It's the twenty- first century, says Crowfoot. A history of it. I started with the towers and I don't know what I'll end with.
    Who's this devil figure?
    Take your pick.
    Fields of crosses. Hordes of running figures. Cactus and slanted lines and stylized suns to symbolize the drought. Kachinas shaped like angry machines. Hooded executioner figures.
    Crowfoot points to faded figures repeated here and there â coyotes and elk, human hands, weird turtles and birdsâ telling her that these are original, ancient Native art. The entire cliff is a palimpsest of petroglyphs past, the smoking torch illuminating a cliff from a thousand years before, a reckoning of ways past meeting ways future.
    Becca feels her eyes burning but she can't blink. Crowfoot's torch luffs and looses a steady swirl of black smoke. She feels sucked inside the history of the world. There are oil wars and riots and the comet that frightened everyone blazing through the night sky, the omen of the first great oil shortage. She's seen handprints inside caves in New Mexico. She never thought much of them, crude art in a crude world. This is something greater.
    Her skin fizzes like a shaken can of soda. She wonders what George Armstrong Crowfoot has in his heart that gives him the confidence to offer his own depiction of the history of the world. There's a daring quality to it. A bravery against the wind and sun.
    This is amazing, says Becca, and immediately regrets it. The words are weak and meaningless. She can't express her thoughts clearly and knows if she gushes too much Crowfoot will think her a phony.
    He shrugs. It kills the time, he says. I don't have TV, right?
    That's a good thing.
    If you say so.
    He steps back and holds the torch high, the flickering flames casting ripple shadows on the painted wall like light reflections from burning water. He says it's something he believes in. A body has to find a thing worth doing, and then do it, he says. I get so mad sometimes I could kill someone, like the Saint with the weak chin. I could have slit his throat, easy. Crowfoot shakes his head. But then I'd be smelling that blood the rest of my life. As it is, he's just one scar uglier.
    He'll get over it, says Becca.
    Check this out. Crowfoot plays the torchlight upon the end of a row of figuresâ horses, a ring, a death' s- head face. I got a place for pretty boy at the end of that line. I'll show you when I'm done.
    But it's a shame it's out here so far from everything. I mean, you should share this with the world.
    Crowfoot keeps the torch held high. It's where it should be.
Who's going to see it? she asks.
You.
    Becca feels that same buzzing, this time like an alarm clock smothered by a pillow. Without another word or warning Crowfoot pushes the burning torch into a pile of sand at the base of the rock face. All goes dark. Becca puts her hand on his arm to steady herself in the pitch blackness, the sharp tang of smoke in her nose. When he moves to head back, she grabs a handful of his shirt and holds tight.
    On the cliff ledge not much wider than twice Crowfoot's shoulders they short- step back to the world of the living. Becca lets her fingernails dig just a tad into Crowfoot's skin to remind him she's there. Clouds now blanket the Arkansas River valley and shut out the moon and stars. She can see nothing but the rough black wall of cliff on her right, her only link between the past and future being the tall, hard body of the legendary George Armstrong Crowfoot, the kind of man who cuts his enemy for the rough scrape of retribution.
    Her heart pulses in her throat the whole way and when she thinks she can't take it anymore she sees the brightest blue- white constellation so low on the horizon she fears they'll step on it. She wonders if she's hallucinating. Any minute Crowfoot could shapeshift into a Raven and flap away. Then she smells wood smoke. The ledge widens and they're back at the trailer. The constellation she sees is nothing more than the arc of solar lights.
    Crowfoot opens the trailer door and after a moment has a pair of candles burning, filling the aluminum- sided box with an amber glow. He folds out the sofa and gives Becca a flat pillow and a dusty- smelling serape. It's not the Waldorf, he says. Then again, what is the Waldorf ? I never been there.
    Becca thanks him and says she'll be happy to sleep on rocks if it comes to that.
    She lies in bed and listens to the wind in the canyon. The pillow and serape hold the smell of dust and mice but the cool night air carries a sweet tang of juniper and pine through the open window.
