We had been battling our way through the wind and the snow; it was an early storm, so the flakes were as big as silver dollars and, with the force of the wind, hit with the same impact. Henry and I had worked our way over the slight rise and outcropping, staying to the right as the trail followed the general path of the stream, and had moved past Mirror Lake with no results. The water continued to run fast from the hanging valley and you could hear it when the wind died down, which it did but with lessening regularity. The blizzard had arrived, visibility had dropped to about twenty feet, and you couldn’t see much of anything except the creek.

The Forest Service path remained visible as it wound its way along the stream basin but, in another hour, the depression that made up the trail would be filled with the fast accumulating snow. I took a small measure of solace in the fact that the part that led to the West Tensleep parking lot was not only tree covered but downhill, and we didn’t have that far to go before we would get to that section. But the farther we got, the farther my heart sank with the thought that George Esper was not going to be found. I had already summoned up the image of George’s bones, scattered by all the little animals by springtime, their bleached white contrasting sharply with the green of the fresh, high-meadow grass. I watched as Henry’s image faded in and out of the white swarm of the blowing snow. Every time he disappeared, I quickened my step a bit, wanting comfort from the dark shape that stayed just ahead of me.

Was the killer here? The last two murders had been within easy reach of roads, of quick access and egress, so I didn’t think so. But what about the boot prints? It was a popular boot in a very popular size, and the possibility that George, Jacob, and some guy from Casper wore the same shoe wasn’t out of the question. I had just about convinced myself that it was coincidence when I heard the shot. It was not the report of the Remington I knew Henry was carrying.

It was close, close enough that I thought I might have seen the muzzle flash. Hearing the sound of a gunshot when you’re not expecting it is like sticking your finger in a light socket, but hearing this gunshot was more like sticking that finger into a fuse box. I know I jumped, because I had to catch myself from slipping on the freezing ground and falling into the icy water.

I wasn’t aware that I had started running or how fast I covered the distance between us, but the next thing I saw were two distinct figures in the swirling haze of snow. One was seated in the path with his feet before him and was slouched forward, and the other was standing over the first and held something in his hands. With the keening of the wind, they didn’t hear me coming even though I’m sure that the pounding of my feet and my ragged breathing alone was enough to get the dead to roll over. For some reason, I hadn’t unslung the rifle during my run but was just now slipping it from my shoulder and gripping it with both hands.

It was like falling into an impressionist painting with the snowflake pointillism giving the image a surreal quality. As I surged forward I knew it was Henry on the ground. It wasn’t a big person that I hit, and I didn’t recognize a single aspect of his appearance as we collided. I know he didn’t expect me, because there wasn’t any resistance when I got there. I was carrying the rifle forward, but I didn’t swing it, instead I used it as a battering ram. In hindsight, I suppose I could have used the thing with a little more strategy, but calculation didn’t play much of a part in my reaction.

When he went, I went over with him into the cloud of snow and down the bank leading to the creek. When we hit the ground the first time, the rifle came up and caught me at the bridge of my nose, but the majority of the impact went directly into his head, which snapped back as the stock of the big Weatherby slammed into the side of his jaw. I’m pretty sure I heard the crack of bone as he went down with me smothering him as we went. The second time we hit the ground was the last, and the roll converted into a slow slide on the bank of the stream in axle-grease mud. I felt a sharp pain in my lower lefthand side; something dug into my short ribs and felt as though it had suddenly yanked on my insulated coat as I heard a muffled report. Even in the windstorm, the smell of spent gunpowder and quartzite stung the air. I slapped a hand down to the area where the gun must have been, and I could feel the small revolver that was wedged between our mutual diaphragms. The grip that held it was limp. There was accumulated moisture between us, and I couldn’t tell if it was from the fall or if either of us had been shot. I stripped the revolver from the open hand of whomever it was that had held it and lay there for a moment to make sure he really was out and to catch my breath. After a moment, the bass of Henry’s voice strained into the wind. “Are you hit?”

His voice was thick, and I could tell he was hurt. I grunted, rolled off the inert figure, and felt my side. I looked back up the hill. “No, I don’t think so. I’m just trying to get my heart out of my throat. You?”

“Who is it?”

I pulled myself up on one elbow and looked down at my victim; his face was turned and buried in the hood of a Gore-tex jacket. I used the stock of the rifle to leverage myself up into a position more suited to looking and reached out to turn the face toward me. His chin grinded a little as I pulled the face around, indicating that some damage had been done but, aside from the askew jawline, it was the mostly intact face of a watered-down Jacob Esper. “George Esper.”

Henry’s voice was still thick, but there was a little more animation. “Is he hit?”

“I don’t know.”

“Check him. I can wait.”

I sat up completely and looked in the general vicinity of where I thought George might have been shot and found nothing. The words were just coming out of my mouth when I noticed a small tear in his full-zip pants. “Shit . . .” I pulled off my glove and ran it over the black fabric; it was coated with his blood. “Shit.”

