I jumped back from the boy with the knife, bumping into Ah-Kee. Our legs got tangled and we both tumbled to the ground. I started crab-crawling away, Ah-Kee scrambling right beside me, our feet skittering and sliding in the pine needles on the forest floor until I backed right into a big ol’ tree trunk and came to a sudden and painful stop.

My hand darted to my satchel for the pistol but stopped when I saw that the Indian wasn’t getting any closer. In fact, he was lying on the ground, right where I’d last seen him. The girl was standing over him, looking at me and Ah-Kee with big scared eyes.

I took a few deep breaths to calm my heart and then rose slow and careful up to my feet. Ah-Kee stood by my side. The Indian was holding his leg with both hands and wincing, his face screwed up in pain.

“You’re hurt,” I said, taking a step forward. He growled a sharp string of words at me and rose to one knee, swiping the knife in the air. His eyes flashed with a red-hot angry fire that stopped me cold, but then his face went pale, and he clutched at his leg and almost toppled over again. It was clear as anything that he was in a heckuva lot of pain.

“It’s all right,” I said, keeping my voice calm and quiet. “We don’t mean you no harm.” I slid the satchel off my shoulder and set it down, then took a small step toward him with my hands open and held out so he could see they were empty.

His body tensed, but there was no more cursing or slashing with the knife.

“What you got going on here?” I asked, taking two more steps closer and squinting at his leg. I gasped when I saw it.

“Good Lord Almighty,” I breathed. “You done broke your ankle.” I could see it easy, even from a few feet away. His ankle was swollen up like a watermelon, and the skin all around it was stained with dark purple bruises. His foot dangled, twisted at an unnatural angle. I couldn’t imagine the pain he was in.

His eyes were still on me, but they held a little less raw fury than they had a moment before. I held his gaze and nodded, then pointed at his mangled ankle. “That’s bad,” I said. “Real bad.” He blinked but said nothing.

I took another step toward him and he said something quick to the girl crouched at his side. She sprang to her feet and started backing away across the clearing toward the trees and underbrush at the other side.

“No,” I said, taking a step back. “Don’t run. We’ll leave you be.”

I took another backward step and the girl rushed back to his side, wrapping her arms tight around his waist and looking at me with fearful eyes. They were big and round and shiny wet. Just like my sister Katie’s had been when she’d been scared.

I hesitated.

That boy was not getting anywhere with the shape his ankle was in.

I blew all my breath out. I knew I couldn’t just walk away and leave them like that. Mama and Papa would have never allowed it.

But that Indian’s knife wasn’t looking any friendlier.

My mind raced, looking for what to do next, and words from my mama came back to me: “There ain’t no problem between people so big that it can’t be solved by folks sitting down and talking about it.” Mama was generally right about anything that really mattered, but I wasn’t sure if that particular piece of wisdom would work if the folks sitting down didn’t speak the same language.

But then I remembered Ah-Kee and the bear. And I figured if a grizzly can be calmed by listening to a bunch of Chinese, there must be something to it.

So I sat down. Right there in the dirt. Quick, before the girl could disappear. And I started talking.

“We’re just traveling down the road,” I began, “and we heard you talking over here. My name is Joseph, and this here is Ah-Kee. We’re heading to Ellensburg, coming from Wenatchee.”

The Indian boy blinked, listening. I made my voice real casual, like we was just talking over bread and butter at a church picnic. The girl was watching me, too, real careful.

“I’m after a man who bought my horse from another man who had no right to sell her. Her name is Sarah and she’s as fine a horse as any you’ll ever come across. She means—” I stopped, surprised at how quick my emotion had come up. I swallowed it down and kept on going in my easy, friendly voice. “She means the whole world to me. And there ain’t nothing I won’t do or nowhere I won’t go to get her back.”

The boy looked wary but a whole lot calmer.

“I can see you broke your ankle there,” I said, gesturing at it. “We don’t have any food to offer, and as far as I know neither one of us is a doctor, but I reckon between us we can help you get wherever it is you need to get to, so long as it’s not too far.”

I knew that Indian probably didn’t understand a plum word of what I said. But I reckon my mama was right after all; he could sure enough tell that Ah-Kee and me didn’t mean no harm.

He sat there thinking for a second, then he slid his knife into a leather holster on his belt and nodded. He said a few words at me and I don’t know what they meant exactly, but they were clear enough, so I stood up and grabbed my satchel and walked over to where he was crouching. I helped him up to his feet.

Ah-Kee was hunkered down where we’d fallen at the edge of the clearing, watching us carefully. I put the Indian’s arm over my shoulder so he could lean on me. The girl stood off a ways, watching us just as closely as Ah-Kee was.

“Come on, Ah-Kee,” I said, beckoning him over with a hand. I could tell he wasn’t so sure, but he walked on over and took the Indian’s other side. “All right,” I said, looking into the Indian’s eyes, “where we going?”

He just looked at me, trying to understand. I swept a hand out, gesturing at the forest around us. “Which way?”

