jamestown JANUARY 1890 1890.

The reverend, having slept through his stop at New Dungeness, was still out cold late in the afternoon, even as the carriage lurched to a stop in Jamestown. Adam tilted his hat to Haw, ducked out of the carriage, and hopped off the runner into the slushy road. He dug in his pocket, settled with the driver, doffed his hat once more, and began trudging down the squelchy lane toward Lord Jim's house.

Fifteen years prior, Lord Jim, refusing to accept the conditions of relocation, rallied a handful of Klallam to pool five hundred dollars for the purchase of some two hundred acres of cleared meadow and sandy beach along the strait east of New Dungeness. They left the lower Elwha and the Siwash behind and moved some twenty miles east. They burned the cedar stumps out of the ground; planted wheat, potatoes, turnips; began raising chickens and swine. They built a village facing the water of thirteen houses and a little white church, and they named it Jamestown in recognition of Lord Jim. They started a temperance society and collected signatures from every last denizen of the village. But in seizing their destiny, they had unknowingly surrendered federal recognition. It would take 107 years to win it back.

Soon after the inception of Jamestown, Lord Jim brought the Shaker religion to his people, and they took to it, whole congregations of them signing the cross over and over, stomping loudly counterclockwise in a circle, shaking their rattles and ringing their bells, and trembling like oil on a hot skillet as they received their songs. Almost universally, the whites condemned them for these blasphemies, though Adam, having no misgivings with the Shaker church, was unique among his fellow agents. To Adam's way of thinking, anything that inspired temperance in the natives was not to be discouraged.

Perhaps of all the Indians Adam had encountered in his ten years of service, from Neah Bay to Puyallup, Lord Jim possessed the finest command of English and also the healthiest sense of irony. It was Lord Jim who, in the year of the census, dubbed young Adam "Potato Counter," though in recent years, the old man had taken to calling him cayci, cayci, meaning "busy one." It was also Adam's impression that Lord Jim was, at times, in love with the sound of his own voice. And though the old man was still weak with fever as he sat across from Adam in his straight-backed chair amid the waning light of early evening, his voice was still strong. meaning "busy one." It was also Adam's impression that Lord Jim was, at times, in love with the sound of his own voice. And though the old man was still weak with fever as he sat across from Adam in his straight-backed chair amid the waning light of early evening, his voice was still strong.

"My heart cries for the Siwash," he said. "They know just like we know, cayci, cayci, about the futility of resistance. The Great Father has taken our shamans, taken our right to fish." about the futility of resistance. The Great Father has taken our shamans, taken our right to fish."

Out the window, a wall of fog was creeping in steadily along the sh.o.r.eline. The old man gazed at it as if he could see right through it. "The old ways are gone," he observed. "And for this reason, we embrace change. Because we want a future, cayci, cayci, and we want to build this future ourselves. That is why we purchased this land on our own, so it could not be taken from us. That is why we plant potatoes and wheat. That is why you will find not one drop of whiskey in our midst, even as our brothers the Siwash are drowning in it. And and we want to build this future ourselves. That is why we purchased this land on our own, so it could not be taken from us. That is why we plant potatoes and wheat. That is why you will find not one drop of whiskey in our midst, even as our brothers the Siwash are drowning in it. And that that is why I brought the Shaker religion to Jamestown, is why I brought the Shaker religion to Jamestown, cayci. cayci. Because my people need something to believe in besides the Great White Father. Because the Great White Father will not cure what ails my people, he Because my people need something to believe in besides the Great White Father. Because the Great White Father will not cure what ails my people, he cannot cannot cure what ails us. He speaks volumes but doesn't keep his word. He still does not honor the treaty that bears my father's signature, the treaty to which your own father was a witness. And I realize this is no fault of yours, cure what ails us. He speaks volumes but doesn't keep his word. He still does not honor the treaty that bears my father's signature, the treaty to which your own father was a witness. And I realize this is no fault of yours, cayci. cayci. You've been a friend to the Klallam, even in the long shadow of your father. And whatever I thought of your father, still, I am sorry for your loss. And I wish his shadow had died with him. And like you defy your father, even in death, we defy the Great White Father. But we do not defy him with violence; we defy him with acceptance. We are impoverished, You've been a friend to the Klallam, even in the long shadow of your father. And whatever I thought of your father, still, I am sorry for your loss. And I wish his shadow had died with him. And like you defy your father, even in death, we defy the Great White Father. But we do not defy him with violence; we defy him with acceptance. We are impoverished, cayci, cayci, but we are sovereign. Maybe not as Indians, but as a people." but we are sovereign. Maybe not as Indians, but as a people."

