I looked at Wilcox sprawled out on the bed, a bearded bear of a man, half-naked, writhing in agony. In the two plus years I'd known him, I'd never seen him vulnerable, but here he was, completely at the mercy of a man he'd never even met.
     Dr. Peterson stood beside me. He was looking at Wilcox too, but I couldn't look at his face; I knew what that expression meant. The small man, the man who held Wilcox's life in his hands, was bustling back and forth across the cabin. He held in his hands a stick of some kind, knotted wood, and his bustling was more like pacing; he appeared to be walking pre-designated lines, like a pattern in the floor that only he could see. I tried following him with my eyes, but I got dizzy, and when Peterson tugged on my arm for us to step outside, I went willingly enough.
     The summer night wrapped around us. Usually in the desert the night cools down; you could find yourself sweltering beneath the sun, and just a couple hours later you were reaching for a blanket. But this night was hot; the ground had soaked up enough of the sun's heat for it to still be around ninety degrees. The small man's cabin had been hotter than hell, but outside was a close second.
     "Your friend ain't got much of a chance," Peterson said, when we were a few feet from the cabin. I wasn't sure why the distance; Wilcox wasn't about to understand what we were saying, and from what I'd gathered the small man didn't speak a word of English.
     "He's been through worse," I said, though I wasn't sure he had.
     "Known him long?"
     "Couple years or so."
     "He's not a good man, is he?"
     I thought about that. I'd heard the stories Wilcox told me; I believed only half of them, and even then I didn't buy every single word. And I thought of the things I'd seen Wilcox do, or heard he'd done, and I shook my head and answered, "No, I reckon he ain't."
     "Anyone miss him if he goes?"
     I looked at him.
     Peterson took a step back, raising his hands. He was an older man, but not so old as to have shirked all common sense. He tried smiling at me, and said, "I meant nothing by it, son. You know that."
     I nodded. "No. Ain't no one gonna miss him but me, I reckon. He's got a sister back east, but I doubt she'll even know he's dead when someone tells her."
     "She not right in the head?"
     "The whole family's not right in the head."
     The doctor thought on that and I watched the moon. It never appeared so big as it did out here; perhaps it’s the sand, but the moon always seems bigger in the desert, more real, more solid. You stare at it, and you can't help but understand how the moon could drive a man insane. There's a face up there, too, and that face is always smiling, always leering. I've seen Wilcox shouting at that face, challenging it, and I've never once questioned his judgment on it. Most times, I half expected the moon to reach down and knock him one.
     I reckon, in a way, it had.
     I glanced around at the ground, and the doctor chuckled softly. "See a man get snake-bit, and suddenly you see snakes everywhere." I nodded. It had certainly been a frightening sight; Wilcox had been standing by a boulder just a couple miles from here, relieving himself, and then I heard him screaming in a way I'd never heard a man scream before. I turned back around and saw the snake slithering away, as though frightened by Wilcox's thrashing. I'd run over to help him, and his thigh was bleeding, the blood running down his leg. We'd managed to ride into town; it took the better part of an hour for the venom to fully disable him. He'd even been able to tell Peterson what had happened; but he'd collapsed on Peterson's operating table, just fell back and passed out. Peterson had examined the wound, then looked at me and shook his head.
     "Ain't a thing I can do," he'd said. "But there may be someone who can help. If we can get him there."
     We'd ridden out to the cabin, Wilcox propped up on a horse between us. He'd come to about halfway there, but he hadn't been sensible; he'd begun screaming, and I could see the sweat running down his face, dripping off his beard. Peterson and I managed to get him there, and he about fell off the horse when we stopped. There was nothing of the man I'd known; the man we hauled into the cabin, at the voiceless urging of the small man, was a twisting, hollering mass of flesh that I'd never seen before.
     I thought of the venom, working its way through his system, and I shuddered. Hell of a way to go, eaten from the inside out, your flesh rotting away before your eyes. I could hear Wilcox's screaming, and I thought, if I ever had to scream like that, I'd want someone to put me out of my misery.
     I fingered the Colt on my hip. I could do it; I knew I could. Wilcox was a friend, of sorts, but I could do it. I owed it to him, I reckoned. It'd been foolhardy of me to agree to bring him out here; Wilcox wouldn't want anyone looking over him like that. I glanced back at the cabin. The small man was still pacing. "What's his name?" I asked.
     Peterson didn't answer me for a bit, so I turned and looked back at him. He was looking at the cabin too, and I repeated my question. He shrugged. "To be honest, no one knows. We call him Azumanzi, because we've heard him utter it before, but whether that's his name, or his religion, or some random word he thought to say to someone, we don't know."
