The driver leaned over and handed Miss Summerton her valise, as she referred to it. Once she had it clutched tightly, she spun on her heel and headed off, with not a word to any of us.

Mr. Starch took his two pieces of luggage from the driver, then set them down at his feet. He turned to face us.

“The best of luck to both of you gentlemen.” He offered his hand to me, and I shook it, trying not to recoil, since it was now cold and clammy. Just like before, though, Mr. Starch refused to offer his hand to Lao Jian, who was preoccupied with studying the surroundings: the hustle and bustle of people out wandering the streets on foot, horseback, and in wagons; the children running in packs; shoppers haggling over the prices of goods.

After Mr. Starch freed my hand, he thanked the driver. This was met with silence. Mr. Starch heaved a sigh, picked up his luggage, and headed off into the crowd.

I turned to Lao Jian. “I’ve not eaten in a spell, and I’m famished.”

He nodded. “Yes. I am also… famished.”

“I reckon I’m going to…well, I’m in no condition to sit down in a restaurant, in a way that would make my Ma proud, but I’m willing to give it a try. They must have panners come in all the time, who…” I trailed off. “Listen, I’ve a feeling you’ll refuse me, but can I buy you a meal?”

Lao Jian seemed to be weighing it in his mind. I felt this was progress. At least he didn’t come right out and say no.

Any answer he might have given was interrupted when a kid came up from behind and yanked on Lao Jian’s queue.

“Chinaman, Chinaman, go back home! The emperor misses your shiny dome!”

I reached out and swatted the kid on the shoulder. He laughed as he ran to join his friends on the corner. The group of them sprinted away.

Lao Jian did his best to keep his face plain and straight, showing no anger or sadness. But I could tell he wasn’t having an easy time of it.

“Lao Jian, I—”

“I should go. It was an honor to meet you.” He looked over his shoulder, studying the layout of the street.

“Lao Jian, wait. Don’t let those—”

“What do you want from me?” he said, turning back to face me.

“I don’t want anything from you. What makes you think that? I don’t get why you’re so stubborn about people helping you. Back up on that mountain…you helped me…helped with the…” I couldn’t bring myself to utter the word “grave” and I didn’t want to bring up Breandan or my earlier fit of crying, and the way in which Lao Jian had comforted me. I was afraid all that would push him away even faster.

Lao Jian seemed to be searching for words again. Finally, after a fashion, he spoke. “If you are staying here, in town, I’d like…very much to meet you tomorrow.”

I hadn’t yet given thought to finding a room, since my first priority was filling my stomach. But after, I would need a bath, some fresh clothes, and a bed. I’d have to calculate my financial state, but minus the fourteen dollars for the coach, I had…twenty-eight dollars. A fair enough sum, at least to tide me over before I figured out my strategy.

“I’d be happy to meet you tomorrow,” I told him. “But in the meantime, where will you go?”

“To be with my people,” he said. “It’s better for me.”

“And I can’t convince you to have a meal with me?”

Off in the distance I heard children chanting and laughing. Lao Jian tensed as he looked over my shoulder, scanning the street and the storefronts. I think I understood his situation. The fear that those pesky brats might not be able to resist coming back at him.

“Okay,” I said. “We could meet…right here. At say, noon tomorrow?” I hadn’t any idea what this meeting might entail, but I was happy about the prospect, because…I wasn’t ready to say a final goodbye yet. I was gaining a fondness for Lao Jian that I couldn’t explain. He intrigued me.

“Noon. Yes.”

I stuck out my hand. He hesitated at first. After a few seconds, he gave in and accepted it. I grasped his hand tightly, cupping it with both of mine. I held it there, warm and secure, as I searched his eyes. I had an experience in that instant, one I had longed would transpire with Breandan. Something I can’t truly explain. It was simply that when Lao Jian returned my gaze, my stomach felt a sort of tickling the way it did when the stagecoach sailed over a bump. And my heart beat faster, a different beat than after a long spell of running or a sudden case of panic.

I liked the feeling.

I liked it as strongly as I feared it.

*   *   *

There was one piece of advice Ma had instilled in me since I was young: sweep out the bad thoughts and usher in the good. Sure sounded simple enough, but it hardly ever worked for me.

I tried often enough. I tried now as I sat in the corner table of the hotel restaurant. The place was fancier than I planned; I wasn’t about to eat the stale fare from the saloon across the street, though given my appearance I’d have been a better fit hanging out with the ruffians in that musty hole. I surely didn’t much care for the way the other patrons looked down on me at this establishment as I walked to the table. I knew I was a sight, and that I smelled to high heaven. Wasn’t like this place could claim to be the fanciest in town, and surely I hadn’t been the first diner to look such a mess.

Likely if I wasn’t so out of sorts and tired I’d have been able to ignore all the hushed whispers and side-eyes. But they wore on me. Just as the disastrous end of my gold-finding expedition ground me down. And I had to admit that I was worried about Lao Jian. There was so much I wanted to know about him. When did he come over from the Celestial Kingdom? Did he have kin back there? Was he planning to stay in America? Where did he live before he and his uncle decided to head up the mountain to pan? What made him so hard to figure, his moods and his intentions? Was he hiding his sorrow about his uncle’s fate on the mountain?

