He is standing in the snow-frosted fields again. Wind ticks through weeds. He sees the men as they slam their fists to his chest, to his belly. He hears his arm shatter. Sharp silver tips of boots crack his ribs. His lungs fill with brilliant water. In the brittle cold he is glass.

Death rattled the windows of his mother’s house, tapped, then pounded at the door for Baptiste’s notice, for Baptiste knew death. Death rose up over the powwow grounds in the hottest part of summer. Death waited at the edge of the highway, fluttering silver water. Death could enter the dance arena sleek as a silver deer. Death bones rattled in the hands of stick game players when they began thinking of spending their last silver dime. Death was the glittering light the hunters followed, the light Annie White Elk had followed. Death was the weakhearted smell waiting in the sweet huckleberry bushes. Death was the silver smile along the river line that had called Louise’s sister. Death was clear light, the film of night fading. That night Baptiste knew death was the blue light sinking over the valley, the holy light of winter. He closed his eyes to see the Flathead River smoking. Fog whispered over the valley floor. He could see the white puddles of ice on the highway, the whitest frost on the thin branches of silver trees. The highways, the trails of animals lit by low clouds. The gleam of winter was calling him. He felt the ache of sleep pulse behind his eyes. He covered his head and whispered a prayer.