Imogene leaned back in her chair, her eyes resting on Mac’s gnarled old face.

            “Thanks, Mac.”

            “Mr. Ebbitt dead?” Mac asked after a while. “Or don’t he exist? Nate was poking around the Wells Fargo office, asking questions, soon as Sheriff Graff let him out.”

            “Mr. Ebbitt is real and living, the last we heard. Sarah writes home every day, and her mother gets a letter to us every six weeks or so. What did Mr. Jensen tell Nate?”

            “That Mr. Ebbitt was coming to join his wife and that was that. Nate got thoroughly drunk and got himself thrown back in the hoosegow. Soon as he was let out again, he unloaded that farm he bought and lit out for the mines down Washoe way. Weldrick ain’t a bad feller. A girl could do worse.”

            Sarah came in from the kitchen, carrying an unlit candle.

            “How is your coyote doing?” Imogene stretched out her hand and Sarah took it, perching on the arm of the chair.

            “He’s still pretty skittish. He won’t really come to me unless he’s hungry. But he’s better—he’ll be tame in no time. And he eats a lot.”

            “What’re you going to name him?” Mac threw the last of his coffee into the fire, and there was a hiss and a momentary dark spot on the log. “What was that you were calling him this afternoon? Moss Face? That’s a good name for a prickly-jawed little coyote.”

            “No. I’m going to name him something pretty. Maybe something Indian or something.”

            “Are you heading for bed now?” Imogene asked.

            Sarah nodded and stifled a yawn.

            “Need a light?” Mac asked. Sarah held out her candle. He struck a match against the sole of his boot and lit it for her. At that moment there was a banging on the door.

            “Who the hell could that be?” Mac growled. “It’s damn near ten o’clock.” Imogene started for the door, but Mac stopped her. “Let me get it. Nobody just happens by this part of the country in the middle of the night.” He grunted and pushed himself to his feet. The checker players paused in their game to see who the latecomer was.

            Mac opened the door and Sarah screamed. Leaning in the doorway was a man with no pants. A grimy red plaid shirttail fell over the man’s bare buttocks and gaped open at the front under his vest and short jacket, exposing a matted thatch of dark hair. His legs and thighs were burnt lobster-red, and tiny white blisters pushed through the skin like mushrooms. Both of his feet were bare and swollen to twice their normal size. Behind him on the porch, brown footprints in blood showed the way he had come. Blinking at the light, he dragged his hat off and clutched it respectfully in one hand. In the other was an army canteen. A short growth of beard shadowed his mouth and jaw, white streaked his hair at the temples. He was around forty years old, tall and lean. As they gaped, he slumped against the doorframe and fell to his knees. Mac caught him before he pitched forward onto the floor.

            “Sarah, put on some washwater,” Imogene ordered. “We’ll see to him in the kitchen.” Sarah tore her eyes away and ran from the room.

            The wagoners left their checker game to help Mac carry the man into the kitchen. He was coming to his senses and they half-carried, half-dragged him between them, stopping just long enough to snatch a cloth from one of the tables and tie it around his waist. He was conscious enough to sit up while Imogene bathed his feet in warm water and Sarah made cold compresses for his sunburnt legs.

            The man was slow of speech and stunned from the sun and the miles barefoot across the desert, but after drinking a generous glass of corn whiskey, he managed to tell his tale.

            His name was Karl Saunders. He had been riding across country from Deep Hole to the Indian settlement at Pyramid Lake—not on business, he had a friend there. He carried only a little money and his saddle was old and cheap. Three young men, the oldest not yet twenty, had overtaken him southwest of the coach road about ten miles east of Round Hole. They had stolen his horse, his gun, and, as a joke, his boots and pants. They’d left him his canteen and told him there was a stage stop a few miles to the west. He’d walked barefoot through the desert to Round Hole.

            Sarah tore an old bedsheet into strips, and Imogene bound his lacerated feet loosely. Kindness crippled him. When to walk was to live, he’d walked miles over rock and broken ground without boots, but under the compassionate ministrations of the women, he could no longer stand. Mac and one of the drivers carried him onto the back porch, where Sarah and Imogene had hastily improvised a bed of flour sacks and horse blankets. Sarah sent Mac upstairs to fetch a blanket and pillow from the men’s quarters. The bright eyes of the coyote pup peered out at the proceedings from the hiding place he’d burrowed in his bedding.

