THE WORLD WAS GOING TO END IN LESS THAN THREE DAYS. Butterfly Dog stood at the point where the Four Corners met. His daughter was fifty yards off, picking flowers. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the Cadillac, the name STROBE airbrushed across the front fashion plate in bright, fluorescent purple letters, steam billowing from beneath the raised hood. He knew it was finished.

It was late afternoon, October 22. Jack Wilson was waiting in the Sonoran Desert, near the Gila River Reservation. The silver-haired prophet was several hundred miles away, yet his eyes never left the young disciple. The old man was watching Butterfly Dog, always. He was gazing through the clouds, or peeping from beneath the shaded underbelly of desert rocks. He was everywhere, the shadow of the land, like some eagle-eyed spirit looming over one's consciousness, gargantuan and pervasive.

Butterfly Dog ran his index finger along the fat of his busted lower lip. It was still swollen, painful to the touch.

He wet his lips and pulled the cornet from his backpack. The horn's right side had a quarter-sized dent in it. Dried blood covered the narrow conical bore.

I am not a murderer, thought Butterfly Dog soberly. I am a liberator.

Closing his eyes, he brought his mouth around the polished brass, winced smartly and pulled the instrument away.

He had a terrible headache, his limbs were sore and he desperately needed sleep. Yet, he knew he couldn't stop. There simply wasn't enough time. Jack Wilson was testing him. Jack Wilson was whispering in his ear, blowing like a gentle breeze, saying: Soon, young believer ... sleep, beauty, and all the melodies of the universe raining down around your ears forever ... Soon ... Very soon ...

He turned and observed his little girl. She was exploring the barren terrain, driven by the curiosity of a six-year-old, seizing knowledge as if it were a possession worth cherishing forever.

Butterfly Dog cleared his throat and called her name. "Come on, Cassie," he said. "Time to go!"

The young beauty came running. She had a handful of desert flowers in her hand. "For you!" she exclaimed proudly, thrusting them up toward the smiling cornetist.

He accepted the offering with a florid "Thank you," planting the severed stems in the open mouth of his cornet.

Butterfly Dog studied animal patterns in the night sky. The constellations had been shaped and reshaped by the eyes of humanity for countless aeons. He worked hard at convincing himself that a coyote was stalking the Great Bear, but to no avail. The image refused to materialize.

He stroked his daughter's corn-yellow hair. Her head lay against his chest, arms curled tight around his waist. He could hear her breathing, even over the sound of the truck's engine. She was exhausted.

In a few days I shall have the opportunity to sleep forever, he reasoned. I must reach Jack Wilson. Nothing else matters.

The driver was heading to Tucson, planned to go all night.

Butterfly Dog grabbed the cornet and began fingering an old tune his father had taught him, "Melody Mary in the Time of Crisis." B flat. "Flat as African plain." Butterfly Dog chuckled. "Charles Osgood showed me this in a hotel room east of El Paso, three weeks before he died," the old man explained. "This is how you play it ..."

Charles Osgood died of a brain aneurysm at the age of thirty-two. He was the greatest cornetist the Four Corners ever produced. The man left no official recordings; barely made a living at his chosen craft. "Do what you love, the money will follow," he was fond of saying. The only problem was, Charles Osgood checked out before the dough had a chance to catch up.

Butterfly Dog's father played drums in the legendary horn-master's band, Charles Osgood and the Blind Owls. Bennie Zee, a resourceful experimentalist, owned the guitar and Joe "Bingo" Jones was master of the bass. The quartet traveled the Four Corners and outer environs, entertaining folks throughout the Southwest and Pacific coastal regions during the mid '60s and early '70s.

The renowned musician was buried near Arizona's Gila River Reservation, where he had grown up. He often boasted that he was descended from The Sky-Blue Creator and the Gold River Goddess. Everyone knew his mother was a local Apache, his father a shadowy figure who had been stationed at a nearby army base for a brief spell during the early '40s. Charles Osgood's old man worked as an airplane mechanic during the day and took care of the Native American ladies at night, so the rumors went. The fellow was dark as a starless desert night, or white as store-packaged flour, depending on whom you believed. No matter; his fleeting union produced a bona fide legend, and that, most certainly, was no fugitive achievement.

