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warrior!” he shouted, listening to his voice echo, as pleased and proud as he’d ever been in his life. It was there, he believed, that his magic was born—the medicine that had protected him all these years, through all the battles, all the killings, all the tortures and burnings. He heard his twelve-year-old voice cry out again, “I am a warrior!” and it was true and it was good.
    Long Nose bragged about the speed of his paint horse. One Dog believed his bay was faster. The bet was horse against horse: the winner took the loser’s animal—and the pride of its rider. It was a long and very close race. Long Nose won, and his victory was seen by the tribe. One Dog slid down from his heaving, sweat-dripping horse, pulled his knife from its sheath, and plunged it to the hilt into his bay’s eye. “Here’s your horse,” he said to Long Nose as the bay crumpled to the ground.
    Long Nose held One Dog’s eyes for a long time before he swung his horse away and rode off. So strong was One Dog’s medicine that Long Nose never returned to the tribe.
    The first farm attack sprang into the air in front of One Dog, without the cloudlike drifting that had carried the other visions. It hadn’t been at all difficult to assemble a group of crazies: deserters from both sides, drunks, gunfighters, drifters, murderers running from the law. One Dog killed a couple of them in front of the others to establish his superiority. He expected no loyalty from his gang, but he demanded their fear of him, and got it. The crew was without prejudice, as was One Dog. They hated everyone—whatever the race, creed, color, or tribe—equally.
    What bonded them together was their bloodthirstiness—killing for the sake of killing.
    The farm was a small cattle operation: a hundred acres or so, perhaps two hundred head of beef, the owner, his wife, and two hired hands. One Dog hit both the house and the bunkhouse fast and hard. His fire arrows and those of the other Indians sent the occupants scurrying out, to be mowed down by gunfire. The three men were killed first. It took the wife a much longer time before death released her. The crew carried off nothing and didn’t bother to collect the cattle. They watched the house and barn burn to cinders, passing bottles of rotgut tequila among them, laughing, recalling the woman’s screams.
    The smoke from the peyote mushrooms became dense again, darker, more pungent, burning One Dog’s nose and throat as he inhaled.
    The vision, at first, was of an Appaloosa horse, riderless, breathing fire, hooves striking blue sparks from the ground as the massive animal galloped toward him, teeth bared, keening a quavering death canticle. The horse burst into flames and was gone. A man far larger than life, faceless, appeared. He held a long-bladed, bloodied knife in one hand and a pistol in the other.
    Behind the giant came a man, a woman, two children,and two dogs. They were of normal size. Each person had the fangs of a viper at the corners of his or her mouth. One Dog felt a terror, a cold, lashing wind, such as he’d never experienced before.
    One Dog, whimpering, lumbered to his feet and drew his knife. He slashed the buffalo hide of the sweat lodge and fought his way through the supporting saplings, tumbling out of the smoke and the intense heat onto the ground.
    Will Lewis drank coffee with Lucas in the predawn before he set out to find One Dog. Slick was packed, saddlebags bulging. Will had cleaned and lubricated both his rifle and his pistol the night before, although neither had needed any attention.
    â€œGot the map I made?” Lucas asked.
    Will patted his chest pocket. “Yep.”
    â€œGrazing is going to be piss-poor—everything’s burned out this time o’ the year—but I showed some places where ol’ Slick can get some grass in his belly.”
    â€œI noticed,” Will said. “And it’s mostly