I mulled all this so deeply that I jumped when the waiter brought over my bowl of beef stew. My face grew warm and red from embarrassment. I stared down at the stew, so as to avoid the waiter’s eyes. The meat floating around in the lumpy brown gravy seemed far too gristly for the price these crooks were charging me.

“The menu says a biscuit accompanies all soups and stews. Isn’t that right?” I asked this stick insect, who looked like he could use a good meal himself. His burly mustache bunched up as chewed on his lip. Doubtless he wanted to cuff me. It didn’t sit right with me, though, being robbed of food that was due me. If I wanted such inferior service, I would have gone across the street after all!

I stared out the window, at the saloon, at a rowdy bunch rotating in and out the door, the lot of them inebriated though it was only early afternoon. When the waiter returned and slammed down a biscuit that resembled a charred rock, I ignored the affront and went back to staring out the window. I noticed a man heading along the muddied street. A pole was slung over his shoulders, and two woven baskets were suspended from each end of the pole.

The man wore a derby and dark pants. I knew he was Chinese, even though he was a distance away, because he sported a cream-colored smock. As he drew nearer, I saw that the baskets were filled with vegetables: green beans, cabbage, spinach, and carrots. He paused near the front of the restaurant. One of the waiters, who was leaning against a porch rail as he rolled up some tobacco, chased the man away.

I wondered if by any chance he’d encountered Lao Jian.

*   *   *

At a dollar twenty-five a day, meals included, Mrs. Hayes’s Rooming House was the best deal in town, from my perspective.

Mrs. Hayes greeted me the nicest, too. I didn’t much care for staying at the Oak Tree Inn after the proprietor asked if I was the short, sass-filled gunslinger who’d just arrived into town with a Celestial, with whom I appeared to be in league, whatever that referred to. Word seemed to spread fast in Truckee. And I was dead certain the gossip started either with Mr. Starch or Miss Summerton. Wouldn’t doubt that the both of them were guilty of wagging their tongues.

“This here’s your room,” Mrs. Hayes said. “I put you up with Mr. Krozen.”

Mrs. Hayes likely was used to miners, railroaders, and other sorts staying with her, on account of she made no mention of my scruffy appearance and lack of traveling gear. Just seemed her place was decorated far too fancy to accommodate our lot.

“Dinner at six. Breakfast at six. Cash in advance. No women in the rooms.”

I handed her a treasury note and four bits.

“I’ll get your change straight away.”

“Can you direct me to the fairest general store in town? One dealing in clothing goods?” I felt that my soiled rags were beginning to take on a life of their own.

“You’ll want Jake Carter and Sons, over on Front Street. You fixing to bathe first or after?”

She asked the question in a tone I could hear Ma using, making it clear I should probably bathe prior to visiting the establishment, though it meant putting my dirt-and-sweat-stained garments right back on after my cleansing soak, which made precious little sense to me. Still, “I’m guessing before.”

“I’ll prepare the hot water for you. Extra twenty cents for the bath.”

“You can take it out of my change.”

*   *   *

The bathwater was tepid and soothing. Once my blistered feet ceased stinging, and my back settled in to the wood’s rough surface, I closed my eyes and succumbed to a restful and relaxed state that had been denied me for a long time.

Alone as I was, in this small bathing room, a dark curtain covering the window, I felt I was back home, sneaking away to the necessary to partake in…private activities. It’s not that I hadn’t done such things in my tent, up on that cold mountain. Here, however, engulfed in the warm, soapy water, my limbs loose and slack, a single part of me became stiff without my having to coax it. I liked touching it when it was slick and wet. It gave me more of a tingly feeling than ordinary. Mind you, it wasn’t without some guilt and shame, doing such a thing in someone else’s premises, but I felt so horned up. Oft times a few quick, powerful tugs did the deed. Other times I had a theater show play out in my head.

 There was our blacksmith back near Sacramento. He performed his work frequently without wearing his shirt. I imagined what it might feel like were he to wrap his arms around me, his skin glistening with sweat, his muscles all bulged. Seemed to me that when I brought Paul Revere in for shoeing, he smiled and joked with me more than he did with other patrons. Many times I thought he eyed me the way he did because of my lack of height, as if he found me humorous and freakish. But sometimes, I wondered if maybe he wasn’t studying me because he found something in me he liked, just as I had a fondness for his tall, lean frame, his wavy hair, and his wide smile.

