The dog lifted his muzzle into the cold, clear wind and sampled the air with all of his senses. Then he bounded forward, telling Shannon that there was no danger on the wind.

Even so, Shannon was cautious. She stepped outside and looked around carefully. There were no tracks in the frost-stiffened grass around the cabin. She sighed with relief even as she took another look just to be certain.

The shotgun was in the crook of her arm and her hand was never far from the trigger. The wind tugged at her hat, but she had tied it on securely with a faded silk scarf, one of the few luxuries that had survived from her Virginia childhood.

Pulling the door shut firmly behind her, Shannon set out toward Cherokee’s cabin. She could have ridden Razorback, but he was still tired from the trip into Holler Creek. She left the old mule on a picket rope, cropping tender young grass.

It was less than two miles to Cherokee’s cabin. As Shannon set out, dawn was coming up all around in glorious shades of rose and gold and deepest pink. The beauty of the day lifted her spirits. Humming very softly under her breath, she pulled the colors of dawn around her like a glorious cloak and hurried along the trail.

When Shannon reached the cleared area around Cherokee’s cabin, she stood at the edge and called out. Since the Culpeppers’ arrival at Echo Basin, folks had been less welcoming to visitors. People who walked up on someone unannounced stood a good chance of getting shot. Even Cherokee’s reputation as a shaman wouldn’t keep the likes of the Culpeppers at bay.

Shannon didn’t step forward until a friendly invitation came from the cabin.

«Come on in, gal,» Cherokee yelled. «Too durn cold out there for standing around.»

«Okay, Prettyface,» Shannon said.

The dog bounded forward. Just as he reached the cabin, the door opened completely. A tall, lean figure stood in the doorway.

A single glance at the way Cherokee was standing told Shannon that something was wrong with the old woman’s right foot.

«Howdy, gal,» Cherokee said. «Fine day, ain’t it?»

«Indeed it is,» Shannon said. «Prettyface, get out of the way. If you’re hungry, go rustle your own breakfast.»

The cabin door closed, leaving Prettyface on the outside. In truth, there was barely room for two people in Cherokee’s tiny cabin, much less two people and a big dog.

«Hear you went into Holler Creek for supplies,» Cherokee said.

«How did you hear that?»

«Injuns, how else? Wounded Bear’s nephew was trading gold for whiskey in Holler Creek. He heard tell how them Culpeppers finally got their come-uppance.»

«Did they?»

«Bet your sweet smile they did. Where was you when the dust settled? They was fighting over you, after all.»

«When that bullwhip cracked, I grabbed the flour and the salt and took out of there like my heels were on fire,» Shannon said dryly.

Cherokee’s husky, chuckling laughter filled the tiny cabin. She wore her salt-and-pepper hair in two thick braids, Indian style. Her seamed, dark face, combined with shapeless trousers, wool shirt, and worn moccasins, created the appearance of an old half-breed who had chosen to live alone rather than endure the insults of being not white and not Indian. Only the amulet bag hanging around her neck hinted at the wisdom lying behind her calm, dark eyes.

If anyone other than Shannon knew that Cherokee was an old woman rather than an old man, no one had spoken publicly about it. Her gifts with herbs and healing had earned her the title of shaman among Indians and whites alike.

«Light and set,» Cherokee invited.

Shannon settled onto the stool that was pulled close to the ancient wood stove. Cherokee limped slowly over to sit on her bunk. The cabin was so small that their knees nearly knocked together as they sat.

«What did you do to your foot?» Shannon asked.

Cherokee turned and began stuffing something noxious into a stone pipe. She struck a match and puffed the mixture of tobacco and herbs into life.

«It was a hard winter,» Cherokee said, «but Wounded Bear’s band only lost one old squaw and a stillborn baby. The rest of them are as frisky as your durn dog.»

Shannon wanted to pursue the subject of the other woman’s injury, but didn’t. Cherokee talked about what interested her and ignored the rest.

«If they weren’t frisky, one of your spring tonics would put them right,» Shannon said, grimacing.

Cherokee’s tonics tasted awful, though she swore that was part of their virtue.

«That’s the God’s truth,» Cherokee said.

Discreetly Shannon looked around the cabin. Normally there was a full bucket of water beside the stove, wood stacked nearby, and something edible simmering. Sometimes there were even fresh biscuits.

But today there was only a nearly empty bucket, the scraped remains of stew in the bottom of a pot, and nothing edible in sight. Nor was there any wood bigger than kindling.

«Walking here made me thirsty,» Shannon said, reaching for the empty bucket. «Mind if I fetch some water?»

Cherokee hesitated, then shrugged.

«The creek is cold enough to freeze hell itself,» the old woman muttered. «Makes my teeth ache all the way to my elbows to drink the durned water.»

«Then I’ll just fetch some wood and warm the water a bit.»

Again Cherokee hesitated. Then she sighed.

«I thank you kindly, Shannon. I’m feeling a mite puny today.»

Quickly Shannon performed the necessary chores of drawing water and bringing wood in from the woodpile. When she was finished stacking the wood between the bunk and the stove, Shannon stole a sideways look at the other woman. Cherokee looked pale and worn.

«While I’m at it,» Shannon said cheerfully, «I’ll just scrub out this old pot and make a little soup. There’s nothing like soup to take the gloom out of a day.»

This time Cherokee didn’t even hesitate. She simply lay back on her bunk with a muffled curse.

«I slipped whilst I was bringing in water about six days ago,» Cherokee said. «Bunged up my ankle. The poultice helped, but the durned thing still bothers me.»

«Then stay off it,» Shannon said, scrubbing the pot. «Give it time to heal.»

Cherokee smiled slightly. «That’s the same advice I gave to Silent John when old Razorback stepped on his foot.»

