“Leah Westfall,” he says as I enter. He stands behind a counter painted bright white. Beside him is a glass jar full of hard candy, a large scale for weighing dry goods, a smaller scale for weighing gold, and—new to my eye—a half-dozen large pickaxes. The shelves behind him are filled with pairs of boots; some new, some not. “What can I help you with?” he asks.

Gold pricks at my throat. He’s got dust lying around somewhere, in addition to coins from the mint. “Hello, Free Jim. Uncle Hiram wants me to sell two of our horses. A matched pair. Know anyone in the market?”

“The colts, right? The ones Reuben broke?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And now your uncle wants them gone.”

“Yes, sir.”

He studies me close, rubbing at his jaw. Softly, he says, “That Hiram Westfall owns you right proper now, doesn’t he?”

His words give my belly a squirm. Too loudly, I say, “Seems like everyone around here is making plans to head west.”

“Indeed. The sooner you get to a gold field, the better you’ll do. Folks in this town remember that.”

Free Jim glances around the store, but we’re alone. Everyone is outside listening to the speech. He says, “McCauley was asking around town after his boy. Seems to think his son ran off to Savannah, hoping to catch a boat and sail halfway round the world. Don’t suppose you know anything about that.”

I pretend to misunderstand. “Mr. McCauley spoke to me at the funeral, said the same thing.”

“Might have been a mistake for Jefferson to go.”

I step toward the counter, getting right in his face. “You know he has reasons to strike out for himself.”

He holds up his hands. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what?”

He considers me, as if deciding something.

Free Jim reaches beneath the counter and pulls out an old farmer’s almanac, the kind Daddy always kept lying around for easy reference. He opens the cover, revealing a square of thick folded paper tucked inside. He unfolds the square and spreads it out. “This is Mitchell’s Reference and Distance Map, the 1846 edition, with an inset for Texas, California, and Oregon.”

I peer at it. “Oh?”

“We’re right here.” A large blunt finger drops onto the section labeled “Georgia.” The states are marked in bold outline, each one filled with brightly colored counties. His voice drops to a whisper. “Now, when someone leaves Georgia, and they don’t want anyone finding them . . .”

His voice trails off. I swallow a lump in my throat. “Like Jefferson, you mean.”

“Sure, like Jefferson.” His fingertip traces across Georgia to the ocean. “Say the rumors are true and Jefferson is going to Savannah. That’s trying to get to California all in one jump. A temptation, to be sure. But he’ll have to wait there to find passage, and waiting somewhere is asking to get caught. Even if he does find passage, the ships will have records. Passenger manifests that anyone could look at.”

“How should he do it?” My next words are timid. “Head for Independence?”

“Sure.” The map keeps trying to fold back up. Free Jim grabs a boot from the shelf behind him and plunks it on the counter to hold down the edge. “If Jefferson is smart, and I reckon he is, then he should consider his journey in stages. The first thing is to get to Chattanooga. There’s only one road across the mountains. Now, let’s say somebody’s looking for him.”

“Like . . . his da.”

“Like his da. Any store or tavern or farm he stops in, people might recognize him. So he’s got to camp out. But the local pattyrollers know all the places to hide. So the faster he gets away from here, the better.” He pauses, leans forward. “The most dangerous part of the journey is close to home.”

Daddy always said the slave patrols were little better than bandits. For the right price, they’re happy to go after just about anybody, and Uncle Hiram wouldn’t think twice about sending them after me. I bend over the map, memorizing the towns on the way to Chattanooga—Prince Edward, Ellijay, Dalton.

Jim slides his finger westward over the mountains. “Let’s say Jefferson makes it to Chattanooga. From there he’s got two choices: He can go overland, through Kentucky and to the Ohio River. Or he can get on a flatboat or steamer and ride down the Tennessee River.”

“Which is better?”

“He should go by land. He can keep moving, not get tied down where someone might catch him. It’s hard to run when you’re on a boat, unless you can walk on water like our Lord.”

I choke on a laugh.

Free Jim’s return smile quickly fades as he indicates a twisting blue line that cuts the map in half.

“The Mississippi River?” I ask. It looks huge. Even on paper.

“Yep. Everyone going west must cross the Mississippi eventually. By ferry or steamer.”

“Is that . . . expensive?”

He nods. “The steamer surely is. And bound to get more expensive every month. By this time next year, fares will be double, at least. But once the river is crossed, Independence is just a state away.”

I study the roads that lead from Chattanooga, but there are too many places to remember. As long as I go north and west, I’ll get there.

Jim spreads his hands on the map, one thumb on Dahlonega and the other on Independence. “If Jefferson’s all alone for this part of the journey, he’ll need to be full of care. You understand me?”

“I understand.”

“But if he reaches Independence and joins a wagon train, the guides will take him the rest of way.”

“So, the wagon journey is the easy part,” I say.

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t say that.”

I fall back on my heels, shoulders slumping. The country is bigger than I thought it was, and I’m going to need more money than I realized.

Chapter Eight

The bell on the door chimes. Free Jim quickly folds the map, stuffs it inside the almanac, and slides it under his counter. A fellow I don’t recognize crosses the threshold and goes straight for the gold mining tools.

“I’ll throw in the wagon too,” I say, as though we’ve been haggling this whole time. “Hiram wants them all gone to make room for his own team.”

“So you’re saying I can get a bargain.”

“I’m saying you can get a fair price.”

“I’d be happy to take them off your hands,” he says. “But I’ll have to stable them at the hotel until I find a buyer, so the best I can offer is seventy-five each. Ninety if you throw in the wagon.”

“They’re a matched driving team and saddle-broke to boot!” The man perusing mining equipment glances our way. I force calm into my voice. “Worth at least two hundred and forty for the pair.”

Free Jim leans forward, resting his arms on the counter. His voice is so low I must strain to hear: “I don’t keep much money on hand. Man like me has no place to put it.”

It’s a split second before I realize he’s talking about the bank. They won’t open an account for a Negro.

“So I mostly trade in goods and store credit, understand? If you want to hear the jangle of gold eagles, and I suspect you do, you’ll have to let it all go for one hundred and eighty dollars, and I’ll be doing that as a favor to your late father.”