A strange, century-old map of the stars is the key

"The novel is wonderful-beautifully written, partly mystical and equally down to earth, full of characters who certainly existed at some place in our combined psyches and lives. And oh, how I would love to have known Bill."
    —Lynn Sherr, Author, Sally Ride: America's First Woman in Space; Swim: Why We Love the Water; Tall Blondes: A Book About Giraffes
"Bob Brown has crafted a remarkable story and filled it with a cast of vivid and memorable characters...Stars Came Tumbling will remain with the reader long after the last page, and the author's storytelling skills shine throughout."
    —Marc H. Abrams, Author, Sioux War Dispatches and St. George Stanley's Sioux War Narrative
"Once the complexities are sorted out, the characters in this book are beautiful, treacherous and terribly human-except for the incredible bison, whose beer habit is excusable."
    —Hugh Downs, Author, Perspectives; Letter to a Great Grandson: A Message of Love, Advice, and Hopes for the Future; Yours Truly, Hugh Downs
Author Biography
...Who has seen the bison run
Knows the end they're headed for
Where the greener grasses beckon
Somewhere far beyond, I reckon...
And I'll see them nevermore.
    — Pony Antone
We're all born liars, every last one of us. So let's just hope you always lie in the cause of truth. You know what I mean?
    — Harvey Olsen
Cities shall grow, flourish, rise to prominence and then crumble to decay...only to be unearthed by people who will not understand us in the slightest. Let us pray they give us more credit than we're due.
    — Charles St. George Stanley
"I never had ceased being fascinated by one of Pony's comments — that no story truly ends; that it is somehow connected to another and another and another, sown by tumbling stars, fertile in the harshest climates, evolving in the least likely ways; that you cannot segregate yourself from even the most remote and alien of stories in this absurdly polarized world because it will prove to be part of yours."
"Under the spell of the hill, the summer air had a special fragrance. After nightfall, the hill was like the floating island of the Laputians — the universe above, the lights of Wendellton below, a constant breeze that left the impression you were moving if you closed your eyes, and the supple, scented darkness in between. Every shade in the sky seemed to be flowing against gravity toward the deep black above us, undamming the heavens so stars could flood the night in a cosmos newly arranged and spangled with dust from a magnificent race."
I had to bury the truth to come here. I had to forget it all so it would die. I keep the truth out there in my garden.
    — Babe Watkins