Charles Osgood's mother called her bastard son Hank Blue Feathers, but after running away to Albuquerque at the age of sixteen, the master trumpeter returned less than two years later bearing the name (and instrument) that he would ultimately stake his fame on. "He got the name from Chuckie Osgood," one old veteran claimed. "Chuckie was the best horn-blower west of the Mississippi, till Charlie came along and challenged him to a duel, you know, one of those contests to see who could outplay the other. Well, the young pretender won out. He beat the master, took his spirit and claimed his name ..."

Butterfly Dog received Charles Osgood's famed cornet at the man's funeral service. His father handed the instrument to him and said, "As long as you have this, ol' Charlie will always be around. He's like the wind, you see, always there -- even when it ain't blowin'." The young boy cried. He never loved his father more than at that moment. His mother, a Pima, did not attend the funeral service. She and Butterfly Dog's father had been estranged close to three years by that time.

Thirteen years later, his old man was gunned down in a cathouse just across the Nevada border. He was drunk and, after receiving what he considered a "subpar performance," took his belt and began whipping the lady who had been entertaining him that evening. She struggled free, pulled a revolver from beneath the well-worn mattress and shot him square in the chest.

The legacy Butterfly Dog's father left him consisted of a thousand-dollar trust bond and the key to a safety deposit box in Mesa, Arizona. The young cornetist was unemployed at the time. His band had recently broken up, as had his common law marriage, and his wife refused to let him see his daughter. Dispirited, he left Colorado to attend the funeral service and collect his inheritance. He managed to blow the money he received in less than a month, traveling throughout the Four Corners, wanderlusting from one geographic mystery to the next, directionless as a broken compass. It was a bad time. Penniless, and hoping for more cash, he eventually wound up in Mesa and checked the contents of the box. Inside there was a scrap of paper with the date October 24 written on it, along with the name Jack Wilson and instructions on how to locate the man.

When Butterfly Dog arrived at Jack Wilson's commune he had two dollars and thirty-three cents to his name, a dog-eared English translation of the Qur'an tucked in his back pocket, and little else.

Six months later he had become one of the old prophet's greatest followers.

An excerpt from The Unification of All Worldly Religions: As Seen Through the Transcendental Eyes of the Holiest One's Eternal Instrument by Jack ("Wovoka's Redeemer") Wilson (an as yet unpublished magnum opus)

After consuming the sacred firewater, I slept for three days. I was dreaming the good dream. My spirit was ferried to That Blessed Haven That Lies Above the Clouds and it was there that I stood before the One True Being. It was a marvelous thing. The Being Who Walks Above All Others told me to return to the prison called flesh and carry the message of Divine Reckoning to all willing to hear its undeniable truth. Unify, I was told, unify ALL worldly religions, be they great or small.

And I awoke from my dream, filled with renewed vigor, and set out to do just as The One Who Knows Far More Than I Ever Shall had bade me to do.

Butterfly Dog met Lynne at a roadside bar and grill three miles east of Globe. He returned from the bathroom and found his daughter playing pinball with a woman with whom he would ultimately spend a modestly romantic evening. Each handled a flipper and the score they achieved, according to one old timer, was a genuine Big Earl's record.

"She's good, daddy!" exclaimed Cassie.

Butterfly Dog studied the scoreboard and then made eye contact with the lady. She had bright green eyes and an infectious smile.

"The ball! The ball!" Cassie cried. The silvery metal orb bounced harmlessly off the woman's inert flipper, rolled through the narrow opening and disappeared out of play.

"Oops!" Lynne exclaimed, giggling childishly. She was a tall, athletic woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties.

"Anyone hungry?" Butterfly Dog piped up.

Cassie frowned and Lynne replied, "Famished!"

Butterfly Dog and Cassie split a Big Earl's Foot-Long ChiliDog and side order of curly fries, while Lynne contented herself with a Big Earl's Real Cheese Cheeseburger and tossed salad.

"So, do you live around here?" he asked, taking a sip of his daughter's root beer float.

Lynne explained that she was from Utah and had recently separated from her husband of ten years. "I'm on my way to Mexico," she said. "The divorce settlement finally came through and I hit the road!"