            In the morning, before sunrise, when Sarah came to start breakfast, there was already a light showing under the kitchen door. She pulled it open a few inches and peeked in. Karl Saunders stood hunched over the drainboard, his long legs spread wide so he would be closer to his work surface. He wore his blanket tied around his waist, and the shirt and vest they’d put him to bed in. His feet were still bound, mummylike, in the cotton windings. Sarah hovered, poised in the doorway, unsure whether to go in or run away.

            He felt her eyes on him and turned slowly from his task. “Morning, missus.” His smile was warm and childlike in the rough face. He was easily as tall as Imogene.

            “Good morning, Mr. Saunders.” Sarah slipped in, staying near the door. Karl had a belly that hung down over his twine belt; it began to throb and pulse independently, and Sarah stared, transfixed. The small pointed nose of the coyote pup thrust through Karl’s open shirtfront, and Sarah laughed. Charmed, she crossed the kitchen, her fear of Karl gone. “He’s took a shine to me,” Karl said, and smiled down into the bright brown eyes. “You got cold by yourself with no ma, and come to sleep with old Karl, didn’t you?”

            Already at ease with this big simple man, Sarah stroked the ears of the pup as it peeked out from its hammock in Karl’s shirt.

            “I’m peeling,” the man said, and gestured to a pile of carefully skinned potatoes on the sink sideboard.

            “You oughtn’t to be standing on your feet.” Sarah got him a bowl for the leavings and settled him at the table. “There’s a lot needs doing. The morning stage from Buffalo Meadows is due in today. Mac and Noisy run the folks on down to Reno.”

            “Good slop pickings,” Karl observed. “Ought to have a hog.” And with less furor than the coyote pup had caused, Sarah assimilated Karl into life at the stage stop.

            As Noisy steadied the horses and Imogene helped the passengers aboard, Mac glanced back into the shadowed interior of the bar. Karl, wearing a pair of overalls that Van Fleet had left, shuffled after Sarah, carrying a tray heaped with dirty dishes. Moss Face trotted close at his heels. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a couple of strays,” Mac commented.

            Imogene followed his gaze. “Mr. Saunders can stay until his feet heal.”

            “Maybe you ought to hire him on,” Mac urged. “Big fellow. Might make you a good hand.”

            Imogene watched Karl, a quiet ambling man, following in Sarah’s wake, seemingly content to help with the house chores and talk to the puppy. “He can stay as long as he likes,” she said.

32

            “HO, HO, HO!” THERE WAS A CRASH AND A GUST OF WIND, AND THE doorway of the Round Hole Inn framed the imposing figure of David Tolstonadge. He was laughing; an icy wind blew his long hair forward, mingling it with his beard. Gaily wrapped packages filled his arms, and there was a red bow pasted to his forehead.

            Sarah, sitting by the hearth, tatting a lace collar for Imogene, threw her work down and ran to him. David dumped the packages on the nearest table and picked up his sister, swinging her feet off the ground and hugging her. “Merry Christmas!” he bellowed, and she cried and clung to his neck and laughed.

            “You’ve been so long!” she said over and over.

            “I’m a railroad typhoon. Responsibilities. Besides, I had to find you first.” He rolled his eyes and tickled her until she screamed and broke away, out of breath. Then she was back in his arms, kissing him and pulling his beard. David growled an rubbed his bushy beard against her neck, eliciting a wonderful squeal.

            “Stop it!” Sarah shrieked.

            A heavy hand descended on David’s shoulder and a dark furry form darted at his legs, growling and nipping at his trouser cuffs.

            “It’s okay, Karl,” Sarah said quickly. “He’s my brother, David.”

            Karl nodded and scooped up Moss Face. The little coyote had grown by leaps and bounds since spring and was a foot and a half high at the shoulder, but he still pounced and fell over himself with the graceless charm of a puppy.

            As Karl departed through the kitchen door, David let his breath out in a whoop. “Who was that? He had a coyote! I wish I could see that dog up close.”

            Sarah laughed, dancing as if she were a girl again. “That’s Karl, he hired on with us. He lives in the tackroom in the barn. Sometimes he does the dishes.”

            “Doesn’t say much, does he?”

