Late one night, near to Christmas, I could not sleep for being so cold. The moon was high and sickle-shaped. The fire had died down to white ash, with just a red spark here and there flying up like a Indian arrow, then falling and fading in the dark. Tristan and Will, they were both sound asleep. I got up shivering and stirred the ash and sticks till a blue tongue jumped out and tried to lick my fingers. The flame rose higher, crackling and wheezing on the damp wood. Then, not too far away, I heard a sniffing, snuffling noise.
I sat for a few minutes, still as I could. I might have kicked out the fire, better to see in the dark, only I figured fire for a good thing, guessing it should keep wild animals away. The wind made the flame flicker. It sounded like a river up in the tops of the trees. I pricked up my ears to hear over it.
At first I heard nothing, and then a small crack, like a hollow stick busted in two. I held my breath and looked through the flames at the brush on the other side. The smoke clouded my eyes for a moment. I rubbed them hard, and then looked again and saw something crawl out from the dark of the trees, a thing with black eyes shining.
Without a sound I shook Tristan. He opened his eyes and by some hunter’s instinct grabbed his gun, grabbed Will by the sleeves of his coat, and the three of us we went flying out of the firelight, into the shadows. I turned my head at the same time and saw a boy stand up in the firelight, a skinny, tattooed Indian, not more than fourteen or fifteen, handsome and wild to look at. He moved quick, hopping like a rabbit for Tristan’s pack.
Tristan started to raise his gun, for he always kept it loaded at night.
“No,” Will whispered, and pushed the barrel aside, but Tristan moved it back and got the Indian in his sights. I felt a leap in my stomach. Everything swirled around me.
A dog howled again off in the distance. Tristan swallowed and took a deep breath.