“He is hit?”

“Yep.” I tore the pants open to reveal an entry and exit wound at the front of his thigh. “Subcutaneous damage, possibly the thigh muscles. Missed the bone and major arteries though.”

“Can you stop the bleeding?”

I sighed. “Maybe, but he’s not gonna to be able to walk.” I took one of my gloves, turned it inside out, placed the fleece-covered leather over both holes, and looked around for something with which to tie the glove in place. The small pack was still attached to my middle, so I stripped the water bottles off and emptied it out, wrapping it around his leg. I raised his head up and peeled back an eyelid. What showed was mostly white; he gave no sign of coming to. I had seen his chest rise and fall, but I felt his wrist just to make sure I hadn’t killed him. The pulse was strong, but he remained still. I checked George’s leg again and then scooped up a small .38 caliber Smith and Wesson Detectives’ Special. I thumbed open the cylinders and looked at the two spent cartridges and at the two that remained. I removed the two empties, readjusted the wheel forward of an empty chamber, and snapped the cylinder back with the firing pin resting on the hollow chamber. I pushed it into my pocket, picked up the water, and climbed the hill to my friend who still sat on the trail.

As I got to the path, I had a clearer picture of him and saw that drifts of snow had begun building up against his outstretched legs. The Bear’s arms were wrapped around his middle, and the hood on his jacket dipped low as if he were trying to sleep. The Remington 870 lay across his lap. I knelt down and looked up into his eyes; they were pinched. “Let me see.” He slowly dropped his hands to the edges of his jacket, and it was only then that I noticed the dark red stains that had soaked through his woolen gloves. The jacket slowly opened to reveal a bloody mess at his abdomen, just above the navel and slightly to the right. The blood had saturated the lower part of his shirt and thermal underwear and was now leaking into his lap. I swallowed, and the word was out before I could stop it. “Shit.”

He laughed but quickly stopped as the movement in the trunk of his body caused him who knew how much pain. “Please, you are overwhelming me with your optimism.”

We had no idea where the bullet was or what damage it might have done on its merry little way. With abdominal injuries, there’s always the possibility of traumatic tear in one of the vascular organs, which could easily lead to massive hemorrhaging into the abdomen. Percentages for gunshot mortality rates flashed through my head: liver, 30 percent; kidney, 22 percent; stomach, 18 percent; and bowels, 12 percent. These numbers geometrically progressed the more I concentrated on how far we were from a formal paracentesis, or peritoneal lavage, and computerized tomography, or CT scan. I also thought about how much time I had spent standing in emergency rooms developing an unwanted education, and how badly I wished my friend and I were in one of those very rooms right now. “We have to stop the bleeding.”

He continued to smile. “Yes, we do.”

I turned my other glove inside out and placed it over the wound. “Is the pain high or low?”

He grunted as I held the glove in place. “In the sense of tolerance or location?”

My eyes met his. “Where does it hurt?”

He chuckled very lightly. “No higher than the wound.”

“Right, left?”

He thought, concentrating on the pain. “It appears to have stayed to the right.”

I sighed and looked at his torn pack. I started unbuckling my belt, trying to remember if Henry still had his appendix. “You know, if one thing would go right in this case . . .”

I pulled my belt around him and cinched the notches through; there were, of course, no holes where I needed them. “You got a pocket knife?” He began fumbling at one of his pant pockets, but I carefully took his hands away and placed them over the now saturated glove. “Hold this.” I fished the knife from his pocket and pulled out a bone-handled stiletto with a five-inch switchblade. I shook my head as I flipped it open and gauged a hole in the spot I had indented with the belt’s tang. He grunted when I finally buckled it over the glove. “Too tight?”

“No.”

I pulled the radio from the clip at the small of my back, amazed that it was still there after all the acrobatics. I rolled the small dial on the side, listened to the static, and keyed the handheld. “Absaroka County Sheriff ’s Department, this is Unit One, come in Base? Unit Two?” I released the button and listened to the static some more. “Come in. Anybody out there?” Nothing. I looked around at the mountains that surrounded us and were covered in the visual static that was also taking its toll on our reception. I thought I heard a ghosting of some voice in the cover of radio frequency. “Come in anybody? I’ve got an emergency here. Anybody?” I listened, but the ghosting didn’t repeat itself. “I’ve got two men down in the draw of Lost Twin, just past Mirror Lake?” Still nothing. I turned and looked at Henry. “What happened? The abridged version.”

He cleared his throat. “He was standing on the trail when I looked up, so I stopped, and he fired.”

“He say anything?”

“No.”

“You?”

“I believe I may have gasped before clutching my stomach and falling to the ground, but that is all.”