"That's why I'm here, Jim."

"Because the whites have heard our grievances at last?"

"Because of a boy."

"And what boy is this?"

"He lives among the Siwash at Hollywood Beach."

"Yes. I know of the boy. The spirit chaser, the Storm King. I've heard it said that he can produce thunder and lightning out of the air."

"You heard wrong. He's just a boy."

"I've heard differently. I've heard he walks in two worlds."

"He walks alone in the world of his own head," said Adam. "That's all. But he's a fine boy. Smart. Strong. I want him to come live here. In Jamestown, with you, or whoever you see fit."

"On whose authority does he come to live here?"

"His mother's."

"And where is she? What ails the mother that she can't care for the boy?"

"The boy is wild. He needs structure, or trouble will find him."

THERE CAME A persistent rumble from above, but inside the big rumble were many little rumbles made of many different voices. There were thirty-one cracks of light, and one knot-shaped hole that danced with candle flame near the center. In the front, there was a great yawning mouth of light that opened with a groan and closed with a crash, swallowing the shadows within. The shadows had voices but no reflections, had footfalls but no faces. Sometimes when the shadows pa.s.sed through the cracks of light, and the footfalls were heavy, a squiggle of light wavered in the mud puddle near the boy's feet. The ground was squishy beneath his heels, and the wooden piles were blistered and sticky to the touch. The air was heavy with the smell of creosote. When the piano started playing, the rumbling only increased in intensity, and the wood planks issued sighs and creaking complaints from all about the flickering knothole. The reflections were invisible, as if they did not exist, but Thomas knew they were there, somewhere behind the implacable surface. persistent rumble from above, but inside the big rumble were many little rumbles made of many different voices. There were thirty-one cracks of light, and one knot-shaped hole that danced with candle flame near the center. In the front, there was a great yawning mouth of light that opened with a groan and closed with a crash, swallowing the shadows within. The shadows had voices but no reflections, had footfalls but no faces. Sometimes when the shadows pa.s.sed through the cracks of light, and the footfalls were heavy, a squiggle of light wavered in the mud puddle near the boy's feet. The ground was squishy beneath his heels, and the wooden piles were blistered and sticky to the touch. The air was heavy with the smell of creosote. When the piano started playing, the rumbling only increased in intensity, and the wood planks issued sighs and creaking complaints from all about the flickering knothole. The reflections were invisible, as if they did not exist, but Thomas knew they were there, somewhere behind the implacable surface.

Suddenly the piano rode out on a gaping beam of light, only to be m.u.f.fled an instant later with a crash. There came three heavy footfalls down the back steps, and a dark form descended. At the bottom of the steps, the dark form crouched and concealed a wooden box beneath the foot of the steps. There followed a whistle, a cough, the acrid stink of tobacco.

A moment pa.s.sed in silence. The dark form broke wind, cleared its throat, and issued another whistle. Finally, it ascended the steps and was swallowed once more by the musical light.

Soon there came footsteps in the slushy snow, and the light of a lantern approaching, and voices talking low, drawing closer. Indian voices.

Suddenly there were upside-down faces, two of them floating hollow-eyed and ghoulish, melting like candlewax in the pale quivering lamplight.

