Sage twitched when Carver bent his knee to push off, then stepped back, an awkward movement devoid of his usual grace. Carver seized the opportunity to stand all the way up, slowly, swaying as pain spiked through his head. He squinted at Sage and forced friendship from his mind, focusing on the gun and the distant, inward look on the Cheyenne's face, so different from the first, explosive madness. Carver had seen voodoo at work in the Caribbean; had watched half-mad fakirs prancing under the influence of hashish in India. He did not believe in demons, but Sage’s behavior gave him pause. The Comanches told stories of crazed animals in this valley, said a demon lived here. Was it some supernatural intelligence that had hold of Sage now, or something else? That dome over the hill, machined and flawless and far too huge for any wagon even if some teamster had been persuaded to haul it here into the heart of Comanche territory. . . Could madness lurk in its very metal?