"Okay," Perry said, sighing, "the guy ate the heads raw. There he was, his leg all busted up from fighting the grizzly bear… "

"I thought you said it was his arm," Flynn interrupted.

"Damn!" Perry exploded. "Will you just let me tell the frigging story?"

"It's more believable if you get the details right," Junior said.

"Fine," Perry growled. "This guy has a busted arm, and he's just discovered he's got a busted leg."

"A busted arm," Flynn said doubtfully, "and he's rubbing two sticks together that weren't somehow covered over during this blizzard."

"Hey, I'm just telling this how I heard it," Perry protested.

"Get back to the head-eating part," Junior said. "We're right there with you for that."

Michael pulled his marshmallows out of the fire and blew the flames from the toasted brown sides. He waited just a moment, then popped them into his mouth, tasting the almost too-hot gooey goodness.

Perry elaborated on the cannibalism aspects of the story, lingering over the details till Flynn and Junior started to look green in the sudden lightning flashes. The cracking of skulls and scooping out what was inside seemed to do the trick.

Across the campfire Tiller stood and walked off into the brush. Lightning flickered and lit him up in still shots out of the darkness three times, then he was gone from sight.

"In the spring when he returned to the tribe," Perry said, "other warriors traveled to the mountain pass to bury the dead guys. Sent them on to the happy hunting ground so their spirits wouldn't get trapped here in this world."

"So those guys found out what Head-Eater had been doing all winter?" Flynn said.

Perry nodded, but by now his heart clearly wasn't in the story. "There were cracked skulls lying around everywhere, looking like shelled pecans. Head-Eater tried to pass off what had happened as the work of the grizzly, but the other warriors knew. They kicked him out of the tribe."

Michael eyed the marshmallow bag, but knew he'd had enough sweets. He was either going to try to go to sleep and ignore the other guys or raid the cooler for more hot dogs.

"You know," Flynn said, looking at Junior, "I don't think grizzly bears were ever known to hang out in New Mexico."

"Nope," Junior agreed. "I watched a special on them on Discovery a couple nights ago. They always stayed up in the northern and coastal areas."

Perry sighed in exasperation. "Doesn't anyone want to know what happened to Head-Eater?"

"He got kicked out of the tribe," Flynn said, "then went on to wander around the neighborhood here. He ambushed and kidnapped people from wagon trains and in local settlements, then he killed them and ate them."

"Probably left a pile of skulls around," Junior agreed. "He died, but since the tribe refused to bury him, his spirit still walks the desert and he's still eating people."

Perry cursed and flopped back down on his sleeping bag. "You guys suck," he said, and before he finished the word, Tiller's panicked scream rang out through the nearby hills, washed away by the sudden peal of thunder.

"Hey!" Flynn said. "That was Tiller!"

Already galvanized into action, Michael, rising from the sleeping bag, peered into the darkness that had surrounded the desert campsite. Shadows stretched away and filled the night in all directions, hardly interrupted at all by the campfire.

“Where did Tiller go?” Junior asked anxiously.

Kurt Bulmer raced from the tent and stood in front of the open flap. "What's going on out there?"

As Junior tried to explain, Michael grabbed the backpack he'd been saddled with all day. He rummaged inside and came up with a flashlight. Grabbing the flashlight, he ran in the direction of the screams. The downpour that had finally begun stung his eyes and matted his hair, and had turned the dry desert floor into muddy slush.

Tiller screamed again, but this time the effort was hoarse and wracked with pain.

Michael played the flashlight beam over the hill in front of him. Scrub brush and cacti clung to the steep hillside. His right foot shot out from under him. He fell to one knee, but pushed himself forward again.

The hill was steeper on the other side. Michael's tennis shoes tore through the muddy crust and he slid down, brushing up against a hedgehog cactus that left fiery nettles in his forearm. He ignored the pain and played the flashlight beam over Tiller on the ground before him.

Tiller huddled on his knees in the mud. Rainwater ran in rivulets around him, threading through his hands pressed into the mud. He kept his head down and shuddered.

"Tiller," Michael called, playing the light over the ground and the area around them. "Hey, Tiller."

Tiller didn't respond except to bury his face in the mud between his hands.

"What's wrong?" Kurt Bulmer called from the top of the rise Michael had slid down.

Michael glanced back up the hill and spotted Bulmer, Junior, Flynn, and Perry standing there. The lightning

cored through the sky above their heads, and thunder blasted away Michael's first attempt at a reply.

"I don't know," Michael said.

Bulmer started down the hillside but lost his balance on the slick mud and fell. He tumbled to the bottom of the hill while the others remained along the ridgeline.

"Tiller," Michael said, trying to calm the guy with his voice. He released the rock and put his hand on Tiller's shoulder. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"It's my dad," Tiller whispered hoarsely, rocking, shuddering, and trying to hold back choked sobs.

"What about his dad?" Bulmer asked, standing nearby.

"His dad is dead," Michael said.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Bulmer said. "But we need to get him in out of the rain."

Hooking an arm under Tiller's, Michael tried to help the guy to his feet. Tiller fought him off, pushing Bulmer away as well. "No!" Tiller shouted. "I can't leave!"

"Why?" Bulmer asked. "You'll be more comfortable back in one of the tents."

"My dad," Tiller said.

Bulmer hesitated. "We'll talk about your dad."

"My dad," Tiller tried again, "my dad doesn't want me to leave!"

"Your dad wouldn't want you to stand around out here," Bulmer stated.

"Then tell him!" Tiller straightened and pointed into the darkness ahead of them. "Tell him!"

At first Michael didn't see anything. Then, gradually, an ethereal shape seemed to materialize from the darkness just beyond the touch of the flashlight beam.

The figure was vaguely man-shaped, then more details became clearer. The man looked like he'd been covered from head to toe in some kind of silver shimmer, like an image from a black-and-white film that had been computer-generated onto color film the way Michael had seen in some commercials. He was tall and broad, with a cruel face, tiny eyes, and a wide, hard mouth.

The only thing that didn't fit was the short length of rope dangling from the noose around the guy's neck.

"Do you see it?" Michael asked. He had to strain to speak.

"See what?" Junior called down.

Michael gestured with the flashlight, noticing how the beam shone through the garish figure and played over the rocks and cacti on the other side. "The ghost."

"Don't see nothing," Flynn said.

Michael wanted to turn to Flynn and demanded to know how he couldn't see the ghost. Instead Michael kept the flashlight beam focused on the sinister image. For the first time, he caught the silvery glints of rain passing through the ghost.

"I don't either," Bulmer commented. "Give me a hand, Guerin. I want to get Tiller out of the rain. Maybe back to Roswell tonight."

"No!" Tiller shouted, staring forward. "Don't you see? My dad wants me to stay here!"

The figure at the other end of Michael's flashlight beam waved as if to indicate that Tiller should stay.