Quentin knew his father's temper. But he had taken his time in town anyway, half-knowing and half-ignoring that it would be well after sundown when he started back to the farm. Pa said that Quentin would "ruin" one of his animals riding rough roads at night. A hole in the road or a downed tree could snap a foreleg and cost a valuable animal—or so Pa said. Granny worried that Quentin would fall and break his neck, or smash his head on a low branch. Pa would point a finger at Quentin, saying "you bring that animal home in one piece."

Quentin pulled his jacket collar up higher and drew a long, slow breath. The cold mountain air burned his throat and made his nose tingle. He exhaled a cloud of steam. "Mmm, smell that cold air. Better 'n any cigar, I guess. Ain't that right, girl?" Lady looked up as she jogged alongside the brown mare. Quentin drew another deep breath.

"Maybe even better than a Burdock gal's French per-fume, don't you think?"

The stars shone brightly overhead. In a few months, Quentin thought, the stars would be larger, closer. Summer's afternoon heat would rise from the meadows into the cool mountain evening, making the constellations dance and shimmy. The moon would come up huge and yellow, looming over the ridge. Granny would call it a pumpkin moon.

Quentin listened to the wind whistle through branches that still held their buds shut tight against the false spring. He heard the creaking limbs of the Great Oak ahead, and knew that he would soon be close enough to smell the smoke from Granny's cookstove. He heard Old Creamy's cowbell clank dully as she waited by the gate to be milked.

Pa was too old to remember what it's like to be young and riding through the forest on a starry night, Quentin thought. Pa didn't seem like he had ever been a boy. When Quentin imagined his father as a boy, he only saw him working the fields and the sawmill with his father and uncles. He imagined his father's life then as it was now: working from before dawn till after dark, sweating the sweat of a farmer, collapsing into bed at night.

Sometimes Pa would sit with a bottle by the fireplace, watching the flames wordlessly as the night wore on. Quentin wondered if Pa thought about Ma then, or about his parents and his childhood home east of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Once Quentin had asked Pa what he was thinking about, but Pa had only looked at him with a sadness Quentin had never seen before. It seemed he hadn't heard Quentin's question, and the scowl soon returned to his face, and he asked why Quentin was not upstairs asleep.

Quentin wondered if his father had ever laughed at something because it was funny, or because he was happy, or because he was just glad to be a young man in a young country. Since Ma had died, Quentin had only heard Pa laugh when it wasn't a laugh at all, such as when Quentin had harnessed the mule incorrectly, or had been bested by Randy Junior in a fistfight.

"Shhhh!" Quentin whispered harshly, laying his hand on the mare's neck. "Injuns comin'!"

The collie pricked up her ears and ran ahead. Looking nervously over his shoulder, Quentin dismounted silently and led the horse into the woods. He crept forward as quietly as he could on the litter of dead branches and leaves. As he approached the Great Oak, Quentin could see Lady's thin face peering out from the cave-like hollow where the trunk of the enormous tree had rotted out.

"Move over, girl," Quentin whispered as he prepared to squeeze in beside her. "I can hear the ponies comin'." The opening seemed tighter than it had been the previous summer, and Quentin had to twist and turn and pull himself into the hollow space of the trunk. When he was finally in, they peered down the road and waited.

"Shhhh. Here they come."

The collie saw only dim starlight on an empty road. But Quentin saw a band of Kiowa warriors ride slowly into view. They sat proudly on barebacked pinto ponies, alert to the night and the forest, lances poised and bows slung across their backs. They paused, then moved slowly, without a word. Even the ponies seemed alert and wary. Suddenly a breeze picked up the ponies' manes and tails, and the warriors' long untied hair streamed out behind them.

The tallest Kiowa, out in front of the rest, held up his hand. They all stopped. The tall one craned his neck forward and sniffed the air suspiciously, turning to listen to the forest beside the road. Quentin held his breath. After what seemed an eternity, the ponies and their riders continued on in silence. Quentin pulled back into the tree as far as he could. He held Lady's muzzle shut as the moving forest of ponies' legs slid silently by in the road dust. Quentin waited until he was sure the hoot of an owl was really an owl, and the yapping of coyote pups from the hillside was really coyotes.

"No need to take chances," he said to Lady, pushing her out of the tree ahead of him. Again he had to squirm and push to get himself through the narrow opening. He untied the mare and rode slowly back to the road.

"Maybe we'll meet us some Injuns for real, some day," he said to Lady. "Kiowas, or Comanches and such."

They rounded the last bend and the dark shapes of the simple farm buildings came into view. Rising smoke smudged the sky above the cabin stovepipe. Old Creamy blasted the silence, bawling to be milked. A triangle of light spread across the barnyard, and Granny stood silhouetted in the cabin door.

"Where ya been, Quentin? Yer pa and Randy Junior is here ready to eat."

"I'll be in directly, Granny. I got your flour and sugar and such."

"Well, after you taken care of the animals yew wash yer hands and come on in fer supper. Your Pa and Randy Junior is already at the table."

"Yes, ma'am. I'll be right there."