There was a flicker of understanding in his face and he spoke a few words to the girl, who gave him one more unsure look and then headed off through the woods, back toward the road. Ah-Kee and I followed her, the Indian limping between us.

Despite my calm voice, my heart was hammering in my chest. I was in the grip of an actual, real-life Indian. I could feel the power in his muscles, even hurt as he was. I knew that knife was still right there at his waist. In my mind I heard all the terrible stories that settlers told about the vicious Indians. If this Indian suddenly changed his mind and decided he wanted my scalp, he’d have it long before I got my papa’s pistol out.

We stumbled our way down the road a fair piece, then the girl led us off on a well-worn trail that ran south. The Indian’s weight was taking its toll on my back and shoulders, and Ah-Kee and I had to stop from time to time to rest and trade sides. We were heading up a steep little hill through a mix of sage and pine when I heard the first sounds: whooping and hollering and thundering hooves, coming from over the rise we were climbing. There was a wild sound to it. My heart wanted to slow down but the Indian caught a spark of new life when he heard it and picked up his pace considerable. The girl ran eagerly ahead and disappeared over the top, her black braids bouncing as she ran.

Ah-Kee leaned forward to look at me around the Indian we were carrying. He said a good long sentence to me, his voice tense and nervous.

“We’ll be all right, Ah-Kee,” I said, wishing I felt as confident about that as I sounded.

We topped the rise and stopped to catch our breath and take in the view.

Below us, on a flat piece of land surrounded by hills and drops in every direction, was a crazy buzzing circus of life. There was a scattered crowd of Indians, more than a hundred, easy. There were teepees and smoking fires and horses everywhere, with the Indians in clusters all around and in between. Kids ran to and fro, chasing each other and shouting and playing.

At the far side was a long, straight dirt track that had been worn into the landscape. I reckoned it was nearly a quarter mile long. A crowd of Indians was gathered at either end, and even from that distance I could hear them talking and yelling. Then, as I watched, the crowds fell silent. There was a waiting moment, then two Indians on horseback tore off from one end, racing down the track like the devil himself was at their heels. They were riding bareback, their bodies hugging their horses, their long hair whipping in the wind, and they slapped their horses to urge ’em on faster, faster. The crowds started hollering again, cheering and howling. Those horses flew with a wild speed, moving with their riders like they were one animal. It was sure enough something to see. When they reached the far end of the track, one just before the other, they slowed down to a trot, with one Indian raising his hands in triumph and screaming out a victory yell and the other dropping his head in defeat. The people crowded at each end either cheered or groaned, depending, I supposed, on which horse they’d picked to win.

“Well, Ah-Kee,” I said, wiping at my sweaty forehead with my arm, “looks like we found ourselves an Indian horse race.” I’d heard of these competitions before, and what big affairs they were for the Indians. Groups got together and might spend two days racing, betting piles of hides and blankets and knives on which rider would win. I never thought I’d see one myself. But with that hurt Indian between us, right down into it Ah-Kee and I went.

We were down the slope and halfway to the nearest teepee when three men came striding toward us. The little girl trailed behind them, running to keep up. Their faces were deadly serious as they stood before us, looking like they were carved out of dark stone.

The biggest one among them sported a strong nose and streaks of gray in his hair. He said a few words to us, short and curt. It didn’t sound friendly.

I just looked at him, but the boy I was holding spoke up, answering with a lot of words. At one point he held his injured ankle out, showing the swelling and bruising. There was no reaction in the older man’s face, but his eyes went from the boy’s ankle, to my face, to Ah-Kee, then back to the boy. He nodded and turned with the other men to walk back to camp. With a gesture and a reassuring grunt from the boy, Ah-Kee and I followed with him.

Life was all a-bustle in the world between the teepees. Everywhere people were coming and going and laughing and calling to each other. Fires were smoking and babies were crying and the smell of strange foods wafted here and there. It was alive there in the Indian camp by the racetrack. We came to a teepee in the middle and a group of women rushed over. With a chattering and clucking they took the injured boy away from us and hurried him off into the teepee, leaving Ah-Kee and me standing there looking at each other.

The three men who’d led us into the camp stood before us, faces still unreadable. I tried to smile at them but it didn’t seem to take, so I called it off. A crowd of Indians was growing around us, curious and whispering. Children peeked at us from behind their grown-ups.

“That was a good move, saving a chief’s son like that,” said a voice behind us. I turned and was surprised to see a white man there, sitting on a big cinnamon-colored horse. He was lean and tall and wore a buckskin jacket with a dangling fringe, and a battered brown cowboy hat up on his head.

“Sir?”

“That boy you brought in. He’s the son of one of the chiefs here—Chief George. He was off scouting for deer with his sister. They were expected back last night, so you showing up with him today was quite a relief.”

The man lowered himself off his horse with a squeak of saddle leather. He held out his hand, and I took it in a firm shake.

“The name’s Strawn,” he said.

“Jack Strawn?” I asked in disbelief.

The man cocked an eyebrow at me.

“We know each other?”