Now, though, as I took care to prevent the water from sloshing back and forth so much that I’d be obvious to prying ears, I thought of Lao Jian. I admired his cheekbones, and his almond eyes, and the shape of his nose. I thought the mole just above the right corner of his mouth and the one just above his right eyebrow were oddly endearing. I imagined his hair—free of its queue—dark and glossy and glistening in the sunlight. I liked that his body was similar to mine—short but compact and in balance, not like someone too lanky in extremities or someone pudgy and squat. I imagined caressing him, I imagined touching my lips softly to his. I knew this was strange, that these were in fact feelings that most lads directed at women, yet I felt that Lao Jian was more beautiful than any woman I’d ever encountered. I played out in my mind a situation where Lao Jian might be in the bathtub with me. That was enough of an image for me to come to completion. My body quivered. The downy hair on my arms stood on end. Goosebumps formed along my legs. My breath was as warm and wet as the steam rising up from the bathwater. I drifted into an extreme serenity. I felt Lao Jian had been there with me, in the same way my dreams often felt so real before waking up.

Lao Jian…Lao Jian…

I liked saying his name.

I whispered it over and over as the water seemed almost to rise up and wrap itself around me.

*   *   *

“Philadelphia schoolteacher wore this suit,” Mr. Carter said. He held it up against me. “Though I’m inclined to suggest, and I mean this with no offense, but—”

“But you figure I’d be a better fit in something worn by a student.”

“Again, no offense,” Mr. Carter said, “but you’re shorter than most.”

As he said this, I noted just how many inches above me Mr. Carter stood. Even his bald head seemed taller than most people’s, as if he’d been stretched on a rack at some point.

“Fine,” I said. “I reckon if you can find me a shorter person’s garments, it’d be best.”

Carter and Sons had no shortage of second-hand duds. I wanted only a fresh pair of trousers, two shirts, a vest, and a coat. Though I desired a hat as well, I could forgo it and consider it a matter of luxury; I had to start accounting for my funds more prudently, or I risked running dry before too long.

“Let me rummage around for a bit, and see what I come up with, Mr. Morgan.”

“I’m on a fixed budget, remember,” I told him. “I can’t go more than three dollars and some change. And that’s final.”

“So you’ve said.”

As Mr. Carter went about searching his stock, I walked over to the window and looked out onto the street. “Can you tell me, sir, about Truckee’s Chinatown?”

Mr. Carter turned, his left eyebrow raised. He stared dead at me.

“Where I can find it, I mean,” I said, hoping to clarify my question, for I couldn’t tell if he’d not heard me, or was confounded by my words.

Mr. Carter turned away from me and recommenced his rummaging. “West of Commercial Row. Between Brickelltown and High Street.” He paused. “I’ll caution you…well, no, it’s not my place to say.”

“Go on. Something’s on your mind.” He had me curious. I thought my question simple enough. He reacted as if I’d just asked for the secret Masonic codex.

“Don’t take this as directed at you. I warn anyone in town, the law here don’t take a kind eye to the goings-on in that place.”

“Goings-on?”

“Surely you’ve heard tales of the revelry. The opiates. Gambling.” He cleared his throat. “Prostitutes.”

“Doesn’t sound much different from what happens in a saloon or brothel in any part of the towns I’ve heard about.”

“You’re a young ’un. Don’t expect you to be worldly about the distinctions.”

“You mean like grades of whiskey? Some pure, others watered down, even though it’s all red eye?”

Mr. Carter shook his head. “Don’t follow your example. All I mean to say is—”

“Look here, Mr. Carter. I came in here for one thing, and I’d thank you to stay fixed on that. I admit fault, asking you the question I did, but I didn’t expect a sermon for an answer.”

He chewed on his lip. Just like what happened earlier, with the waiter, I felt he wanted to throttle me, calling me impudent the way Uncle Ned oft times did. One man’s label of impudence is another man’s label of standing up for himself, least that was my philosophy.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Mr. Carter said, under his breath.

“Fresh pair of trousers, two shirts, a vest, and a coat. Three dollars and some change is the limit.” One thing I couldn’t tolerate was another party having the last word.

*   *   *

The scrunched-together shacks spread up along the hillside, and gave the sense of a place long abandoned. I’d have thought the settlement vacated if I hadn’t seen a few people walking about.

I sported my new second-hand suit. Mr. Carter assured me it was worn by the eldest son of a well-to-do South Carolinian clan who’d decided to make a run of it in Washington Territory. It looked spanking new to me. My extra shirt—wrapped in brown paper—was tucked beneath my arm. It seemed a little like Christmas Day.

The only glitch was McGrath’s gun. It felt like an abscess to me. I hated wearing it. I wondered still if it might get me into difficulty. I couldn’t shake the thought, though, that I needed it; that discarding it would be both foolish and dangerous. So it became part of my new outfit.

I wasn’t sure what my goal was as I strolled toward Chinatown. I now felt like a dandy, clean and better-clothed than I’d been in weeks. What would Lao Jian think of me with this new look? What would his reaction be as I sought him out earlier than our agreed-upon time? I’d like to think I was merely curious about his environment, having only seen the outskirts of both Sacramento’s and San Francisco’s Chinatowns. But I couldn’t even figure out my design myself. Was I checking on his welfare, or was I out to see if he was still in Truckee? Maybe I was I feeling I might impress him, being all gussied up, the way a woman might parade about town in a new Paris dress, hoping to catch someone’s eye.

