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make him so amazingly rich. He doesn’t know why he sees the things he sees when he picks up a brush, but he suspects it’s because he dabs a tiny pinch of that gray dust on his palette every time he starts a new piece. He says so in his autobiography, written in 2140.”
    Einar bent and scooped up a double handful of sand, and let it sift through his fingers. “Right here. It’s all right here, waiting to happen, man. Immanent. The air is on fire with it. Jesus, I love this town.”
    I started and stared, because for just a second I had seen it all: the pretty houses, the ruined city in flames, the Yellow Brick Road curving away up the wall of a soundstage.
    “You are nuts,” I said. “But I’ll bet the Company brings you back here.”
    “Gotta hope.” He grinned. Suddenly his gaze focused on a point in the distance behind me. He reached up for one of his shotguns. I dove for the dirt. “No, it’s okay!” he said. “This is the trank gun.” Heaimed and fired. There was a dull bang and a plaintive little yip, and destiny had found another coyote.
     
    We returned to the inn as darkness was falling. I had a couple of specimens of rare members of the artemisia family in my collecting kit, and Einar had a neatly trussed coyote sleeping peacefully in a wicker creel behind him. There was a loud argument going on around the cooking fire. The principal raised voice was female.
    “That man had actually participated in the Bear Flag Rebellion!” Imarte was wailing. “Do you realize what a unique opportunity has been lost? Have you any idea of the insights he could have given us into the mind-set of the Anglo-American rebels?”
    “I said I was sorry.” Juan Bautista sounded as though he would have liked to crawl into a hole in the sand. “But Erich will die if he doesn’t get the right food. It’s not like I was chewing it up and vomiting it for him, anyway.”
    “Oh, my goddess.” Imarte flung up her arms in disgust.
    “The thing stinks, Juan. You’re going to have to feed your bird someplace else, okay?” Porfirio said. As we rode into the clearing under the trees, it became obvious what he meant: someone, presumably Juan Bautista, had dragged a carcass into the clearing. It had been either a large dog or a small deer. I wasn’t a zoologist, so I didn’t know which. It had been worked over by coyotes already, so I doubted whether anyone else could have told either. Erich von Stroheim (that was what the baby condor had been christened) was sitting on it, looking bewildered. When Imarte raised her voice again, the bird ducked his head and shook his wings desperately, squeaking.
    “I don’t care what the little horror needs, he doesn’t have to have it here when I’m bringing home a client,” she said.
    “Oh dear.” Einar swung out of the saddle. “You lose another John?”
    It seemed that the stagecoach had made a stop, and while the horses were being changed and the drivers were refreshing themselves, Imarte had sallied down and offered refreshment to the passengers.One gentleman had felt confident enough in his appetite to be able to do justice to her offer in the comparatively brief time allotted, and so she’d led him up to the adobe. Unfortunately the first sight that met his eye was Erich von Stroheim pecking at his supper, watched fondly by Juan Bautista. Not only had the gentleman been unable to avail himself of the refreshment offered, he’d lost the lunch he’d partaken of earlier in the day, and departed hastily.
    “This
cannot
happen again,” raged Imarte. “That creature
cannot
be allowed to interfere with my work, do you understand? It’s not even as though he can be trained to live in the wild. He’s nothing but a pet.”
    “That’s enough.” Porfirio held up his hand. “Juan, take the carcass away now. Downwind, please. We can work out a supplement with chopped beef and an enzyme formula, okay? He’ll be fine.”
    “Okay.” Dejectedly Juan picked up the little condor