            “He and I talk. He’s not one for strangers.” Sarah led her brother over by the fire and sat him down. “You’re so good to look at, David.”

            He ran his hand over his head. “I’m almost bald,” he groaned. “Too tall—my hair rubs off on the head of the bed.”

            Sarah pulled the long, light-colored fringe of hair forward over his shoulders. “What’s gone on the top is made up for below the collar. It’s long as an Indian’s. With your hat on, you look like a storybook cowboy.”

            David caught her hand and smoothed his hair back. “Here come the boys.”

            “Brrrr.” Noisy hurried in out of the cold, followed by Mac. He blew out through his moustache like a whale surfacing for air. “Close that pneumonia hole!” he bellowed. “You born in a barn?” Mac slammed the door with a satisfying crack.

            Mac moved to the fire and stood with his back to it, rubbing his rear end. “The only man fool enough to go out in this cold without being paid’s your brother here. Ross’ll have an empty haul north.”

            “The railroad’ll put you two out to pasture before too many years are up,” David said. “Your business is dying off. You’re too slow.”

            Mac snorted so hard he had to shake his head to clear his ears. “It’ll be a cold day in hell when those engineers of yours take on the Smoke Creek.”

            “Where’s Imogene?” Sarah put in. “She met the coach, didn’t she?”

            “Out getting a Christmas tree.” Mac hit Noisy with his hat and laughed uproariously, and the stage driver looked sheepish.

            Dragging David by the hand, Sarah grabbed a heavy scarf from the back of the chair and ran outside. Noisy roared, “Close the door! It’s colder’n a well-digger’s hind pockets out there!” and David closed it.

            Clouds ran before a biting wind. The desert was colorless under the hard metal sky. The wind had scoured a curtain of dust off the alkali flat and held it against the ragged skirts of the Fox Range. Snow dusted the peaks, coloring them the same gray as the sky. The regular chunk-chunk of Karl chopping wood came to them from behind the house, and the smell of woodsmoke gusted under the porch overhang. The mudwagon, without its team, was parked in the lee of the stable. Sarah pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders. “Where’s the tree?” she asked of no one in particular.

            “There’s Imogene, at any rate.” David pointed up the hill behind the stop. Imogene was making her way down through the sage, a spiny branched skeleton of bitterbrush, nearly as tall as she, held over her shoulder. She caught sight of them and waved her arm in a wide arc above her head.

            Huddled in the doorway away from the cutting wind, Sarah waited while David, covering the ground quickly with long, loping strides, met Imogene and shouldered her burden for her.

            They reached the porch and he swung it down, balancing it on its stump. Blackish limbs thrust out asymmetrically. It gave off a tart, acrid odor that smelled of the outdoors. Sarah hugged herself and waited for Imogene to explain.

            “This,” Imogene said, “is a Christmas tree.”

            Sarah’s face fell. “Noisy forgot.”

            David turned the snarled bush from side to side. “Put an angel on the top, and who will know the difference?”

            Noisy had become suddenly busy poking the fire when they came in bearing the Christmas bush. “Noisy’s getting old,” Mac said, his voice heavy with sorrow. “It’s good he’s knocking off come spring. Mind’s going. He’d be forgetting the routes, next thing you know, and dribbling folks all over the desert.”

            The bush was enthroned on an overturned washtub in the corner away from the fire. It would be decorated on Christmas Eve.

            After supper, David excused himself to “see a man about a horse.” Just after he let himself out, Karl, chuckling to himself, waved Sarah over to the window. Wondering what the excitement was about, Mac, then Noisy, then Imogene joined them. When David closed himself into the privacy of the outhouse, there were six pairs of eyes watching him. He was about to get his wish concerning Karl’s coyote dog.

            Moss Face had followed David at a distance, slinking from bush to bush, keeping to the shadows. As soon as the door closed, he crouched down low behind a hump of earth and waited. Sarah laughed excitedly and Karl winked at her. “Oh, you two! You never tire of this,” Imogene reproved, but she was covering a smile with her hand. Soon the half moon swung out and David emerged into the cold blue evening light. Moss Face flattened his ears and wiggled his hindquarters in preparation. With a bound he was upon David, a happy growl deep in his throat, worrying David’s trouser cuff.

