The day was so dry with cold my heater rattled. The mountains were edged with morning light. The stars were thinning. I thought about my warm bed, heavy blankets over my back, sleep. A thin skiff of snow powdered the highway. The cold swelled my knuckles. I could see Dirty Swallow’s house in the distance and knew I had to wake up.

I turned my car in the drive and spotted the pelt of an animal hung on the corral, heavy as an Indian blanket. Skinned. A bad dream. The thought occurred to me that Yellow Knife had gutted his best horse and had hung it up to dry. Maybe he needed money and had concocted this idea, but I was straining for answers. I pulled my car up and stopped. I busied myself for a moment. I opened the jockey box and looked for a stick of gum but knew I wouldn’t find anything. I was stalling the inevitable and probably making things worse. I grabbed my notebook and made my way to the corral.

Dirty Swallow stepped up behind me. She had a way of sneaking up on people and it had always made me nervous. “What happened here?” I asked.

Wisps of her hair had threaded loose from her braid. I saw the pale puff of her breath and realized she was having difficulty speaking.

“This was here when I got up this morning,” she said.

I reached in my pocket for my gloves. It was a horse hide, folded; as I pulled back the skin a bitter smoke rose above us.

“Baptiste do this?” I asked, but she shook her head.

“Someone took his horse,” she said.

“Stole it?” I said.

“He thinks so. He’s out looking for that horse now,” she said.

“I don’t follow,” I said. She seemed frustrated by my stupidity. She crossed her arms and raised her voice. “This isn’t the horse,” she said.

I wasn’t getting anywhere. I thought for a while. Dirty Swallow seemed to be telling me someone had stolen Yellow Knife’s horse and had left a skinned one in its place.

“Whoever done this, wanted my son to think this was his horse.”

It was a cruel deed to do to any man, even Yellow Knife. The man had plenty of enemies. I knew that for sure. The kill was fresh. Blood tapped the snow.

My toes were beginning to feel the sting of cold. I looked toward the field, saw a few Indian ponies. I didn’t see Yellow Knife’s prized horse.

I checked the hide for a brand but found none. I scribbled in my notebook. The hide appeared to have the markings of Yellow Knife’s horse. I tried to remember the animal’s name, but knew it wasn’t important. I only remembered that Louise loved the horse.