I punched the button on the radio. “Come in, this is Unit One of the Absaroka County Sheriff’s Department, anybody out there?” I waited again. “If anybody can hear me, I’ve got two men down and need assistance on the trail of Lost Twin. I need backup and medical. If anybody can hear me, your assistance would be greatly appreciated.”

“That would be an understatement.”

I sighed. “Think you surprised him?”

“Yes, but all things considered I think he surprised me more.” He glanced past me to George who was starting to gather his commensurate amount of snow. “He is out?”

I looked back over my shoulder. “Yep.”

He raised a bloodstained hand to my arm. “You better get going.”

I turned and knelt down to check George’s pupils for any dilation or constriction; they appeared normal for now. I was concentrating, so it took a moment for me to process what he had said. “What?”

He gestured toward the prone George Esper. “You have to get him out of here.”

It hit me all at once what it was he was saying. “I’m not leaving you.”

He continued to slowly shake his head. “You do not have any choice. He is smaller, and you can make it out with him.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

He smiled. “Do not be mistaken, I have no intentions of dying. I will wait for you, here.”

“It’ll be after dark, in a blizzard. We won’t find you.”

“Then I will have to find you.”

My shoulders sagged a little, but I kept my eyes on him. “All right, knock it off with the mystical horseshit. You are gut shot, and the chances of your surviving are narrow enough without you crawling around out here.” His smile saddened a little. “What?”

“It is the mystical horseshit that is going to save my life.”

I looked away and sighed. “Sorry.”

“Do me a favor?”

I raised an eyebrow. “I’m not putting you out of your misery.”

“I have a small bag in my front pocket. If you would please get it out for me?” I reached for the front pocket of his coat, unbuttoned the flap, and pulled out a small, green velvet satchel with a ledger horse and warrior stitched across the front. There were beads and feathers attached to the opening at the top, and there were a number of items under the soft fabric, some discernible, some a mystery. I handed the medicine bag to him, and we didn’t mention it again. “You have to take him.” His smile brightened again. “Who knows, perhaps the weather will cooperate.” He grimaced and shifted his weight.

“Pain?”

“No, I have plenty, thank you.”

I wanted to punch him.

In spite of our hopes, the wind had increased and, with an introduction of ground fog, visibility had dropped to within ten feet. I once again glanced back at George and considered the 170-odd pounds I was going to be carrying for roughly the next three-quarters of an hour. At least it was downhill. My attention was drawn to the foot that stuck up just above the drop off, and I wondered if it might be a Vasque, size nine. When I turned back around, Henry had pulled the hood back a little, and his eyes had sharpened. “You must go, now.”

The longer I waited, the less chance he had. “You want me to move you up against one of the trees for a little shelter?”

“No, I am not moving until you get back.” His jaw clamped shut, the muscles bunched like fists on both sides of his face, and I wished like hell that I were the one who had been shot. I slipped off my jacket, careful to take out the bottle of water, and placed another layer over his front. “What are you doing?”

“If I’m carrying him out, I’ll be sweating like a pig once I get there. You’ll need this more than me.” I opened the water bottle and drained it in one continuous chug.

“Go.”

I bent down to scoop up the water bottles that had fallen on the trail. He watched as I vented a lot of frustration by throwing each of them as far as they would travel. We listened as they glanced off the tree branches in the distance and landed with satisfying thumps. I turned and looked down at him and tossed the empty over the hill. “Promise you won’t eat the snow.”

“I promise.”

I gave him a quick smile of my own. “I just thought I’d tell you, I’m taking you off the official suspect list.”

“I am comforted.” He didn’t look it, but I placed my hand lightly on his shoulder, and we understood what it was that we didn’t have to say.

I stood and trudged the small distance down the hill and paused at George’s boots: Vasques, size nine. I brushed the snow away and tried to gently shake the still unconscious George Esper into some semblance of awake. If he came to, it was possible that I could assist Henry and we could all get out; but there was no response, so I reached into his pockets, found his keys, and stuffed them into my Carhartts. If nobody was there to meet us, at least I would have a place to put George. But if nobody was there, how was I going to get a gut-shot, 220-pound man out of the woods? I decided to tackle one problem at a time. Grasping George by one arm and drawing him over my shoulder, I leveraged him up. He didn’t weigh 170, probably closer to a buck and a half, which reassured me a small amount. I stood with him over my shoulders and straightened my back, even though the majority of his weight seemed to remain on my right side. It wasn’t going to be easy but leaving him in an unconscious state and making a mad dash for the trailhead didn’t seem to be an option. He might die of hypothermia, even though I wasn’t so sure that Henry wouldn’t. But if I was betting on who could withstand the rigors of staying alive, my money was on the Bear. I was careful as I made my way up the small grade to the general flat of the trail and stopped to look down at my friend. “Couldn’t you have shot him first?”

He didn’t raise his head, but his voice rumbled, “What do you think?”