Butterfly Dog asked Lynne for a ride and she said "Absolutely!"

While Cassie slept in the back seat Lynne confessed to Butterfly Dog that she was lonely and was only going south to escape what she referred to as "the interminable blandness" of her life back in Salt Lake.

"I'm too old to be a rebel and too young to be a relic," she sighed. "What is one to do?"

Butterfly Dog had a reasonably good idea. He whispered a suggestion in Lynne's ear and ran his hand up her thigh.

They stopped for the night at a motel called the Sleep-'n'-Cheap. LOTS OF SCENERY, guaranteed the roadside sign.

Cassie woke up while Lynne was paying for the room.

The three of them watched an old western on television. The Native Americans were slaughtered, Cassie eventually dozed off, and Butterfly Dog went to the bathroom. Lynne followed the rangy young man and they took a shower together.

She refused to kiss his busted lip, but, other than that, they got along swimmingly.

In the bed, afterwards, he kept stealing glances at Cassie. Lynne straddled herself on top of him, pulling the covers tight around her shoulders. "She is so precious," the energetic divorcee commented. "She must … have a … beautiful mother …"

"She does," Butterfly Dog agreed. "Quite beautiful ..."

Sandra Dishman was a child beauty queen. Her career was over by age eleven.

When Butterfly Dog first met her she was a twenty-one-year old slightly disaffected ex-Deadhead who served drinks at the Pueblo, Colorado club he and his band, Big Noise, played on weekends. "I like the way you play," she told him. He checked her out and said, "Is that a fact?" and she coyly replied, "Yeah, I like the way you use your lips." He told her that his instrument had belonged to Charles Osgood. She didn't believe him. Their arguments were volatile, passionate. She refused to sleep with him unless he promised to make her "the only one." In a fit of headlong passion, he agreed. They moved in together. She got pregnant. Reality suddenly took on a great deal more weight for the young lovers and things began to sour. The gigs didn't pay "enough" and he was forced to work a succession of odd jobs, none of which panned out. His appeal, lips and all, started to fade.

He left her after discovering that she had been seeing a guy named Strobe, who stripped for rich old dames at an exclusive club called Stakes.

Strobe had the dimensions of a Phidian-carved Greek god, bronze skin, and a predilection toward gold-rimmed designer shades. Butterfly Dog didn't trust any guy that shielded his eyes.

Before leaving Sandra, the unemployed trumpeter told her that he wanted custody of Cassie. The teary-eyed former beauty queen pulled a gun out of her purse, pointed it at his head and told him to get the hell out of her life. He went on a three-day drinking binge, found out his father had been killed and struck out for Arizona the following day.

"What kind of name is Butterfly Dog?" Lynne wanted to know, lifting her head. "Isn't that some sort of spaniel?"

"It's a stage name," he replied nonchalantly. He had received it from a band-mate who said he was "pretty as a butterfly, yet horny like a dog."

"Hmm ... sounds ..."

Butterfly Dog yawned. "What?"

She clucked her tongue. "I don't know ... It sounds sorta Indian, I guess."

"I'm an even mix of Scotch-Pima ... "

She suppressed a giggle.

"What?" he asked, slightly agitated.

"Nothing, nothing," she said, burying her face in his chest. "It's just that, well, that sounds like a bad whisky, don't it?"

He laughed quietly and shook his head.

Lynne pulled herself on top of him and kissed the bridge of his nose. "So, what's your real name, then?"

Butterfly Dog opened his eyes. "Reginald," he answered. "My real name is Reginald Ichabod Face."

Butterfly Dog sat in bed, the naked woman curled next to him, and tapped out a tune called "The Flip Side of Love." His father had written the song shortly after separating with the young cornetist's mother. Charles Osgood had refused to play it, telling the broken-hearted drummer, "Too down, man. It's way too down ..." Butterfly Dog sat in darkness and played the piece perfectly.

I am blessed with genius, thought Butterfly Dog. That is why Jack Wilson has chosen me to stand by his side and trumpet the end of all things. I am Charles Osgood reborn, only more polished -- like an old house with a fresh coat of paint. As my old man was my material father, as Charles Osgood was my inspirational father, Jack Wilson is my spiritual father. I shall reach him and then smile brightly as the Great Reckoning converges at the point beneath my feet.