            To the immense delight of his audience, David reacted to the onslaught of his shadowy attacker with a great leap in the air and a heartfelt bellow of fear. He was halfway to the house before he heard the laughter.

            The night stage from Fort Bidwell arrived after dark, carrying six passengers, one complaining loudly of backache and permanent internal damage from the jostling he had received. He was a slender, white-faced man with a neat goatee, dressed in the confining broadcloth and tight clothes of the Eastern cities. The harsh, windswept desert had shaken him, and he hid his fear with bluster. The others were too cold and tired to do anything but push close to the fire, sip Sarah’s strong, hot coffee, and sniff at the savory smells coming from the kitchen.

            David sat back from the bar, playing a quiet game of poker—matchsticks were the only stakes Imogene tolerated—with Noisy and Ross, the driver of the Bishop stage. Karl had come in from the tackroom-bedroom he’d fixed up for himself on the leeward side of the barn. He was near the end of the bar on one of the two stools where he could see through the open door into the kitchen. Occasionally he’d lean over the marred wood of the counter and call to Sarah in a stage whisper, “Missus, how you doing? I can wash up in a minute and lend a hand.” Moss Face had curled himself into a neat circle that just fit within the four legs of Karl’s stool.

            Lamps burned along the walls and on the white cloths of the tables that the woman had pushed together to form one board for the evening meal; the room hummed with conversation. Imogene emerged from the darkness of the stairwell and stopped a moment to enjoy the scene, so warm against the bleak desert beyond the windows. Just then Sarah came out of the kitchen, her face flushed with cooking, carrying a platter of seaming venison ringed with small potatoes. Karl was quick to take it from her and carry it to the table.

            The food was hot and good and the company cheerful with the season. The talk was of home and of times past. Even the man from the East forgot himself and, after being assured the northern Paiutes were not on the warpath, relaxed and joined in the lighthearted talk around the table. Afterwards, the company spread out to checkers, cards, and quiet conversations by the fire.

            Around nine o’clock, Ross and his swamper left to bed down in the barn, the female guests retired, and the little Easterner excused himself for the evening. As he let himself out the front door to visit the outhouse, a stealthy four-legged shape slipped out after him. Karl nudged Sarah’s chair with his foot and nodded toward the door. She looked up just in time to see Moss Face’s long feathery tail disappearing into the night. Grinning at each other, they rose as one and went to the window. Imogene rolled her eyes heavenward and groaned. David joined Sarah and Karl, then Mac came, and Noisy. Soon the two remaining guests, unable to resist the sly glances and mysterious chortlings, came to swell the ranks.

            Unaware that he had an audience, the man looked over his shoulder and peered into the darkness, starting at every small night sound. A coyote howled from a distant hill and he quickened his pace, trotting through the sage until he reached the safety of the outhouse.

            “A coyote’d be more scared of him than he is of it,” Mac snorted.

            “He’s got a coyote stalking him now, Mac,” Sarah reminded him. She giggled and pressed her face near the glass, cupping her hands around her eyes to block the reflections.

            The outhouse door swung closed and, true to form, Moss Face glided over the mound of dirt to the side and hunkered down. Mac and Noisy nudged each other, and the two strangers, unable to make heads or tails of the spectacle they were witnessing, craned their necks to see out the window.

            A few minutes passed, the outhouse door opened, a widening ribbon of black cracking the weathered wood, and the New Yorker emerged from the darkness, still buttoning the fly of his trousers.

            “You avert your eyes, Sare,” David whispered.

            Sarah blushed but kept her face pressed against the glass, her eyes on the tuft of fur, spiky and inky black in the moonlight, where Moss Face crouched.

            The coyote waited until his victim was several yards from the outhouse. Then, low to the ground, as quick and silent as the cloud shadows, he darted from his hiding place. Growling at the last instant, he threw himself on the man’s feet with a puppy’s delight, sniffing and snapping at the hem of the trouser leg.

            The result was spectacular. First the little New Yorker screamed and threw both arms straight in the air like a man held at gunpoint. In a moment he recovered himself and attempted to run. Doggedly, Moss Face hung on, wagging his rear end and pulling in the opposite direction. Tripped up more by his own fear than by the ministrations of the coyote puppy, the man fell to his hands and knees. Encouraged by the success of his game, Moss Face let go of the trouser leg and ran around in front of his chosen playmate to jump at him and bark.