Read Online Coyote blue by Christopher Moore - Free Book Online

and brought the truck to a skidding stop in the middle, of the road. Samson was thrown to the floor of the truck among a collection of old beer cans and soda bottles. Still giggling, he climbed back up onto the seat and began pounding on Pokey's shoulder. Pokey grabbed his hands and shushed him.
    "Look," Pokey said, nodding to the front of the truck. Samson turned to see a huge buffalo bull crossing the road in front of them.
    "Where did he come from?" Samson asked as he watched the bull lumber out of the headlights.
    "Must of wandered off the Yellowtail's place. They got a few head of buffalo."
    "Good thing you saw him in time."
    "I didn't see him. Them things are so dark they just eat up your headlights. I was just fooling with you when I stopped."
    "We were lucky," Samson said gravely.
    "Nope, I told you we was safe. Now you quit being afraid of things that ain't happened yet. That's why I gave you that dream."
    Pokey geared up the truck and they rode in silence for a while, listening to the rattling grind of the old Ford's engine. The sky was just getting light and Samson could see the new leaves coming on the trees and the blossoms on the cotton-woods. He was glad his fast was to be in the time of the first grass. The days would be mild and warm, but not hot.
    "Pokey," Samson said. "What do I do when I get thirsty?"
    Pokey took a long pull on the pint before he answered. "You must pray that your suffering is accepted and you are given a spirit helper." "But what do I do? What if I die?"
    "You won't die. When your suffering is too much you must go to the Spirit World. You must see yourself traveling into a hole in the ground and down a long tunnel. You will come out into the light and you will be in the Spirit World. There you will not be hungry or thirsty. Wait there and your spirit helper will come to you."
    "What if my spirit helper doesn't come?"
    "You must go back down the tunnel again and again, looking for him. In the buffalo days you had to have a spirit helper to go into battle or people thought you were a Crazy Dog Wishing to Die."
    "What's that?"
    "A warrior who is so crazy, or so full of sadness, that he rides against the enemy just so they will kill him."
    "Was my dad a Crazy Dog Wishing to Die?"
    Pokey smiled and looked wistfully ahead. "It is bad luck to speak of it, but no, he did not wish to die. He just got too drunk and drove too fast after his basketball games."
    They drove south through Lodge Grass, where the only activity was that of a few dogs trying to clear their throats for the day's barking and a few ranchers cadging free coffee at the feed and grain store. Once through town, Pokey turned east on a dirt road into the rising sun to the Wolf Mountains. In the foothills the road became deeply rutted, and washed out in places. Pokey shifted into low and the truck ground down to a crawl. After a half hour of kidney-jarring bumps and vertiginous cutbacks, Pokey stopped the truck on a high ridge between the peaks of two mountains.
    From here Samson could see all the way to Lodge Grass to the west, and across the green prairies of the Northern Cheyenne reservation to the east. Lodgepole pines lined the mountain on both sides, as thick as feathers on a bird, thinning here, near the peak, where the ground was arid, strewn with giant boulders, and barren but for a few yucca plants and the odd tuft of buffalo grass or sage.
    "There." Pokey pointed east to a group of car-sized boulders about fifty yards from the road. "That is the place where you will fast. I'll wait for you on this side of the road if you need me, but you must only come up here if you have a vision or if you are in trouble." Pokey grabbed a bag from the floor of the truck and handed it to Samson through the window. "There's a blanket in there and some mint leaves to chew when you get thirsty. Go now. I will pray for your success."
    As he walked down the hill toward the boulders, Samson felt a lump rising in his throat. What good is medicine