     "Azumanzi. Don't sound Indian."
     "It's not. Not an Indian name, nor a tribe name. Maybe African, but he don't look like a Negro, so it's hard to say."
     "He don't look like anything. How old is he?"
     "No one knows."
     "You're trusting my partner's life to a man you know nothing about?"
     "We know he's a healer. Whatever he does, it works."
     "Magic?"
     Peterson looked away from me, out to the desert. "It ain't easy for a man of science to admit. I reckon you can understand that. But…but whatever he does, it works. He's healed snakebites before. He's healed fevers, other illnesses."
     "Sounds like an Indian to me."
     "There's a few Indians have passed through here. None of them have recognized the word 'Azumanzi.' Someone suggested it's from the Orient, but no one knows for sure. He acts like a medicine man, yes, but I doubt he is."
     "Then what is he?"
     "A healer. A good one."
     "He better be, doctor. Because if he isn't…"
     Peterson shook his head. "Your friend would have died anyway, son. You know that well as I do. That man in there was a goner before he got to me; takes a hardy soul to live through a rattler bite, and though I bet your friend has the strength of an ox, his soul is anything but hardy."
     "His soul." I shook my head, smiling. "Wilcox would say he has no soul."
     "And I'd have to agree."
     I eyed the doctor. I wondered what he was thinking; was he planning on turning us in? Wilcox and I hadn't done anything too wrong of late, but there was no way for us to prove it, and trouble with the law was the last thing I needed, especially if I lost Wilcox and his trusty Winchester, still strapped to the side of his horse. I could just make out the rifle, in the light from the cabin. I watched it, I'm not sure why; perhaps because I associated the gun with the man as much as anything else. I fingered my Colt again, praying I wouldn't have to use it tonight. A man can only take so much in a day, and I wasn’t in a mood for violence.
     Peterson walked a little ways from me, until he was mostly in shadow. He was watching the desert, and I could hear him humming some song low under his breath. I stood where I was, watching him, and then he turned around and walked back towards me.
     "Where you boys from?" he asked, and I reckon he couldn't have picked a worse question to ask me just then.
     "Back east," I said, holding his eyes. "Why?"
     He shrugged, and before his eyes drifted away I saw nothing in them but genuine curiosity. "You just look like you've traveled a ways, is all."
     I nodded. "We have. Long ways."
     "Where you from, originally?"
     "Illinois."
     "How's it like?"
     "Flat."
     He smiled at that. "I'd love to see country that's flat. Out here, you can climb to the top of a plateau and look out at the land, and all you see is a taller plateau. To see everything, in all directions, for miles…I'd like to see that, 'fore I die."
     "Lots of places you can."
     "Yes. And lots of places that could use a doctor."
     "Then why don't you leave?"
     "This is my home. But, I reckon, home don't mean much to a guy like you."
     It wasn't meant as an insult and I didn't take it as one. "No, it don't. It's just a place you stay longer than you do elsewhere. And sometimes you go back to it."
     "And sometimes you don't. Is that right?"
     "That's right."
     The doctor gestured at the cabin. "That man in there. I wish I could ask him where home is. I bet you the answer would be the greatest story I've ever heard, even greater than that of the Lord Jesus Christ." He smiled, glancing skyward. "May He understand what I'm sayin'."
     I watched the small man again, moving back and forth, waving his little stick before him. He was of indeterminate age; I pegged him anywhere between thirty and sixty. His skin was smooth but weathered; he had the look of a man who'd traveled hard, but hadn't been overly affected by it. When he'd greeted us at the door of his cabin, his shoulders had been stiff, almost regal; now they were hunched over, and he was muttering to himself, his thin lips moving subtly, reciting words in a language I doubted I'd recognize, even if I could hear him. The way he moved that stick seemed random, almost as though he were putting on a show; but I'd seen frauds before, and I'd seen the real thing, and that man in there, wherever he came from, was the real thing. Didn't necessarily mean his magic worked—and I wasn't one to lean one way or the other, I know there are things in this world we can't fully understand through the laws of science—but it meant that he believed it worked, just in the way Dr. Peterson believed in the divinity of the Lord Jesus Christ, a man whose help Wilcox wouldn't take if it were offered to him on a plate of solid gold.
     "He certainly puts on a show," I said, as the small man approached the doorway, only to veer off to the right and circle back around the cabin.
     "He does," Peterson said. "It's always different, but it's always a show, yes."
