He had gone through life feeling that he had known what should be done, and now a woman flung it at him that he hadn't. She had had the boy, lived four years, and died. Like it or not, they were going to be wintering in Montana. Well, let's go, he said to Jake.
Cholo held the little boy close to his face and blew on it, until finally the child moved and began to cry, a thin sound not much stronger than the squeak of a mouse. He edged cautiously out of the riverbed, but saw no Indians. It seemed to him he might be wise not to go see her--just trail on into Montana and let the past be past. None ever had been.
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