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had been made, that it was all a horrible joke. But there was another voice, this one trapped in his skull, that screamed again and again that there was no mistake, that it was all true and that it would be better he cut his own throat and tore out his own eyes than look on the ruins. Nocona knew which voice to believe, and he knew which one he wanted to believe. The warring voices shouting each other down were like two mad women fighting over a man. The louder one screamed, the louder the other responded, until words were useless, and furious volume was the only communication left them.
    He saw smoke now, not much, not enough to suggest a peaceful village, but certainly not leftfrom the slaughter of a week before, either. The sun was darkening, turning the river to blood, as if the village lay prostrate, hemorrhaging the last precious drops of its life into the current. Dead ahead was a steep rise and the village lay beyond it, not more than a mile away. He pulled up then, feeling his sides heaving, the frenzied hammering of his heart almost audible in the sudden silence. Taking a deep breath, he dismounted, grabbing the war rope and curling it securely in his hands and tugging the pony toward the rise.
    The thick grass looked dark, almost gray in the fading light, and felt it crush under his moccasins as he started uphill, the pony jerking its head behind him, as if reluctant to accompany him.
    He felt the urge to run, to let go of the horse and sprint through the long grass the way he had as a child, but it struck him as unseemly, and he shook his head, as if baffled by such a treacherous impulse. The grass seemed to cling to his buckskin leggings, as if trying to persuade him not to climb the rise, to stop and stay where he was, even to go back. But he trudged on, the horse still bucking him with every step. Near the top of the rise, he stopped and turned to look at the sun setting now far behind him. The trees were all tinged with red, bright ruby auras surrounding the crowns of the tallest, as if they were just about to burst into flame. The dark shadows of the treesspeared up the rise like so many charcoal snakes.
    He let the pony go, and it shook its head, nickered once, then backed up a couple of steps. Shaking its mane, it turned away from him, but moved no further. He collapsed into the grass, his legs folding beneath him by instinct.
    He was breathing deeply, each inhalation swelling his powerful chest and taking with it some of the terror as it rushed from his body. His hands trembled in his lap, and he looked at them as if they were live things that crept up on him unawares. Lifting them, he held them overhead, blocking the sun and watching as the fingers turned ruby red at their edges. He curled the fingers into fists, shook them once, and let a great shout rush from his lungs. He heard the wordless bellow come echoing back from the hills around him and looked toward the loudest echo as if someone else had shouted to him.
    Shaking his head, he doubled over. A hand closed over his shoulder, and he gave a start, reaching for his knife as he tried to rise, but the hand held him down, and he was too drained to struggle.
    He glanced up then, and found himself staring into the face of Red Owl, the oldest man in the village, a man who had lived more winters than anyone could count, more winters even than Red Owl himself could remember clearly.
    “My son,” he said, “you have come back.”
    “Too late,” Nocona mumbled. “Too late.”
    “You’ve heard, then?”
    Nocona nodded. “Yes, I’ve heard.”
    “It was terrible, terrible. I think maybe you should not see.”
    Nocona shook his head sharply. “And what should I do, then, Father? Should I forget what has happened? Should I pretend that I never lived here? That my family never was?”
    “No. Of course not. But some things are better not seen.”
    “This is not one of them. This I must see for myself. I want to carve it into my memory to scar it, the