Prologue

THE SNOW that fell through the night let up near morning but continued to swirl and whip around the government barracks and outbuildings of the Chalk Bluff Indian reservation. Against a night sky, the structures’ silhouettes looked like ghostly ships crossing the desolate, rolling hills of the high Montana plain.

An old man felt his way along the buildings, his gnarled hand brushing against the neglected, paint-peeled walls. In his other hand, he clutched a bottle and the corner of a tattered gray army blanket, which he fought to keep wrapped around his shoulders.

The old man steadied himself, drew a long pull of corn liquor from the heavy green glass bottle, then stumbled toward the small corral that ran adjacent to the barracks. He remembered the days before there were buildings like this, or of any kind, on the land—the days when he had been known as a great warrior, a great hunter. But that was a long time ago. Now he was known as a drunk.

The old man reached the corral and fell to his knees in a deep bank of snow. He mumbled a song, and the singing seemed to summon a shadowy presence from the darkness. The man looked up at the shadow, the snow landing in tiny wet kisses on his face.

As the shadow moved closer, the old man let the army blanket drop from his shoulders. A string of heavy bear claws hung from his withered neck. He pulled the strand over his head, reached out to the night, and collapsed.