I returned to the scene before the sun cleared the Missions. The morning was still gray. It was November and it should have been cold. It wasn’t. A bitter frost was steaming off the fields. I knew people would shed their winter coats and step outdoors with renewed vigor, unaware they were welcoming sickness. There would be more death from this trick change of season. It was a mock spring that had claimed Annie White Elk, Louise’s mother. She had hiked up Magpie Creek to search for her husband. She’d been gone for two days with only a shotgun and a sack of jerky. The warm days had deceived her. She came home fever chilled, dreaming, Grandma Magpie said, of a white root cellar filled with yellow apples. She died within the week.

I brought a bright roll of surveying tape with me. I wanted to mark the ground I covered. I’d been at work for over two hours when Railer finally showed up. He sipped a cup of coffee and nodded his head toward the bows of pink tape I had tied so carefully to weeds and trees. He was amused with my efforts. “An old Indian trick?” he asked. I ignored him. He ambled past me, stopping now and then to take a gulp of coffee. As luck would have it, he wasn’t out in the field for more than ten minutes when he yelled over to me. “Scout,” he said, “she’s over here.” I was convinced he was pulling my leg, but he lifted his hand to me and motioned for me to come. When I realized he wasn’t kidding I ran to him. I was suddenly winded, not up to the task. I was breathing too hard and Railer looked at me. “Nothing to get excited about here,” he said. “She’s been dead awhile, I’d say.”

I looked down at the face of Hemaucus Three Dresses, reality setting in. Her mouth was open. Her lips had split like the tender skin of ripe fruit. Railer pressed his foot to her side to rock the body over and I reached to stop him.

“What’s the matter with you?” he said.