“Shooting star!” Charley shouted. “Nothing to be afraid of! Just a big shooting star!”

As usual, no one paid attention to him. He was thought to be a little crazy in the head, a skinny boy full of dreams and white man’s ideas. His voice was lost in the night wind. He picked himself up, shivering, and brushed the plaza’s dust from his jeans. It would be funny, this superstitious panic, if it were not so sad.

Ah! There was the padre now! Charley grinned.

The priest came out of the whitewashed little church and held up both arms in what Charley supposed was intended to be a comforting gesture. He called out in Spanish: “Don’t be afraid! It’s all right! Into the church, everyone, and stay calm!”

Some of the women moved toward the church. Most of the men were in the kiva, now — and, of course, women were forbidden there. Charley watched the priest. Padre Herrera was a small, bald-headed man who had come up from El Paso a few years ago, after the old priest had died. He had a hard time here. Everybody in San Miguel was a Roman Catholic, but everybody also believed in the old pueblo religion, and in a way nobody believed much in any religion.

So at a time of stress like this, people ran in all directions, very few of them into Padre Herrera’s church, and the padre did not look pleased.

Charley went up to the priest. “What was it, Padre? A shooting star, is all?”

The priest glowered. “Perhaps a sign of Heaven, Charley.”

“I saw it with these eyes! A shooting star!”

Padre Herrera flashed a quick, hollow smile and turned away, going about the business of shepherding his worried flock into the house of God. Charley realized he had been dismissed. The priest had once told Rosita Estancia that her younger brother Charley was a damned soul, and Charley had found out about it. In a way, he was rather flattered.