"What the hell's he doing?" Benoit whispered to Ashby.

"Transferring the power o' the smoke to the site of the wound," Ashby replied. "I seen it done afore. They reckon it helps the healing process."

Since they had entered the lodge quietly and had been standing off to the side, out of Longstreet's line of sight, the preacher was unaware of their presence. Dobbs used the occasion to study the man he had not seen for several months, not since he attacked Ellen O'Reilly in the Hog Ranch stable.

Dobbs remembered him as a short but powerful-looking man with a thick chest and a large head as round as a full moon. The man that Dobbs saw huddled under the buffalo robe was altogether unrecognizable as the preacher that Dobbs knew. All the color had drained from his once florid face and his heavy jowls sagged downward onto his chest, reminding Dobbs of a mound of half-melted candle wax. The preacher's dark eyes were bright with fright, and his forehead glistened with a fever-induced sweat.

"Hello, Longstreet," Dobbs said softly, moving into the preacher's line of vision.

At first, there was no indication that Longstreet understood, then his face lit up in recognition. "God has answered my prayers!" he called loudly. "This ain't a fever vision. I asked Him to deliver me from the clutches of these bungling medicine men and what does He do? He sends me the good doctor from Fort Laramie."

"How are you doing? Dobbs asked solicitously. "Are you in pain?"

Before Longstreet could answer, Ashby reached forward and gently tugged Dobbs back a few steps.

"You can jaw with 'im in a minute. He ain't goin' nowhere. But first, let Brown Eye do his work."

The Indian, who looked to be well in his sixties, produced a rattle from a parfleche sitting by the fire -- a medicine man's medical kit, Dobbs smiled to himself -- and began shaking it over Longstreet.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God," Longstreet began to wail in a high, wavering voice, the thunderous tones he once used to entertain the Cheyenne a thing of the past. "If You're really a Cheyenne help this man cure what has infected my body," he pleaded, his cry sounding so pathetic that Benoit had to turn his head in disgust.

As if inspired by Longstreet's entreaty, Brown Eye began chanting, pausing occasionally to mumble a few words that not even Ashby could understand.

"What's he doing?" Dobbs whispered, fascinated.

"The rattle is s'posed to expel the evil spirits," Ashby said, "an' the chant is a sort of prayer."

Three times Brown Eye returned to the fire, sprinkled more powder on the coal, washed his hands in the smoke, then returned to Longstreet's side to rub his shoulder anew.

"Why does he keep putting his hands there?" Benoit asked.

"Tha's where Antelope Woman stabbed him, an' tha's where Brown Eye figures the poison is."

Brown Eye began chanting louder, then he leaned over Longstreet and began probing his shoulder. With a shout of exultation, he leaped back, holding his hand up in the air. Turning to the white visitors, he proudly opened his fist. On his palm was a small, green chameleon, frozen in panic.

Grinning toothlessly, Brown Eye jabbered at Ashby.

"He says he got to the root o' the problem," the scout translated, struggling to keep up with the outburst. "Now that he's removed the blamed thang, Thunder Tongue will get better."

Quickly re-packing his parfleche, Brown Eye made a hasty exit.

"Do you think that's what was causing your problem?" Dobbs asked Longstreet, moving close to the couch.

"Lord a'mighty, no," Longstreet grunted.

Dobbs frowned, staring at the preacher's face which seemed frozen in a grotesque grin, exposing small, pointed teeth coated with green.

"Yesterday it was a hunk of buffalo hair, and the day before that it was a half-dozen black pebbles. Don't know where he's getting all that stuff, but I guarantee you it isn't out of my shoulder. I fear he's never going to be able to cure me." Staring straight into Dobbs's eyes, he whispered: "Can you?"

"I don't know," Dobbs replied. "Tell me what happened."

"Well, I was having a conversation with this girl ..."

"I've already heard about Antelope Woman," Dobbs interrupted. "Tell me what happened after she stabbed you."

"Nothing happened," Longstreet said. "I knew I was in trouble so I went off in the hills to hide for a few days to let the situation calm down. That awl didn't go in real deep and I'd just about forgotten about the wound.