"I see only six."

The one holding the lantern bent nearer to the box, and the ghostly light caught Thomas crouching between the piles.

"Hey!"

Thomas made a break for the alley side, but one of the men caught firm hold of his ankle, and the boy slipped and fell, and he felt the cool sting of the mirror as it sliced open his palm. The light whirled around as though the world were turned on end and shaken, and an avalanche of shadows descended on Thomas as he scrambled madly to break free of the hand. The back door crashed again and harried boot clomps skipped the second step and rounded the corner at a trot, accompanied by a confusion of voices.

"There!" said one voice.

A rough hand wrested Thomas about the collar.

"Got him!"

Thomas bit into a line of fat knuckles. There came a terrible scream, and the grip relented, and the boy kicked his leg free and scurried out from beneath the Belvedere. Clutching his broken mirror in his b.l.o.o.d.y grip, he began to run.

He fled the alley as fast as his feet would take him and rounded the corner. He slipped on the slushy path as he leapt for the boardwalk, and his chin struck the wooden edge with such force that his vision went inky and his ears set to ringing. A rough hand grabbed him by the collar and swung him around. The mirror slipped from Thomas's grasp, careened off the boardwalk, and landed in the mud near his feet.

Thomas recognized the Indian by his dark, pitted face. He'd seen his grandfather keeping company with the dark man in recent months. He was Makah, not Klallam. His breath was rank with fruit. He was called Stone Face.

"Gotcha!" he said.

A white man soon appeared over the Indian's shoulder. He was the Belvedere Man, the one with the mustache. "What have you got here?"

Stone Face laughed. But in a chilling flash he turned serious and shook Thomas violently by the collar. The white reached in and tried to wrest control of Thomas's collar. "Gimme that," he said.

But Stone Face swung around and leered at the white. "Stay back!" he shouted, trailing a long strand of saliva. "I'll take care of it."

"You d.a.m.n well better," said the white.

"Go!" said Stone Face. And he wheeled around and slapped Thomas across the face with the back of his hand, and only then did the white turn away and walk back down the alley.

Stone Face forced Thomas into the alleyway. He slammed the boy up against a wall and shook him fiercely. Thomas did not cry out.

"What do you think you're doing under there, huh? Who said you could be there?"

When Thomas did not answer, Stone Face doubled him over with a punch to the stomach. He straightened the boy up and leaned in so close that Thomas could not bear to open his eyes.

"I asked you a question, boy!"

But Thomas issued no reply. There were tears streaking down his face. His nose was running. His mouth was trembling as he struggled to gather his breath.

This time Stone Face spoke in Salish. "What business have you got under there?" And when the boy failed to respond yet again, Stone Face slapped him. "Talk, boy!" He grabbed a fistful of the boy's hair and shook his head violently. "Nex' t'cuct!" "Nex' t'cuct!" He glowered at the boy, waiting for some reaction. But the boy only winced. Finally, the situation became clear, and Stone Face relinquished his grip. He smiled and pinched the fat of Thomas's cheek. "Ha! He glowered at the boy, waiting for some reaction. But the boy only winced. Finally, the situation became clear, and Stone Face relinquished his grip. He smiled and pinched the fat of Thomas's cheek. "Ha! Nac! Nac!" He pushed Thomas to the ground. "Couldn't talk if you wanted to," said Stone Face.

littlenecks JANUARY 1890 1890.