    She can't sleep. At one point she gets up and walks out the front door, wrapped in the serape, and watches the stars through ragged holes in the clouds. She finds a smooth stone near the fire and it warms her rump. A Great Horned Owl hoots somewhere in the cliffs below. Its call is poignant and lonesome and when she thinks her heart will turn to wax and melt, the moon comes out and she sees George Armstrong Crowfoot standing beside her.
    I couldn't sleep, she says.
    I figured as much.
    Crowfoot sits down cross- legged near the fire. Clouds cover the moon and hide his face. Beside her he is no more than a black silhouette. He says nothing. He stirs the coals until he has a cluster of orange embers pulsing. He breaks a handful of kindling and carefully places it on the embers. The twigs begin to smoke and soon burst into flame. The moon rips free from clouds and shines on their cliff face. It's clearing, he says. Soon we'll see the Milky Way again.
    It's nice here. I love it.
    But you can't sleep.
    Becca nods. I don't know. I might not sleep all night.
    They sit by the flames for a while without speaking. Crowfoot stands and stretches. You can have my bed if you want.
    I couldn't do that. Where would you sleep?
    He takes a moment to answer. I'm not going anywhere.
    She looks at him and can only see a hint of expression on his face.
    A half hour later she creeps into his bed. He's awake, lying on his back, his head resting on his hands.
    I'm glad you came, he says. I don't like to sleep alone.
    Me neither, she whispers.
Becca wakes naked in Crowfoot's bed. He's gone and a woman is standing in the doorway, staring at her. She has short black hair and wears an onyx necklace.
    Where's Sonny? she asks.
    You mean George?
    The woman steps to the window and peeks through a gap in the curtains, looking outside. We call him Sonny. I thought he'd be here.
    Becca sits up, holding the serape to her chest. She blinks and tries to look alive. I don't know, she says. I just woke up.
    You want some coffee? asks the woman. I know how Sonny makes it here, on a little white gas stove. It's crude but it makes a good pot o' java.
    Becca nods. Sure. That would be great.
    The woman smiles and leans forward, holding out her hand. I'm sorry. I'm Joy, Sonny's sister.
    Oh. Becca shakes her hand. You must think I'm some kind of skeevy woman.
    Skeevy?
    A floozy. A tart.
    Joy shrugs. Sonny is a good man, so why not? I've opened my eyes in a few strange places myself.
    I'm not a tramp. It was just, you know.
    Joy waves her hand like Becca should forget it. She walks away, down the hall. From the kitchen she calls out, How long have you known Sonny?
    Becca pushes her hair out of her face. I just met him, actually.
    What?
    Becca gets out of bed and pulls on her clothes. She shouts this time. I just met him.
    As Joy moves in the kitchen, making the coffee, Becca hears her laughing.
    Okay. You're not a floozy, she calls back. But you must be easy.
H i r a m  P a g e  m e e t s an unsavory acquaintance at a highway pull-off near Lake Pueblo, a windswept half moon of beaten- down prairie from which a body can see for miles in every direction. It's late in the day and the sky is hazy blue with summer heat. Their only company is a pair of mountain bikers who ride up and dismount, stand there chugging Gatorade, wearing sports sunglasses and helmets. Page leaves his diesel engine running and the windows rolled up. The cyclists give the pickup dirty looks as they load their bikes.
    Hiram's friend runs a lucrative chop shop, goes by the name of Porter. Long hair and sideburns, a windburned face. He's the one who arranged the cattle- rustling caper, the one whose brother works for the Pueblo County sheriff's department.
    I'm sure it's risky, says Porter, but it just might be worth the trouble. BP must have insurance out the wazoo. Look at what's going on with all those pirates in Africa? All the companies do is write off the losses and keep on truckin'.
    What about tracking devices? asks Page. Some kind of GPS gizmo? They probably have something on each and every rig to know where it is.
    My friend says he knows where it is, how to unhook it.
    How are we going to sell this black gold? All the stations must keep records.