     "It's not an act, though."
     "No, it's not. I was skeptical at first, I will admit, but I've seen too many things to just shrug it off. That man in there, whatever his name is, he works wonders. You can call it magic, you can call it religion…but if anyone can help your friend, he can."
     "Saw a medicine man in Oklahoma once," I said. "Saw him shake his little pom-pom stick, or whatever it's called. Saw him dance in circles around a blind little white boy. Kid couldn't have been older than four or five, was born blind. Saw that medicine man recite a few words in his language, then he whacked the kid on the head with his stick. Kid fell back onto the ground, crying, just crying. The mother ran forward, grabbed him, and the kid shouted, loud enough for us all to hear, wondering why the old man in the red headdress had hit him."
     "God works in mysterious ways."
     "Someone sure does, doctor."
     "You aren't religious?"
     I shook my head. "I've seen too much, doctor."
     He was looking at me. "Maybe I should stay here where the country isn't so flat."
     "Maybe you should, doctor."
     We fell silent after that, and listened to the desert around us. A coyote howled, somewhere in the distance; closer in I heard some bird utter its call, and it sounded like a warning to me. I wondered what predators lurked just beyond the reach of the light, what animals were staring at us with fear or hunger or resentment. I wondered if they felt the same towards the little man, and I doubted it; he struck me as part of the landscape, as much a creature of this land as the mesa he lived on.
     This rocky terrain wasn't for me; my back ached from walking and riding on loose gravel and sand. My skin was burnt, chapped; I was almost dehydrated from sweating so much, and water had become to me a drink as precious as wine. I was hungrier than I had been since the war, and in fact the war was where my mind had been turning the past few days. I hadn't been this uncomfortable since my days in Georgia, fighting alongside General Sherman. There's things I'd seen on that march of ours that beggared belief; and all of them had come back to me as I'd traversed the desert, Wilcox prattling away beside me about women and whiskey and the satisfaction of a solid handgun. All things I agreed with, and I offered my acknowledgement heartily enough, but my mind had been elsewhere.
     The little man in the cabin. He was an oddity. I'd seen slave healers, during the war—Negroes who worked their African magic on fallen Union soldiers. Most of them had loved us, and I'd never understood it; so many of my fellow soldiers had hated the slaves, had despised them for drawing the North into combat. But the Negroes helped us every chance they got, and only a few ever tried to steal anything from me, and truth be told I usually ended up handing over whatever it was they'd wanted. By the end of my tour I hadn't had much use for provisions anyways.
     I watched the little man's movements, but I could see nothing in them of those Negro witch doctors. This man had a whole different magic up his sleeve, and his eyes were closed in the most intense concentration I'd ever seen on a medical man's face. I marveled at how he managed to walk the same route, over and over again, with his eyes closed; it was a complex pattern, intricate, intoxicating, full of twists and turnabouts that formed a pattern so complex that I knew, even if I were to see it drawn on a piece of paper, I would have trouble following it. The small man's hips swayed slightly as he walked; the candlelight reflected off the sweat on his chest. He was graceful, somehow majestic, almost angelic. I wondered what the doctor would think of that last.
     I turned to look at Peterson, and found him kneeling down, his hand running through the dirt.
     "What you got?" I asked.
     He jerked and stood up, looking at me sheepishly. After a moment he shrugged and held out his hand.
     There was an arrowhead resting in his palm, black obsidian tainted by the brown earth. I nodded that I was impressed by its beauty, but apparently that wasn't enough of a response, for Peterson said, "It's not native to here."
     "It's not?"
     "We don't have much obsidian around here." He put the arrowhead in his pocket. "I've found a few of 'em around, though. Mostly within a few miles of the cabin. Other people have found 'em, too. Part of his legend, I guess."
     I didn't ask who he meant. I followed his gaze and watched the small man pause over Wilcox's twisting body. "Azumanzi."
     "I really wish I knew what that meant."
     "Maybe it means nothing."
     "Maybe not."
     The small man waved his stick over Wilcox, shaking it. He placed his hand on Wilcox's forehead, caressing him. It was too tender a gesture, and I had to turn away.
     "Your friend," Peterson said. "You said he's not a good man."
     "You said. I concurred."
     "Are you a good man?"
     "Probably not."
     "You're honest, at least."
     "Ain't got time to be nothin' else, doctor. Lying takes too much effort."
     "That it does." Peterson watched me. "I'm a man of the lord. Almost became a preacher; it was my mother who convinced me to take a different route."
     "Maybe you'd been better off. Less blood."
