"Lances, leaning like drunken soldiers standing guard, lined the perimeter of the property, feathers fluttering, their slender shafts black lines in the moonlight. Henry had learned his lesson after the Comancheros' visit. This time he had let the lances be. Loretta wondered which was Hunter's. If she knew, she could take it inside and keep it in the loft. The child might never have anything else. Tipping her head back, she studied the moon. Mother Moon, Hunter called it. The wind caressed her cheeks. Loretta closed her eyes, thinking of the four directions. Below her was Mother Earth. Come morning, Father Sun would show his face in the east. A primitive man's gods? Loretta smiled. Hunter worshiped the creations of God, the visible signs of His greatness. One God with many faces, whom they each addressed in different ways. Was Hunter out there somewhere, looking up? She wondered. Was he praying? Aloud, she whispered, "I love you, Hunter. I need you. Your child needs you." She hoped her words would float on the wind and speak to him. Tomorrow, when the sun rose, she prayed the golden light would remind him of her, his bright one. "