I thought about kicking his foot in response but was afraid that any unnecessary movement should be avoided, even a sign of affection. So I turned into the wind, shrugged George a little higher onto my shoulders, and kicked off the first steps of many to come.

As I had been making my way, I had heard him begin singing. It was a low voice that found a way to cut through the noise of the wind and join with it to carry its ghostly sound across the valley. I had heard Henry sing a number of times at religious ceremonies on the reservation and at powwows that he had dragged me to. I was always surprised by the tonal quality of his voice. The power and strength were a given, but the intricate patterns that it expressed, the infinite ability instantly to change tone, always made me smile. Good friends are the ones who can remain close without losing their ability to surprise. I listened as the driving rhythm of his song carried me farther, and his voice remained with me down the long descent into West Tensleep Valley.

I didn’t know what kind of song it was, I didn’t know what the words were, and I didn’t want to know. I only listened to the complex melodies and carried them in my heart and mind, as other footprints seemed to join in with mine and share the load of George Esper. Old footfalls, old as the mountains and just as enduring. I listened as other voices joined in Henry’s song, strong voices, voices that carried not only over the valley but through it. The Old Cheyenne were with me, and I could feel their strength as I continued along the trail, my heavy boots forming the snow as I went. The drums were there too, matching my progress in perfect fashion, providing an easy rhythm and keeping my legs moving. I felt strong, like I hadn’t in many years, perhaps like I never had. I watched as my breath began blowing out ahead of me, and it was as if the wind did not affect it. The searing air felt good in my lungs, and I almost felt as if I could run; but the steady beat of the drums held, and so did I.

I felt as though the Old Cheyenne were challenging me for my friend, were attempting to take him with them back to the Camp of the Dead. It was a good, spirited challenge, one that pulled at my heartstrings, but one that I would not allow. I looked at their shadows as they walked along with me. Darting between the trees with closed-mouth smiles on their faces, nodding to me when I caught their eyes, they carried their coup sticks but kept them far out of my reach. Their steps were steady, like my own, and it was only after a while that I became aware that they were matching them precisely. I smiled back in the friendly assurance that their company was appreciated but their mission was not. They could see it as a smile, or they could see it as a showing of teeth. It didn’t matter; I would pass this way again very soon, and they were welcome to join me, but they should not get in my way. They were dressed in their summer loincloths with only low moccasins on their feet, but the cold didn’t seem to affect them any more than it was affecting me. One of them nodded in a knowing fashion and dipped his shoulders sideways to slip between the close-knit lodgepole pines only to disappear on the other side.

There was a small rise ahead, and it was only when I realized that my gums were freezing that I knew I was smiling in full anticipation of it. My stride lengthened, and the songs kept step. I had slept little in the last twenty-four hours, I was over five decades old, and yet none of it mattered. The young man on my shoulders felt like an oversized bag of baking potatoes as I kept the pace and continued on.

Even with the cloud cover, I could tell the sun was setting; there was the slightest darkening of the valley. I concentrated on my feet, leaving the Old Cheyenne to their devices, and tried not to slip into the icier areas of the trail. I had been right about the heat I would manufacture, and my clothes began attaching themselves to every outline of my body, causing an impediment to my speed as they started to harden. My muscles felt just the slightest twinge of ache and fatigue as I stayed on the high side of a sweeping turn that opened into a small meadow that I remembered from years ago. The wind hit me like a swinging door, knocking me back a half step before I caught myself and surged forward, still concentrating on my feet.

The weight of my burden was just beginning to take a toll when I noticed something else besides my boots in my line of vision. It was a hide-wrapped knob with pony beads and what I now knew to be owl feathers. I raised my head as the little rivulets of sweat raced down the middle of my back and from my face. Someone was there, in the trail before me, walking backwards with every step I took. It was a large man with hair like Henry’s and, when I squinted my eyes through the stinging snow, I could see even more of a resemblance. The face was harder and leaner, and there were scars where Henry had none, but I had no doubt it was family. His eyes were sharpened to slits of chipped obsidian that shifted to the left and then to the right. He had the same look as dogs have when they stand over a bone.

I shrugged George farther up on my shoulders and kept my pace as the warrior continued to back away, keeping the end of a stick only inches from my stomach. Every time I surged ahead in an attempt to run into the staff, he would back away at exactly the same speed. The clouds of his breath seemed to pour forth only to be caught in the suction of my own breathing, and it was as if we were sampling the same air. It agreed with both of us as we picked up the pace again, and I moved forward, stepping like some strange four-legged animal.

He smiled a tight-lipped smile, and the light that reflected from his eyes brightened the trail ahead. He caught me looking at something large and square that loomed in the distance over his right shoulder. He motioned with the staff, only missing my stomach by a hair’s width, and I could smell sweetgrass and cedar. I looked back as he smiled, and his words were the whisper of many voices, “Sometimes dreams are wiser than waking.”

