walk away.
    I do that and I'm fucked anyway.
    Maybe so. But in the meantime, you can enjoy your place among the living, right?
    I don't think you'd do it, says Mosca. He musters the closest he can come to defiance. I think you're so disgusted with me you don't see the point in hanging my scalp on your belt.
    Crowfoot allows there's some truth to that. Only thing is, he adds, I don't plan on killing you. He pulls his bowie knife from its sheath and lets it catch the sunlight, sparkle and wink. Remember I said you could have given me a hand?
    Mosca shrugs. I done so much crank, my memory's shot.
    You could have given me a hand before. You didn't. Now you make a choice. Either you give me that name or I'm taking your hand right here, right now.
    Mosca coughs painfully. Crowfoot winces just hearing it. Finally, when Mosca can breathe again, he croaks, Page. Hiram Page. Happy now?
    Where does he live?
    I don't know. Check the phone book, genius.
    I'm asking you.
    And I'm telling you. I don't know. Now, leave me alone.
    I'll leave you all right. Same way you left me.
    Mosca pulls a serape tighter about his shoulders and, with trembling hands, takes a sip from a bottle of cough medicine. I was one of a dozen, he says. Just one of the braves.
    Crowfoot gestures with the knife. Put out your hand.
    Like hell.
    I said put out your hand.
    You got to be kidding.
    Do I look like I'm kidding?
    George? Don't do this to me. Mosca's bottom lip quivers. I'm begging you, George. Don't do it. It wasn't my fault.
    I'm not going to do anything. Crowfoot places the knife on the table. You do the honors.
    It wasn't my fault. You trying to get back at someone? It was those fucking Saints, that's who. They're the ones who said to ditch you. You want to find Page? Go see Gata. He's got a pawnshop right down the street from her. Maybe she knows. Or you could just follow him like a stalker.
    Gata de la Luna?
    One and the same.
    Without reply Crowfoot eases his gimp leg down from the boxcar, holding fast to a vertical iron bar as he climbs down, and limps away. Still in earshot, he hears laughter behind him and turns to see Mosca standing there, grinning, holding wide the curtain door.
    I'm not that sick! shouts Rodriguez. I was just plucking your heartstrings so's you wouldn't hurt me.
    Crowfoot nods, grins back. Yeah, well, I wasn't going to cut you anyway.
    Mosca does a little fandango jig. I'm feeling better already!
I n  c h u r c h , R u b y C o l e leans against her mother's shoulder and suffers the rants of Lord God. He says the one true prophet believed it was the duty of right men to propagate the earth, and to preach the word of the one true church.
    We are bidden to bring forth the flowers of children to this desert. And we shall! The prophet did not die in vain! Brother Joseph was martyred by nonbelievers but his blood yet flows like cold mountain water in all his descendants and all the children of the Latter- Day Saints who know he lives on as the second true martyr.
    Lord God glares at the small group assembled before him as if they are both to blame for Joseph Smith's murder and sympathetic to the greater cause. He holds his anger like the very plates of gold at his chest and looks from one individual to the next, striding back and forth on his prosthetic leg, his hoary beard great and disgusting, his coarse breath loud and almost painful to hear. He thunders on, stretching out the moment long enough for all to be made uncomfortable, looking into each of their faces as if he knows
    I do that and I'm fucked anyway.
    Maybe so. But in the meantime, you can enjoy your place among the living, right?
    I don't think you'd do it, says Mosca. He musters the closest he can come to defiance. I think you're so disgusted with me you don't see the point in hanging my scalp on your belt.
    Crowfoot allows there's some truth to that. Only thing is, he adds, I don't plan on killing you. He pulls his bowie knife from its sheath and lets it catch the sunlight, sparkle and wink. Remember I said you could have given me a hand?
    Mosca shrugs. I done so much crank, my memory's shot.
    You could have given me a hand before. You didn't. Now you make a choice. Either you give me that name or I'm taking your hand right here, right now.
    Mosca coughs painfully. Crowfoot winces just hearing it. Finally, when Mosca can breathe again, he croaks, Page. Hiram Page. Happy now?
    Where does he live?
    I don't know. Check the phone book, genius.
    I'm asking you.
    And I'm telling you. I don't know. Now, leave me alone.
    I'll leave you all right. Same way you left me.
    Mosca pulls a serape tighter about his shoulders and, with trembling hands, takes a sip from a bottle of cough medicine. I was one of a dozen, he says. Just one of the braves.
    Crowfoot gestures with the knife. Put out your hand.
    Like hell.
    I said put out your hand.
    You got to be kidding.
    Do I look like I'm kidding?
    George? Don't do this to me. Mosca's bottom lip quivers. I'm begging you, George. Don't do it. It wasn't my fault.
    I'm not going to do anything. Crowfoot places the knife on the table. You do the honors.
    It wasn't my fault. You trying to get back at someone? It was those fucking Saints, that's who. They're the ones who said to ditch you. You want to find Page? Go see Gata. He's got a pawnshop right down the street from her. Maybe she knows. Or you could just follow him like a stalker.
    Gata de la Luna?
    One and the same.
    Without reply Crowfoot eases his gimp leg down from the boxcar, holding fast to a vertical iron bar as he climbs down, and limps away. Still in earshot, he hears laughter behind him and turns to see Mosca standing there, grinning, holding wide the curtain door.
    I'm not that sick! shouts Rodriguez. I was just plucking your heartstrings so's you wouldn't hurt me.
    Crowfoot nods, grins back. Yeah, well, I wasn't going to cut you anyway.
    Mosca does a little fandango jig. I'm feeling better already!
I n  c h u r c h , R u b y C o l e leans against her mother's shoulder and suffers the rants of Lord God. He says the one true prophet believed it was the duty of right men to propagate the earth, and to preach the word of the one true church.
    We are bidden to bring forth the flowers of children to this desert. And we shall! The prophet did not die in vain! Brother Joseph was martyred by nonbelievers but his blood yet flows like cold mountain water in all his descendants and all the children of the Latter- Day Saints who know he lives on as the second true martyr.
    Lord God glares at the small group assembled before him as if they are both to blame for Joseph Smith's murder and sympathetic to the greater cause. He holds his anger like the very plates of gold at his chest and looks from one individual to the next, striding back and forth on his prosthetic leg, his hoary beard great and disgusting, his coarse breath loud and almost painful to hear. He thunders on, stretching out the moment long enough for all to be made uncomfortable, looking into each of their faces as if he knows
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