If I expected admiring gazes as I headed into the settlement, I quickly found how dead wrong I was. Distrustful and leery stares were more like it. The population was made up of mostly older menfolk. I saw no women. No children. A few were dressed in regular clothes, but most wore the smocks I was accustomed to seeing whenever Ma and I ventured near Sacramento’s Chinatown, or on down to San Francisco on occasion. The same as I saw on the vegetable peddler a while ago.

An older man looked at the package in my arms. He met my eyes, and pointed to his right. He said something I didn’t understand. He pointed again. I merely nodded and walked along. I wasn’t sure what the meaning was.

I traversed the dirt roads, holding out hope I might catch Lao Jian somewhere among this group. Off in the distance I heard thunder. The sky was blue. It occurred to me just then that it was a train coming in. Sure enough, I saw the puffs of smoke from down below me as the locomotive rounded the bend. A logging train, full up with timber, was making its way through town. When the caboose had passed, I turned my attention back to my journey. I saw a garden on the incline above me. Rows and rows of vegetables. That’s where I spotted Lao Jian, on his knees, picking out rocks and weeds. I called out to him. He looked up. I swear I saw a smile.

“You’ve found work already,” I said as I approached him.

He stood up. He wiped his hands together, then brushed his pant legs. “I am…earning my keep. To stay the night.” He pointed to the row of shacks.

“You’ve had no trouble, then, fitting in.” I shook my head at my choice of words. It wasn’t exactly what I meant, but I didn’t know how else to phrase it. To compare it to my being a stranger in town wasn’t an exact situation. I was able to purchase hospitalities I knew weren’t available to him.

Lao Jian was silent. He looked out over the rows of crops, then up at the sky. “It’s not…I don’t see that I will stay here long.” Our eyes locked. “But…if you have time now, maybe we can sit. In a shady spot. To visit.”

I smiled, and let him lead me to a patch of grass under a poplar, its autumn leaves as yellow as sunflowers. We both sat on the ground, him facing me as I leaned back against the tree trunk.

“You are fine, then?” he asked me. “I like your new clothes.”

“New old clothes. And an overdue bath.”

“I’ll have a bath tonight. I think.”

I set my wrapped shirt on my lap. McGrath’s holster pressed into my side. How I hated that damn gun. “So, they’re friendly here?”

Lao Jian shrugged. “Not unfriendly. It’s simply…that work is becoming very difficult to come by. They were mistrustful, at first, as though I meant to take opportunity from them. I had to convince them I won’t be here for a long amount of time.”

I picked up a pebble. I scratched the soil, making a series of circles. “It’s not my business, but there’s a lot more I’d like to know about you, Lao Jian. As in, when you came to America, and why. Where your parents are. Do you have brothers and sisters. That sort of thing. And what your ultimate plan might be.”

“Why would you want to know?”

His question struck me as odd, at first, but then when I saw it from his perspective, I figured I might have suspicions, too, as to why anyone might be so interested in my life history. “I don’t know. I guess, maybe, that friends just like to find out more about each other.”

He smiled. “We are friends…?”

His tone was both a statement and a question.

“I think we are,” I said. “If it’s not…imposing something on you.”

He titled his head. “I’m not sure what that word is.”

“Imposing? Um, it means…to force, I guess. I’m not exactly as book smart as I would like to be when it comes to given meanings of words.”

“I would consider you a friend.”

“Well, all right then. That’s good. That’s good to hear.”

There was a long pause as we both studied the other.

“The boy on the hill. He was a friend of yours,” Lao Jian said.

I nodded. I didn’t want to be reminded of Breandan’s violent demise. I changed the subject. “You speak English well. When did you come to America?”

“When I was a younger boy. With my uncle. To join my other uncle.”

“And your parents?”

“I have never known them.”

“Oh, I…I’m so sorry.” I grasped for words. I didn’t feel it right to press for details, to ask why Lao Jian had no recollection of his parents. “Maybe it’s not quite the same thing, but I barely remember my father. I was young when he…passed on.” If he wanted me to know the details of his parents, I figured he would tell me. But I had so very many questions about the Celestial Kingdom. It seemed such a faraway, mysterious place; the kind of odd land you’d read about in a book, something akin to the Five Weeks in a Balloon, which Ma had given me last year for a birthday gift. I imagined mountainous cities with strangely beautiful buildings, covering miles and miles, and full of men, women, and children in their costumes, all speaking in a tongue I didn’t understand.

“Will you stay here, Todd?”

It sounded pleasing to hear Lao Jian use my first name.

“I don’t see how I can. I have no kin here, no chance for employment, from the looks of things. More important, I have no desire to stay here. Truckee isn’t home for me. But…it’ll be a trick getting back to my Ma. I have to weigh my options. I think it would necessary to buy a new horse, but I don’t have near enough money left, so that’s a dilemma. I don’t think I’ve squandered it; I purchased only the things I needed to get by. This suit, maybe I could have done without, but my other clothes had been on me for months. I…I just don’t know.” I glanced up. “That was a long answer to your short question. And likely wasn’t even a rightful answer.”

