“I ain't turning no more iron into gold,” said Alvin.

It made Makepeace angry. “That's gold, you fool! That there plow you made means never going hungry, never having to work again, living fine instead of in that rundown house up there! It means new dresses for Gertie and maybe a suit of clothes for me! It means folks in town saying Good morning to me and tipping their hats like I was a gentleman. It means riding in a carriage like Dr. Physicker, and going to Dekane or Carthage or wherever I please and not even caring what it costs. And you're telling me you ain't making no more gold?”

Alvin knew it wouldn't do no good explaining, but still he tried. “This ain't no common gold, sir. This is a living plow– I ain't going to let nobody melt it down to make coins out of it. Best I can figure, nobody could melt it even if they wanted to. So back off and let me go.”

“What you going to do, plow with it? You blame fool, we could be kings of the world together!” But when Alvin pushed on by, headed out of the smithy, Makepeace stopped his pleading and started getting ugly. “That's my iron you used to make that golden plow! That gold belongs to me! A journeyman piece always belongs to the master, less'n he gives it to the journeyman and I sure as hell don't! Thief! You're stealing from me!”

“You stole five years of my life from me, long after I was good enough to be a journeyman,” Alvin said. “And this plow– making it was none of your teaching. It's alive, Makepeace Smith. It doesn't belong to you and it doesn't belong to me. It belongs to itself. So let me just set it down here and we'll see who gets it.”

Alvin set down the plow on the grass between them. Then he stepped back a few paces. Makepeace took one step toward the plow. It sank down into the soil under the grass, then cut its way through the dirt till it reached Alvin. When he picked it up, it was warm. He knew what that had to mean. “Good soil,” said Alvin. The plow trembled in his hands.

Makepeace stood there, his eyes bugged out with fear. “Good Lord, boy, that plow moved.”

“I know it,” said Alvin.

“What are you, boy? The devil?”

“I don't think so,” said Alvin. “Though I might've met him once or twice.”

“Get on out of here! Take that thing and go away! I never want to see your face around here again!”

“You got my journeyman paper,” said Alvin. “I want it.”

Makepeace reached into his pocket, took out a folded paper, and threw it onto the grass in front of the smithy. Then he reached out and pulled the smithy doors shut, something he hardly ever did, even in winter. He shut them tight and barred them on the inside. Poor fool, as if Alvin couldn't break down them walls in a second if he really wanted to get inside. Alvin walked over and picked up the paper. He opened it and read it– signed all proper. It was legal. Alvin was a journeyman.

The sun was just about to show up when Alvin got to the springhouse door. Of course it was locked, but locks and hexes couldn't keep Alvin out, specially when he made them all himself. He opened the door and went inside. Arthur Smart stirred in his sleep. Alvin touched his shoulder, brought the boy awake. Alvin knelt there by the bed and told the boy most all that happened in the night. He showed him the golden plow, showed him how it moved. Arthur laughed in delight. Then Alvin told him that the woman he called Mama all his life was dead, killed by the Finders, and Arthur cried.

But not for long. He was too young to cry for long. “You say she kilt one herself afore she died?”

“With your pa's own shotgun.”

“Good for her!” said Arthur Stuart, his voice so fierce Alvin almost laughed, him being so small.

“I killed the other one myself. The one that shot her.”

Arthur reached out and took Alvin's right hand and opened it. “Did you kill him with this hand?”

Alvin nodded.

Arthur kissed his open palm.

“I would've fixed her up if I could,” said Alvin. “But she died too fast. Even if I'd been standing right there the second after the shot hit her, I couldn't've fixed her up.”

Arthur Stuart reached out and hung onto Alvin around his neck and cried some more.

It took a day to put Old Peg into the ground, up on the hill with her own daughters and Alvin's brother Vigor and Arthur's mama who died so young. “A place for people of courage,” said Dr. Physicker, and Alvin knew that he was right, even though Physicker didn't know about the runaway Black slave girl.

Alvin washed away the bloodstains from the floor and stiairs of the roadhouse, using his knack to pull out what blood the lye and sand couldn't remove. It was the last gift he could give to Horace or to Peggy. Margaret. Miss Larner.

“I got to leave now,” he told them. They were setting on chairs in the common room of the inn, where they'd been receiving mourners all day. “I'm taking Arthur to my folks' place, in Vigor Church. He'll be safe there. And then I'm going on.”

“Thank you for everything,” said Horace. “You been a good friend to us. Old Peg loved you.” Then he broke down crying again.

Alvin patted him on the shoulder a couple of times, and then moved over to stand in front of Peggy. “All that I am, Miss Larner, I owe to you.”

She shook her head.

“I meant all I said to you. I still mean it.”

Again she shook her head. He wasn't surprised. With her mama dead, never even knowing that her own daughter'd come home, why, Alvin didn't expect she could just up and go. Somebody had to help Horace Guester run the roadhouse. It all made sense. But still it stabbed him to the heart, because now more than ever he knew that it was true– he loved her. But she wasn't for him. That much was plain. She never had been. A woman like this, so educated and fine and beautiful– she could be his teacher, but she could never love him like he loved her.

“Well then, I guess I'm saying good-bye,” said Alvin. He stuck out his hand, even though he knew it was kind of silly to shake hands with somebody grieving the way she was. But he wanted so bad to put his arms around her and hold her tight the way he'd held Arthur Stuart when he was grieving, and a handshake was as close as he could come to that.

She saw his hand, and reached up and took it. Not for a handshake, but just holding his hand, holding it tight. It took him by surprise. He'd think about that many times in the months and years to come, how tight she held to him. Maybe it meant she loved him. Or maybe it meant she only cared for him as a pupil, or thanked him for avenging her mama's death– how could he know what a thing like that could mean? But still he held onto that memory, in case it meant she loved him.

And he made her a promise then, with her holding his hand like that; made her a promise even though he didn't know if she even wanted him to keep it. “I'll be back,” he said. “And what I said last night, it'll always be true.” It took all his courage then to call her by the name she gave him permission last night to use. “God be with you, Margaret.”

“God be with you, Alvin,” she whispered.

Then he gathered up Arthur Stuart, who'd been saying his own good-byes, and led the boy outside. They walked out back of the roadhouse to the barn, where Alvin had hidden the golden plow deep in a barrel of beans. He took off the lid and held out his hand, and the plow rose upward until it glinted in the light. Then Alvin took it up, wrapped it double in burlap and put it inside a burlap bag, then swung the bag over his shoulder.

Alvin knelt down and held out his hand the way he always did when he wanted Arthur Stuart to climb up onto his back. Arthur did, thinking it was all for play– a boy that age, he can't be grieving for more than an hour or two at a time. He swung up onto Alvin's back, laughing and bouncing.

“This time it's going to be a long ride, Arthur Stuart,” said Alvin. “We're going all the way to my family's house in Vigor Church.”