Lynne was snoring loudly when Butterfly Dog lifted Cassie out of bed and carried her to the parking lot with him. Sixty miles later the resolute believer was exhausted, but pleased. He had a vehicle and close to five hundred dollars in cash.

I am close, Jack Wilson, he thought serenely. His eyelids were heavy and his head bobbed drowsily back and forth. My destiny is nearly at hand.

When Jack Wilson explained the meaning of October 24 to Butterfly Dog, the young trumpeter asked if he might bring his daughter into the learned prophet's fold.

"Go get your child," Jack Wilson said. "She shall walk by your side into the Blessed Garden of Sempiternity."

It was October 15.

Butterfly Dog set out the next day on a fellow devotee's motorcycle. He did not plan to return without Cassie. Upon arriving in Pueblo he went straight to the omelet house where Sandra worked and told her that he wanted to see his daughter. She told him no. A nasty argument ensued. She threw a customer's order at him and attempted to stab him with a butter knife. He cold-cocked her and fled the establishment. An incensed waitress, brandishing a hot skillet, chased him half a block before giving sway.

When he got to the apartment he found Cassie sitting on the floor of the front room, watching a talk show. Strobe was in the bedroom, on the telephone, bitching to his mechanic about an improperly set head gasket.

Butterfly Dog said "Shhhh" and motioned his daughter to come to him. She bounded to her feet and shrieked "Daddy!" with jubilant glee.

Strobe immediately entered the room, took stock of the situation, and said, "What the fuck are you doing here?!"

All things being equal, Butterfly Dog didn't stand a chance against the stronger, faster, more imposing Chippendale wannabe. Thus, he told his daughter to wait for him outside. When Strobe moved to stop her, he bashed the muscular tough over the head with Charles Osgood's fabled cornet. Strobe stumbled back, stunned, but quickly retaliated, socking Butterfly Dog square on the kisser. Butterfly Dog slammed hard against the wall and Cassie screamed as if she herself had been struck. Strobe then yelled something unintelligible and recklessly charged the longhaired cornetist. Moving out of the way, Butterfly Dog lashed out with his instrument, clipping the beefy bruiser on the side of the head, knocking him to the ground.

Strobe went out like a light, one hundred-dollar sunglasses hanging slack from his right ear. Butterfly Dog finally got a look at his eyes -- pale baby blues, soft and extraordinarily beautiful.

"Is he dead, daddy?" Cassie wanted to know, observing the dark circle of blood spreading from beneath the glassy-eyed Strobe's head.

"No," Butterfly Dog replied, breathing heavily. "He's just, uh, playing possum. Come on!"

The bike wouldn't start when Butterfly Dog got to the parking lot.

"What's wrong, daddy?"

Butterfly Dog shook his head and then noticed the personalized fashion plate on the teal Cadillac in the space across from him.

"Wait here," he told Cassie, running back to the apartment.

From that moment on he figured he was home free.

Cassie screamed and Butterfly Dog awoke with a violent jerk. Opening his eyes, he let out a piercing squeal and slammed on the brakes, wrenching the steering wheel sharply to his left. Unfortunately, he was not able to prevent the car from crashing into the desert pond. Butterfly Dog's head slammed hard against the glass. The vehicle teetered on its side for an anxious moment, then splashed into the water and began sliding forward.

"Cassie! Cassie!" he cried frantically, black spots exploding before his eyes. Cassie's arms were wrapped tight around his chest. Checking to see that his cornet was still with him, he secured his daughter and pulled her into the front seat. He then unrolled the passenger side window and urged her forward, yelling "Go! Go!" as water poured in from all sides. The little girl squirmed through the narrow opening and disappeared. Butterfly Dog followed close behind, instrument and gear firmly in tow.

It was near dawn as man and child crawled onto dry land. Butterfly Dog could see the headlights of cars passing on the highway, some two hundred yards distant. He rose to his feet, turned, and gazed at the water. It was a transitional pool, born as a result of a flash flood, and would be dried up in a matter of days.

