The first rays of sun warmed my face.

I opened my eyes. I was lying on my side. My head was on Lao Jian’s lap. His left hand rested on my shoulder.

I felt odd. Embarrassed at showing such a moment of weakness. And for being in close physical touch with Lao Jian. I barely knew him. He was kind to try to calm me down the way he did, but the whole circumstance made me queasy.

Mostly I’d got my head back on straight. I admit, though, it’s the strangest things that set me off. When I looked down and saw that blood-soaked sleeve around Breandan’s leg, I welled up with tears again.

Difference was, this time I sat up and moved away from Lao Jian. I didn’t look at him or say anything for a minute or two. Then as I stared off I said, “He deserves a proper burial, such as we can give him.”

As if he’d been schooled often enough about the procedure, Lao Jian stood up and walked off in the distance, where he started to gather small rocks. When I started gathering them, too, he insisted he would do it. Maybe it was his way of letting me grieve alone, letting me have my peaceful, mournful solitude I had to do something to keep myself busy though, instead of sitting there listening to the thoughts in my head.

I didn’t know much about frontier law. Part of me wondered if anyone would even press the matter, knowing that dead were three Irish and one Chinese. I feared myself in a jail cell, for being party to these killings, in a way. Not directly, but…what were the terms I’d heard Uncle Ned use now and again? Part and parcel to the crime?

Was I?

I’d only staked my claim. It wasn’t my fault I’d been roped into these violent acts.

Lao Jian brought over two stones and laid them next to Breandan. I couldn’t watch him start to build up that rocky crypt. I’d asked him to let me know before he was about to bring over the final stones, the ones that would cover Breandan’s face.

“I will let you know.”

“I have to help you. I should at least help you—”

“You should honor your friend in silence.”

I nodded. It then occurred to me how I could help. I scanned the ground. I found two sticks not far from where I sat. I gathered them up and placed them in a cross formation. Then I stood up and walked over to my tent. I cut out twine from the flap.

In no time I’d securely tied the sticks together. I made the knot in figure-eight style. When I was satisfied it would hold for a near eternity, I turned away from the growing grave. I felt guilty about not helping Lao Jian. But he’d been so insistent. I closed my eyes and tried to picture things that wouldn’t remind me of Breandan. After a while, I heard Lao Jian’s voice.

“It’s time,” he said.

Now that we were in morning light I had a clearer view of Lao Jian. He wore brown pants, a white shirt stained with dirt, and a brown coat with tears at both elbows. His hat was frayed all around the brim. His queue was braided tight, and draped down the length of his back. His skin was smooth, his features soft and…pretty. I know it’s not the right word for a man, but his lips had a suppleness and his eyes a kinder and gentler quality than most people I’d encountered. Uncle Ned, for instance, had glaring eyes, and mottled skin with stubble, and sharp features that might be nice if he weren’t so often in a foul mood.

Breandan had been pretty, too. I thought it the first time I saw him. I don’t know why I thought this way, and I’d never have told him so, but he made it difficult for me to look away from him, even when I merely watched him bend down to scoop up beans from the kettle. It was like staring into a meadow in the springtime, and your eyes just don’t want to work themselves free of the colors when the wildflowers dance in the breeze.

If Ma could hear my thoughts right this instant she’d change her tune and call me the Poet instead of the Mediator. Uncle Ned would likely call me Mush-Head Molly.

“It’s time,” Lao Jian repeated.

I’d been so lost in my head, and here he stood, with two rocks in his hands, the size of bread loaves, the final pieces of Breandan’s marble orchard.

I stood up and walked over, holding my breath the entire twenty-three steps. Steps I counted with dread. Lao Jian moved off to the left as I knelt next Breandan.

Lao Jian turned his back to me. I guessed it was his way of giving me privacy.

I looked at Breandan’s face one last time. I fixed the part of his hair so it was neat and presentable. I traced his cheek with my finger. I leaned over, and closed my eyes as I kissed his forehead.

