“His seventeen murders aside, Bob was not such a bad guy. I know, because I rode with him and his boys for almost a year. Once, Bob had stayed up half the night to sing an old Apache healing chant to a horse that had bloated with the colic. It worked too. Next morning we found a half-digested tumbleweed in a pile of dung. It measured three feet across. That must have been one hell of a chant.”