Nate was skinny and short, but the beginnings of adolescent stubble and the Adam’s apple confirmed to Nina that he was just past puberty, about thirteen, as the cowboys at Alma’s had said. He looked Native American. He still wore the dirty flannel shirt with his narrow chest exposed in front, his jeans were in shreds, and his feet were bare. He smelled bad. The chain gave him about ten feet to wander around the base of the tree.

Paul hurried back to the Bronco for Nina’s tool kit, while Nate and Nina waited. Nate seemed nonchalant, as though he had placed his fate totally in their hands. He looked around, surveying everything, without anxiety, with an expression of wonder and pleasure and something else, a light in his eyes that made Nina uncomfortable. He drank down the soft drink thirstily and Nina noticed that he was missing some teeth. Hitchcock sniffed him and Nate backed away. “Go lie down,” Nina told Hitchcock.

Paul came back and knelt with his toolbox by the shackles. Pulling on leather gloves, he took a small hacksaw and began sawing.

Hitchcock’s ears pricked up and his head swiveled toward the Bronco. Nina thought she heard something and looked anxiously down the dirt road that came off Arroyo Seco.

A car.

“Uh-oh,” Nate said.

“Hurry!” Nina said.

“I hear it.”

Nate said, “Ow!” Just as Coyote’s tan van pulled into the clearing, the shackle fell away. The pit bull in the front seat of the van was already growling, its bullet head extended out the car window.

The van’s motor died. Coyote sat inside, about a hundred feet away, not moving. Afternoon light behind him made his face indistinct. Paul straightened up. He picked up Hitchcock’s leash and handed it to Nina, saying, “Hold on to him. Nate, you stay with Nina.”

He walked slowly toward the van, his boots kicking up miniature dust storms behind. The sun beat down hard in the clearing, making a minidesert out of the setting.

Nina, leash wrapped around her hand, stood beside the boy, fighting off her fear for Paul.

The pit bull leapt out of the half-open window and came at Paul. At the same time, Hitchcock leapt forward, teeth bared. She could have held him-could have stopped him-but she let him go, to fight.

The pit bull, seeing Hitchcock, veered behind Paul and the two dogs met in a snarling, snapping fury, rolling over and over in the dirt. Paul backed away and pulled out his gun, but he couldn’t do anything with it. The two dogs made one whirling blur. Nate pressed against Nina, whimpering. She pulled him behind the tree.

Coyote sat in his van, unmoving. Paul picked up a piece of cut firewood from the woodpile and ran up to the dogs, who snapped and bit, completely beyond command. Looking for his chance, Paul held the piece of wood up and hit the pit bull on its back. It let out a shrieking sound, but it had its jaws embedded in Hitchcock’s neck now and would not let go. Paul hit it again.

Out of the van’s window a rifle barrel appeared, growing longer as it extended out. “Paul!” she screamed. Concentrating on the maddened dogs, he didn’t hear her. She kept her eyes on the rifle, now pointed directly at Paul-what could she do? “Paul!”

Paul hit the pit bull on the skull. Its jaws opened slowly. It let go of Hitchcock, rolled over, and lay still. The rifle swiveled, following Paul’s movements. Again, she screamed. This time he heard her. With a movement so fast she barely registered it, he threw himself facedown to the ground, then began crawling rapidly into the brush.

But Coyote didn’t shoot. Suddenly, the ruckus quieted, the bugs and animals seemed subdued, the air was still. Paul, lying in some manzanita, had his gun aimed toward the van. The rifle barrel caught a glint of sun. The wind died. Hitchcock crouched, whining, near the body of the pit bull. The picture froze. She would never forget it-the rank smell of the boy clutching her, Paul’s expression, hard and terrible, the blinding sun-

Small sounds started up. Hitchcock, still whining, hurt. Her own harsh breathing. Meanwhile, the rifle never moved, frozen in space. She couldn’t see the man behind it, just the outline of his head in a cowboy hat.

The roar of the engine caught her by surprise as the van started up. The rifle disappeared and the van bucked backward and turned. Wrapped in a robe of dust, it accelerated out of the clearing.

He was gone. Nina ran to Hitchcock, who crouched like a sphinx. Wounds on his neck and ear actively bled. Paul had gone to the other dog, stick at the ready, but it didn’t move. He poked at it. Nina saw its muzzle, flecked with saliva and blood.

“Dead,” Paul said.

Nate stayed back. “Dead dog,” he said in a high, anxious tone. “Hedgehog, there are wild boars around here. They rush out of the bushes with tusks. Or mothers with babies all in a row behind them.”

Paul came over to stand beside Hitchcock. He knelt down. “I’ll get the picnic blanket out of the back,” Nina said. They wrapped Hitchcock up and put him in the cargo area of the Bronco.

“I’d like to search the tent while Coyote’s gone,” Paul said.

“No, Paul. Please.” She didn’t say, it’s illegal. All bets were off, but they had to get Nate out of there safely and get Hitchcock to a vet. “Hop in back,” she told Nate, and he did.

Paul studied the tent.

“He almost shot you,” she said. “I don’t know why he didn’t pull the trigger.”

“I killed his dog.”

“You had to. Paul, if-if you want to go in there, I’ll wait out here with Nate and Hitchcock.”

“Stay here.” He jogged to the tent and entered. In about three minutes, which amounted to three years of nail-biting fear in Nina’s life, he came out.

Nina got in front and Paul climbed in back. Reversing, she drove them all out of there.

18

T HEY SWERVED THROUGH THE CURVES, NATE curled up in a corner of the back seat. He did not warm to Paul, who after a few minutes decided that Nate wouldn’t do anything rash and leaned over the front passenger-seat headrest to watch the road.

“Where should we take him?” he said eventually. “You got this figured out?”

“The sheriff’s substation,” Nina said. “Carmel Valley Village is the closest.”

“He might have relatives.”

“The authorities can notify them. And screen them. I’m not taking any chances. Nate? Nate?” Nina rolled up the windows and turned on the AC, so the Bronco was quieter. “Is he asleep, Paul?”

“No, he’s looking out the window. Hey, kid, Nina wants to ask you a question, okay?” In the rearview mirror, Nina saw Paul tap Nate’s knee. The boy turned that wondering, anxious, otherworldly face to them.

“Nate? You talked about your mother. Where is your mother?”

“Are you my mother?” His head cocked.

“No, where is your mother?”

“Home.”

“And where is home?”

“Markleeville.”

“Markleeville!”

“Did I say something wrong? Ring, rang, wrong. The mission has a big bell.”

“Nate, are you Washoe? From the Washoe tribe?”

“My mother says Washoe all the time. Washoe my shoe. It must be dirty.”

“Paul,” Nina said, “it would make sense. Danny was half Washoe. He would have hooked up with other Washoes who lived down here.” She was excited. Sandy was a Washoe elder. The tribe could help Nate. He would be identified, claimed, and protected by the tribe.

She asked questions, trying to find out how Nate had come to that godforsaken clearing in the woods to live with his brother, but Nate didn’t seem to know the answers. He would try to explain, but got sidetracked so quickly she couldn’t get the sense.

“We’ll call Sandy tonight and find out about him,” Paul said.

“Yes. Nate, Paul and I-we won’t let anyone hurt you. We are going to see that you have a bath and food and…”

“Ice cream!”

“Ice cream. And nice people to stay with while we call your mother.”