“Okay,” I said, barely above a whisper. “He’s ready now.”

Lao Jian turned. He crouched down, and handed me the first stone. I looked up at the sky as I placed it. I reached out for the second, still focused on puffy clouds slowly drifting past. I set it down near as I could figure it belonged, when I felt Lao Jian’s hand on my wrist, guiding the stone.

I took a long, deep breath. I had only the cross to place, and the deed would be done. I felt no relief, no sense that Breandan would have approved of how we were leaving him. I just hoped that if he could look down and see us, he might nod and smile and think to himself that we’d done the best we could, and he might be both touched and amused at our humble effort.

When I looked over to Lao Jian, he was placing his hat back on his head. In my random thoughts, I realized then that I hadn’t worn my own hat in several days, and couldn’t rightly remember where’d I’d last left it.

I stood up, leaned over, and pushed my cross into the ground. It took some doing, with the soil dry and hard packed, but I succeeded after a fashion.

“It’s done,” I said.

Lao Jian nodded.

I hesitated over my next statement, and I felt guilty about not really wanting to mention it—but I swear my reason was fear that the Irish would return. But I finally forced myself to say it. “We can do the same…for your uncle.”

Lao Jian shook his head.

“But—”

“It’s not necessary,” he said. “The river took him.”

My stomach tightened up. “I’m sorry, Lao Jian.”

“You aren’t to blame.”

I stared at him, lost for words. In the distance, Paul Revere’s rope flapped as a soft wind kicked up. It brought our predicament back to a prominent place in my head. We were stuck high up on a mountain, with no way to get back to Truckee, or back in the other direction to Quincy, except to hike down. A hike whose distance I couldn’t begin to calculate.

“What will you do now?” I asked him.

“I don’t know.”

I chewed on my lip for a spell as all of the problems we now faced jostled around in my brain. “Well, that makes two of us, then.”

“I have nothing left now. My uncle is gone. I have no money. No more relatives. No shelter.”

I studied the terrain on the other side of the hill. “First thing we need to do is get away from this place. I’m still filled with fear the other Irishmen might come after us if they see McGrath dead down yonder. Only thing is…” I looked over my shoulder at the opposite side of the hill. “McGrath’s gun down there, and it seems foolish not to take it along for protection. But I’m not sure how smart it is carrying a dead man’s gun.” I knew I was mostly thinking out loud, but I wished more than anything Lao Jian could give me a nudge one way or the other. But he just studied me.

I finally concluded it made sense. My knife had got me this far. Of course, I didn’t run into any real trouble along the first part of my journey. My current circumstance proved my foolishness in thinking it would carry me through this entire journey. In my optimism and determination, I never dreamt I’d be in the middle of a skirmish with the Irish. Who knew what else lay ahead? If I’d had experience, I’d have planned things better. I knew for sure I overpaid for my tent and supplies. And that at any given moment some claim jumper could have done me real harm.

I started back down to where McGrath had fallen. Then I heard Lao Jian call out.

“Voices!” he said.

I stopped in my tracks. I turned and listened. Of course the rest of the Irish would return eventually, once they realized McGrath was missing. Should have realized this from the start.

I couldn’t hear anything. I looked back at Lao Jian. He pointed off to his left, down the other side of the descent.

Still, I heard no voices. But then…I heard thumping. Rumbling.

My muscles tightened. I pictured the worst. There was no way Lao Jian and I were a match for armed, angry men.

Suddenly, the sound rang out through the trees: A man shouting!

Lao Jian had run partially down the side of the hill. He pointed beyond a stand of pines. “Stagecoach!” he yelled.

He was right. A coach, about a hundred feet down, raced like the wind. I couldn’t imagine this wasn’t a normal route. The Quincy-to-Truckee line ran about a mile below this point, along the lower stretch of the river. It was clear the driver was agitated, trying to ease the horses. I started down the hill, toward them, but then thought better. What if they were being chased by robbers?

