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left to them.
    Victoria struggled to her feet. “Goddamn Snakes,” she said. “Owl will eat your heart out.”
    She sat down painfully, her rheumatism tormenting her.
    That stopped the guttural chanting, slowly.
    â€œGo away from us, Absaroka woman. You are not welcome here,” Mare said.
    â€œGo to hell, Snake,” she replied.
    Dirk stared sharply at her.
    â€œYou mess with Owl, and Owl will eat your heart out, and then your brains and then your liver and then there ain’t nothing left to eat.” She addressed Mare. “Where is the boy, the one who calls himself Owl now? He’s a half-grown fool. I want to talk with him before he does any more foolishness.”
    â€œThe Dreamer? You will never know, Absaroka woman. And you, half-blood, will never know. And you—who is called chief by a few women—you will never know.”
    That shocked Dirk. It was a calculated insult to the chief. It also shocked the rest. He saw men grimace.
    â€œSend the young man to me,” Washakie replied, once again shrugging off the offenses against his person and office. “I wish to learn about his dream.”
    In the ensuing silence Dirk saw no softening.
    Washakie motioned, and Dirk hawed the dray horse forward, and along the river trail, but Washakie urged him to turn toward the agency. The chief sat in stony silence as the day waned. They would not reach the agency until long after the summer sun had fled.
    â€œThis is a good land,” Washakie said. “See how the peaks still are white even as summer dies. See how the forests rise up their slopes. See how clear and sweet is the water that tumbles down to the valley. See how the sun blesses the home of the People. I won’t waver. Our friends the white men have given us a good place. It is up to the People to make it comfort us.
    â€œIf they follow the boy, they will lose this place, and maybe their lives.”

six
    Sirius Van Horne yawned, his mouth a tunnel between orange muttonchops.
    â€œDirk, my boy, these are Shoshones, not Sioux. A few bad apples, so what? Who cares? Old Washakie’s got the lid on ‘em and that’s that.”
    â€œThey are dreaming, sir. Their sense of reality is altered.”
    â€œEh? You don’t say. Bloody thundermugs, the whole lot.”
    â€œSir, they’re on the brink of … madness. That’s not the word. Purging their land. Purging their world. Purging their life, by any means.”
    Van Horne smiled. “Very good, my boy. You did the right thing, letting me know. Now you get back to your books and chalkboard, and I’ll deal with it.”
    â€œSir—I think you should take this seriously.”
    â€œWhy, boy, I am.”
    Van Horne smiled toothily, waved a languid hand, and dismissed Dirk.
    â€œYour safety is in your hands, sir.”
    Van Horne chuckled. “It’s never been in anyone else’s hands, my boy.”
    Dirk abandoned that, and headed into the bright morning, glad to get away from the stink. What was it about Van Horne? Did his flesh exude sour fumes?
    The impersonal sun scoured the whole world and Dirk felt its heat upon him. Back in that agency office, Major Van Horne would be digging into his desk drawer for the first nip to smooth over the long day. It had been a comfortable office when Dirk’s father occupied it, redolent of leather. But Van Horne’s body exuded a sourness that permeated even the wallpaper.
    Camp Brown stood nearby. In a few weeks it would be renamed Fort Washakie, the only military reservation to be named for an Indian. Dirk wondered whether to talk to the commanding officer, Captain Prescott Cinnabar. It was hard to say. Dirk had already done what might be required, which was to alert the Indian agent of trouble. But Major Van Horne had been so disinterested he had scarcely wanted an accounting, and was not even interested in the names of those who were dreaming. He didn’t even