I’m curled around the still-warm coals of my fire, so close that my poncho is singed. I lie still for a long time, working out what really happened last night and what is a fragment of the series of unsettling and confusing dreams that plagued what little sleep I managed to grab. Ghost Moon and the other two were from the reservation, trying to steal the horses. My musings are disturbed by a soft bray. I twist my head to see the two mules standing a few feet away regarding me curiously. Behind them sits the wagon. There is no sign of the horses, which makes sense. Ghost Moon would want to move fast. The horses would help him, but the wagon and mules would just slow him down. I’m ridiculously happy that I have survived the night, and now I have mules and a wagon. My problem is using them to get back to Blazer’s Mill. I obviously can’t do anything much with my broken leg flopping around. I look around for ideas. The branch that I thrust into Ghost Moon’s face is lying close by, the burned end black and cold.