I heard Lao Jian come up behind me. “What is it?”

“Not sure.”

Right then we heard a clunking sound, beyond our line of vision.

“That didn’t sound good,” I said.

“We must go see,” Lao Jian said. “We must check.”

“Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

As fast as I could run, I dodged trees and rocks and made my way to McGrath’s corpse. I held my breath, crouched down, and pried the gun out of his hand. Then I undid the buckle of his holster, trying hard not to let my eyes drift to McGrath’s face. I pulled the holster out from under him. I grabbed the gun, stood up, and buckled the holster around my waist then slid the gun into place. Running even faster, I headed back to Lao Jian, touched his arm as I passed him, and motioned him to follow me. He was a good runner, keeping pace with me, even pulling ahead a couple times.

When we rounded the bend, we saw the coach. Its right side had wedged up over a boulder. Two men stood at the wheel. They were arguing with each other.

They clammed up when they saw us. I didn’t know if maybe it was because I was a hardscrabble mess carrying a gun or if it was the sight of Lao Jian that so confounded them. I felt different wearing McGrath’s gun, and I shouldn’t blame these two men if they thought I meant to rob them. Dumb reasoning, I figured, since a lot of men sported guns at all junctions.

“Is everything all right here?” I asked, at once realizing how stupidly worded my question was.

“What’s it look like to you?” the driver—who was the taller and younger of the two men—responded.

I corrected my words. “Anyone hurt?” I meant to appear as intelligent as I was concerned, though it seemed neither attribute would matter.

“No one is hurt, mercifully, young man,” the portly, older gentleman said.

“Mercifully is right, no thanks to you,” the driver said.

“Now just one moment, sir. I was—”

“My advice to you,” the driver interrupted, “is that had better be the last damn time you throw something at a nest of rattlesnakes, especially when a team of horses is already spooked.”

The driver glared at the man for a few seconds, then turned his attention to us. He scanned me up and down, likely wondering what I was doing up in these parts. Then he took a long look at Lao Jian, likely wondering what we were doing together.

“I was only trying to help,” the portly man said. “I calculated that—”

“Ah, save your breath,” the driver said, waving the man’s comment to the devil. He turned and went to check on his horses.

The portly man sighed, then wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Almost like he was shedding a skin, his mood changed, and he faced us with all the charm he could muster. “I’d like to thank you gentleman for coming to our assistance. You’ll have to excuse our driver’s brusqueness.” He stepped over and held out his hand. “I’m Hector Starch.”

I took his hand and shook it firmly. “Todd Webster Morgan. This here is Lao Jian.”

Mr. Starch nodded to Lao Jian, but didn’t offer his hand. Lao Jian nodded back.

“And this is my traveling companion, Miss Summerton.”

I looked behind Mr. Starch. I saw no other person. He motioned toward the coach. I leaned over and peered in the window. A woman, about the same age as Ma, stared back at me.

“I’m not his companion,” she said.

Mr. Starch drew his lips tight. “I didn’t mean to infer that—”

“You realize,” Miss Summerton said, “that we’re already three hours late as it is. Is anyone going to do something about this mess we’re in?”

“We should be thankful to be alive, ma’am,” Mr. Starch said.

“Some days I wonder,” Miss Summerton mumbled.

The driver came back around to us. “Horses are fine. But we’re gonna have to lift this coach to get it free of this rock.”

“Then it’s lucky these two wandered by,” Mr. Starch said, “despite your rather ill reception of them.”

“Sure as hell wish you’d speak American,” the driver said, under his breath, as he studied the stuck wheel.

“Driver,” Miss Summerton called out, “do we plan to resume our travel any time soon? Before the next century, by chance?”

“We sure as hell do, lady, but first and foremost you’re going to have to step out of there. We don’t need any added weight as we try to free this thing.”

How Mr. Starch found enough kindness to walk over, open the door, and help Miss Summerton down escaped me. I couldn’t think what it was like for either of them to be riding with each other in such close confines.

