many foremen. “I thought Abel Topper was foreman,” I say.

“Oh, he’s the foremost foreman,” Dilley says. “Probably down in the Drink with the Induns.”

“The Drink?” Voices sound strange here, fuller and louder.

“One of the tunnels leads to a wet spot. Lots of gold there, but the Induns are up to their knees in it. Speaking of drink, show the boss’s niece some hospitality, lads. A cup of sugar water for her, now.”

The Missouri men fall all over themselves to comply, thrusting their own cups into the barrel and pulling them out dripping. Three are handed to me at once.

I pick the one in the middle, mumbling my thanks. They all stare at me until I take a sip. It’s clear, clean water mixed with a little sugar, is all. Back home, it’s what people drank when they couldn’t afford decent tea, but here in California, it’s as luxurious as an orange.

“This way,” Dilley says. “You can take that with you.” He indicates the cup I’m holding by pointing with his chin.

Some of the others fall in behind us, including the ghostly man, and again my neck prickles that he’s watching me. I remember the way he manhandled me, forced laudanum into my gullet, tossed me up on Peony and tied me down. The prickle on my neck becomes a full-blown shiver.

Enough is enough. I plant my feet and turn on him.

He’s more than a head taller than I am. Taller than Jefferson, taller even than Mr. Hoffman was, and that scar on his pretty lips looks wicked and mean.

“What’s your name?” I demand.

The other men with us exchanged startled glances.

“Uh, that there is Wilhelm,” Frank Dilley says. “He don’t say much. Actually, he don’t say anything. He’s a bit touched, if you ask me, but he’s strong as an ox, loyal as a dog, and mean as a snake.”

Wilhelm. My uncle mentioned a Wilhelm when he said I must be accompanied every time I left the cabin.

“I’d say it was nice to meet you, Wilhelm, but we’ve already met, and it wasn’t nice at all. I don’t appreciate the way you treated me and my friends, and I surely won’t forget it.”

I detect the faintest twitch of his lips before I turn my back on him and address Dilley. “Let’s continue.”

Dilley shrugs, offering his arm again. I take another sip of my sugar water, mostly to keep it from spilling as we walk, and let him lead me down the tunnel slope. My neck doesn’t prickle so much now, but everything else in me starts to vibrate something fierce. It’s just like when a thunderstorm is about to hit, and the air is like a buzzing blanket on your skin. Except this buzzing blanket is buzzing all the way into my insides, and I wonder if it was a disservice to my belly to accept the sugar water.

There’s gold here. So much gold. A mountain of it. My vision starts to blur.

“Lee? You okay?”

It’s Frank’s voice, and it shakes me awake. I stopped cold in the middle of the passageway and didn’t even realize it. This has happened before; gold can make me near senseless, when there’s so much of it. I’ll have to be more careful.

“Fine. Just . . . not used to enclosed spaces.”

“Well, you better get used to it fast. Your uncle wants you paying a visit every day, though I can’t imagine why he thinks it’s a good idea to bring a slip of a girl to a place like this.”

He never said things like that when he thought I was a boy. “This slip of girl can outride and outshoot you any day, Frank Dilley, and you know it.”

“I went easy on you, thinking you just a small slip of a lad who talked funny. Coulda outshot you anytime.”

Frank Dilley is first on the list of faces I’m going to bust before I escape this place.

We’ve reached a fork in the tunnel. One slopes steeper than the other.

“Which do you want to see first?” Dilley asks. “The Drink, or the Joyner?”

“The Joyner? Why’d you name it that?”

“Because it’s rich and stubborn and dry as a—” Someone smacks him on the back. “Uh, it reminded us of that persnickety widow friend of yours.”

“I see.” Even though I don’t. “The Drink first.”

“Down this way.” He gestures toward the steeper tunnel. “Watch your step. It gets slippery.”

He’s right. Water starts leaching up out of the earth, creating a thin layer of gritty mud over slick rock that shimmers in the lantern light. Small strips of lumber have been nailed into the ground, like the ties of a train track. At first I think it’s to keep the miners safe by preventing falls. But when a burro heads our way, pulling a heavy cart, I realize it’s to protect the ore. The wood ties make it less likely for the carts to roll back when the poor animals become exhausted.

We all press against the cold, rocky wall to let the cart by. It’s led by a skinny Indian man who’s as naked as the day he was born. Another pushes the cart from behind, adding his strength to the burro’s. It puts me in mind of the Joyner wagon, on a slope as steep as this one. I think of the way its rope snapped, sending the wagon tumbling, crushing everything in its path, including Becky’s husband. I have to avert my eyes.

In the distance is the unmistakable echo of pickaxes battling hard rock. It’s a mild plink-plink now, but I know from experience the sound will get louder as we get nearer. Back home in Georgia, most of the miners went home at the end of the day with splitting headaches. It’s no wonder so many turned to moonshine.

“We’ll be laying track and getting proper mine carts soon,” Dilley explains. “That’ll take some of the burden off these poor donkeys.”

“These poor Indians, you mean,” I say.

He shrugs. “Same work. To be honest, I prefer the donkeys—they’re less trouble. But Induns are cheaper to come by. All you have to do is grab your guns and head out into the wilderness and round yourself up a big group.”

My jaw drops open. I can’t believe what he just said. But I guess all slavery starts that way, at the wrong end of a gun.

Dilley ignores me. The cart passes, and we continue our descent. The air is stuffy now, thick with dirt and moisture, making breathing difficult. Or maybe it’s Frank Dilley himself who makes it hard. I take a deep breath, just to assure myself that I can.