“I don’t know what I will do. I can’t make a life here. It seems impossible for those already here. How can I expect to? But I have no other people. No money. I…I just don’t know.”

“Darkest before the dawn, I guess.”

Lao Jian gave me a puzzled look.

“Something my Ma always says. Means just when you think there’s no hope, the sun rises again and there’s a new tomorrow.” I held up my hand. “Before you laugh, I don’t believe it, either. More like the whole situation is a bag of nails.”

“Bag of…?”

“Nails. Means the whole world is upside down.”

“Bag of nails.”

“Yep. Bag of nails. Or some people say bad box.”

“You have many words to teach me.”

“I’d like to teach you happier words.”

“We’ll see what tomorrow brings, then.”

“I like your outlook, at least, Lao Jian.”

“I like yours then, too.”

I laughed. “Reckon I’ll need to define ‘outlook’ next.”

“I hope so.”

I was feeling it had been worth venturing into Chinatown and seeking out Lao Jian. My fondness for him was growing.

*   *   *

There were three others already seated at the dinner table when I came back from visiting Lao Jian. According to the grandfather clock in Mrs. Hayes’s parlor room, it was 6:13 p.m.

Mrs. Hayes entered from the kitchen just as I walked into the dining room.

“You’re late, Mr. Morgan.”

“I apologize.”

She took a gander at my new duds. “Anyhow, this here is Mr. Krozen. Across from him, Mr. Ahearn, and next to him, Mr. Simms. Gentlemen, this is Mr. Morgan.”

Mr. Krozen and Mr. Simms looked up at me. Mr. Ahearn didn’t acknowledge my presence as he sipped from a glass of water.

“Now you can join us, if you please.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I started toward the table.

“And Mr. Morgan, just so you know, there are no guns at the dinner table.”

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Mr. Ahearn whip his head up. He took a sudden interest in me, and watched my every move as I undid my holster, and lay the gun down on bureau in the entryway.

Mrs. Hayes’s dinner menu was chicken and biscuits. First thing I tasted after I was seated was the biscuits. They were melt-in-your-mouth delicious, and I didn’t have to put up a fuss to get one, as I did in that two-bit restaurant earlier in the day.

We mostly ate in silence. Mr. Krozen was a bespectacled man who seemed as if he might be a banker, or an insurance man. Mr. Simms was plump, well dressed, and sniffled frequently. Hard to say exactly what might be his station in life. Mr. Ahearn was more roughshod; I guessed maybe he’d worked on the railroads, or like me, had tried—and failed—on a quest for gold.

As I helped myself to another biscuit, I felt Mr. Ahearn’s eyes on me again. I glanced up, and caught him just as he looked away. At that instant, I came up with a strategy to break the prolonged silence among us. “Can I offer you another biscuit, Mr. Ahearn?”

“With all due respect, young man,” Mr. Simms said, “any additional food should be offered by Mrs. Hayes.”

My stomach tensed up with irritation. That was the stupidest thing I’d ever heard. “I only meant because the platter was closest to me, out of Mr. Ahearn’s reach, sir.”

Mr. Ahearn cleared his throat. “Curious about your firearm.”

I looked at the others. They were studying me, just as Mr. Ahearn was.

I swallowed hard. “In what sense, may I ask?”

“You a pistoleer?”

“Not exactly. No.”

“Unusual for a lad your age to be carrying a .44 Colt.”

I sat silently. I hadn’t any idea what sort of gun McGrath had been using.

Mr. Ahearn continued on. “Not saying it’s impossible, but sure ain’t commonplace.”

I was enjoying the meal at this establishment, but I couldn’t say I was exactly thrilled with the company so far. Why was Mr. Ahearn on about my gun so? Was there some telling sign that made him suspect it wasn’t mine? If he quizzed me, surely I would betray myself. But to just assume I couldn’t possibly own such a firearm was a quick and biased judgment. Still I had to keep my temper in check. Last thing I needed was for him to somehow tie me to the brutality up on the mountain.

“Where is it you come from?” Mr. Ahearn asked.

I’d been hasty and foolish enough to spew out private information when the Irish came riding up to me. Thinking back, they had no right to know what I told them. I didn’t feel ready to repeat my mistake. “I’m not one for discussing personal affairs,” I said. “It’s not the common way where I come from.”

“What is the common way where you come from? I’m guessing you don’t hail from New England, or the South, on the basis of your accent.”

“Are you testing me, Mr. Ahearn?”

“Making conversation is all, Mr. Morgan. That’s your name, right? Am I remembering it right? Or is that information too personal?”

For the first time Mr. Krozen spoke up. “Let’s show some respect for our hostess, shall we, by respecting each other?”

“I wasn’t disrespecting no one here,” Mr. Ahearn said. “One being disrespected was me.”

I clenched my fist under the table. “If I by disrespect you mean people silencing your rudeness, I expect you figure you’re disrespected at every turn. Sir.”

