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truth about himself when he was younger, he was also excited by the revelation. Last week he had been an orphan—now that might no longer be true.
    Somewhere out there, he had a mother and father he’d never known, and heritage that was a mystery. There was so much to learn about himself—things that had nothing to do with the claustrophobic world of Choctaw County. He’d always been an outsider in Seven Devils, and now he had a chance to discover where he truly belonged. For the first time since heading off to college, Skinner felt genuine excitement for what the future might hold for him.
    He unfolded the Xerox of his adoption papers and studied the only clue he had. The Cades had arranged his adoption through the Beatrice Small Foundling Home in Butter Junction, Arizona, the only town of any real size in tiny, isolated Los Lobos County. Skinner looked the place up on the atlas before leaving his stepfather’s house and discovered that Los Lobos was nearly surrounded by the much larger Pima County. As for Butter Junction, it was situated sixty miles southwest of Tucson and two hundred miles northeast of Nogales, flanked by the Papago and San Xavier reservations, and boxed in by the nearby Coyote Mountains. The area hardly looked inviting. In fact, what he thought was a national historic monument had proved to be a U.S. Army gunnery range.
    For the better part of eve days he’d been heading westward on the bus. He slept fitfully, his personal hygiene restricted by what he could accomplish with a few squirts of liquid soap and a fistful of paper towels in various bus-station bathrooms. Over the course of the trip he watched the green of the South give way to the earth tones of the Southwest. The further they went the drier and dustier the landscape became. Skinner had read of “the wide open spaces,” but this was the first time he’d ventured beyond the borders of Arkansas, with its lush grasslands and forests. There was something about the plains country that made him feel vulnerable and exposed, yet intrigued him at the same time.
    The bus pulled into Tucson at four in the morning. Skinner blinked the sleep from his eyes and pulled his one piece of luggage from the rack over his seat. He lurched off the bus into the air-conditioned depot. Most of the ticket desks were closed until six that morning, but there was a weary clerk working the information station.
    â€œExcuse me, but when is the next bus to Butter Junction?”
    The information clerk blinked and yawned. “Butter what?”
    â€œJunction. It’s in Los Lobos County.”
    The clerk grunted and ran his finger down a Xeroxed timetable that was smudged to the point of being illegible. “Greyhound doesn’t go out there.”
    â€œWho does, then?”
    â€œJackrabbit Transportation, Inc. They’re a local company. The only people who use it are Indians, mostly. They only make three trips a week. You’re in luck through. There’s a bus scheduled to leave at dawn. Gate Seven.”
    Skinner thanked the clerk and headed in the direction of Gate Seven. There were already a dozen people filling the plastic seats in the waiting area, satchels and shopping bags gathered around and between their feet like roosting chickens. A quick scan told Skinner that half of his fellow passengers were Native Americans, the other half were women of various races. A middle-age man in a rumpled uniform stood in the doorway leading to the buses.
    â€œUh, excuse me?”
    â€œWhat is it, kid?” grunted the bus driver.
    â€œIs this the bus to Butter Junction?”
    â€œYep. Butter Junction, Robles Junction, Quijotoa, Devil’s Rectum and any number of wide spots in the road.”
    â€œI’d like to buy a ticket.”
    The bus driver gave Skinner a quick, probing look. “You injun?”
    â€œNot that I know of.”
    â€œYou got a brother in the jug?”
    â€œBeg