“All of us need to be together on this,” the driver said. “The lady here, she’ll have to tug the horses forward while the four of us lift up. Starch and I’ll take the axle, the boy can take the hub, and the coolie the step.”

Mine was loudest among the protests. In my ears I heard Miss Summerton voicing her ignorance of horses, and Mr. Starch complaining about a bad back, but my anger didn’t come from being so posh I didn’t know one end of a horse from another, nor did it come from any physical ailment. “My name is Todd, and this is Lao Jian.”

The driver’s eyebrows scrunched together. He glared at me as if I just told him the moon was calling down to us. “Ain’t we been through this already? Don’t care if your name’s mud.”

“I’m not a boy, and you need not call my friend by that insult.”

“Sir,” Mr. Starch said, “I fail to see how treating these two in a bad way is going to ultimately help our situation.”

“What he means,” Miss Summerton said, “is that if you want these two to help us, you’d be better off winning them over with kindness. Now can you manage to be both cordial to these strangers and generous enough to give me at least one clue as to how I’m to nudge a team of horses?”

The driver mumbled words that were worse than I’d ever heard come out of Uncle Ned’s mouth. But the long and short of it is he showed Miss Summerton how to get the horses to step forward. Then he repeated where we were all supposed to line up.

“Now on the count of three, the lady will start the horses forward, and we’re all going to lift as hard as we can. Understand?”

I looked at Lao Jian. He looked back at me. Our eyes held together for a few seconds. I figured he was seeking solace in me the same way I was seeking it in him. Like we both knew we stepped into one mess only to get ourselves stuck in another. I wondered if the two of us might burst into laughter and tears at the same time.

“One, two, three…lift!”

The horses struggled forwarded under Miss Summerton’s guidance. All four of us heaved and strained, rocking the coach back and forth. The spokes of the wheel scraped against the rock. It seemed impossible. I looked up for a split second to see Mr. Starch’s face as red as a tomato, with big drops of sweat running down his cheeks. I was about to lose my grip when the driver let out a long, loud grunt.

“It’s there! It’s almost there! Come on, now!”

I got my second wind with that, and suddenly the wheel broke free of its confines, and the coach started on its way. The driver let go, spun around, and raced ahead to corral the horses from going any farther.

“That’s right, that’s right,” he said, over and over, coaxing the horses to a stop.

Mr. Starch bent over, taking a huge breath. I hoped he wasn’t going to collapse. Meanwhile Miss Summerton had taken a pocket watch from her waistcoat. She scowled as she looked at the time.

“Driver, if we could resume our journey, I’d be relieved,” she said.

“I need to look the wheel and axle over. If they’re in working order, we can move on.” He turned and studied the terrain.

An idea filled my head. “Sir, you’re headed to Truckee?”

The driver got down on his back and slid under the coach. “That’s right.”

“Would you be willing to take on two more passengers?”

“Not for free, I wouldn’t.”

“I have money.” I looked to Lao Jian. I lowered my voice. “We could go to Truckee and figure things out there,” I said to him.

“I have no money,” Lao Jian said.

“I’ll pay your way.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “No.”

“I have enough. There’s no cause for—”

“I said no.”

“But I have enough, Lao Jian.” At least, I assumed I did, which was a foolish conclusion to jump to. I turned back toward the driver. He was pounding on the axle with the ball of his hand. “How much to Truckee?”

“No half fares. You’d have to pay the full seven-dollar Quincy-to-Truckee fare.”

“All right.”

“No!” Lao Jian said.

“Sir,” Mr. Starch said, “surely as a thank you for their help you could reduce the amount of their fare.”

“I’m running a business,” the driver said, without looking away from the axle.

“Not very well, you’re not,” Miss Summerton said, more to herself.

I walked over to Lao Jian. “Why not? Lao Jian, I have enough money.”

“I don’t want your charity. I don’t want anyone’s charity.”

“It’s not charity. It’s logic. You can’t stay up here alone, with no supplies, no money, no kin.”