“You got quite a mouth on you, boy.”

“I’ve heard that probably as often as you’ve been disrespected.”

“Gentlemen, please!” Mr. Krozen said. “I’d like to eat my meal in peace.”

The kitchen door swung open. Mrs. Hayes came in with a pitcher of water. “Sounds lively out here.”

Mr. Ahearn mopped up some gravy with a piece of biscuit and shoved it in his mouth. “Got a rambunctious sprite spending the night here tonight, Mrs. Hayes.”

She looked to me, then directed her gaze back to Mr. Ahearn. “I rarely have anyone staying here that isn’t rough around the edges. Makes my work interesting. As long as they remember that they’re still a guest in my house.” She set the pitcher on the table. “That goes for everyone.”

Mr. Ahearn opened his mouth, and his throat made some guttural noise that indicated he was likely forming some snide comment. But Mrs. Hayes cut him off.

“You want drink and debauchery and drab food, you can go stay at the hotel across the way, if you don’t mind all-night noise and bed critters.”

I relaxed my fist. I came close to covering my mouth, to stifle a laugh. I bit down on my tongue instead, which did the trick, though it almost made me choke, as if I had swallowed something the wrong way.

“Would you pass the biscuits, please, Mr. Krozen?” Mr. Ahearn said, eyes downcast.

“Would be your fourth one,” Mr. Krozen answered. “I wonder if that’s commonplace where you come from. Where did you say lived?”

I could be contained no longer. My laughter burst forth, sounding like a badly tuned musical instrument. I’m sure the entire room was now staring at my reddening face.

*   *   *

I lay in my bed, calculating my situation: my dwindling finances; when and how I should head back home; whether or not I was still to meet Lao Jian at noon tomorrow, given that I’d gone to visit him earlier in the day; and if I should still be in possession of McGrath’s gun. The easiest issue to resolve was the gun. It was a simple decision. Either I keep the darn thing—and risk that the likes of Mr. Ahearn would keep inquiring about how I came into possession of such a fancy piece—or I just wander out first thing in the morning and drop the damn thing in the river and be done with it.

Across from me, Mr. Krozen lay in his bed, reading a newspaper by lantern light. He grunted now and again, and I couldn’t tell if it was due to the news stories or to some ailment.

“I’ve heard rumors, Mr. Morgan,” he said softly, as put down the paper and rubbed the bridge of his nose, “that there’s a Pinkerton man or two on the lookout for some men who’ve robbed coaches around these parts, and as far east as Denver.”

“Is that in the newspaper?”

“No, no. As I said, just a rumor about town.” He paused. “But they’re saying one of them is a young lad.”

I was suspicious of the information Mr. Krozen chose to share with me. As if he was finishing what Mr. Ahearn had started at dinner. “I appreciate you telling me this, but I wonder as to why.”

“I bear you no ill will, I’m sorry if you thought that was my intent. But…Mr. Morgan, let’s just say I’d be careful how you answer—or choose not to answer—questions.”

“I’m still not clear on your intentions.”

“Look, it boils down to some basic facts: you’re young, but you carry with you an uncommon and not inexpensive firearm, you’re dressed more finely than most boys your age, and you—”

“First of all, Mr. Krozen, I’m not a boy. I’m a man. And if taking pride in my appearance, and carrying around…a gift…pegs someone as a stagecoach robber, then it seems the entire town should be rounded up by a Pinkerton agent, or the sheriff.” Yes, I admit it; I just lied. It’s simply that I was growing increasingly scared and irritated by having a gun once owned by an Irishman who’d been killed in my presence. If this phantom Pinkerton man was part of a team that was investigating robberies, what’s to say they hadn’t discovered McGrath, Breandan, Lao Jian’s uncle…

“You’re right. I had no right to call you a boy. I hope you understand my intent was to offer some guidance and advice from a man who’s been walking the earth a few decades longer than yourself. I often see the spite and fear that irrational thoughts can produce.”

Now I felt guilty, thinking Mr. Krozen had merely been caring rather than accusatory. “Well, I guess you make a good point. I apologize if I took things the wrong way.”

“I’ve just made it policy not to take anyone at face value. I’ve been deceived by men of breeding, and beautiful women. Even the most charming children have possessed hands that have nimbly freed my pockets of cash and jewelry. I’ve also rushed to judgment, deeming some people derelicts, yet they’ve turned out to have more Christian charity than a preacher.”

“Well, I hope I don’t cause you to lose any sleep tonight.”

“If instinct still counts for anything, I feel I’ll sleep soundly tonight.” He folded up the paper and tossed it onto the floor. “That’s a compliment, by the by, if you were confused.”

“I’ll sleep well tonight, too, then.”

“Shall I extinguish the lantern?”

“Fine by me.”

Moonlight streamed through a gap in the draperies. I wasn’t sure if it bothered Mr. Krozen. I thought it was hauntingly beautiful.

