Fifty-OneCaroline Studebaker stood among the household goods, miner’s tools and general supplies in Armin’s Emporium on I Street with the self-possession of an empress governing her empire. She was a short and stocky woman with a plain but pleasantly full face and penetrating dark eyes he was certain missed very little.
The dimly lit cavernous space smelt of oats and candlewax, of paraffin oil and tar soap. Reputedly one of the most profitable general stores in Sacramento, it appeared to be also one of the best stocked. Every available inch of wall was covered in display stands piled high with goods for sale, from miner’s picks and shovels, cooking utensils to bedrolls, fish hooks to liquor.
“Anything I can help you with, sir?” A fair-headed, pale-faced shop assistant with a fleshy nose