He looked down at the ground.

“Fourteen dollars, then, for two passengers,” I announced to the driver.

Lao Jian’s head snapped up. Before he could speak, I grabbed hold of his wrist. “You can pay me back somehow. But I’m not leaving you up here alone. It’s foolish!”

I couldn’t tell if Lao Jian wanted to hit me, but it sure felt so, with his face consumed in anger. He acted unjustly defiant, the way Ma used to describe me when my mind was stuck on something that made no sense but to me alone. I guess that it all melted away once Lao Jian realized that it was stupid to stay stuck in the position he was.

“I will pay you back,” he said, his voice now so soft, so much meeker.

The driver slid back out from under the stage and stood up. He rubbed his hands together. “She’s sound for travel. Looks like I can navigate her back down to the path proper with no problem.”

“You’ll take us on then?” I asked him.

“Fourteen dollars.”

I counted out the money and handed it to him.

“You can ride on the inside. Coolie has to sit up top, with the luggage.”

If the driver wasn’t so curt and surly, I might have been generous of his irritating nature and figured he’d meant that as a bad joke. But I knew better. “No one is riding with the luggage,” I said.

“He is,” the driver said, pointing to Lao Jian. “That’s policy.”

I folded my arms to prevent myself from punching this vermin. “That’s ridiculous!”

The driver started toward the horses. As he checked their reins, he said, “No darkies, no Mexicans, and no coolies inside the coach.”

“Now wait, sir,” Mr. Starch said. “If we have no objection to the company of these lads, then I see no reason they can’t both sit inside with us. If the interior is designed for four, I can’t see why four people shouldn’t be sitting in it.”

“Designed for six,” the driver said. “The luggage rack fits four. Where the coolie should be.”

“It’s all right,” Lao Jian said, glancing at the luggage rack as he studied the best way to climb up top.

“No, it’s not all right,” I said.

“Especially in light of the help these two contributed to free this beat-up old stage of yours!” Mr. Starch said, his face red again. “Do you have any objection to them sitting with us, Miss Summerton?”

She looked us over. “They’re a damn sight.”

“If you’d read the posted suggestions back at our point of departure,” Mr. Starch said, “it was strongly advised that travelers wear what they don’t mind getting dusty or soiled.”

“Looks like this pair got a head start.” She was especially thorough in her examination of Lao Jian. “You free of lice?”

“As free of it as you are!” I said, matching Mr. Starch’s earlier volume.

“Well, I don’t much care who sits where,” Miss Summerton said, “but I’d like to reach Truckee before these two characters are old men.”

“You have my money,” I said. “If Lao Jian can’t sit with the rest of us, I want a refund.”

Seemed then and there that the driver held cash money to a higher esteem that the company policy. “All right, all right. Just hurry yourselves up.” He climbed up to the driver’s box. “I’ll just have to fumigate the entire insides now,” he muttered.

“Finally we can be on our way, praise the Lord,” Miss Summerton said, refusing Mr. Starch’s help as she climbed back into the coach. Mr. Starch hoisted himself up and sat next to Miss Summerton. She moved as far away from him as she could.

I turned to Lao Jian. “Come on,” I said.

He didn’t react. He stared at the ground. He still seemed curiously angry with me.

“Lao Jian, I don’t understand why you’re fussing so.”

He looked up, and stared deep into my eyes. “I do not wish to be taken care of by anyone.”

“I’m not taking care of you. I’m trying to help you. There’s a difference!”

“You two quit your lovers’ quarrel and get inside!” the driver yelled.

“I just want to help you,” I said, confused and hurt by Lao Jian’s reaction.

His face softened, and it looked like he was about to start explaining his curious behavior, but the driver got antsy all over again. “Move along, you two!”

I shook my head. I climbed inside and sat across from Miss Summerton. She stared out the window. Lao Jian climbed up, and sat down next to me, staring out the opposite window.

“Door!” the driver called down.

