Here’s “Three Feathers,” part two.  You can read part one here.

Henry Joe leans his elbow out the cab window.   Against a sky gray as velvet, a rainbow stretches from one corner of the horizon to the other. Underneath it like a ghost stretches a second rainbow, and beneath that, another, fainter yet.

A chill dances up Henry Joe’s spine, because the triple rainbow means Sam Bass is right. Raven’s walking in the world tonight, looking for his chosen one. But because his heart feels full of stones, and he’s already got the loan of Bobby’s truck, he forces a laugh.

“Old men got to talk about somethin. Don’t tell me you buy that old time bullshit.” Henry Joe lifts his face to the western sky. “Don’t care if Raven is scoutin for a medicine man tonight. It ain’t goin to be you. And it sure as hell ain’t goin to be me. We’ll be too drunk for him to care about us.”

Sam Bass shrugs. “Nothin we can do about it anyhow I guess.” He swings open the passenger door of Bobby’s truck. One foot on the floorboard, he looks at Henry Joe. “But I got to make a stop first, all right?”

Henry Joe raises an eyebrow. “I already got us some beer for the road.”

Sam Bass doesn’t laugh. “No. I got to go by my auntie’s. I promised her, next time I go up to Soledad –”

A tightness begins in Henry Joe’s stomach. “You’ll be back before she ever knows you’re gone.”

Sam slams the door harder than he needs to. “No. She’ll know.”

Sam Bass’ auntie Nettie Chubai is a witch and a healer, and she scares the living piss out of Henry Joe. That eye of hers, the one that doesn’t look straight, always seems to follow you like a knife in your back.

As long as Henry Joe can remember, people have whispered and muttered about Nettie and the magics she works in that little house at the end of the Horn Pipe Road. How she said a word one night and all of Jackie Juan’s cows turned up their heels and died, just because he’d called her a witch to her face. How she woke the sleeping saguaros and made them warriors once again, to save the soul of her own granddaughter.

Nettie Chubai is both crazy and mean, and she has more magic in her little finger than most folks gather up in a lifetime or two. So Henry Joe hunkers down in the cab of Bobby’s truck with his hat pulled low over his face, and waits for Sam Bass to come out of the house.

Five minutes and done: Sam clatters down the porch steps and dives into the truck, dumping a bulging paper sack onto the seat next to Henry. Behind him, Nettie Chubai stands watchful on her porch, toadish in her pink flowered muumuu and plastic thongs.

“Let’s go!” blurts Sam. Henry hits the gas.

And so they mount up: new warriors of the People in their good jeans and bolas and diamondback boots with no horse shit under the heels. Sam Bass has a feather in his hatband, and Henry Joe’s hair is tied back with a braided leather thong.

The bag rests, too heavy for its size, on the seat between them. Ignoring it as hard as they can, they roll their way down the Interstate toward Soledad City. Henry Joe eases them off the snakes’ nest of interchanges, aiming for the neon alleys back behind the River Walk, when Sam Bass speaks.

“Turn off at Spring Street.”

Henry Joe opens his mouth, closes it again, glances at the bag with sudden understanding. Wordlessly he shifts lanes.

South of downtown, where all the signs are in Spanish, Sam Bass points at a white cube of a building on the corner. The windows are barred with wrought iron in the shapes of flowers, and painted roses curl around the arching letters above the door: La Curanderia, the healer’s shop.

“Won’t be but a minute,” says Sam Bass. “OK, Henry Joe?”

Sam’s face is sheened with sweat, and his eyes flicker between Henry Joe and the Curanderia. Henry Joe’s heart jumps a beat or two, but he pulls over to the curb. Sam reaches for the bag,, but his fingers curl and a queasy look passes over his face.

“You come too,” says Sam.

Henry Joe lights up a smoke and shakes his head. “I’m just the driver. You’re the messenger boy.”

Sam Bass touches Henry Joe’s sleeve. “Maybe Raven don’t care who we are. Maybe he does. But my auntie sends a gift to Mama Silva. And she’s sure as shit goin to care if it sits out here gettin – ah, gettin . . .. ”

Stale?  Cold?  Hot?

Sam’s hand hovers over the bag, trembling.   “Come on, Henry Joe.   You got to help me.”