"You all right?" he asked Cassie.

She nodded her head and then began to cry.

"It's gonna be okay," he said, pulling her close. "Everything's going to work out just fine."

The car's taillights winked faintly then vanished beneath the surface of the pond.

He lost all but ninety dollars of the money.

The Reckoning: A Chant

Come to me, children. By whatever means necessary. Leave your worldly possessions behind. Bring only the contents of your hearts and the purity of your blessed souls. Come to me. Do so before it is too late!

Cassie was working Butterfly Dog's hair into a long, braided ponytail. "Mommy showed me the correct way to do this."

Butterfly Dog's eyes were closed. He was smiling.

Outside, the night was cool, pleasant.

They had caught a ride from a retired prospector and were now less than five miles from Gila. The motel they were staying in was called the Desert Swan.

"Will the place we're going to have a swimming pool?"

"It'll have everything we need."

"Will there be other children there?"

Butterfly Dog opened his eyes and stared at the muted television. He tried to read the newsman's lips, but couldn't make out a word the guy was saying.

"Daddy?"

"Mmm?"

"Do you miss mommy?"

"Yes. Every day."

"Why didn't she come with us?"

"Mommy had to work. ... But, don't worry. She'll be with us soon."

Later, in the bathroom, Butterfly Dog stared at his reflection in the mirror and thought, I believe in you, Jack Wilson. Do you believe in me?

Butterfly Dog visited Charles Osgood's grave. The headstone tilted to one side and most of the inscription had faded away. The date Charles Osgood was born was indecipherable.

"We shall play together soon," Butterfly Dog assured, smoothing his hand over the dry earth where the body lay.

From a sermon by Jack Wilson

"The One Above All Others has seen fit to lift the curse of Babel. Now the Great Convergence shall commence. All tongues become one. The flock has begun to return home. Here! Look around! This is the spot where the Ultimate Reckoning will begin! We shall dance on the tip of the scorpion's tail and go willfully into the mouth of the One Who Has Set in Motion the End of Time! We shall enter the blessed light of the Great Holy and shed the burden of our earthly sins! Come! Let us join hands! Let us be as one as we go into the holiest world of all!"

The commune was abandoned.

"Where is everybody?" Cassie wanted to know.

Butterfly Dog had no answer. He wandered through the uninhabited camp aimlessly. A few tents and some clothes remained, but little else. A stray dog scavenged for food in a nearby garbage pit.

It was October 24. Where have you gone, Jack Wilson? he wondered. What am I supposed to make of this?

A young Papago boy came riding up on a bicycle and Butterfly Dog called him over.

"What happened here?" he asked. "Where's everybody gone?"

The child set his bike down and pointed east. "Men in blue vans came and took the weird people away," he explained. "My friend said it was a big drug bust and that the men were federal agents."

Butterfly Dog frowned. "When did this happen? Tell me!"

The youngster scratched the tip of his nose. "The men in blue vans came in the morning time, two days ago. They made lots of noise and woke everybody up. The people were scared. A crazy old man tried to argue with the men, but they would not listen to him. They put him in the back of one of their vans, and then gathered the others and took them away, too."

Butterfly Dog lashed out and struck the boy hard across the cheek, knocking him to the ground.

It was a warm day.

Cassie was a hundred yards off, running between cacti, prancing about happily.

The Papago rubbed the side of his jaw and glared at the tall man defiantly.

Butterfly Dog lowered his head and sighed. This is not how it was meant to be, he thought bitterly. "Here," he said, extending his hand. "I'm sorry."

The local scrambled to his feet, kicked dirt in Butterfly Dog's direction, then turned, got on his bicycle, and pedaled back toward the reservation.

Shamed, Butterfly Dog watched the child depart. There was true beauty in the way the boy's image wavered against the sun before fusing with the landscape.

The desert grew chilly after dark. Butterfly Dog kindled a fire and pulled his daughter close to him.

"What are we going to do now, daddy?" Cassie asked, snuggling close to his smooth, hairless chest.

He stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. "Tonight, we sleep. That's all. We just sleep and dream good dreams."