The clams were thin and watery this season, and Hoko knew the boy would not eat them, but she dug them out anyway. Ediz Hook was pitted with them at low tide; littlenecks squirted all about her. She worked with her sleeves rolled up past her scars, nearly to the elbow, and it was comforting to sink her wrists into the coa.r.s.e sand and feel the suck of the water as it rushed in to fill the breach. After two-dozen littlenecks and a handful of b.u.t.ter clams, Hoko paused where she squatted, and looked over the bay at the little town, smoking and churning, expanding before her very eyes. For weeks they'd been felling trees on the bluff above the town, and little cabins were popping up among the smoldering slash piles; it was as though the town were lowering its shoulder and pushing its way into the wilderness. And yet the bigger the town grew, the less room it afforded her people. As she walked down the spit toward Hollywood Beach, it looked to Hoko as though the town were trying to crowd the Klallam out altogether, push them right off the edge of the land into the strait. Their ragged little camp was besieged by progress, hemmed in, just as the town had once been hemmed in by the wilderness. But the Klallam were no longer lowering their shoulders and pushing back at their opposition.

At Hollywood Beach, Hoko came upon Abe Charles sitting in his canoe, mending a net with the expert precision of a woman. He was still dressed like a white but not as much as usual. He was hatless. His rifle was nowhere to be seen.

"I thought you took the whites into the mountains," said Hoko.

Abe did not look up from his work. "Something visited me up there. The spirits turned me back."

"Spirits," she said flatly. "And where are these spirits now?"

Abe shrugged.

"How is it that these spirits will guide one man down a mountain but lead a whole people to ruin?"

Abe remained intent on his labors, feeding out net with his right hand. "That sounds like the white G.o.d you're talking about."

"What good are the spirits to us? The only spirit I see is whiskey."

Abe glanced up at her, his fingers continuing their work.

Hoko pulled her sleeves down over her scars.

"The spirits may speak," he said. "But they don't always listen."

Gazing out over the strait, a scowl took shape on her face. "Indian talk," she said.

Abe focused once more on the net. "You've grown hard."

Hoko did not deny it.

"Hard, like your father."

"My father is not hard. My father is weak. You don't know my father."

"Maybe not," he said. "But I did once. Just as I knew you once." He draped a length of net over the side and untangled a corner. "Did you find the Storm King?"

"I found my son. There is no Storm King. His name is a lie. The spirits are a lie. My boy is called Thomas, and he is just a boy." Hoko hefted her bucket.

"That could be," observed Abe, finessing a hard little knot with busy fingers. Then, as though the two subjects were synonymous, he hastened to add, "Those clams will be watery. I've got venison."

But Hoko was not interested in venison. She walked off down the beach toward her weak fire and her quiet sullen ways. As Abe watched her go, an old hunger stirred in his belly, and he felt the familiar ache of wanting in his jaw. If only life were so easy to untangle as a net.

the afterglow JANUARY 1890 1890.

Eva's little house had become so stuffy and constricting in the days following Minerva's arrival that it may have been a tomb. Confined to her bed upon strict orders from the Chinaman, she found herself restless and ill at ease, and she actually rather missed the feverish state of semiconsciousness that had previously gripped her. Ethan and Jacob were no longer content to stick to neutral corners, nor willing to harbor the slightest misgiving toward one another, but hovered forever about Eva in tandem, beaming like a pair of vaudevillians, as they tirelessly delivered chicken broth and biscuits to her bedside, hectoring her to consume them if not for herself, then for the baby. if not for herself, then for the baby. Still worse, her neighbors landed upon her tiny cottage with an endless procession of bread loaves and pewter-molded desserts, stamping their feet on the porch upon entering, disrobing in the foyer, and proceeding directly to Eva's bedside, whereupon they began poking and prodding at Minerva, stroking the downy soft spot atop her crown and cooing nonsense in her ear, commenting time and again on her father's likeness, until the weight of the child began to feel like a stone altar on Eva's chest. But what troubled her most was the suffocating effect of her own smallness. In the face of such blessings, she loathed herself for her ingrat.i.tude, loathed herself for loathing the baby, for refusing to call it by name, for wanting to rebuke its whimpering solicitations, for wanting to pinch its fat, tender arms when it nibbled too hard on her nipples, for wanting to cast her neighbors back into the cold with their tidings, and for wanting her brother and her lover to resume their hostilities. This last wish was futile, for in the dreadful interminable hours of suspense that marked Eva's infirmity, the two men had forged an alliance that grew stronger with each soiled diaper. Minerva, by her very appearance, had sealed the two men's fortunes together. Still worse, her neighbors landed upon her tiny cottage with an endless procession of bread loaves and pewter-molded desserts, stamping their feet on the porch upon entering, disrobing in the foyer, and proceeding directly to Eva's bedside, whereupon they began poking and prodding at Minerva, stroking the downy soft spot atop her crown and cooing nonsense in her ear, commenting time and again on her father's likeness, until the weight of the child began to feel like a stone altar on Eva's chest. But what troubled her most was the suffocating effect of her own smallness. In the face of such blessings, she loathed herself for her ingrat.i.tude, loathed herself for loathing the baby, for refusing to call it by name, for wanting to rebuke its whimpering solicitations, for wanting to pinch its fat, tender arms when it nibbled too hard on her nipples, for wanting to cast her neighbors back into the cold with their tidings, and for wanting her brother and her lover to resume their hostilities. This last wish was futile, for in the dreadful interminable hours of suspense that marked Eva's infirmity, the two men had forged an alliance that grew stronger with each soiled diaper. Minerva, by her very appearance, had sealed the two men's fortunes together.