    I've got that covered. We slap fake plates on it and haul the rig to Utah, and some locals there will do all the paperwork and sell to a few independent stations in Colorado City. We give them a discount and still make a bundle.
    Hiram Page sits and stares west. The dried prairie grasses look burnt orange in the late- afternoon light.
    Who do you plan on taking with you on this caper? he asks.
    Well, I think Ezra for one. He's got a pair of balls and needs the money. We'll need three, four guys besides me. I'm sure I can find somebody. Probably Ezra can scare up a couple of his buddies who know enough to keep their mouths shut should something go wrong.
Which it better not.
    Agreed. Which it better not. But if it does, we want some of our own on this.
    What about the driver?
    We drug him, says Porter, mimicking an injection in his neck.
    He wakes a few hours later and hitches a ride home. You're long gone?
    That's what I'm thinking. You like the idea? asks Porter.
    Page purses his lips and nods. One condition. I want a cousin of mine to ride along, a kid named Jack Brown. He's a cheap date. We'll pay him enough to keep him happy, which won't have to be much.
    Is he up for this kind of work?
    Hiram makes a face. He's young, dumb, and full of cum.
    I don't like the dumb part. Dumb gets people hurt.
    Tell him what to do and he'll do it.
    Porter watches another Jeep pull in and skid to a stop, raising a cloud of dust that drifts onto Page's pickup. Teenagers in Lycra bike outfits get out, laughing. Okay, then, he says. I'll nursemaid your cousin, long as he doesn't get a dime from my cut.
    Deal, says Page.
    Sounds like we've got a plan.
    Page nods. As the great ear- biting boxer Mike Tyson once said, Everybody's got plans, until they get hit.
When the day comes Porter meets his motley crew at a scenic pull- off in the Bighorn Canyon, beside the legendary Arkansas River, former boundary of the Louisiana Purchase, former divid ing line of Arapaho and Comanche territories. Now it's a hot spot for commercial float trips, whole families bobbing along in orange life vests, taking pictures with digital cameras as the water splashes and they squeal.
    Porter is in a bad mood, glaring as Mosca and Ezra Page stand jawing beside a red pickup. In the cab are crammed three polyg flunkies, with Jack Brown sitting bitch in the middle, looking squashed and put out. Porter looks the chop- shop mechanic that he is, with a pit- bull face and sideburns, long hair in a ponytail.
    A red pickup? I thought I told you to be low key?
    I told them you wouldn't like it, says Ezra Page, Hiram's blood nephew.
    Porter shakes his head and sighs. Well, goddamnit, you might as well put up a sign that says, Remember Me. But whatever. We're here now and we got a job to do.
    We're cool, says Ezra. No one will see a thing.
    You better hope they don't. Meanwhile, listen up. I'm going to hang back and get behind the tanker once it passes. Ezra, you get in place in front and block the road with the trailer once I give the word. I'll call and tell you when he's headed your way. You, he says, pointing at Jack Brown, try not to wet your pants or stutter too much.
    I don't stutter, says Brown. I mean, sometimes I can stumble on a word or two like anyone else, but that's normal, isn't it? I meanâ
    Better yet, don't open your goddamn trap. We don't need chatty patties on this job.
    I'm notâ
    Are you stupid or what? Just shut your fucking mouth, okay?
Okay.
    No use putting a trucker in his grave without he deserves it. Now if he goes and tries something funny, all bets are off. Rodriguez, you ride with Ezra.
    Why me? asks Ezra. I thought I'd be riding with you.
    You're second in charge. I want you to keep an eye on Mosca. In my book, a loose- lip Mexican can't be trusted 100 percent.
    Ezra frowns but takes out his keys and points Mosca toward his dirty white pickup hitched to a flatbed trailer stacked with hay bales. Ezra Page is thin as Ichabod Crane, with small eyes and huge Adam's apple. He wears a cowboy hat with a short, straight brim. Mosca smirks. He thinks it looks old- timey, like this is a Saint who fancies himself living in an Old West comic book. While they're talking Ezra takes off his hat to adjust it. Just above his hairline is an awkward gauze bandage the size of a man's palm.