“Eat, boss.” Sam proffers at knifepoint a chunk of burned flesh. “This dog is good dog. This dog died for our sins. If we do not eat him his death becomes meaningless.”

“Ain’t really hungry, Sam.”

“You think too much, boss. Thinking is good but you must not think too much. You are very thin—turn sideways I can hardly see you. Look at me.”

“No.” The old man stares at the sunset, the burning city, the phantoms of memory. “And you don’t need to call me ‘boss’ anymore.”

“What shall I call you?”

“You know my name. We’re partners now. You come as far as you had to.”

“Look at me.”

“No.”

“Look at me, Jack Burns. Look at my hands.”

“Oh Christ…” Reluctantly the old man turns toward the Indian. “No more of your goddamn tricks, Sam. I ain’t in the mood.”

“Watch. See this knife?” Sam waves the greasy, glittering blade back and forth, slowly, with the weaving motion of a snake at bay. “Now watch closely, boss.” The blade glitters, flashes; there is a hissing noise, a sudden rasping vibration, and where the knife had been, a rattlesnake appears, its body draped over Sam’s shoulder, tail a whirring blur, the spade-shaped head gliding forward over Sam’s half-open right hand, toward Burns.

The old man lurches to his feet. “Goddamnit Sam, don’t do that. Jesus Christ…”

“Don’t be afraid.” Sam strokes the snake with his left hand, murmurs a few words in a Tewa dialect. The buzzing stops, the serpent peers at Burns with half-lidded eyes, black tongue out and sensing the air. “This is our friend, boss. Someday this snake will save our lives. Touch him.”

“What?”

“Touch him. Stroke his head.”

“Come on, Sam. I know a rattlesnake when I see one. I know I’m crazy but I ain’t that crazy.”

“Are you sure?” Smiling, Sam speaks in Tewa to the snake. Then to Burns: “Hold your hand toward him, flat up.”

“He won’t strike?”

“He will not strike.”

Fascinated, Burns puts his left hand slowly forward. “You sure, Sam?” The good eye on the snake, the other eye on nothing. “You know what you’re a-doin’?”

“Don’t be afraid. This is our friend.”

Smiling a little in spite of himself, mesmerized, the old man pushes his hand slowly, hesitantly forward, to within three inches, two inches, one inch of the dark and heavy head. The black tongue flicks across his open palm. He sees and feels the head come to rest there. Gently he closes his hand about it; he is holding the leatherbound haft of Sam’s big knife, the blade still in Sam’s fingers. “No. No. Damn it, Sam…”

The Indian smiles. “Take it, boss. Cut the meat.”

Burns sighs, relaxing, and sits down once more, cautiously, on the rock beside his companion. “Sam, you got to stop doing this. You’re gonna give me a heart attack yet.” He stares at the knife in his hand. Firelight shines on the glossy steel.

“You have a strong heart, boss. No ordinary rattlesnake will ever stop your heart.”