There are two levels to the gravel lot, and I was hoping that the lower one, which also happened to be the closest, was where he had parked. There was a rise where the Forest Service had used railroad ties as bumpers, and I walked alongside of them until I literally ran into the fender of a snow-covered vehicle, almost dropping George onto the rear deck in the process. I caught my balance and turned toward the back of the small SUV, fished for George’s keys in my pocket, and prayed the car was his. When I got to the back of the vehicle, I wiped a hand across the deck and looked in satisfaction at the partially exposed chrome letters, MAZDA. Just for the heck of it, I tried the handle, and sure enough the tailgate let go with a small click. I raised the lid and gently slumped George in like so many groceries. There was a travel blanket that I wrapped around him and, after checking his leg, I closed the back, staggered around, and opened the driver’s side door. I slid into the seat. The steering wheel pressed against my stomach so I released the catch, allowing the seat to slide back with a thump. I took the keys in my hand and, as quickly as my frozen fingers would allow, separated the Mazda key from the rest and slid it in the ignition with a determined warning. “You better start.”

I turned the switch, and the engine roared to life along with some indiscernible heavy metal band that had been lurking in the CD player at full volume. I slammed my hand against the dash, splitting all the knobs from the deck, and they fell to the floorboards. I sat there for a moment in the relative quiet, then reached down and turned the heat on full, adjusting all of the louvers toward the back.

His gas gauge was at three-quarters; I figured I could leave the truck running, get back with Henry, and still have plenty of gas to get us all out of here. Where was my backup is what I wanted to know. I would have thought that once everybody had gotten the details of the plan somebody would have been here. I rolled down both front windows about an inch just in case George’s luck stretched to carbon monoxide poisoning. I heard a low moan come from the back. I threw my arm over the passenger seat and stared at the lump under the blanket.

He began rubbing a hand over his jaw while simultaneously holding his leg with his other hand. “Ohl, gawhd . . .” It was garbled, but you could still make it out.

“George?”

One of the eyes opened a little, then rapidly closed. “Pwhlat?”

“Do you know who I am?” The eye partially opened again, and he strained to remember my face. “I’m Sheriff Longmire, remember me?” He nodded, slightly. “George, we’re in a really bad situation here, so I need you to understand what I’m saying.”

He grimaced and raised his head a little. “Whmy laghwurts . . .”

“Yep, I know your leg hurts, and I’d imagine your jaw doesn’t feel too good right now, either. But I need you to listen to me. You’re hurt, but I’ve got you stabilized. There’s not a lot more I can do until we get you out of here. The problem is, I’ve got another man injured, back on the trail, and I need to go get him.”

“Thehindiyan?”

“You remember him, huh? Do you remember shooting him?” He remained silent and didn’t move. “Well, you did, and now I’ve got to go back and get him.”

His eyes widened a little, and he blinked. “Whtryed tookill me . . .”

“No, he didn’t. It’s Henry Standing Bear, and he came up here with me to try and get you out safely.” I sighed and tried to wrap it up. “George, we’re stuck in a snowstorm, and I’ve got to go back and get Henry before it gets so I can’t find him . . .”

“Whtryed tookill me . . .”

“No, George, he didn’t try and kill you because, if he had tried, you and I wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Swhotme?”

“No, you shot yourself while you were trying to shoot me.”

“Whtryed to . . .”

I leaned forward and glared at him for emphasis. “George? I need you to shut up.” It must have worked because his eyes widened, but that was the only part of him that moved. “Here’s what I need you to do; I need you to stay here and try and stay awake. Do you understand?”

He nodded his head.

“Good. I’ve got your truck going and the heater is on so it’s going to warm up in here pretty quick. Now, here’s the important part.” I leaned in even farther. “No matter how long it takes me, you wait here. Got it?” I kept my eyes steady on him for a moment. “Good. Now just stay here and get warm. I’ll be back, okay?”

I pulled the seat cover off from the passenger side and dragged it after me as I slid out into the snow and wind. I shut the door and wrapped myself up in the cover, pulling it high and making a hood. I pulled the radio from the small of my back and shook the condensation from it before it could freeze. “This is Walt Longmire, sheriff of Absaroka County, I’ve got an emergency with men down. Is there anybody out there? Over.” I waited, but the static seemed fainter than it had before.

I looked back across the lot in the general direction of the trailhead, but the only thing visible over the top of the truck was my rapidly filling footprints that led into oblivion. I drove the radio back in the clip at the small of my back and started off. I clutched the seat cover tighter around me and discovered a series of vinyl pockets that ran along the front. I tucked my stiffening hands into two of the pockets and silently thanked George for spending the extra twenty on the luxury model. I felt around and found what felt like a church key and a large shop rag, which I pulled out and wrapped around my face. I’m sure I looked like a Bedouin: Ben el Napa. I chuckled to myself at the thought of Henry seeing me like this; he could just laugh himself to death.

