He moved on down the road, thinking he should probably turn back and see if he could retrace his route back out to the I, but that would mean cutting through Victoria again and he didn’t know if he was up to that. So he did what 1%ers did when things got bad and things got rough: he grabbed hold of the ape hangers and opened up the throttle and let the wind sort it out for him.
About an hour after he left Victoria, he saw a finger of smoke in the sky.
He slowed to a stop and contemplated the significance of it. It could mean a Red Hand camp or some other crazies, or it could have been some citizens having a wienie roast. Could have been a lot of things.
“Fuck it,” he said under his breath. “Let’s find out.”
At worst he’d do some killing or go down dead and at best he might get some directions back to the I.
He followed the pavement through the trees until he was so close to that plume of smoke he could smell the burning wood. A dirt road led up into the hills and at its end was where the fire would be. He pulled in and followed it until the trees parted and he saw a simple plank cabin with a pickup truck parked before it. An old guy in a red- and-black checked lumberjack shirt was feeding hickory chips into a firepit. He had a long white ponytail and looked to be an Indian with his seamed brown face and that unreadable look in his gray eyes. He paid absolutely no attention to the hog rolling in or Slaughter stepping off the bike.
His only interest was the fire and the joint of meat roasting above the licking flames on a spit. It was his world and it truly seemed that he knew no other. Slaughter stood there. Waiting. Wanting to speak but not allowing himself to, as if it would be a bad thing to break the old man’s concentration. The smell of the meat was tantalizing. No, more than that…for the breeze was flavored by it. It carried the succulent, juicy smell of smoked meat and it practically owned Slaughter at that moment, reminding him of the terrible hollow in his belly. He could not remember ever being so hungry before. He felt giddy with it. Absolutely giddy, like one of those characters in an old cartoon that are so hungry that the odor of food becomes a physical presence, one that taps them on the shoulder and draws them in.
Slaughter went over to him, figuring it was time.
“Sit,” the old Indian said. “Might as well.”
Slaughter sat on a stump and watched his host.
“Name’s Frank,” the guy said. “Frank Feathers.”
“John Slaughter.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Same here.”
Slaughter lit a cigarette, mainly because he had to push the odor of the meat out of his head before he passed right out. He was hungry, starving, yet there was a special smell to this meat…honey and hickory, brown sugar and mesquite…a special blend that made him feel ravenous.
The Indian had still not looked at him. He was stirring the ashes in the pit with such careful concentration it was almost like it held some religious significance for him.
“You hungry?”
“I could eat,” Slaughter told him.
“I like it when a man tells the truth, son.”
Slaughter smiled. “I’m starving.”
Feathers nodded. “Better. I was worrying I’d lost my touch there.”
It was then that Slaughter noticed there were two tin plates and two blue-speckled coffee cups with attendant silverware sitting on a little table near the old man’s elbow. There were little cloth bags of dry spices there. A carving knife. A couple of corked bottles of dark fluids.
“Can’t help noticing, man,” Slaughter said, “that you have two plates and two cups like you were expecting someone.”
“I was.”
“I don’t wanna be cutting in. I just need directions.”
The Indian stared into the fire. He poked the coals. “You ain’t cutting in, son. I was expecting someone and here you are.” He took a pinch of green spice from one of the bags and let it drift over the meat. Then he nodded, sniffing, began to slowly turn the crank of the spit. “I’m glad it was you and not another.”
Slaughter raised an eyebrow. “There’s dangerous people out there.”
“Some of ‘em ain’t people.”
“Some are and they’re just as bad.”
Feathers nodded. “Sure. But some are worse than others.”
Slaughter thought that over, had the curious feeling that the old guy was trying to tell him something without actually telling him. So he took a chance: “You ever come across a man in black? He carries a branding iron, wears a black hat.”
Feathers grunted. “You came through Victoria.” Not a question; a statement.
“You know that?”
“I figured that.”
“The man I spoke of came through there and did some terrible things, man. I mean some real bad things.”
“I know. Death follows him.”
“Have you seen him?”
“Not lately.” Feathers shrugged. “Not lately.”
Riddles? Slaughter decided he was in no position to be demanding. Not yet. He’d play this cool because that seemed to be the only way
“Spirit Lake Sioux.” He looked at the tattoos on Slaughter’s arms, the club vest. “How about you?”
“Devil’s Disciples, out of Pittsburgh.”
He nodded. “I imagine that sort of tribal affiliation is very demanding.”
“It is. Yours?”
“Not so much. I’ve never been much on my tribe. Hate to say it and my ancestors will probably kick my ass in the afterlife…but it’s true. I suppose I should have delved more into the culture and history of my people but I was like most people: I was lazy.” He shrugged. “But, boy, when the casinos opened up, that didn’t stop me from taking my cut. Lot of us who didn’t give a damn about tribal affairs suddenly transformed into full-blooded Sioux warriors. Money will do that to you.”
“Sure.”
“Once I had ten million dollars in the bank.”
Slaughter laughed. “Bullshit.”
“You’re right: it is bullshit. How about this one then: I had three wives who were beautiful. They were all twenty-one years old and smoking hot.”
“Bullshit.”
The old man nodded. “How right you are. I had one wife, though. Mary Jean. She was a white woman and in the words of my father, meaner than snake piss. But I loved her. She reminded me of my mother.”
“Now I believe that one.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Feathers said. “How about this: There was a time when I was known as the Barbecue King of the Dakotas.”
Slaughter let the smell of that meat enter his head. “I can believe that one.”
“Right you are. It’s true. I had three restaurants. They were called Smokin’ Frank’s. I seeded them with my casino money and made a killing. I was a wizard with a good side of pork back then or a brisket of beef. I made my own sauces and rubs. My ribs won blue ribbons eight years running. Then the worms fell from the sky and I had to close up shop.”
The smell of that meat was still in Slaughter’s head. There was an art form being practiced here, one that was part smoke and part spice and pure alchemy.
“This is antelope,” Feathers said. “Pronghorn. Took him two days ago on the Sheyenne. Hard to get beef these days...pronghorn’ll work.”
“Tell me about the man in the black hat,” Slaughter said then, just coming out with it.
