I OPENED MY EYES to the bright light of a sunny December morning in the high desert. The small window above my head showed the sky still blue & the snow dripping from the eaves. The only thing missing was birdsong, for there are few birds here apart from buzzards, and they do not sing much.

My three days in the snowstorm had resulted in four days abed, so that was a week out of my life.

I had been nursed by one of Old Abe Curry’s grown-up daughters. She told me her name was Mary Etta but everyone called her Mettie. She was a plain spinster of about thirty with pale blue eyes. She was the owl-faced lady I remembered from my delirium. She was kind & wise & kept my secret.

“Where is Cheeya?” were my first lucid words.

“Who is Cheeya?” she said.

“My Buckskin pony,” I replied.

“Your pony is safe in our stables.” Mettie put down my rinsed and empty chamber pot. “Look,” she said pointing to the end of my narrow bed. “There are your own clothes, all clean and dry. Why don’t you get dressed and go out to see him? Then come to the dining room for an early supper.”

I was feeble, so Mettie helped me get dressed.

My buckskin trowsers practically fell off and she had to bring me some twine to use as a belt. I think I had grown some, too. And not just up. I was beginning to “develop.”

“You will not be able to pretend to be a boy much longer,” said Mettie.

I nodded sadly. Then I remembered my dream about the beautiful half-Indian girl, and I felt a little better.

Once I had dressed, the first thing I did was go to the stables.

Cheeya greeted me from a clean stall with a happy nicker as if to say, “There you are!”

I hugged his neck for a long time & smelled the good smell of his mane & thanked God for preserving him. “I see they have been feeding you,” I said. “I will be back soon but I am hoping they will feed me, too.”

I followed the smell of food and sound of cutlery & reached a dining room half full of men. The Carson-bound stage from Virginia City had just arrived.

Mettie had come down to help serve. She saw me lingering in the doorway & showed me to a table in a corner.

“Pa and Ma don’t mind Indians,” she said. “But some of our clients might not be so kindly disposed. I will put you here at this table with your back to the entrance. Keep your hat on. Would you like bacon and beans with cornbread?”

My stomach roared and Mettie laughed.

I had not eaten in almost a whole week.

I was ravenous.

She brought it and I devoured it.

“What is all the excitement?” I asked as she brought me a piece of apple pie with a slab of cheese on the side.

She said, “They have introduced a last-minute bill to make Nevada a State. Also, they are holding a final nighttime session to vote on the Corporation Bill. Pa says it is about their last chance to get it through. He says they are building a big bonfire and mustering a brass band to stop Hall from going in to vote against it at tonight’s session. It is all down to one vote, you see. Everybody is saying Mr. Hall was bribed.”

“Gaven ‘Hothead’ Hall,” I murmured, after she left. “He is con the bill. He is in cahoots with those Frisco Fat Cats.”

“Hall not the main one in cahoots,” snapped a familiar voice behind me. “Main one is Stewart.”

I swiveled on my seat. “Ping?”

Sure enough, it was my partner from Virginia City. Ping was standing right beside me with his fists on his hips and looking even more ornery than usual.

“Stewart is main one against Corporation Bill,” said Ping. “He is working for Frisco Fat Cats.”

“William Morris Stewart, my lawyer?” I said. “Not Hothead Hall?”

“Hall, too,” said Ping. “But he is just piece on chessboard. Stewart is one who paid Hall fifteen thousand dollars to vote con the bill. You get my telegram?”

I said, “I have not been in Carson for about a week. I got blizzarded and then I got sick.”

Ping sat down opposite me. “I send important telegram to warn you.”

I said, “To warn me about what?”

“That all this time you have been working for Frisco Fat Cats.”