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.Bo, hands trembling, sipped at the stuff with the twisted-up face of a kid taking cod-liver oil, thendropped the dipper, staining the lap of his dirty pleated trousers, and lolled, at best semiconscious,against one arm of the wheelchair.By this time, Libby hated him for being so mule-headed andpersnickety and herself for not simply overruling him in his single-mindedness -- by main force, if sweetreason or threats wouldn't do.If the turkey died out here, she would have to live the rest of her life withthe guilt of her wimpy negligence.Paisley had been sitting cross-legged in her stall for the past forty minutes.She reappeared on thenear-empty dance floor, her chalk- and water-streaked face aglow in the moonlight, and knelt in front ofthe chair as she had done during the healing session.She tipped Bo forward, received him on hershoulder, and then carefully rolled him onto his back at the base of the Tree of Life.Then she stood andtold Sky to bring her the god sheet."The god sheet? What for?""Get it," Paisley said."I'm going to take this man home in it, Papa Sky.I'm going to go see my father."There was an argument.There were threats and counterthreats.Sky was offended (outraged, Libby would have said) that an upstart dancer, even one who had received a vision, would demand custody ofa sacred artifact like the god sheet, especially for the intended benefit of an Anglo stranger.Sam'sdaughter countered that this Anglo, this stranger, was a friend of her father's -- he had a right to die in hisown home.She would bring the sheet back to Ignacio once she had seen Bo home to Snowy Falls in it,and she would give it directly into Sky's hands to lock up for another year in his Sun Dance trunk, whereno one could take any benefit from it until he dragged it out next July and displayed it around again -- likea mink stole paraded for others only on Easter."You'll dirty the sheet," Sky said."The sacred linen bearing the Walking Man's footprints -- you'll defileit.""I'll wash it," Paisley snapped."In a strong detergent like Tide or something.If the Walking Man'sfootprints are part of the material now, as you and Chief Powers always claimed, they'll still be therewhen it's washed.And if they aren't, well, these people brought you that" -- she indicated the alicorn onthe Tree of Life -- "and that's a straight-up trade, Papa Sky."In the end, to Libby's surprise, Paisley won the argument.Her trump card was the threat not to return atall if Sky refused her this use of the sheet, for if she didn't come back at all, on Sky's head would fall theblame for chasing off the first real candidate for po'rat to come among the Southern Utes in half acentury.The sheet miraculously appeared.Libby watched as Sky, Kyle Smalltree, and Larry Cuthair, afriend of Sam's daughter, placed the delirious Bo on the god sheet and wrapped him up in it."K.S.stands for Kyle Smalltree," Bo said, talking to no one in particular."K.S.stands for Kaposi'ssarcoma."Lord, thought Libby, he looks like a burrito, a burrito grande from the Prairie Schooner Café.Sky stalked off into the night.Smalltree and Cuthair eased Bo -- Bo the Burrito -- back into thewheelchair and helped the two women trundle him across the bumpy field to his car.They laid Bo in theback seat, Libby keyed the ignition, and Paisley, smelling strongly of sweat, grime, and body paint, got inon the shotgun side."My mother's house is off that way," she said, nodding into the darkness."Let me wash up and get someclothes.Then we can go.You don't mind driving at night, do you, ma'am?"" 'Libby,' not 'ma'am.' No, I don't.Not at all."And in thirty minutes' time, Bo blathering on about kar'tajans, condoms, his family, and too many othersubjects to make sense of, Libby was driving northeast toward the Sangre de Cristos and the father ofthe intense young woman sitting to her right."Paisley, there's something I haven't been able to tell you up to now: I'm in love with your daddy.""I figured you were," Sam's daughter said."Does he love you back?"Libby had to think."I don't know.""The bastard.He better."Chapter 29n Monday morning, Al Pettigrew entered the boss's office with a folded newspaper."Thought youOmight like to see this, sir." He placed it on the desk as carefully as if it were a breakfast tray, laying itdown so that the headline he had circled in red would be immediately visible."Sure as hell one of thescrewier articles to come from all the Kartajans hoopla."Zubrecht was wearing a tan hunting vest with a blue silk shirt and white linen trousers.He glanced at theheadline."Thanks, Al," he said and went on working.Pettigrew, disappointed, withdrew.The headline was something, Zubrecht decided, but he had been studying a report about his firm'schances of securing a government contract for providing US enlisted personnel with condoms, and hehad let Pettigrew come in only because he had an open-door policy to all his department heads.Hewanted no one at management level to be able to accuse him of inaccessibility.However, the headline inthat funny hick newspaper kept drawing his eye. The newspaper was the Huerfano Warrior, a semiweekly journal of "news, events, history, andentertaining commentary." The logo on the masthead featured the twin peaks known as Huajatolla, andthe circled headline declaredPUNCHY COWPUNCHERS AT SNOWY FALLS PIONEER DAZE / "SEE" UNICORN.Finally, Zubrecht's curiosity took over, and he pickedSTAMPEDE BUT GET TRAMPLED BY SKEPTICISMup the newspaper and began to read.The story turned out to be a column by somebody named JulioCovarrubias, identified at the end of the piece as "a Huerfanovian attorney who writes an occasionalcolumn of idiosyncratic observation for the Warrior":Our neighbors up in Snowy Falls had such a good time at their Pioneer Days festivities last week thatsome of them "saw" unicorns running up and down Highway 69.Not pink elephants or flying mules ortwo-ton canaries, but a herd of unicorns.Sadly, the response to this sighting hasn't been joy or amazement but ridicule and disbelief.HenryMartinez, an old friend who cowpunches on Ray Hilliard's place, says he's "sick up to here" with thecatcalls and derision that have dogged him and some of his saddlemates in the wake of their run-in withthese animals."Lots of people ragging us," Henry says, "are saying stuff like, 'They were smashed.They're dumbcowboys.So when they say they saw unicorns, it's really just booze or cow-manure fumes talking.' Well,horsefeathers to that." (Henry didn't really say "horsefeathers," of course, but this is a family newspaper.)Hey, I know Henry.He may take a nip now and then (I've shared a few with him), but he never getsmore than a sheet or two to the wind, and a cowboy who can't handle the hardships of cowpunching, upto and including close association with cowpies, isn't going to be a wrangler as long as Henry has been.So I believe him when he insists that this unicorn claim has nothing to do with any alleged intemperatebibbery.I believe Henry.I believe Eddie del Rio.Why, I even believe the incredible Hoke Gissing, known far andwide as both a big talker and an even bigger bibber than his saddlemates.I believe Henry and Eddiebecause Hoke, who could conduct a talk show from horseback, has clammed up tighter than a scaredstoolie
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