There was a sudden grade as the parking lot ended and I thought the trailhead began. I peered through the snow as it dove around my makeshift hood, but I couldn’t see the sign. The fact that it was eight feet high and at least six feet wide was less than encouraging. I tucked my head back into the nylon tweed cover and continued to trudge ahead. I was thinking that this was a poor excuse for a search if I couldn’t even find the sign, when I ran my head into one of the telephone poles that supported the damn thing. My head really hurt, but at least I’d found the first indication that I was going in the right direction. The gusts pressed against my back and slapped the ends of my autoponcho around me.

What was I doing, what had I done? It was hard to think. It was darker now, and the snow had gotten worse. The flakes were smaller than the silver dollar ones of before, and they became tiny flat discs that hovered in the air, moving with its currents. They swirled, paused, and then dove into the distance, making me feel that I was falling backward no matter how hard I lumbered forward. I closed my eyes to clear my head, but the disorientation continued. It was definitely darker now; the depression of the path continued up the hill, and the shadows of the trees remained consistent on both sides. As long as I stayed between them and continued uphill, I would eventually get to him.

Vern said that he had received about seventy-five letters about the sentencing, that they were split fifty-fifty on whether the boys should be granted some semblance of leniency or whether they should be horsewhipped all the way to Kemmerer. After he had taken his place on the bench, the defense pled for a sentence that would “reflect the homegrown values and sense of forgiveness that were a hallmark of frontier civilization.” Even Ferg had to glance up at Steve Miller as he delivered that one, but his righteous tone and openly displayed conviction kept anyone from laughing out loud.

Each of the boys was allowed to stand and make a statement; it was the first time Bryan Keller had spoken in public about the rape. He stood and fanned his fingertips across the table before him. The whitening at his knuckles betrayed the fact that he needed assistance to stand, and we all waited. After a few moments, Vern spoke to him. “You wish to make a statement, Mr. Keller?”

“Yes . . .”—he cleared his throat—“I do, your honor.” His head dropped as he studied the dull oak finish of the table. He took a deep breath and raised his head. “Your honor, my lawyer has advised me to remain silent, but to be honest with you I feel that I may have said nothing for too long.” It had taken all the air out of him to get that far, and I wondered how much more he could get out before he hyper-ventilated. “I’ve thought a lot about all the things I’ve wanted to say, and I’ve had a long time to think about all of them. I’ve thought about the poor judgment I used that day, and how I’m older and that I hope you’ll let me learn from this horrible mistake that I’ve made . . . But none of that seems important now. There’s only one thing that’s important for me to say now, and that is that I am sorry.” He tilted his head back, and you could just see the beginnings of a shine to his eyes. “I want to tell Melissa that I am sorry; I want to tell her family that I am sorry for what I’ve put them through, to the people on the reservation for the things that have been said, to my family . . .” He stopped for a moment, then stood up straighter and allowed his hands to fall to his sides. “But the most important one is Melissa. I just want to tell her how sorry I am for what I’ve done to her and her life.” He stood for a moment longer, then sat, with a hand shielding his eyes.

“George Esper?”

George stood and placed his hands in his pockets but quickly extracted them and allowed them to drop. His voice was soft and faded out at the ends of his sentences like someone unaccustomed to public speaking. “Your honor, you can’t go back and change things that happened . . .” The majority of his apology was to the parents that sat behind him and tapered off from there.

“Jacob Esper?”

Jacob stood with fists at his sides. “Your honor, I’d like to say that I can’t express the sorrow I feel.” So he didn’t. Instead, he made a general appeal at how sorry he was for everything and left it at that. I wondered mildly what everything entailed.

“Cody Pritchard, do you have anything you would like to say?”

He didn’t move and remained seated with his hands in his pockets. After a moment, he smirked and said, “No.” And I thought about how far I could get him through one of the second-story windows on one try.

Then Kyle Straub, the prosecuting attorney, stood and began the statement he hoped would assure that the defendants would serve significant jail time. He argued like a man on fire that these young men must not go free and that anything less than strong sentencing for all four would be the final punch line in the unending joke that this trial had become. Vern looked up at that one, too.

Because of their ages when they had raped Melissa Little Bird, Kyle anticipated that Vern might sentence the three young men convicted of rape to a youth facility rather than to a prison. Offenders sent to youth facilities were usually not given a minimum sentence, which placed the duration of imprisonment squarely on the shoulders of prison officials. All of which meant that the prosecution needed a five-year minimum sentence or the convicted would be available for parole in a much shorter period of time. The judge must set a minimum; even I got that.

