“Maybe you can.”

I stare at him, not sure what to say. I’d pick him for family, for sure and certain, if I could.

“I’ll get the sorrel mare and the dogs,” he says.

The contents of the Joyners’ wagon are stacked outside. I’m quiet as a mouse as I get some feed for Peony and refill my canteen. But the canvas flap whips open, revealing a red-eyed Mrs. Joyner.

“Just restocking,” I say. “Then Jeff and I are going back out.”

“Promise me you’ll bring him back,” she says.

My shoulders tense. Daddy taught me never to make promises I couldn’t keep. “We’ll look all night.”

She reaches out her arms and begs me to come close. When I do, she bends down and wraps her arms around my neck. “We’re lucky to have you with us, Lee McCauley. You’re a good man.”

I extricate myself awkwardly, duck my head, and tug my brim at her. My heart is in a tangle, and I don’t know what to say. I’ve lost everything—my parents, my home, my gold, my daddy’s Hawken rifle, his saddle. I even lost my name. Leah Westfall, the girl who took care of Lucky Westfall’s farm for him and panned for gold—she doesn’t exist anymore. But maybe Lee McCauley isn’t so bad after all. I stood up to Frank Dilley a few minutes ago, and now I’m going to go search for a little boy, because it’s what I want to do.

“I should get going,” I say.

As Jefferson and I climb into our saddles, Therese comes running up, her skirts in one hand, a bundled kerchief in the other. “Here!” she says breathlessly, handing the bundle up to Jefferson. “For you and Lee. Might be a long night.”

“What is it?” I ask.

“Cornbread! We used the last of our cornmeal today. Thought everyone could use a treat after that stampede and Major Craven and . . .” She looks down at her feet.

“Thank you, Therese,” I say.

“I . . . I wish I could go with you.” She straightens, forces a grin. “Anyway, good luck!” She dashes off, and Jefferson stares after her.

I lean over and rap my knuckles on his leg. “Let’s go.”

He snaps out of his thoughts. “Let’s go,” he agrees.

I cluck to Peony, and we ride into the wide black night, lit only by a giant prickly sky and a low, menacing moon. The grass muffles the horses’ steps. Insects buzz against a whipping breeze, and a coyote yips in the distance, coaxing a growl from Nugget.

“So what’s the plan?” Jefferson asks. “How are we going to find him?”

I can’t tell Jefferson my real plan, which is to crisscross the land until I feel the tug of gold. So I say, “Andy knows us. He’ll answer to our voices. So we head down every trail, every path that a four-year-old might take, and we call his name until we find him.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Think like a four-year-old boy.”

He says nothing.

“You’ve had more practice thinking like a four-year-old boy than I have,” I point out.

He frowns. “You already searched downriver?”

“Yep.” I sensed a tiny bit of gold dust, the same trifling amount found in almost any river or stream, but nothing as big as a locket. “I’m confident he did not go in that direction.”

“So we head upriver,” he says. “He’s a smart boy. At four, I would have known to avoid the river and quicksand. After we go far enough, we’ll turn inland until we find another trail or wash and then make our way back to camp. Like cutting slices out of a pie.”

That makes sense to me. “How big a pie?”

“As far as a four-year-old can walk. Did I ever tell you about the time, after my mama left, when I decided to walk into town to find her?”

“Never heard that one.”

“I was only five, but I made it more than halfway to town, all the way past the old sawmill. I was sitting there, by the side of the road, when your daddy found me and took me home.”

“Daddy came looking for you?” Hearing something about him that I didn’t know before is like a drop of water in the desert.

“I don’t remember if he was looking for me on purpose or if he found me by accident. All I’m saying is that a little boy with single-mindedness of purpose will make it farther than you might think.”

I nod. “Upriver it is, then.”

The dogs dart ahead, tails wagging, even though I know they’re as exhausted as I am. That’s what I like about dogs. They’re always happy to help out and be with their people.

“Andy!” Jefferson’s shout makes me jump.

I add, “It’s Lee and Jeff! Come home!”

“What if he’s hurt and can’t answer us?”

“We need to make our path twisty, make sure we look in every crack and crevice.”

“We can go faster if we split up,” he says, and guides the sorrel mare away from me.

“No!”

He startles at the strength of my answer. Jefferson could pass within ten feet of Andy, and if he’s tucked into a holler or huddled under a bush, he’d never notice him. But not me. I’ll sense him in the dark, clear as a meadowlark’s song, as long as I get close enough.

“Two sets of eyes are better than one,” I tell him, knowing it’s a weak argument. I think of a better one, which I almost don’t say, but the words come tumbling out anyway. “Also, Jeff, I couldn’t stand it if something happened to you. I’m not letting you out of my sight this far from camp.”

“I . . . All right.”

For the next hour or so, we zigzag back and forth along the bank of the Platte. The air cools. Coyote silhouettes skim the land in the distance. Twice, the dogs take off after something rattling in the grass, but they return when we call. Once, we startle a small herd of antelope drinking at the river’s edge. But Andy never answers our cries, and when we come to a tributary stream that’s too deep for him to have crossed, we turn inland and start cutting the pie.

We make it all the way back in sight of the wagons with no luck. The only gold nearby is the Hoffmans’ hidden treasure, and I’m used to the weight of it in my head now. The dogs dash past us to return to camp, and we have to call them when we turn and head out again.

“Tom searched this direction already,” Jefferson says, stifling a yawn.

“We checked every direction once,” I say. “Now we’re checking again.”

His shoulders slump, and his face is wan. If he says he wants to grab some shut-eye and start again in the morning, I’ll let him go.

Instead he takes a bite of Therese’s cornbread and a swig from his canteen, rolls his shoulders, and leads us back into the night.

We follow a dry creek that cuts into the hills. It’s just low enough that we can’t see our campfires from the creek bed. I have a good feeling about it, like it’s a place that might feel cozy and interesting to a child. We follow it for miles, long after I think we must have gone too far. I sniff the air, detecting a zing of moisture. If a storm comes up, a wash like this could flood in minutes.

“What’s your problem with the Hoffmans?” Jefferson says all of a sudden.

“What? I don’t have any problem with them.”