"A little less than a week, just when I was wondering if it was safe to go back into camp, I was pulling on my boots when my shoulder started trembling a little, twitching like."

"After that, did you find you couldn't move it normally?" Dobbs asked.

"Sure did," Longstreet said, looking surprised. "That worried me a little bit, but not too much. Figured I'd just slept on it wrong. I was getting my equipment together and all of a sudden I realized I was cold, but the sun was shining bright. A few minutes earlier, I'd been right warm. Figured it must've been a fever, like I was coming down with the ague."

"Did you have any trouble maneuvering? Were your muscles stiff and sore?"

"How'd you know that?"

"Go ahead," Dobbs said earnestly. "What happened next?"

"Well, I wasn't very hungry, which is unusual for me. And I was feeling more and more poorly. I decided to lie down for a while and that's when my jaw started twitching. Felt like their was a whole nest of mice under the skin. Then I started having trouble swallowing and I bit my tongue something fierce. Couldn't stop myself. That's when I really got scared and decided to come into the camp and take my chances. I've seen these medicine men do some good healing and I reckoned I didn't have much to lose."

"Did you have trouble walking?"

"Yep, my neck and back were so stiff I could hardly move."

"Did you think this might have some connection with that stab wound in your shoulder?"

"What? That little bitty thing? I could hardly even see where the awl had gone in? Why should that make me feel stiff and feverish?"

"Is that it?"

"Just about. Except I ain't getting any better. My face and neck hurt something terrible. I reckon I'm pretty sick, ain't I?"

"I'll be honest with you, Longstreet," Dobbs said in measured tones. "Yes. You're in pretty sad shape."

"It's that bad, huh?" he asked in a quavering voice.

"I'm afraid so. If you have what I think you do, there's nothing I can do for you."

"Oh, Jesus," Longstreet sobbed. "I was afraid of that. I know I ain't never been this sick before, but I thought it might get better."

"I don't want to raise any false hopes," Dobbs said solemnly. "You aren't going to get any better."

"What is it, doc? What's going to finally lay me low?"

"From what you've told me and from what I can see, I think you're in the later stages of tetanus."

"Oh, Jesus God," Longstreet cried, sucking in his breath. "Lockjaw!"

"That's the popular phrase," Dobbs confirmed.

"I had a cousin once who had lockjaw," Longstreet sighed. "I was just a kid, but I'll never forget. He died a terrible death. I couldn't sleep for weeks afterwards. I kept having nightmares about watching him thrash about gasping for breath."

"Is there anything you want us to do?" Dobbs asked gently. "Any unfinished business you want us to take care of?"

Longstreet shook his head slowly. "Nope. I've no family to speak of. Just a wife who left me a long time ago. Even if you could find her I don't want to give her the pleasure of knowing my fate."

"What about your possessions? How do you want them distributed?"

"There ain't enough to talk about," Longstreet mumbled. "Give 'em to the Cheyenne if they want them. They've treated me decently. You've been right kind to me, too," the preacher said, locking his eyes on Dobbs. "Considering what I done to that woman and all. She hold any grudge against me?"

"No," Dobbs replied, shaking his head. "She wrote it off as an occupational hazard."

"'Occupational hazard,'" Longstreet wheezed, trying to laugh. "That's pretty good. You might tell her though she scarred me pretty good. That riding whip left a good mark right across my tallywacker."

"I'm sure she will be happy to know that," Dobbs said drily.

"How long have I got?" Longstreet asked, his voice pregnant with fear.

"It's hard to tell," Dobbs said. "From your symptoms I'd guess not too long."

"By God, you're brutally honest."

"Like I said, I don't want to raise any false hopes."

Longstreet rolled his eyes upwards and stared at the smoke hole. "Can you do something about that light? Its giving me a ferocious headache."

"I'll talk to the Indians about it," Dobbs promised. Longstreet tried to nod but his neck was too stiff. "Why don't y'all go away now," he said feebly. "Let me make my peace with God. I feel right weary."

"If that's what you want," Dobbs said somewhat dubiously.

"It's what I want," Longstreet replied firmly. "I reckon I've done enough wrong things in my life that I need to talk to God about privately."