“Oh, we can hear you!” Mr. Starch said as he pulled the door closed.

The stagecoach moved forward.

*   *   *

For a good part of the journey, we were all quiet. Lao Jian and Miss Summerton stared out their windows. Mr. Starch buried his nose in a periodical. I drifted in and out of sleep. I felt like I had one foot in the real world and one foot the in the dream world when suddenly Mr. Starch slammed closed his reading and heaved a sigh. We all stared at him.

He turned the magazine over and opened up to where he’d dog-eared a page. He read a sentence or two to himself, his mouth moving as he did so. He slammed the magazine closed again. “Well, I wish I’d brought something of a more substantial nature than this foolish drivel.”

None of us reacted right away. Then Miss Summerton turned to face him more squarely. “What are you reading then?”

“To my detriment, a cobbled-together edition of The Saturday Evening Post, which frankly is nothing more than a piece of pulp posing as journalism. Sensationalist headlines, empty-headed articles, and inane gossip.” He leaned his head back, and stared up at the stained cloth of the coach’s roof. Then he stared back down at the magazine’s cover. “Similar problems with another rag called the New York World, which I fittingly left in the trash bin at the Denver rail station. Reading works by amateurs who frankly haven’t the skill to balance research and reporting, well, it simply galls me.” He leaned over to hand me the magazine. “Here, young man. Maybe you can find some redeeming quality in this frankly failed mess.” He set the periodical on my lap when I didn’t take it from him quick enough. “I was hoping the escape from my stint in the cultural wasteland of Nevada would have a more promising start than this.”

Miss Summerton folded her arms. “Are you finished now, for the sake of all our ears?”

“Miss Summerton, I hope you don’t mean to imply that I haven’t a right to voice an opinion.”

She didn’t answer.

Mr. Starch pressed on. “I would hope I haven’t been a taxing presence to my fellow passengers. I would hate to think that these two young men might feel better off having ridden up top with the luggage after all.”

Miss Summerton rolled her eyes and turned back to the scenery drifting by.

“I pray my humble opinions about my choice of reading haven’t bothered you two young men. Is this the case?”

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Lao Jian staring at me. Before I could even start to form some kind of answer to Mr. Starch’s question, Miss Summerton faced him again. Her eyebrows scrunched up and her eyes narrowed as she addressed him.

“You couldn’t possibly understand that I’m sitting here among a group of people not worth a single second of my time. And I’m not fooled by your mock care and concern for two boys, these two vagabonds who ordinarily would not be the least bit deserving of the attention lavished on them by an empty-headed, self-important windbag who—although he has an obvious flair for words—spews nothing but gibberish.”

Mr. Starch sat up straight and rigid. “Miss Summerton, if there’s anyone here who could be called a gibberish-spouting windbag—”

Miss Summerton thrust her hand in the air. “And here’s some advice, Mr. Starch. If you don’t think too hard about what you’re reading, you need never be tortured by another book, article, or letter in your lifetime. Now, then, I’ve reached the limits of my patience with you, and there was precious little to begin with. So I’ll thank you to not say another word to me.”

“I have one word for you, Miss Summerton, but my Christian upbringing prevents me from using it.”

“If you were brought up a Christian, Mr. Starch, then you’ve just greatly diminished the status of our Lord.”

“Woman, how dare you?”

If I wasn’t thankful before when I heard our driver speak—and believe me, I wasn’t—I sure welcomed his bellowing when Mr. Starch and Miss Summerton began to engage in a shouting match.

“Coming into Truckee!” he called to us.

As buildings appeared along the dirt road, and I took in the aroma of a nearby restaurant, I suddenly realized how famished I was. I hadn’t had a full, proper meal in days. And now I knew my first task after stepping out of this suffocating stagecoach was to get some hot, hearty food inside me.

And I’d offer to buy a meal for Lao Jian.

Even though something told me that I would meet even more of his curious and unsettling refusals.

Next Chapter: Bag of Nails