The Shaman's Secret by Natasha Narayan

sleeve.
    Waldo was standing very near, so close I could feel his hot breath.
    â€œWhat am I supposed to be looking at?” His words were impatient, but he was very pale and standing very still.
    Wordlessly, I tugged at the sleeve and turned my arm over to show him the soft flesh under my elbow.
    He grabbed at my wrist and held it so tight it hurt. I bit back the pain. Then he dropped it and moved away, as if scalded. He was trembling.
    The brand of the snake had moved. It had crept up my arm while I slept and now lay curled under my elbow. Even as I talked to Waldo, it seemed as if the tiny tongue flickered.
    â€œIt’s looking for my heart,” I said. “The snake’s trying to kill me.”

Chapter Eight
    We moved to another boarding house that night. It was Isaac who spotted the cowboy with the curling black mustache lounging against the gas lamp opposite us. He wore brown leather boots and a studded belt. The skin on his face was gnarled and wrinkled. Something about his thick, repulsive lips reminded me of someone.
    We wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but when I looked out two hours later he was still there. Standing in exactly the same spot. It was sinister. It made Cyril Baker’s warning that his brother was looking for us more real. Waldo and Father both insisted we move. So we paid Mr. Hilton and sneaked out of a back door. Mr. Hilton had organized a carriage for us, which would take us to lodgings run by a friend of his.
    I felt like a criminal, flitting in darkness from our hotel. We changed horses twice before we got to our new hotel on the edge of the city. That night I slept uneasily. The only good thing about our move was that we had alreadypacked. It would make our departure for Arizona in the morning much quicker.
    Yes, in the end even Father had agreed I had to go. The sight of the sinister full-lipped man stalking us had tipped him over the edge. He no longer thought I was safe in San Francisco.
    Aunt Hilda had purchased some traveling clothes for us. Light, tough cotton skirts, calico blouses and large hats to shade the glare of the desert sun. It promised to be a grueling journey, traveling by rail and stagecoach to the Grand Canyon. We would have to cross deserts and mountains, going through territory that only the toughest pioneers had braved before us. But first we would traverse the gentle California hills.

    Before we left, something rather sad happened. We were all ready to depart at first light, hasty breakfast eaten, the carriage pulled up outside the hotel, when we noticed Father had disappeared.
    â€œGo up to his room and stir the old fool,” my aunt said to Waldo. “We have to be off before Cecil Baker gets wind of our whereabouts.”
    â€œI’ll go,” I said, glaring at Aunt Hilda, for I found her habit of calling her brother and
my
father “fool” offensive.
    I trekked to his room and knocked on the door, butthere was no answer. I knocked again. I tried the handle, which turned easily. But there was something blocking the door and, pushing hard, I was unable to move it. I heaved with all my might and finally the door opened. I went in to find Father lying spread-eagled on the floor.
    â€œFather!”
    For an awful moment I thought he’d had a heart attack. But he was breathing, short, shallow puffs. I moved his hat, which had fallen off, and I sat down by him. Gently, I lifted his hand. It was clammy, unpleasant to touch.
    â€œFather,” I repeated.
    He opened his eyes. They were flickering wildly over the room as if seeking some invisible enemy. They flitted over me, as if he didn’t recognize me, then came back and focused. I saw the relief on his face.
    â€œKit?”
    â€œWhat is it, Father? What happened?”
    â€œI must have fainted.”
    Breathing heavily, my father stood up. His legs were weak and wobbled. He only made it as far as the chair, which stood in front of the oak writing table, before