*   *   *

A fit of strange dreams gripped me. A tall man in coattails and a stovepipe hat kept taking the plates off the dining table despite Ma’s protests. Uncle Ned sat in a rocking chair. He held a baby in his arms. Both Uncle Ned’s legs were intact, but the infant was missing his right leg. Uncle Ned was chanting some strange nonsense words in the baby’s ear. And instead of coming to Ma’s aid against this tall stranger, I was arguing with her, trying to make her see the logic of devoting a large portion of our land to a six-sided building that this man wished to erect.

I felt a hand on my chest, kneading my skin as though it were bread dough. I heard my name. Again and again. The bed shook. I opened my eyes.

“There’s a fire,” Mr. Krozen said. He wasn’t panicked. More like he uttered the word as if some scheduled event had simply started.

“Fire? What? Where?” My throat was dry. I felt dizzy.

“Chinatown’s on fire.”

I bolted upright.

“Happens with frequency in those shanties, from what I understand. Shouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t sparked by opium.”

I jumped out of bed and reached for my trousers, scrambling to locate them in the faint moonlight. I wanted to smack Mr. Krozen for his blasé attitude about the situation. Outside the window I could hear yelling. Hoots and hollers. Cat calls. The moonlight was supplanted quickly enough by a pulsing orange glow off in the distance.

“You’re not planning to go out there, are you?” Mr. Krozen asked.

“Of course I am! We have to help put it out! Have you hit your head?”

“It’s Chinatown.”

“Have you got no soul?” I knocked over the chair as I pulled my coat off the back of it.

“You take me the wrong way. Yet again. It’s just that Chinatown handles Chinatown’s business.”

“Bullshit!” I opened the door and raced down the stairs.

I didn’t have time to dwell on Mr. Krozen’s odd and irritating indifference to the situation. Why’d he even bother to wake me if his attitude was that we’d just stay cooped up and do nothing? Unfortunately I observed more of the same as I ran along the streets and saw townsfolk staring at the flames off in the distance as if they were spectators at a fireworks show.

When I reached the edge of Chinatown, I saw several Chinese racing to and fro with wooden pails. There were a few white men helping. I wanted to pitch in right away, but I stopped first and scanned the crowd. I’d have shouted out Lao Jian’s name but likely wouldn’t have been heard over the din.

Flames engulfed two buildings. With all of the structures so close to one another, it would be no time before the entire settlement was ablaze.

“Help us here!” a man shouted at me. I sprang into action, rushing over to the end of the bucket brigade line that snaked down the street. The flames were too bright before me, the night too dark beyond to see exactly how far off the river was. I could feel the heat at my back. My lungs filled with the smoke and stink of charred wood. Crackles, hisses, and pops added to the cacophony of sloshing water, the thumping of the empty buckets against the ground, and the pounding of feet running back and forth.

Some people were coming up from the other direction, their buckets splashing out water.

“Some of you use the creek up yonder!” another man yelled. “Trout Creek! Trout Creek! Others head down the river!”

The man ahead of me was stooped at the shoulders, his hands shaking. The light of the fire illuminated his face just enough that I could see his wrinkles. I wondered how long he’d been in America, what kind of life he’d had here, who was waiting for him back in China. I felt a pang at the thought of him standing out here in the middle of the night, heaving buckets of water to try to save what he called home, and for most people what amounted to a decrepit shack. I thought of all the times Uncle Ned had complained about the size of our house, which might seem such a luxury to this man.

He turned and shoved a bucket at me, the edge of it pressing into my stomach. I grabbed the handle, spun, and passed the bucket on to the man behind me. I stared out at the scene beyond him, at the flames now eating away at a third building.

I kept praying I’d see a sign of Lao Jian in this mess. He could have been anywhere, from the front of my line, or part of the line from the creek, or one of the men throwing water on the buildings. Or…for all I knew, he might not even be in Truckee anymore. He could have moved on after I’d paid him a visit. I didn’t think that was the truth, but I just had a nagging feeling…no. It was impossible. He wouldn’t have just left without seeing me again. I was being a dunce. How could thoughts like this even be running through my head in this crisis?

Steam was starting to mix with the smoke. I took that as a sign that water was doing its job. Another bucket came at me. I passed it on, without looking up at the buildings this time. I didn’t want to be disappointed.

A hand clutched my shoulder. Before I could see who it was, I felt the warm breath on my cheek.

“I knew you would be here.”

It was Lao Jian’s voice. He moved on too quick for our eyes to meet. For now, it was enough that I’d felt his breath, heard his voice, and saw his retreating form running toward the Trout Creek line.

*   *   *

I’m not certain how we accomplished it, but roughly three and a quarter hours later, as the moon dipped to its lowest point in the night sky, we’d stopped the fire from consuming a sixth building. Men were still pouring buckets on the smoldering heap, and a few embers still glowed red-orange, but there wasn’t a dancing flame to be seen.

I sat down on the ground, wiping the sweat from my brow, and trying to rub the sting from my eyes. I heard the approaching footsteps. I glanced up through squinted eyes.

