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raise his chickens, we grow his crops, we fatten ourselves on his tame buffalo, we wear his clothes, live in his houses … and catch his sicknesses. Three years ago, great fever.” His leathery-looking hands patted his face, then cupped the back of his neck. “Terrible hurting, here. Two moons later I was blind. A half man.” Joshua sighed and drank from his gourd cup. Panther Burn took one sniff of the bitter-smelling brew and set it aside. “Still we live in peace,” Joshua added.
    A blind peace, maybe, Panther Burn thought to himself.
    â€œNow you must tell me about your father. Does he fare well? And my sister Crescent Moon, how is it with her? You must tell me everything. I am glad you have come.” He reached out and felt for the younger man’s hand, took it in his. “A Red Shield cannot have a wife, children, no … you and your parents are all the family I have. It is good not to be alone.”
    A Red Shield, this broken blind old man? A feeling of shame swept over Panther Burn for his thoughts. He gripped his uncle’s hand tightly and told him of life by Spirit Mountain, of all that had transpired since the two tribes of the same people had joined in celebration, now more than five years ago. He told his uncle of battles and hunts, of horses caught and buffalo chased and how sweet the chokecherries were last year; told him everything except the real reason why Panther Burn had left his father’s village and journeyed two months alone to be with Joshua’s people.
    As evening shadows shrouded the land, turned the tree-tops to black spear points against a blood-red sky, Joshua crawled beneath the blankets, and curling up on his pallet, began to snore. Old Warrior padded over, whined a moment, then settled down to warm himself against the old man’s soon sleeping form. Panther Burn stepped out of the cabin, stretched, and walked out from the village, an easy thing to do, as Joshua’s cabin was on the edge of the sprawling, orderless arrangement of cabins. He ran through the buffalo grass to the crest of a knoll about a hundred yards from his uncle’s cabin. And there, safe from the prying ears of the rest of the village, he began to sing.
    In beauty was it begun
    In beauty let it be finished .
    The first of stars ,
    The last of sun
    Come moon-woman, magic woman, lead us to our rest.
    By the All-Father was it begun
    By the All-Father it will be finished .
    In beauty .
    Though he sang softly, the gentle wind carried his voice to the edge of the village. And there were some who took notice, who paused by their cookfires to listen, to remember. And one in particular, standing in the lee of Joshua’s cabin where she had come to bring food to the old blind man and his nephew, Rebecca Blue Thrush listened to the song, her heart inexplicably reaching out to the singer. And she dared to dream.

3
    T he Cheyenne attack had been sudden and merciless, catching the settlers off guard just as the wagon train broke circle along the banks of the Tongue. As arrows filled the air and clouds of black smoke and flame exploded from rifles hidden in the tall yellow grass, Dolph Bragg shoved his two sons out of the back of their prairie schooner and handed his elder boy, Jubal, a revolver and pointed toward the riverbank.
    â€œRun! Care for Tomm … eeee.” Jubal’s father stiffened, his expression contorted in agony, then he slumped forward and slid partway from the wagon, his pants leg caught on a rake. Aurelia Bragg was there, coming from around the wagon in time to catch her husband and lower him to the ground as she screamed his name and clawed at the bloodied patch on the back of his coat. Her brown hair, unpinned, streamed in the wind like the tattered canvas covering the wagon, like the flames licking skyward from the surrounding wreckage. Her mad eyes bored into Jubal.
    â€œRun,” she shrieked, echoing her husband. Jubal could only stare at his