in the middle of a field of tall, wavy grass, a bonnet pulled over her head, her bare feet planted on the black earth, crying out in fear as an eagle glided toward her in slowly decreasing circles. Her mother watched from the door of their homestead as the eagle gently lifted her up in its talons and flew her across the grassy plains into the foothills and mountains beyond. Fragments of her life appeared one after the other: her first shoes; her marriage bed; the long white beard of her father as he stood behind the mule on the last furrow of a plowed field; her husband, Elijah, whirling her around a dance floor, then carrying her on his shoulders through the door of the cabin he had built for her; and there was baby Zebulon crawling over the dirt floor. She wept and wept, haunted by the memories and the approaching shadow of her own death.
“Are we dead?” she cried. “Or does it just seem that way?”
Zebulon cradled her frail, broken body in his arms as Hatchet Jack, seized with his own visions and oblivious to her racking sobs and sudden peals of laughter, smacked the earth with his palms. “Who are my real ma and pa,” he howled, “and why have they forsaken me?”
The only answer was the howling wind.
“Can you see the truth of it, boys?” Annie May shouted. “Life and death. The eagle and the washing up and the outhouse. The stove and the snow. The horse and the mountains and the ’baca juice. No doubt about it. The whole stew is only a passing, you and me and all the rest. The goddamn joke is on us, boys!”
Zebulon made his way to the edge of the platform. In front of him the mountains were undulating like three copulating snakes. He wept at the energies threatening to consume him, motherly and loving, violent and terrifying, a warm hissing breeze that flowed through the strangled knots of his being. He knew what he had always known and had always forgotten: that he was composed of the same elements as the plants and animals and the rain, which was now spreading in thick sheets across the deep valley, followed by the sun and then a rumble of earthshaking thunder that suddenly transformed into the roar of a mountain lion. He was part of it all, a drop of water in the ocean, a crushed wildflower under the heel of an outlaw’s boot, a sun-baked skeleton in the desert.
When Hatchet Jack loomed up in front of him, the vision dissolved into a vaporous fog.
For the rest of the night, mother and son slept in each other’s arms, each comforted by the other’s breathing. When they woke they were alone and the sun was shining directly above them as if through a huge prism.
Behind them, the altar was gone and the circle erased, as if none of it had ever existed.
Empty of thought or any emotion, they climbed up through the ruins until they found Hatchet Jack packing his horse. Plaxico sat against a crumbling wall, rolling a cigarette.
“I’m pullin’ out.” Hatchet Jack’s hands shook as he swung into the saddle. “Some of the medicine worked and some went south.” He looked at Plaxico, then at Annie May. “The spirits told me it wouldn’t be a good idea to give you the horse.”
“Who cares about any of it?” Annie May said softly. “It’s all the same, horse or no horse.”
They watched Hatchet Jack gallop off without a wave or a look back, as if pursued by a confusion of unknown mysteries.
“He talked to some of the spirits all right,” Plaxico said. “But he choked on the rest. Too big a meal for a beginner.”
And then he, too, was gone, disappearing back inside the pueblo.
Annie May and Zebulon smelled broken elbow before they saw it. What had been a trading post and a few shacks only a year ago was now a long, rutted street dominated by pandemonium and open sewage. Drunken miners shouted back and forth in a dozen languages, a naked Chinaman crawled past them into an alleyway pursued by a screaming whore, halfdead oxen pulled overloaded supply wagons through mud and melting snow, past signs advertising wares at outrageous prices: Boots $30, Flour $35, Blankets $30, Washing $20. Every square foot of ground that was not lived on was cluttered with mining equipment, dead dogs, pigs rooting in piles of stinking garbage, wagon beds, spare wheels, barrels, and stacks of lumber, as well as makeshift corrals where mules and horses stood knee-deep in muck. Farther away, on the banks of a swiftly moving river, hundreds of high-booted men—most of them Indians, Mexicans, and Chinese—squatted beside cradle-like gold washers and sluice boxes while others worked up a canyon in steep pits, hacking at the soil with picks and shovels.
At the end of the street, they reined up in front of a two-story trading post.
Inside the cavernous room, clerks ran back and forth filling orders in Spanish, French, and English, for rifles, canned goods, farming equipment, wagon beds, and sacks of feed. A few of the older clerks waved to Annie May as she approached a plump young man perched at a high-top desk, adding up small sums inside a huge ledger.
Annie May pulled herself up to her full height, which was barely up to the level of the desk.
“I’m Annie May Shook, and I’m here to sell my pelts.”
The clerk nodded, not looking up as he took off his glasses and rubbed his strained red-rimmed eyes.
Annie May rapped on the desk with the barrel of her shotgun. “I want both ears when I’m talkin’, Mister. Where be the major?”
The clerk took his time placing his glasses over his nose. “Major Poultry sold out last winter. You’ll deal with me now.”
“Always was partial to the major,” Annie May said. “Dealt with mountain folk straight up.”
“Business is business,” the clerk said with measured patience. “Whoever be the buyer or seller.”
Annie May scratched her head, took out her pipe, began to light it, then shoved it back inside her buffalo robe. “All right, then. What be the price of pelts?”
The clerk looked down at Annie May as if her presence was an annoying fly. “The bottom has fallen out of the fur market. It will never come back. That said, I’ll give you fifty cents a pelt. Take it or leave it.”
She stared up at him, unable to comprehend. “The hell you say.”
“The numbers come down from St. Louis, Ma’am. Trade or cash.”
Her voice rose to a shout. “Two dollars a pelt, Mister St. Louis. And my usual loan on ’baca, cartridges, and flour. That’s the way it’s been for these thirty years, and that’s the way it’ll be. Nothing more, nothing less.”
The clerk shut the ledger with a loud snap. “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
“Well then, Mister St. Louis, let an old mountain sage hen show you her possible bag.”
Annie May waved her shotgun at the clerk, then at a window, then at a row of pickle jars.
The terrified clerk backed away, bumping into Zebulon who shoved him against a shelf of canned goods, sending him and the cans crashing to the floor.
This was more like it, Zebulon thought, looking around the room. This was what the old Spirit Doc ordered when he needed to stir things up. He reached behind the counter for a jug of liquor, uncorked it and took a long pull, then tossed it to Annie May, who caught it in one hand. As the clerk staggered up from the floor, she smashed the jug over his head.
“Hurrah fer mountain doin’s!” she