To see Jacob nodding his approval gravely at the pitch of Ethan's excitement, to see him furrowing his brow in consideration of Ethan's outlandish scheme, was bad enough. But to be imprisoned by motherhood, bound to a featherbed and shackled to the insatiable demands of another, while the word destiny destiny crackled in the air like electricity between the two men, was more than Eva could endure. How was it that destiny forever attached itself to men? How was it that men presumed destiny to choose them? And what was the act of this presumption but to relinquish responsibility for their actions? And who was left to shoulder the burden, to suffer the consequences of these actions? While the men carried on about crackled in the air like electricity between the two men, was more than Eva could endure. How was it that destiny forever attached itself to men? How was it that men presumed destiny to choose them? And what was the act of this presumption but to relinquish responsibility for their actions? And who was left to shoulder the burden, to suffer the consequences of these actions? While the men carried on about putting the river to work putting the river to work and and illuminating the darkness, illuminating the darkness, what great destiny had attached itself to Eva, if not domesticity? what great destiny had attached itself to Eva, if not domesticity?

It was agreed upon by the two men that as soon as Eva regained her strength, Jacob would accompany Ethan back to the homestead and see firsthand what grand possibilities the canyon presented. Until then, Jacob said he would make no promises, but Eva could see that her brother had already made up his mind. The fever was alight in his eyes, the spirit of adventure had seized him; the boy in him had awakened and the man was not far behind.

For six days, long after she had regained her strength, Eva remained in bed, saddled by Minerva and plagued by a simmering rage in her chest. Ethan returned by degrees to his dandified ways, his kissing seahorses and moth-eaten trousers, while Jacob grew rough around the edges, splitting alder with a day's growth of beard, talking about town town as though it were really a place, about the homestead as though he had carved it out of the wilderness himself. The words as though it were really a place, about the homestead as though he had carved it out of the wilderness himself. The words progress progress and and labor labor were upon his lips, even as the words were upon his lips, even as the words financing financing and and eas.e.m.e.nt eas.e.m.e.nt took shape on Ethan's. took shape on Ethan's.

When Ethan and Jacob finally took leave one gloomy morning in January, Eva met their departure with dread and relief. From the window, with Minerva fidgeting in her arms, Eva watched them go - Ethan lighting the way with his silver-eyed gaze, walking tall beneath the weight of his bundle, Jacob a half-dozen paces behind, newly outfitted from top to bottom for the backwoods, from rifle to whipsaw, tottering slightly beneath his load.

