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to you boys about this at some point, but I trust you enough to take your word for it, Jake.”
    “Much obliged, Billie.” Jake tipped his hat. “You know where we live, and we’ll be back in town in the next couple of days. I’m heading home, though. I’m beat to hell, bleeding, and I need some sleep.”
    “You want the Doc to look at your shoulder?” Billie asked.
    “Naw … I’ll be fine.”
    Billie slid the stable doors open all the way and let both Jake and Cole ride out. A crowd stood in front of the Colorado Brewery and there were hushed whispers about murder and thieves.
    When they were past the crowd, Cole finally spoke up. “You figure them boys were sent by the Tong, don’t you.”
    Jake nodded. “It looks like they finally decided to get even for us killing Hang Ah.” He let out a long sigh. “I need to sleep on this one, amigo . I just hope I’m tired enough to not dream tonight.”

Chapter Four – This Can’t Last
    “I’ve been livin’ on borrowed time ever since that Reb cannon took me apart.”
    ~ Jake Lasater
    The dull thump of an explosion woke Jake from the all-too-familiar nightmare. Bits and pieces of war memories visited him nightly, but he’d learned to live with it. The thump, originating from Skeeter’s workshop behind the house, was chased by a high-pitched whistle of steam that faded quickly.
    Jake sighed in the darkness and rolled over, his muscles and bandaged shoulder screaming. He pulled the pillow over his head and swore into the mattress, pondering the likelihood that he might be able to get back to sleep. Long odds, he thought. Such detonations weren’t at all uncommon, but he decided to gamble a little and closed his eyes. As he prepared to go back to sleep—hopefully avoiding another nightmare—Cole’s frantic hollering and cursing from the workshop spurred his ass out of bed.
    He stood up slowly, his brass heels thudding along the hard wood floor while the clockwork of his arm and legs whined faintly. Throwing a nightshirt over his naked body, he grabbed his ocular off the dresser and, with an easy motion, slipped the leather strap over his head. He twisted a gear on the side of the ocular, closing out the light.
    Mid-morning sunlight washed over him as he pulled thick drapes back from the window. There, staring at him from the windowsill, stood a crow with bright yellow eyes. Jake stared at it, and it stared straight back at him. Seconds ticked by like distant hammer falls.
    Jake got the message and winked his good eye at it. It nodded its head once and cawed—a quiet, grumbly sound like a farewell to an old friend. Then it leapt off the ledge, spread its wings, and beat a steady rhythm into a spotless blue sky.
    In the distance, foothills traced a line half a mile behind the house. The Rocky Mountains stretched away to the south toward Pueblo, broken only by a blossom of black smoke rising from the wide-open double doors of Skeeter’s workshop behind the house. The view—of the mountains, not the workshop—was why Jake had chosen that particular bedroom, but his thoughts drifted to the crow and then beyond.
    His memory flickered to the hills of Missouri, tossing up the grizzled, weather-beaten face of Bhuvana, whose name meant Earth. Jake’s parents had protested loudly whenever he stole away on warm summer nights to visit the old Cherokee shaman. But Jake didn’t care, didn’t listen. His older brother Benjamin had just left for the Virginia Military Institute. At ten years old he needed something to fill the vacuum of his brother’s absence. Jake found Bhuvana, and as a result, he learned about life, the Land, and Bhuvana’s People. Indian life appealed to the young boy far more than his father’s brewery business or his mother’s bent knees and Christian prayers.
    Bhuvana had taught him about totems—the spirit guides of the People—and listening with a better ear than most whites were willing to lend. One of his first lessons had been about