«I hope you take it better than he did.»

«Still no sign of him.»

It wasn’t a question. Cherokee sounded quite certain. But Shannon acted as though it was a question.

«No,» she said. «Not a trace.»

«You got to face it, gal. You’re a widow.»

Shannon said nothing.

«Even those no-account Culpeppers have figured it out,» Cherokee said, «and nobody would accuse them of being overly bright.»

«Then I’ll just have to put on Silent John’s riding coat and take Razorback over the pass again.»

Cherokee grunted. «Don’t think that will fool them again.»

Shannon shrugged. «No help for it.»

«What about that man called Whip?» Cherokee asked. «Small Bear said he followed your tracks out of Holler Creek.»

«Small Bear is as big a gossip as his uncle Wounded Bear.»

Cherokee waited for Shannon to tell her about Whip.

Instead, Shannon made soup as though her life depended on it.

«Well?» prodded Cherokee finally.

«Well, what?»

«Whip, that’s what. Did he find you?»

«Yes.»

«Blast it, gal. You done hung around Silent John too long! What happened ’tween you and Whip?»

«I sent him packing.»

«How?»

«Prettyface and a loaded shotgun.»

«Huh,» Cherokee grunted, unimpressed. «If that Whip fellow left, it’s because decided to, not because you had him buffaloed. What did he want?»

«Same thing the Culpeppers wanted,» Shannon retorted.

«Doubt it. He don’t have no reputation for beating gals bloody to get his satisfaction.»

Shannon looked up from her work, surprised that Cherokee had a good word to say about any male of the species.

«Do you know Whip?» Shannon asked.

«Not directly, but Wounded Bear and Wolfe Lonetree are thick, and Lonetree is real thick with Reno and Reno is Whip’s brother.»

«Reno? The gunfighter?» Shannon asked, for she hadn’t wanted to ask Whip.

«Yep, but only when he’s pushed to it. What Reno is really good at is hunting gold. Durn near makes you believe in spirits talking to men when you watch Reno and his wife Eve quarter the land for gold. Leastwise, that’s what Lonetree told Wounded Bear, and Wounded Bear told Small Bear, and —»

«— Small Bear told you,» Shannon finished. «I swear, you beat that fancy Denver telegraph when it comes to passing on news.»

Cherokee chuckled.

«Not much else to do but talk, when you get to my age,» Cherokee said. «Besides, men is the worst gossips there is, and that’s God’s own truth. Except for Silent John, of course. Talking to him was like talking to a tombstone. Don’t know how you ever stood it. The man durn near drove me to drink.»

«I didn’t know you ever were around Silent John long enough to be bothered.»

Cherokee bent down and fussed over her ankle before she spoke again.

«Don’t take long for that kind of silence to wear on me,» she muttered.

«I don’t mind silence. John loved to read, and he taught me to love it, too. Though I admit I prefer poetry to Plato.»

Cherokee snorted. «I seen that trunk o’ yours stuffed with books. Waste of time, all of them, ’less they talk about herbs and such.»

«In winter there’s lots of time to spare.»

«It ain’t natural not to talk to folks.»

«Oh, I talk all the time to myself and Prettyface,» Shannon said.

«Sensible. Leastwise you get a smart answer from one of you. Ain’t saying which one, though.»

Smiling, Shannon checked the water she had put on the stove. It was heating nicely.

«How about some willow-bark tea?» Shannon asked.

Cherokee grimaced. «Blasted stuff. Tastes like the bottom of hell’s own slops bucket.»

«It would make your ankle feel better.»

«Slops.»

Ignoring Cherokee’s muttering, Shannon went to a battered wooden chest and lifted the lid. A complex, herbal aroma drifted up to her nose. The willow bark was easy to identify and not hard to administer. Other herbs were more chancy to use.

A few were frankly deadly. Shannon knew which they were. She avoided even touching them.

While Shannon made the tea, Cherokee reached under the bed and dragged out a battered canvas bag. She reached inside and pulled out a small, tissue-wrapped parcel. Saying nothing, she sat back on the bed. Her gnarled, scarred hand rested lightly on the parcel, as though it was a beloved pet.

When Shannon brought the medicinal tea to Cherokee, the old woman ignored the battered metal mug and looked Shannon straight in the eye.

«We got to talk,» Cherokee said bluntly. «No two ways about it. You’re a widow.»

«You can’t be certain of that.»

«The hell I can’t. I prayed over his grave.»

Shannon’s eyes widened. «What?»

«Autumn, it were. Night sky like God watching me, and that poor old mule all bloodied and worn from running down the creek.»

Shannon’s breath froze in her lungs. Cherokee had never talked about how she found Razorback. She had just brought the mule to Silent John’s cabin, told Shannon that like as not Silent John would be late coming off his claims that year, and she better start rustling grub for herself.

Then Cherokee had said that her true name was Teresa, so Shannon didn’t need to fear asking her for help if she needed it.

«You never told me,» Shannon whispered.

Cherokee didn’t even pause. «I patched up the mule and set out at dawn to backtrack. Trail ended in hell’s own landslide. I assumed it was Silent John’s grave.»

«Why didn’t you tell me?»

«No point,» she said tersely. «If I’m wrong, Silent John turns up in the fall. If I’m right, and word gets out, every man in Echo Basin goes to howling around your cabin. No good to come of that. A man with a stiff pecker ain’t no more trustworthy than a rabid skunk.»

Shannon tried to speak. No words came.

«An’ what good would telling you do?» Cherokee asked. «The passes was already closed, so you couldn’t leave nohow. Your cupboards was full. You was safer up here than anywheres, long as no one knew Silent John was dead. So I just shut my mouth and kept it shut.»

When Shannon tried to speak, only an odd sound came out.