He waited, watching for a reaction. He was not sure he saw one. He said, “They killed the woman here. This is where we found her, and where we buried her. We never found any sign of the boy.”

Andy remained silent. Rusty was not sure he understood until the youngster asked, “That boy . . . him me?”

“Yes.”

“How come I no remember?”

“You were young. And maybe you tried hard not to remember.”

Andy seated himself on the ground, favoring the weak leg. He sat staring at the unmarked grave. He said nothing. Rusty waited for him to react, to speak, but no words came.

Eventually Webb called, “Coffee’s ready if you are.”

Looking back over his shoulder, Rusty walked to the fire and poured coffee from a blackened can into a tin cup.

Webb asked, “He remember anything?”

“Can’t tell. It’s like he’s in a trance or somethin’. Indians have got a way of sensin’ things they can’t see. He may have gotten that from them.”

Rusty’s cup was half empty when he heard something, a sort of low whine, then a wail. He turned quickly to see the boy bent over, face in his arms, his body trembling. Rusty dropped the cup and hurried to him.

Andy cried out in anguish. “Mama! Mama!” He wept bitterly.

Rusty knelt and put an arm around him. “It’s all right, Andy. It was a long time ago.”

Preacher Webb tried to squat down on the boy’s other side, but his knees were too stiff. He remained standing.

Rusty said, “Seems like he finally remembered.”

“A boy so young couldn’t stand lookin’ into hell. He put up a high wall to shut it out. Now you’ve made him see over that wall.”

Later, Andy stared into the small blaze of the campfire. Rusty and Webb had finally prevailed on him to eat a small supper. “This place . . . they stop here with us. They eat a horse. Then they take Mama . . .” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Many times she screams. I try to go to her, but they whip me. Long time . . . no more screams. I cry, they whip me. I make myself not cry. They don’t whip me no more.”

Rusty said, “At least now you remember who you are.”

“I am Andy Pickard. All the same I am Badger Boy. How can I be two people?”

Rusty had no answer.

Webb said, “I knew your mother, Andy. She was a good woman. Your daddy was a good man, too.”

“Not same as uncle?”

“Not the same as your uncle.”

“Good. Damn uncle. No like.”

Before they left camp the next morning they stood beside the grave. Rains had caused some of the rocks to roll away, and Rusty had replaced them neatly.

Badger Boy was solemn. “My mother. . . why my people do this to her? Why they kill her but keep me?”

Rusty shook his head. “They’re different from us. There’s a lot us white people will never understand.”