“No, sir. Well, you don’t know me. But I sure enough heard of you.” Jack Strawn was something close to famous around those parts. He was one of the first white men to come over Colockum Pass into the Wenatchee Valley, and had been just about everywhere doing just about everything—prospecting for gold, trapping furs, trading with Indians. He weren’t a hero or a legend or anything, but it was just that everyone knew him, and I’d heard his name plenty of times the past few months at the trading post or from other homesteaders.

“Huh. Well, mostly good, I hope.” He looked at Ah-Kee for a second, then back to me. “Where’s your kin?”

I looked away from him, off at the hills, then back up into his eyes.

“It’s just me and Ah-Kee,” I answered. “We’re coming from Wenatchee, heading to Ellensburg.”

More Indians had gathered ’round us now, pulling in closer. The three older men—were they all chiefs? I wondered—were still standing there, watching us.

Mr. Strawn blew out a low whistle.

“That’s quite a hike on foot, son. What you after in Ellensburg?”

“A man,” I said. “Ezra Bishop.”

There was a dark murmur from the Indians around us. There was no mistaking the quick flame of anger that my words sparked among them. Ezra Bishop, it seemed, was a name they knew. And didn’t like one bit.

Jack Strawn licked his lips, and though his head was still and his body calm, I saw his eyes flash around at the Indians that surrounded us. They came back to me and when he spoke his voice was calm and measured but deadly serious.

“You a friend of Ezra Bishop, son?”

“Friend?” I answered. “No, sir. He has a horse that’s rightfully mine, and I aim to catch him and get her back.”

A smile broke across Mr. Strawn’s face, and I saw his shoulders relax. He looked past me at the three Indian men and talked to them in their native tongue. A ripple of relief ran through the crowd at whatever it was that he said. He looked back to me.

“Not being a friend of Ezra Bishop’s just made you a load of friends among these folks,” he said.

“Why’s that, sir?”

“Ezra Bishop left here this morning, after a day of horse racing and trading yesterday,” Mr. Strawn said. “He left here with a few more ponies than he arrived with. A few more than he rightfully should have, probably. And they feel more than a little sore about it.”

“He stole their horses?”

Jack Strawn pursed his lips and scratched at his neck.

“Ezra Bishop is purty good at avoiding any crimes that he can actually be called to account for. He’s a slippery one. It’s more like he swindled and lied and bullied, then left before anything could be done. Did he steal them ponies? I s’pose not. But he didn’t exactly take ’em honest. Ain’t the first time, neither.”

I thought of the way I’d seen Mr. Bishop whispering with Mr. Grissom, then waiting ’til I was gone before closing the deal and hightailing it out of there. I figured I knew exactly what Jack Strawn was talking about.

“He left this morning, sir? Early?”

“Afraid so. And he didn’t trade any of his ponies away, so yours must still be with him.”

“Did you happen to notice her, Mr. Strawn? She’s a filly, a red-and-white paint. Half Indian.”

His eyes widened.

“With a notch in her ear?”

“Yes, sir! You saw her, then?”

“Son, we all saw her. Your pony won Mr. Bishop several horses and a pile of furs. He paid a boy to ride her, and she took both races she ran in.” He looked up and spoke some more Indian and a ripple of talk went through the crowd.

One of the chiefs took a step forward and spoke a few words. Jack Strawn nodded and turned to me.

“Chief George sure likes the idea of you taking that pony away from Mr. Bishop. He wishes you the best of luck.”

I nodded, thinking. I looked at the horses all around, clustered here and there. I thought about Ezra Bishop leaving hours ago, on horseback and downhill. I thought about my own sore, tired legs. The hard truth gnawed at my belly. I’d never catch Mr. Bishop. Not on foot, anyway.

I looked up into Mr. Strawn’s eyes.

“I appreciate that,” I said. “But I don’t need luck, sir. I need a horse.”

Jack Strawn licked his lips.

“I reckon you do,” he answered quietly.

I looked at the stern-faced Indians.

“What are my chances?” I asked him.

“Chances of what?”

“Of borrowing a horse.”

“Borrowing a horse? From these folks? Hours after they been swindled by a crooked white man?” He smiled a sour smile and spit on the ground. “These folks have had enough taken from them by white men, and not just Mr. Bishop. I’d say you got a better chance of growing wings and flying after your horse.”

At that moment, another race began over at the track. There was another storm of hollering and howling, more thunder of hooves. An idea shot into my brain like a flaming arrow. It was a desperate sort of idea, but I was in a desperate sort of situation.

“What if I won one?”

“Excuse me, son?”

“What if I won one? In a race.” I patted my satchel. “I pick my horse. They can choose my competition. If I lose, they get my pistol.”

Mr. Strawn shook his head. “A pistol ain’t worth as much as a horse.”

“Just to borrow, then. I lose, they keep my pistol for good. I win, I get the use of one of their horses. Just to Ellensburg.”

Mr. Strawn pursed his lips.

“Well. There is an honest Indian agent in Ellensburg. The Indians trust him. I suppose you could leave the horse there.” He nodded, then turned and talked again to the Indians. They had a little back and forth, and then he said to me, “You just got yerself a horse race, son.”