While neither city life nor the silver spoon had prepared Jacob for the rigors of backcountry travel, he proceeded at a steady pace in Ethan's wake as they trudged along the rutted settlers trail. He could scarcely keep his eyes on the sodden path. The scale of this wooded cathedral was out of proportion with anything Jacob had ever known or expected; colossal timber, wide as a steam engine at the base, tall and straight as the steel-framed towers springing up in Chicago, spread out in endless stands, with bark so deeply furrowed that a man could hide his whole fist in the coa.r.s.e folds of it. Now and again, as they skirted the river, Jacob caught a glimpse of the Elwha through the trees, a flashing silver serpent as it roared down the mountain. The valley narrowed as they left the bottomlands behind, and the hills closed in on them from either side, until Jacob could see their snowcapped tops looming through the canopy. That he should be instrumental in taming this wilderness seemed impossible. That G.o.d had intended it to be tamed was a wonder in itself.

There was no fire burning at Indian George's, and his canoe could be seen tethered to the far bank. Ethan gathered with no small relief that his Indian friend was still upriver at the homestead. Popping his head into the dank cabin, Ethan could see at once that something was amiss. The cabin had been turned upside down and inside out. The larder was upended in the corner of the room, where a ruptured sack of flour had erupted beside it, spewing a crescent of fine white dust upon the uneven floor. The lantern lay shattered in a puddle of kerosene, with the Holy Bible facedown beside it. Ethan suffered a pang of guilt as he surveyed the damage. He comforted himself with the knowledge that he would reward George for his loyalty and could not help but wonder how he'd earned such devotion in the first place.

The river was too fast and high to ford. Ethan and Jacob were forced to grope through thick brush along the bank for several hundred feet, until they reached a rocky bar, a short distance beyond which Mather and his men a week prior had felled a hemlock four feet in diameter for the purpose of their crossing. Backtracking along the far bank, Ethan and Jacob picked up the trail near George's canoe and proceeded up the incline.

The trail leveled out in a small meadow bordered by a stream on the far side, running perpendicular to their path. Ethan spotted a buck at the stream's edge and froze in his tracks. The beast did not startle easily; it stood still as a statue but for the plume of its breath in the cold air. He had no fewer than twelve points and was as big as a horse. Jacob had seen such antlered heads adorning walls in Chicago and Peoria and Detroit like trophies, but nothing in the gla.s.s-eyed gaze of these enormous heads had prepared him for such majesty. It did not occur to him, as he locked eyes with the beast, to level his rifle. It was as though the buck's gaze held him captive. By the time Ethan whispered the directive, it was too late; the instant Jacob raised the rifle, the buck lit off into the brush.

A little ways north of the swamp, they scrambled up a rock spur that jutted out of the steep hill flanking them to the west. Dangling their legs over the side, they lunched on a half loaf of tough bread and a handful of smoked oysters. Even through the thick expanse of forest, they could hear the river in the distance, and when Jacob was moved to comment on the power of it, Ethan thrilled with propriety.

Soon after lunch they reached the bog, which was covered in patches by a thin crust of ice. The two men cut through the gulley, plowing their way down through four feet of snow. They were fighting their way back up the incline when the crack of distant gunfire froze them in their tracks.

THEY CAME FROM the north, traveling up canyon along the wooded edge of the far bank, two of them, both heavily bearded, outfitted with packs and rifles. From his place on the knotted stoop, a post that had grown all too familiar in Ethan's absence, Indian George recognized neither man. Though he could hear the brash tenor of their voices from across the chasm as they shouted back and forth, he could not discern their words. There was something crude in their manner, but George could not say what exactly, whether it was their ragged clothing or the way they slung their rifles so casually at the hip, as though they belonged there. The presence of the strangers did not alarm George, however, until they began pulling up Ethan's stakes along the eastern line and lobbing them into the canyon. the north, traveling up canyon along the wooded edge of the far bank, two of them, both heavily bearded, outfitted with packs and rifles. From his place on the knotted stoop, a post that had grown all too familiar in Ethan's absence, Indian George recognized neither man. Though he could hear the brash tenor of their voices from across the chasm as they shouted back and forth, he could not discern their words. There was something crude in their manner, but George could not say what exactly, whether it was their ragged clothing or the way they slung their rifles so casually at the hip, as though they belonged there. The presence of the strangers did not alarm George, however, until they began pulling up Ethan's stakes along the eastern line and lobbing them into the canyon.

