Dry heat had marked that summer like dirty fingernails scratching the same spot for too long. The land had split open, each crack a mouth panting in desperation.

For days wildfires had been feeding on the forest in the distance, the pale gold sky was veiled with curtains of smoke and the stink of burning pine.

Hope’s eternal spring had slowed to a trickle that wouldn’t even wet a man’s back teeth. But still, the people formed a line when the wagon hung with signs came through.

“I hold the gift of the lord in these two hands,” Screamed elegant letters of fading black and red paint, “Come all ye who are able and aid all those who are not to bask in the favor of the Lord Jesus Christ.”

Remy was way at the back of the line, but those signs and their proclamations were etched in his mind just like his clubfoot was etched in his bootprints: one perfect, the other a messy drag.

In front of Remy was a threadbare man with a ragged hat.

“I know how that fire started.” The man with the ragged hat said.

“How?” Remy asked, looking to the dozens of others ahead of them.

“Was a drunk done it.”

“That a fact?”

“It is. He’d got one bottle of that shine in his bedroll, savin it up special and one night by his fire that shine went from his bedroll to his belly.”

“Shine has a way of doing that.” Even for firewater, Remy felt his thirst rising. He’d slurp a half-inch of muddy water from a hoof print right about now.

“Well, he got out his shooter and there was the man in the moon, fat and fullsome. He took aim and bang bang bang.” The man with the ragged hat shouted, startling people one both sides and Remy flushed as they were glared at.

“Drunk firing don’t start no fire.” Remy muttered.

“I ain’t finished. Ain’t a bullet made by man what can reach them stars. That plain old slug went up and then it come down. An old coyote was huntin a vole and that bullet hit that coyote right in the skull. The vole ain’t seen the coyote til it fell dead, and the terrified little critter bolted.”

“Varmints can’t start no fire.”

“Ain’t finished. Was a few trappers sharin a fireside with coffee and talk and that vole run right through them flames and come out the other side burnin. Still on fire, it ran off into them woods where there ain’t been water in weeks. That vole died, but them flames didn’t. Caught on them pine needles. There you see the rest of it.”

The man with the ragged hat pointed off to the gray smoke curtain in the distance.

“That’s some story, mister.” Remy said.

“It’sa truth.”

Remy looked the man over. He seemed fine except for the condition of his clothes.

“Why you waitin for the healer?” Remy asked.

“Oh. I’ma kill him. Man’s a charlatan. He done stole from my kin back east. Been trackin him since Ohio.” The man with the ragged hat pulled open his coat and showed Remy the handle of a large hunting knife.

Remy thought for a minute, belly tingling at the sight of the blade.

“You gonna kill him?”

“Yep.”

“Alright if I get ahead of you in line, then?” Remy asked, pointing to his foot.

“Sure thing, youngster.” The ragged man switched places with him and Remy looked up seeing that they were only a few more people from the wagon.

“Good luck with the foot.” The man with the ragged hat said.

“Thank you kindly. Good luck with the murder.” Remy answered and touched the brim of his hat.