I hit the ground face first because my hands were tangled in the seat cover. It didn’t hurt as badly as I thought it would, so I lay there for a moment as the snow next to my face began to melt. The stinging in my eyes bothered me, but it felt like a good place to rest. Somehow, it didn’t feel as cold there on the ground, and a comfortable, dreamy quality began seeping in with the melting snow. I exhaled a breath to clear the snow away from my shop-rag veil, but it didn’t clear very well. It should have bothered me, but it didn’t. It felt like I was getting enough air, and enough was all I needed. I became aware of a weight that pressed down on every part of my body, like a warm blanket. I struggled a little to clear my hip from a rock that was pressing up from underneath the snow pack and felt a burning sensation in my right ear. Somehow it had gotten uncovered, so I jostled my right arm loose from the nylon and started working my hand up to the exposed flesh.

I listened to the wind and was thinking about just taking a short nap when I heard them. Their voices were high, shifting in and out of the wind along with the sound of chimes or maybe very small bells. It was bells, the sound of thousands of miniature bells, not finely tuned ones, but lesser bells, handmade bells. I listened as they swirled and rounded with the wind and snow. It was as if the bells were not ringing unto themselves but were brushing against something as they continued on their way, turning and stepping with the wind, starting a rhythm that overtook their circular motion. They had started in the distance, but it now seemed as if they were all around me, and they were insistent.

There were shadows too, but these were different from the ones I had seen before. These shadows moved in and out of the snow-covered trees with a different purpose, one that seemed more complicated than that of the ones before. Where the others had moved in a single line along with me, these seemed to enjoy the infinite patterns of the wind, the snow, the trees, and maybe other things that I could not see.

I lay there with my loose hand ready to close the small aperture of the seat-cover hood like a small child afraid to look yet afraid to look away. It was hard to see because my eyelids were trying to freeze shut; my fingers no longer moved individually so I rubbed the butt of my hand across my eyes and blinked to clear my sight. The swirling was right in front of my face now, and it carried the rhythm of many. The patterns swooped in close to the ground and then snapped back quickly as if teasing the ground to follow. I reached my hand out to touch one of the strands, but it slipped through my fingers with the snowflakes. I reached out farther but, every time I got close, the white tendrils whirled away. I placed my arm under me, pushed myself up on one elbow, and looked through my tunnel of snow-coated cloth. They were small, cone-shaped bells that chimed lightly as they moved in tiny rows across well-rounded cloth, which draped from opulent forms. The bells continued to ring even when the wind-fringe swept them away.

I pulled myself over to one side of the walking trench and sat there for a moment, listening to the voices, to the bells as they ascended into the treetops. These voices were in a higher register than the ones that had accompanied me on my way down, and they comforted and stimulated at the same time. I pulled the makeshift hood back and felt my head loll sideways onto my left shoulder. The long fringed fingers traced fire trails across the length of my shoulders, but when I turned they snapped into the retreating snow. I felt another set cross the small of my back, but when I straightened, they too continued up the trail. I pulled a leg under me, toppled into a crouch, and then stood. It was difficult to walk at first, but the rhythm of the tiny bells and the way the tassels and cloth stretched across languid muscles drew me forward.

Voices were speaking into my exposed ear, whispering in tongues that I didn’t understand. I could never hear the beginnings or the ends of the sentences, only the smoldering playfulness that fueled them. The words simultaneously tickled and burned. Some were lugubrious and extended; others were short and sharp like surprised snatches of breath. I listened to the words and the melody and staggered upward, the hillside rising to meet my feet as they sank into the receptive snow. It was much deeper now, and the wind flattened the hanging cloth of the seat cover to the back of my legs and froze it there, pulling at the top of my head whenever a hind step lingered an instant too long.

I didn’t pay any attention to the path any longer. I just followed the tinkling silver bells and the swirling deerskin as they continued in their circular pattern up the hill. Their mouths didn’t smile, but their eyes did. The same glittering obsidian as before, but with a great deal more promise, with promises of everything under arched eyebrows and thick lashes.

The ground grew flatter for a while and then steepened in the opposite direction as my heels began striking the muffling snow before my toes. The momentum carried me forward, and I only slowed as the other voices joined in, the voices from before. They provided a strong bass counterpoint to the ascension of the bells and harmonized with the wavering beauty of the voices that had gone before me up the hill. Then, on the path ahead, I could see them standing in a group, looking down at something on the ground. They all smiled the close-mouthed smile and looked back to me. I trudged on and stood there among them, looking around and smiling, too. But there was something at the middle of the group, something that didn’t move, and I rested my chin on my chest to look at it. It was large and it looked heavy, but they seemed to prize it in some way, so I leaned down and brushed some of the snow away. When I finished brushing the majority of the snow off it, I stood back with the others and listened to a new song, one that sounded much closer, with words that I remembered. I could hear all of this song, the beginning, middle, and end. It was a very forceful melody, and it was coming from the thing in the path.