     "Yes. And less money, too; that was my mother's point, may she rest in peace." He scratched his head, running his hand through what little hair remained. "But the reason I chose medicine? Because I wanted to help save lives. A preacher, he knows all about life and death—but he don't save lives. He just tells people how to go about it, then leaves it up to chance whether they listen to him or not."
     "So you put yourself in a position where your audience don't have a choice in the matter."
     He laughed; it was a dry sound, but somehow hearty too, and I smiled. "Yes, son; yes, I suppose it's something like that. I like a captive audience." After a moment he added: "The reason I bring it up is, if I were a preacher, if I'd gone that route instead, I doubt I would ever have brought your friend out here."
     I nodded and waited.
     "I'm a doctor, you see; it's none of my concern whether your friend is a good man or not. He's a man, and that's all that matters. There's a saying that death is the great equalizer. A bit heady, perhaps, but it's true nonetheless, I suppose. But a preacher, you see, would have been more concerned for your friend's soul. He would have tried to read your friend the Last Rites; and truth be told, I was tempted myself. His soul is black; I know it is."
     "And my soul?"
     He looked at me. "Souls aren't my business. My business is medicine, and that's what I stick with. That man in there…his business is medicine, too. But I got a feeling his business is also souls. You understand?"
     I shook my head and waited for the point to come, but it never did; he just watched me for a couple minutes then turned, and I let him, not too sure I liked having a conversation about Wilcox's soul, with the man himself in there on what could turn out to be his deathbed. Wasn't too comfortable talking about my soul, either, because it'd been something I'd been thinking about, too. The desert brought back the war, and the war brought back thoughts of mortality. Nothing to be discussing beneath a full moon, with the only friend you'd made in the past few years breathing his last just a few feet away. Movement in the doorway of the cabin caught my attention. I turned and saw the little man staring at us. He stuck out his arm and beckoned.
     "I guess he's done," Peterson said. He sounded relieved.
     I nodded. We walked back to the cabin and the little man watched us. I couldn’t decipher the look on his face; it wasn't one of hope, but it wasn't one of despair, either. He just watched us, his dark eyes never wavering from us, never flicking to the night beyond. I've met a few individuals before who have powerful eyes: when they look at you, you get the sense they're seeing everything there is to you, your past and future, your fears, your dreams. I got that feeling from the little man, and I had trouble meeting his eyes.
     When we got to the cabin he motioned to the bed. I went over and stood above Wilcox. He had stopped writhing in pain; his breathing was easier now, though he was still covered in sweat. I pulled up the blanket and looked at the bite on his leg; it was gruesome, various colors that turned my stomach around, but the bleeding had stopped, and it wasn't swollen anymore.
     Peterson examined him. "He'll be okay," he said after a few minutes. "Take a while to recover, but he'll turn out just fine, I reckon." He turned to the little man. "Thank you."
     I nodded. "Thank you."
     He looked at us, first the doctor, then myself. Looking at me, he seemed to shrug a little. He smiled—a horrible gesture, too wide for his small face—and said, "Azumanzi."
     "Azumanzi."
     I butchered the word, but he nodded encouragingly. "Azumanzi."
     There was a cough from the bed. I turned. Wilcox was looking up at me, his eyes half closed.
     "Horace? That you?"
     "It is."
     He reached up, grasped my arm. His grip was weak, and I felt awkward, him clutching me like that.
     "Hurts like hell, Horace."
     "Bet it does."
     He opened his mouth to say something else, but passed out before he could speak.
     Peterson put a hand on my shoulder. I flinched away, and he let his hand fall. He wasn't looking at me anyways; he was looking at Wilcox. "We can put him up at my place," the doctor said. "You boys can spend a few days in town, I reckon."
     "That gonna be necessary?"
     "There somewhere else you gotta be?"
     I thought about it, but there wasn't, so the doctor and I carried Wilcox out to the horses. The little man watched us. We propped Wilcox up on his horse—not an easy task with a man that size—and then we mounted our own, with him propped between us again. I glanced at the cabin and said, "We gonna pay him?"
     "No." Peterson started his horse, leading us back the way we'd come.
     "He doesn't want money."
     "Then what does he want?"
     "We don't know."
     We went back to town. I glanced over my shoulder a few times, until the lights from the cabin disappeared around a turn in the rocks. Then I faced forward and stared at the path before us. I stared straight ahead the whole ride, thinking about snakes, God, magic, and all the things hiding just beyond the reach of the moonlight. The desert at night holds many wonders, but it's too dark to see most of them.