At the base of one cliffside, smoke arose from a fire, around which sat several Indians, including a young woman in a large, bright, woven blanket.
  "There she is," said the boy. "She is not happy."   Ringing round the chanting tribesmen, two circles of stones were crisscrossed by pairs of intersecting lines of pebbles.
  On the way over there, Barry thought he beheld the darker, more brooding version of Molly Jones. But as he drew closer, fearfully edging his way down the cliff's path, the illusion evaporated. A sharper nose, tan eyes, and a chin like a clay cliff. Stripes painted her face into a defiant flag. For his confusion, Barry blamed the smoke that rose in waves from the fire.
  When her eyes lit on him, the fire flared.