“I will,” said the Indian. “What do we do?”
“We’ll help them to the yard and ask the bulls to call an ambulance. These burns can get infected, and that cut’s deep enough, it might tear through. If it does, he’ll likely die.” They helped both men to their feet, and through the jungle to the railyard. One of the bulls had heard the screaming and called the sheriff’s office; a sheriffs car had arrived before Macurdy and the Indian. The car had a shortwave radio, something new in police equipment. The deputy used it to call for an ambulance, then questioned Macurdy and the others while they waited.
When he’d finished, he stared hard at Macurdy. “I should book you for vagrancy, but I won’t. Just get out of here and don’t let us see you again.”
Macurdy nodded-Chief was being as inconspicuous as anyone can who stands six feet and weighs 230-and the two of them headed back to the jungle. “How are your hands?” Chief asked.
“My hands?”
“You used them to beat out the flames in that guy’s clothes.” Macurdy peered at them. It was too dark to see whether they were burned or not. “Okay, I guess. They don’t hurt.” He contemplated the question as they walked. Maybe healing the others had healed his hands, or maybe somehow they’d never been burned. He was pretty sure he’d felt no pain.
Dutch had watched their goods while they were gone, and after asking a few questions, retired to his bedroll. Chief laid dry sticks on the coals and blew them into flame, then the two large men sat without talking, Macurdy examining his hands by the firelight. It was Chief who broke the silence. “I’m going to tell you my name,” he murmured. “I don’t tell it to a white man very often. Only when I have to, like to get a job. It’s Roy. Roy Klaplanahoo.”
Macurdy repeated it quietly. “Roy Klaplanahoo. Mine is Curtis Macurdy. You already knew the Curtis part.”
Roy nodded. “I saw how you lit the fire. The others thought you used a match, but you didn’t. Then when you stopped that guy’s bleeding, I knew what you are: You’re a shaman. I never heard of a white shaman before.”
“Yeah. I apprenticed to a white shaman named Arbel. That was in another country. But then I got away from it.”
“What are you going to do in Oregon?”
“I thought maybe I could get a job logging there.”
“My brother and me log sometimes for the Severtson brothers. Swedes. They like us because we turn out lots of logs. They’re pretty good to work for; don’t cheat anyone, not even Indians. And they feed good. Maybe they’ll hire you.”
“Thanks. It should be easier where I know someone.” That was the end of their conversation for a while. They watched the fire die down again, then went back to where they’d bedded before. “You want to use my blanket?” Macurdy murmured.
“Your blanket? What will you use?”
“That’s something else I learned from Arbel: how to keep myself warm.”
Roy considered that remarkable statement for a minute, then nodded. “Thanks. I could use another blanket.” He got up and laid the blankets on top of each other, then rolled up loosely in them. “When we get where I live,” he said, “you can stay with my family as long as you want.”
No more was said, and after a while, Roy’s aura told Macurdy the Indian was asleep. In no hurry to sleep himself, Macurdy lay awake with his thoughts. At first they were of his ex-wives, Varia and Melody, but after a bit shifted to a giant wild boar named Vulkan, a four-legged sorcerer large enough that Macurdy could ride on its bristly shoulders.
Strange thoughts that soon blurred into stranger dreams.
3
Discovering Oregon
Near dawn, Roy shook Macurdy awake. “It’s time to go,” he said quietly, “before it starts to get daylight.”
For a moment Macurdy lay there, his dream receding like a wave from a beach, leaving a brief wash of images and impressions. The principal image was of Vulkan, who in the dream had called himself a bodhi sattva. Macurdy had no idea what a bodhi sattva was.