We listened to it for a while, all of us smiling, and then they began breaking away. But before each one of them began their swirling and swooping and snapping, they motioned for me to take the thing in the trail as a gift. I stepped back as they offered it to me. Two of them each took one of my hands and placed them on the object before us. It sang louder as I touched it, and I reached around and pulled it from the ground, as the remaining snow sloughed off. It was heavy and cumbersome to carry, but it seemed ungracious not to take it. Its song became strained as I loaded it onto my back.

The snow seemed to part as I moved forward in time with the bodies in the shadows to my left and right. There were small flashes in the darkness ahead, as if they were clearing a path for me, muted flashes of crimson and cobalt within the smothering white. My legs began to shake with the weight of the gift, but dropping it in the face of such hospitality would be unendurable, so I kept walking. Soon the flat gave way to a gentle downward slope, and the images tilted the world in my favor, allowing me longer strides and easier breathing through the cotton cloth that was now frozen to my face. I didn’t feel the cold anymore and noticed a jaunty quality accompanied my step as I matched it with the music of the small jingle bells and with the pace of the darting figures all around me.

The best part of the song emanated from the gift I carried. It caught all the complex rhythms and melodies of the group and conveyed it in a singular fashion so that it was easier to understand. Its voice was right behind my head, and its strength reverberated through me and into the ground with each step. But, after a while, the song changed and became more maudlin and extended. I shook the weight on my back to get it to switch back to the melody from before, but that didn’t work. It was harder to get my stride back with the new song since the patterns were not even and my steps wouldn’t match. I was beginning to wonder what was so great about the gift they had given me when I passed the spot where I had taken the little nap on the way up.

I was thinking about taking another one, but others had joined in with the song on my back, and the whole thing took on the feeling of a processional. I didn’t want to be the first to break step, so I just kept going. After a while, I became aware of a large shape up and off to my right. I remembered it as being something important, but I couldn’t remember why or what it was. There was a sharper drop off as I made my way around that shape, and I almost lost my footing as I skirted it. I had a vague recollection of it having hurt me in the past, but it seemed benign enough now. I stood at a flat spot and struggled to stay upright. I remembered that there was something waiting for me just a little ways ahead, so I started off once more, but the voices lingered in the shadows behind me. They had elected to stay in the forest, and I would have turned to look back at them, but it would have taken more energy than I had. I felt bad about not saying good-bye. The song on my back continued, although the quality of its tone had weakened. I had to get where I was going before the song on my back stopped. I wasn’t sure how I knew this, but I did.

I started forward again and, as I came across an area where the snow was shallower, I remembered a promise that had been made to me. It was something important, too. It was a promise about leaving. All the important promises are about leaving or not leaving. I thought about turning around to see what it was that I was leaving, but if you did that enough, you didn’t leave, and then what were all the promises about? I kept walking. I could barely hear the song on my back now, so I shook it to try and get it going. It stopped. I shook it some more, trying to get it going again, but it still wouldn’t start. I thought about dropping it since it didn’t work anymore, but they might be watching from the trees.

I guess they figured I needed some help, because the flashes were back, crimson and cobalt flares that lit up the snow in a rhythm of their own, but the spirits must have been getting tired too, because the lights seemed to have lost their individuality and were blinking in a monotonous and irritating fashion. The music was gone, the bells and the drums and the voices had drifted off with the wind. I listened, but there was only an ugly squawking. I shook the song on my back, but it remained obstinate. I figured it was probably the cold, that some part of it must have frozen. I would have to see if I could fix it once I got to where I was going. I tried to remember where it was I was going, but all I could think of was that it was warmer there. I was about ready to set the song down and take a rest, but the shadows were there again. Some of them stepped out from the snow clouds to my right, and I was just starting to see the ones to my left when I noticed that, unlike the others, they were coming straight at me. The only thing I could figure was that they wanted the song back.

Indian givers.

I stopped and stood up straight. I was a lot bigger than they were, now that we were on level ground. They stopped as well, but their arms reached out to the song; I whirled around a half step to let them know that they couldn’t have it. I tried to speak, but it was as if my vocal chords were frozen, so I just roared and took a few quick breaths to get ready for the fight.

The smallest one was directly ahead of me; it was the one that had backed off the least. I focused on that shadow and leaned in to smash it. It still didn’t move, but just stood there, hipshot and kind of crooked, like most of its weight was resting on one side with a hand on its hip. You had to be careful, because the little ones might be just as powerful as the big ones. It didn’t really matter how big they were, or how many of them there were though, I wasn’t giving up the song. The little one still didn’t move, and I was just getting ready to crush it when it spoke in a sharp and unpleasant yet strangely familiar voice. “Nice fuckin’ outfit.”

Later, when I rolled my head over and found Henry looking at me through barely open eyes, as the EMT van slowly made its way through the drifts that had accumulated throughout the evening and on into the night, I asked him if he thought it had been wise to be singing all that time with the internal injuries he’d sustained.

Groggily, all he said was, “What singing?”