They spent the night in a tent. Butterfly Dog found a poncho, which Jack Wilson had given to him shortly before he had left to go get Cassie. It had a sun, moon and stars painted on the front and an eagle, in flight, embroidered onto the back. He pulled this over his head and let Cassie use his jacket as a blanket.

The vigilant trumpeter held the cornet close to his chest and waited for midnight to come. Jack Wilson had said that the Reckoning would fall sometime between the beginning of the new day and the first light of dawn. Jack Wilson was a great man. He possessed wisdom and an almost divine manner in which he conveyed the truth of the Great Holy's words.

"Your father came to me a few years before his death," the prophet explained to Butterfly Dog, shortly after the young man's arrival at the commune. "He was a seeker, as are you. Yet, he strayed. Do not look so dismayed. It is an easy thing to do. The greatest challenge comes from being true to your heart. Your father saw more than most. The beauty of the world left him and only darkness remained. I see the spark in your eyes, though. When your father showed me a picture of you, I knew we would one day meet. I told your father to give you a message, to do this one last chore, before he left the fold. He did not give me a yes or no answer, but I knew he would not ignore my request. I knew he would leave you more than what few material goods he possessed. The truth is in you. You are special. You shall stand on my right side when the Day of Reckoning comes. You shall blow your trumpet and signal the end of all worldly things. We shall walk, shoulder to shoulder, into the greatest light of all. The One Above All Others shall greet us at the entrance to Eternity and then -- yes, my child -- then you shall know what true redemption is."

Butterfly Dog touched his sore lower lip. I am not the one, he reasoned. If I was the one, Jack Wilson would not have forsaken me.

He fell asleep shortly after midnight.

The night of October 24 passed uneventfully and, contrary to Jack Wilson's prediction, October 25 arrived as effortlessly as day blending into night.

Butterfly Dog awakened at six that morning, crawled from the tent, looked around, and began to cry.

The forsaken believer spent his last fifty dollars on a one-way Greyhound ticket to Pueblo.

Cassie didn't want to let go of his hand.

"No, it's okay," Butterfly Dog said. "I shall be with you soon. Yet, there's something I must do first."

An elderly lady had agreed to watch Cassie for the duration of the trip. She was sitting at the window of the bus, watching the two, smiling warmly.

"Will you be gone as long as last time?" the little girl wanted to know.

"No," he replied. "I'll always be near. Promise."

She hugged him tightly and began to cry.

Butterfly Dog looked up at the old woman and nodded, then urged Cassie forward. "Go on," he said. "Your mother's expecting you ..."

Jack Wilson on Those Who Have Gone Before

Fortitude. Justice. Prudence. Temperance. The four virtues of life. The four most difficult things in the world for a person to master. There are those who have gone before me who have exhibited a particular virtue, or a combination of these virtues, yet none possessed all. Some came close. Certainly the glorious Hindu saint Ramakrishna came nearest to attaining a state resembling absolute perfection. He, perhaps more than any other seeker of truth, realized that all religions, essentially, are one.

The world has had many prophets. Every tribe. Every culture. Every society. Individuals have come forth in times of despair and told the people what they wanted to hear. Sadly, more often than not, the words of these soothsayers have caused misery and led to needless bloodshed for those who chose to follow what these sages had to say. History has recorded their failings. Waubeshiek, also known as White Cloud, convinced Chief Black Hawk that great victory would be his if he stood up against the white man, thus the Sauk and Fox met their doom at Bad Axe River. Tenskwatawa, the Shawnee prophet, gave his twin, Tecumseh, bad advice, proclaiming an "eclipse of the white man," and spoke of the rising of a great Native American confederation, and this, ultimately, led to disaster at the battle of Tippecanoe. There have always been those who would lead their respective tribes along the bloody path to liberation and glory. The Wanapum had Smoholla, the Apache Nakaidoklini. There was Wovoka, of the Paiute. I have taken his name and chosen to redeem his spirit. Wovoka cried when he heard of the tragedy at Wounded Knee. Wovoka, like all the wise men before him, lacked the ability to see beyond the scope of his culture. Unity, as dear Ramakrishna knew so well, was the key. All are one. The four virtues are unattainable if one does not embrace the depth of this knowledge. I have seen the truth, and, now, I have seen the end. I have been given a date by the Great Holy. I have been told when all of this -- this material prison that we are all bound to -- shall end.

