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an English feller named Lord Byron, a scribbler of no account at all, Madison told me. Fool name. Madison DeWitt’s her pa. One of my best friends, a good man, more’s the pity.”
    Brent continued looking toward the girl, Byrony. He realized that he’d liked her, an unusual occurrence, and that he wanted to talk to her some more. He hadn’t really liked a woman in a long time. There was Maggie, of course. And Laurel, when he’d been eighteen. He shook his head at himself. Dear Lord, he hadn’t thought of Laurel since he’d gotten a letter from his brother, Drew, over six months ago in Denver.
    Drew never mentioned Laurel, but still Brent would remember, usually at odd times, like now. Without conscious thought, he raised his hand and fingered the scar along his left cheek. Nothing more stupid than a lusty young man.
    “What’s the pity?” he asked finally.
    “The girl. Poor Madison’s cursed. Told me he’d caught her with her lover, one of the damned Californios. ’Course the boy wouldn’t marry her, but his pa gave Madison some money to buy him off. Damned proud greasers. Madison’s just hopin’ the girl’s belly won’t swell with a bastard.”
    But she’s so young, Brent thought, probably not even twenty yet. A lover? She hadn’t struck him as that type of female. Well, he was probably wrong. Lord knew, he’d been wrong before. She’d probably tried to use her body to get herself married into a wealthy family. An old story. Damnable scheming women. You taught me well enough, Laurel. He heard Byrony DeWitt laugh, a sweet sound, and saw her scratching behind the mangy ear of one of the horses.
    “It doesn’t seem likely to me,” Brent said.
    “Like I told you, I’m her pa’s friend. Tells me everything, he does. The girl’s a proud little piece, but still a slut.” He spit again, the brown stream landing in the center of the puddle he’d been working on for hours.
    “She doesn’t look like a slut.”
    “A silly little slut with a fancy name. That’s all she is. Aye, poor Madison. Guess it makes sense, since the girl was raised without her pa in Boston. Now he’ll have to find her a husband from other parts. No self-respectin’ man would have her now.”
    Particularly, Brent thought, if you tell everyone you see about her failings. He looked up to see Byrony DeWitt climb into the wagon and take the horse’s reins from her mother. For a brief moment she looked directly at him, and she smiled. Then she click-clicked the horses forward, and soon all he could see was the billowing dust from the wagon wheels.
    “You stayin’ in these parts long, young feller?”
    “No, I’m not. San Diego is too quiet for me.” And too stagnant, and too dirty. He thought of San Francisco and smiled. Crime, corruption, greed, every negative human behavior imaginable, but dammit, you knew you were alive in that city. A city filled with young men like himself, who wanted to create their own future. Wild, boisterous, invigorating, that was San Francisco. He’d traveled on Edward Bolsom’s ship down the coast with half a thought to buying into his friend’s shipping line. But it wasn’t for him. He knew what he wanted.
    “You been up north in the goldfields?”
    “Yes.”
    “Any luck?”
    “Enough,” Brent said. “Be seeing you.” He tipped his hat to the old man and strode back across the street to the Colorado House.
     
    “Who was that man, Byrony?”
    Byrony turned her head from the road to look at her mother. “I ran into him, literally, and spilled the flour all over me. He is very nice, but he’s leaving San Diego tomorrow.”
    Alice DeWitt twisted her hands together, a habit of long standing. “I’m glad your father wasn’t in town.”
    “Why? You think he would have gone after the man and demanded money from him for dishonoring me?” Byrony’s voice shook with bitterness and impotent rage.
    “Now, dear,” Alice said, her voice pleading, “you mustn’t be like that. The five