“That’s right. In those days, there was me and nineteen others, and our wives, and all of our children. The Wappos took us by surprise up by Las Posadas, and killed us all. Allen was the scout on that trip, and went for help.”

Neil stared at Susan. She seemed to be more than asleep. Her breathing was slow and shallow, as if she was in a coma. The voice continued, “Allen went for help, but he didn’t get back in time. He said he was going to go for the Mexican camp down in the valley, make his way back up the creek. But he never came back. They cut us all down, the Wappos, women and children too, and I saw my dear little Margie with an arrow clean through her face.”

“Why are you here?” asked Neil. “What do you want from me?”

The voice sighed. “I’m here because I’m here. It’s not for any reason. It’s dark out here on the outside, Neil, and time doesn’t mean what it does to you. All times are the same time. It’s ’31 still, Neil, and the Wappos are still cutting us down, and always will. We’re still waiting for Allen to help us. We’re still dying, Neil.”

The voice began to falter, and grow faint. Neil said, “Dunbar—don’t go. Dunbar!”

“I’m here, Neil.”

“Dunbar, what do you know of Quamis?”

There was a longer pause. Then Susan breathed, “Quamis is everywhere. Always has been and always will be. The Indians told us he never died and never would. Maybe that was part story, but then maybe it was part truth, too. You could hear about Quamis from the woods of Massachusetts clear across to Denver, Colorado, and even beyond that. They said he lived in the wind that blew through the Georgia pines, and in the grass of the plains east of the Platte River. A great wonder-worker, they used to say, and still do.”

Dumbar’s last words were so faint in Susan’s mouth that Neil could hardly hear them. He had to bend his ear close to her lips so that he might distinguish any syllables at all amid the hoarse breathing that came from her somnolent larynx, and he was sure that there was more, but it was inaudible. He thought he heard the word assistance, but he couldn’t be sure. It may have been nothing more than a sibilant whisper.

He sat up. The moon was now fully visible, and the light in the bedroom was almost unnaturally bright. He felt strangely calmed by Dunbar’s visitation, as if he had been reassured that he wasn’t alone in his fight against Misquamacus. Perhaps it was Dunbar who had destroyed the blazing wooden image last night. After all, he remembered seeing the faintest hint of a white coat, and a hand holstering a gun.