When George emerged from the darkness of the cabin clutching Ethan's Winchester and a pocketful of sh.e.l.ls, the strangers had vanished. He swung around the east side of the cabin, peering south along the rocky cleft, but he saw no sign of the two men. He scanned the wood line up and down the chasm, but they were nowhere in sight. Tentatively, he resumed his seat on the stoop, set the rifle aside, and listened.

Within a half hour, George heard voices from downstream. This time they were along the near bank, just below the head of the trail. He took up the rifle once more and slunk downhill toward the tree line. When he was parallel with the voices, he stopped. He could hear footfalls over the packed snow, and soon he glimpsed the two figures through the trees and squatted low as they pa.s.sed. He picked up their trail and followed them stealthily a short distance, until he reached the wood line, where he watched the men cross the clearing toward the cabin. The taller man unburdened himself of his pack and ducked his head as he entered. The other man circled the perimeter like a sentry, arriving back at the stoop just before the tall one emerged with a kettle and a cast-iron skillet. He laid his rifle down on the stoop, along with the pilfered cookware. The short one then crossed the threshold into the cabin, emerging moments later with a pair of boots. He sat down on the stoop and wrestled his own shoes from his feet and aired them out. The tall man wasted little time in picking them up and slinging them into the abyss.

For ten minutes, George watched the men from his place along the edge of the clearing, clutching the rifle and wondering at his loyalty to a white man he hardly knew. It was soon apparent that the intruders had no intention of leaving. The two strangers surveyed the canyon in every direction, scratching their beards, shaking their heads, carving out invisible lines in the air. They stopped to smoke, and the lanky one produced a flask from his hip pocket. He took two sips and was about to take a third before the stubby one wrested it from him.

Kneeling in the brush, George's foot began falling asleep, and he grew impatient with watching. The flask of whiskey became a source of contention between the two men, who wrangled for control of it. The tall one managed to maintain possession of the flask and held it above his head, well out of reach of the little man, who jumped up and down like a terrier trying to reach it.

George leveled his rifle, took aim above their heads, and squeezed off a round. The sh.e.l.l struck the cabin a foot above the tall man's head and rained splinters down on him. Before either of the thieves could s.n.a.t.c.h up their rifles, George squeezed off another round, which sent the men scrambling for cover.

He had them pinned in the cabin and made a deliberate approach, fishing for sh.e.l.ls in his pants pocket as he came. When he reached the stoop, he tossed their rifles aside and ordered them out of the cabin. They complied with their hands out in front of them. The short one came first with snot in his beard. The tall one was still clutching the flask.

"We wasn't plannin' on nothing," the short one said.

"Shut up," the tall one said.

George shepherded them down the stoop and half way across the clearing before the tall one made a break for the woods. George leveled his rifle and took aim between the shoulder blades of the running man, who kept his arms in the air even as he fled. George fingered the trigger but did not fire. The barefoot man soon broke after his companion, and George lowered his rifle.

A few minutes later, Ethan and Jacob, still huffing from their clambering ascent of the gorge, came upon two bearded strangers a half mile from the homestead. They were seated shoulder to shoulder on a downed portion of cedar at the foot of a snag. They had no packs or rifles. The short one was barefoot.

house calls JANUARY 1890 1890.

Had Doc Newnham not commented on the foolhardiness of the Mather expedition during his house call that morning, as he prodded Minerva with all manner of shiny instruments, James Mather might have been the furthest thing from Eva's mind.