Without speaking, Lao Jian sat down beside me. Neither of us spoke for a good minute or two, as we just stared out over the destruction. Then he reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out a small ceramic jar and a cloth. He held the cloth out to me.

“I need your help with this, please.”

I wasn’t sure what I was to do. Lao Jian motioned the cloth toward me a couple times, to indicate I was to take it, which I did. Then he opened the top of the jar, and placed it on the ground. He dipped the fingers of his left hand into the jar and scooped up a green paste. After he set the jar down, he pushed up the sleeve of his coat with the heel of his hand, and started to spread the paste on his right hand and forearm.

“You’re burned,” I said, staring at his blistered skin.

“Only a little.”

“It looks painful.”

“This paste will help.”

“What is it?”

“Something from the…” He seemed to be searching for the word.

“Doctor?” I said.

He shook his head.

“Apothecary?”

“I don’t know. The man who deals with healing plants.”

“Herbalist, I guess they would call him.”

Lao Jian spread the paste on thick. “Can you tie the cloth around this for me?”

The cloth was soiled, and I didn’t think that was the best way to heal a burn, but it wasn’t likely we’d find anything better with all that was going on at the moment, so I wrapped it around twice and tied it off at Lao Jian’s wrist.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll bill you in the morning.”

He looked up at me.

“That’s just a joke,” I said.

He smiled, though I wasn’t sure he understood my pathetic attempt at humor. But when I studied his all-too-rare expression of happiness, I felt a tingle in my chest. I wouldn’t have thought that he could look even more handsome than he did.

“I do so like your smile,” I said. I felt a tad embarrassed for admitting this fact.

He studied his arm. “It hurts more with the paste on it. I hope it was the right jar.”

I grew concerned, until he nudged my arm. “That’s my joke.”

Maybe we both needed to practice our humor.

Lao Jian reclined onto the ground. “I’m so tired now,” he said. He rested his head in the crook of his uninjured arm.

I picked up the jar and sniffed it. It smelled like grass.

“Don’t eat it,” Lao Jian said.

“I’d sooner starve.”

As I put the lid back on, I saw a figure approaching us. A broad-built man with a beard, though beneath the facial hair and the hat I could see a face that probably wasn’t much beyond twenty-five or so years old.

“Like to thank you for pitching in,” he said, stopping a few feet from me.

“I didn’t have to think twice about it. Seemed the only right thing to do.”

“Wish the majority of this town felt the same.” He stuck out his hand. “Name’s Tom Grasham.”

I stood up. “Todd Webster Morgan. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Grasham.”

“You can call me Tom.”

We shook hands. “That’s Lao Jian,” I said, tilting my head.

Lao Jian didn’t stir. It seemed he’d already succumbed to sleep.

“You new to town?” Tom asked. “Don’t recall seeing you around here before.” He looked down to Lao Jian. “Either of you.”

“Sort of new. More passing through, truth be told.”

Tom looked back over the smoldering buildings. “Second time in so many months we’ve had this happen.”

“Do you know the cause?”

He took off his hat and scratched the top of his head. “I suspect some bastards from town did it on purpose, though none of us have been able to prove it. And the sheriff don’t seem any too interested in investigating. He considers it a Chinese problem.”

I nodded. “I heard that same refrain earlier tonight. That what happens in Chinatown isn’t of concern to the rest of Truckee.”

“For the most part, unfortunately.” Tom looked back down at Lao Jian. “I worked with a lot of these men up on the railroad a couple years back. More loyal and hardworking than most of the louts up there on that mountain.”

Lao Jian made murmuring noise, and rolled over.

“He a friend of yours?” Tom asked.

“Yes.” It felt good saying it. I was proud to admit it. “A good friend.”

The sun was showing itself above the trees. The chugging of a locomotive sounded off in the distance, growing closer to us.

“First train of the day,” Tom said. “Must be nigh on six a.m. or so.”

“Grasham,” someone called from behind us. Tom turned to his right.

“Here!” Tom said.

A man standing near the burned fifth building raised his hand. “I’m off to talk to the law.”

Tom shook his head. “I admire your perseverance,” he called out. “But I fear you’re wasting your time.”

“I plan to keep on ’em.”

Tom waved, and the man started back toward downtown.

“Do you feel he’s wasting his time?” I asked.

“The Chinese have few friends here. They were needed once, to get that railroad built, but now everyone sees them as invaders. Rivals to their employment, their land.”

“Clear that you don’t see them that way.”

“Clear about you as well,” Tom said, nodding toward Lao Jian. “That said, seems I’m standing here preaching to the converted. I’d best get back to my wife and babies.” He slid his hat back on. “If you’re planning to stay on in town for a spell, likely I’ll see you again.”

“I’d like that,” I said. “Pleasure to meet you, Tom.”

He turned, and went on his way back toward downtown.

I stared into the rising sun. The squeal of the slowing train rose up from the depot. I sat down next to Lao Jian. I lay back and studied the clouds drifting overhead. It wasn’t long before the sandman claimed me, too.

Next Chapter: By Hook or by Crook