I knew something was bad wrong the minute Lone brought the black mare in from pasture alone. No one weans a day-old colt.

"What else was I gonna do?" Lone tossed back a whiskey shot, grimacing against the burn. He refused to meet my eyes. "If word ever got out my new stud threw a blue-eyed colt, I'd get laughed outta the horse business. Every penny I got's tied up in that horse."

"What about the mare?"

"She's safe enough." He barked a laugh. "I sold her to Reilly. He needs the meat for his dogs."

I didn't know where I was going, I just knew I had to get away. If I stayed with Lone, his disrespect for life would be the slow chokeholding death of me. Lone saw nothing wrong with using death to make a living, but I'd watched my mother shrivel up and die a little each time my stepfather hung a fresh scalp on her clothesline to dry. Watching my mother had taught me this: Love may fade to memory, but grief will hook on your heels like your shadow and walk with you side-by-side until the day you die. I'm not living that way and I told Lone so.

My way or highway is how he answered me.

I packed my carpetbag, still fresh from honeymoon, saddled his best mare and lit out. I made it as far as Three Points before that mare stumbled and came up lame. I should'a known. Every horse Lone owned had something wrong with it. So I turned her loose and started walking in the pouring rain.

Slogging through the mud, my boots plastered thick and heavy, my only dress ruined, I cried out in my despair. Then I remembered the living grave I was leaving behind and I dried my eyes. I may not know much, but I know better'n that.

Kleph Brightwater, black hair dripping with rain, caught up with me outside of town. We slept wrapped together in a dry white wool blanket. The blanket smelled of clean horse and wood smoke and her snowcap Appaloosa will carry two, easy.

I may not know where I'm going, but I do know where I've been.

I told Janey we could go back, that we'd make a place for her in the tribe. She grew grim, and swore, said go to hell, there was nothing there to go back to. She said the bastards had it rigged so that if you tried speaking up for what was right they'd shut you up or shoot you down. I reminded her they behaved the same way toward the freedoms of my people. Janey laughed her great whooping laugh and said: By God, Kleph, you're right. What moron put them in charge, anyway?

We sold the horse and when that money ran out took up whoring for awhile. How can you stand this? Janey'd spit, pouring water into the tin tub and scrubbing her skin pink. Doesn't bother me, I'd shrug, but then I'm a buffalo spirit, it's my nature to give. But you're not a buffalo, you're a bear, and bear spirits can't pretend to liking something they know's not true. Once your bear heart calls it a lie, your bear spirit won't stand for it.

Won't stand it for long, Janey winked. But I'll try to hold on until we get some traveling money put together.

We headed south to Los Muertos that spring. I had more schooling that Janey did, but they wouldn't look at me because of the color of my skin so Janey tested for schoolteacher instead. She even passed their exam until one of the husbands recognized us from Miss Emma's and that was the end of that.

I noticed no one asked him his business being in a whorehouse, Janey grumbled. Then she laughed. They damn sure would've hated hearing my answer!

We worked at the Hotel Majestic that whole blazing hot summer, frying chicken dinners for the guests coming off the train. Mr. Ramsey, the fat proprietor, called us his pair of Magdalenes. He even went up against the town, saying it was his Christian duty to help us. He spent his days sipping lemon squash under the fan and yelling to us back in the kitchen, where we plucked and fried, slicked with sweat and stuck all over with pin feathers. When we were done, Janey and I raced each other down to the Brazos River and jumped on in, clothes and all, swimming and resting on the shady riverbank until our clothes were dry again. Mrs. Ramsey, his wife, said there was nothing decent about the pair of us, but we didn't care. We had a nice camp going under the cottonwoods and we were saving money. We even talked of seeing Chicago come fall. Then Mr. Ramsey jumped Janey in the chicken yard, saying bend over you little whore and she gutted him.

I would've saved Janey somehow if I had known, but she never budged. She just stood there in that circle of blood-splattered chickens, waiting on Mrs. Ramsey's natural suspicion. That's how I learned of it. I heard that woman's scream from down on the riverbank.

The men had Janey roped and tied before I got there. They were marching her into the cottonwoods.

I am right about this and you all know it! Janey yelled. And I am through bending over! From now on you can all go fuck yourselves.

Cottonwood's too soft for hanging, one of the men warned. Bitch's gonna bounce. We really should find a live oak.

This ain't right, I begged, plucking the sheriff's sleeve. You're no jury. There is no justice here.

You start running, he snarled, or I'll string a squaw up beside her.

There's no use talking when there's no one left to hear.