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on the counter of a whitewashed wooden booth. He was smoking a short black clay pipe, and reading a worn, leather-bound Bible. A nameplate at his elbow gave his name, T. T. Rowe. I asked if there was any record of my good friend Ezra Nevin passing through this port.
    â€œSon, how on earth would I tell this individual,” inquired Mr. Rowe, slowly raising his eyes from the scriptures, “from every other eager traveler?”

CHAPTER 9
    He shook his head after I had described Ezra, down to his silver belt buckle.
    He gave me a sympathetic smile, keeping a forefinger on the page he was reading—Proverbs 10—and speaking around the stem of his pipe, he said, “You’ll catch up with your friend, son—don’t worry.”
    â€œI wonder if I will,” I said doubtfully.
    â€œWe ship great bags of mail to San Francisco,” said the ticket agent. “Bags filled to bursting with letters from home, addressed to ‘Johnny So-and-So, along the Sacramento or the Yuba Rivers,’ or ‘Jacob Howdy, Somewhere in the Goldfields.’” He concluded rhetorically, “And do you know what happens to these precious letters?”
    â€œTell us,” I must have said. Or perhaps my manner spoke for me.
    â€œIt might take weeks, but most of the letters find their due recipient.” He leaned forward, and each word was emphasized by a feather of smoke from the bowl of his pipe. “You could die up there in the Sierra,” he said, like a man delivering good news. “But you most assuredly won’t get lost.”
    â€œIf you would let us take a look at your list of passengers,” Ben suggested, “we’d be grateful.”
    I offered Mr. Rowe the remains of a twist of chewing tobacco, a parting gift from Colonel Legrand. He accepted it, took the pipe from his mouth, and stuffed the entire wad into his mouth. He took his time placing the chew squarely in his cheek. Then he took a large book, wide and scored with faint blue lines, and set it on the counter before him.
    They were all there, written in a fine clerk’s hand, rows of names penned in brown ink. It did not take him long to put a finger on E. Nevin . “Ah, that spirited young fellow,” said Mr. Rowe.” He gave me a dollar for arranging help with his trunk.”
    He thought for a while, working the tobacco quid around in his cheek. He spat into the brass urn at his feet, a wide-mouthed spittoon soiled with expectoration and cigar ash. “Unless I’m mistaken, I do believe some other man was asking after this very gentleman,” he said. “Not long afterward. A big man, with a couple of hard-looking companions.”
    Ben tugged at my arm, with an apologetic pat of his stomach.
    I knew how he felt—I had never felt so famished in my life. And I gave no further thought to the ticket agent’s news, I was so distracted by my hunger.
    A handsome building across the square, shaded by trees, its confines protected by tall, moss-darkened walls, was surmounted by a tall limestone statue I took to be an image of Jesus’ mother. Nuns came and went from the iron-worked front door of this convent, and I felt the beautiful strangeness of the place, with the scent of flowers, spices, and verdure in the air, settle in on me.
    The doctor stopped by a nearby hotel that served as a hospital, a graceful building with a cloak of flowering vines along one wall. While Dr. Merrill checked on the disposition of his two fever-wracked patients, Ben and I sat beside a fountain that played water gently over its mossy interior.
    The town sported a number of large black birds, elegant in flight, and as we admired the sight of them, a whiskery man in stained canvas trousers made his way unsteadily toward us.
    â€œYou’re too late!” he said.
    I could smell the rum at three paces.
    â€œIf you’re not there in California already,” he continued, “you might as well turn