Now, we must be patient. We must wait. Not all will understand what we are doing. Many will mock us, call us mad. That is to be expected. For every one person possessing the gift of true sight, one thousand more are blinded by the veil of ignorance. Our faith must be as passionate and devoted as an Islamic qadi reciting 114 suras in descending order. We must blend and become one. The time has come to merge all four virtues and tribute those who have gone before, even as we, the chosen, enter the most blessed realm of all.

The time, my dear children, is nearly at hand.

Butterfly Dog stood on a mesa, staring down at the false prophet's abandoned colony. It was late afternoon. A steady, southeasterly wind was blowing. Dark clouds drifted overhead and the retreating sun had colored the sky a stark, bloody maroon.

In the distance the young cornetist could see Sacaton, and he could have easily imagined the ancient city of Megiddo in its place. As for the surrounding land, rather than the scorched earth of the Sonoran, there lay the biblical plains of Esdraelon instead.

It was all transitory, cruelly insubstantial.

Jack Wilson had as much credibility as those people who believed that there was some greater, acrostic truth hidden within the pages of the Bible. He had vanished, like countless others before him, while time continued its measured, inexorable march forward.

Butterfly Dog held the cornet aloft and said farewell to Charles Osgood and the memory of all that had passed. His poncho had taken on the eerie quality of a ghost shirt, which a hundred years earlier the Sioux had tragically presumed would prevent the white man's bullets from piercing their flesh.

Four distinct images kept flashing through his mind: coyote, roadrunner, scorpion, snake.

He did not understand any of this, nor did he care to. Before destroying the instrument he merely desired to play one more tune.

The dispirited musician chose his favorite, a little ditty Charles Osgood had allegedly written while spending six months in a California prison for drug trafficking. It was a sad, slow instrumental called "Doin' Time Like There's No Tomorrow."

He wet his lips, closed his eyes and began to play.

Day surrendered to night and the stars came out. A light rain began to fall. Blood trickled from Butterfly Dog's lower lip, staining the cornet, but he didn't mind. He just kept on blowing, oblivious to the discomfort, the pain. Everything was a beautiful symmetry of blue on black.

"Hey, what the hell are you doing?!" the state trooper demanded, hand gripping holster.

Butterfly Dog didn't hear a word the man said.

The patrolman approached the suspect cautiously and told him to put down the instrument and place his hands behind his head.

Sirens could be heard in the distance. The rain picked up in intensity. All things were blending, closing in around the young trumpeter. Coyote. Roadrunner. Scorpion. Snake. The space beneath his feet felt white hot and he began to hop about, as if possessed by the spirit of a medicine man, or long-dead warrior preparing to head into some great, decisive battle.

"Goddammit! What the hell is wrong with you? Didn't you hear a word I said?!" exclaimed the exasperated officer, unsnapping the button-flap securing his weapon.

Butterfly Dog kept on playing, feverish, oblivious to his surroundings.

He had no answers, only songs.

Frederick Barrows was born out West, in the southwest quadrant of the Four Corners states, not too far north of the Gila River Reservation. He currently resides far to the southeast, in a city more Mediterranean than American, which has great food and throws a heck of a party 40-odd days before Easter each year. His story "Golden Buddha Thoroughfare" was published in the October 1999 issue of Z End Zine. He has never been, nor does he plan to be, part of a millennialist organization.

New Voices Archive

New Voices 1: Two Stories by Carri Hendricks

New Voices 2: Bahama Mama by Jonathan Lowe

New Voices 3: The Path She Took To Escape by Jim Moore

New Voices 4: Small Arms Fire by Tom Abrams

New Voices 5: Slither by Garrett Russell

New Voices 6: The Way A Thief Laughs by William D. Sheldon

New Voices 7: In Loving Memory by Jeanne Lightly

New Voices 8: A Stranger's Child by Abby Arnold

New Voices 9: Wait For The Tone by Janet Holmes

New Voices 10: Keep Smiling by Daniel Winterstein

New Voices 11: A Mouse Tale by Dave Stawinski


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