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Jack even knew that was the goal. Jack found out fast that in this game there was no net, and if the ball hit certain tree branches, that was a score. No out-of-bounds, no offsides, no boundary lines of any kind, no time-outs, no halftime, no fouls, no free throws. And, “No tackling!” Merle yelled. “There’s a girl playing!”
    And did she ever play! Ashley’s long, dark hair swirled around her shoulders as she picked up the deerskin ball with her webbed stick and ran toward the goal, dodging both Merle and Jack. “How many goals do we need to win?” she shouted to Yonah.
    â€œEight!”
    They’d better get serious then, Jack thought. “Hey! I saw her carrying that ball in her hand,” he yelled.
    â€œThat’s allowed,” Yonah shot back. “In Cherokee stickball, after you pick up the ball with your stick, you can grab it in your hand and run.”
    â€œI know the rules,” Merle muttered, “and I’m not gonna get beaten by a girl. Even if she is cute.”
    Jack turned to stare at Merle. He didn’t see the ball coming until it hit him in the knee.
    â€œWar wound, Paleface!” Yonah yelled.
    â€œI’m OK!” Jack yelled back, and to Merle, “You’re right. We gotta win this.”
    The game grew intense. Yonah’s sweaty hair kept falling in his eyes, making Jack glad his own hair was cut short. Ashley’s shirt got damp under the arms, and the guys’ faces shone with sweat, especially Merle’s. Since Merle was stockier, he had more weight to move around, and that made him sweat more, Jack guessed. It was a simple game with hardly any rules—back and forth in the yard, picking up the deerskin ball with the sticks, flinging it or running with it. The score stayed pretty even: four goals for Jack, three for Merle, three for Ashley, four for Yonah.
    And then Yonah scored the eighth goal. “We won!” he hollered, throwing his stick into the air and smacking hands with Ashley, who flung back her hair and did a little victory dance.
    After Yonah untied Lola, Ashley laughed and started her dance again, this time with the exuberant dog. The three of them jumped around in a circle, with Ashley and Yonah patting their mouths and shouting “woo woo woo woo” in a war chant, while Lola barked.
    Mrs. Firekiller came out onto the back porch then, carrying a tray. A pretty woman with skin paler than Blue’s or Yonah’s, she had the same thick black hair.
    â€œI watched you through the window. Great game!” she told them. “You’re probably thirsty and hungry after all that exercise.” She set the tray on the edge of the back steps and said, “Here’s bottled water, lemonade, and some towels to wipe off your sweat. Plus my special fry bread; you can put peanut butter and jelly on it if you want to.” As the kids gathered around Mrs. Firekiller—she told them to call her Lily—she sat on the steps and poured lemonade for them.
    Jack had tasted fry bread many times before—after all, Wyoming was Indian country—but Mrs. Firekiller’s was especially good.
    â€œLet’s go for a bike ride,” Merle urged, before Jack had a chance to finish eating. “Is it OK if Ashley uses your bike, Lily? And Jack can take Blue’s?”
    â€œSure, that’s fine,” she agreed. “Take these water bottles with you, and I’ll get you some trail mix. But watch out for bears.” She hesitated. “You know, it seems strange to have to warn you about bears. Each year millions of people come to this park hoping to see black bears, and most of them are disappointed because the bears stay hidden. And now, suddenly, people are getting attacked. I wish we knew what’s going on.”
    Merle didn’t wait for Lily to finish talking. He started wheeling the bikes out of the shed, one at a time.
    Thanking Lily for everything, Jack and Ashley