as they approached the chow wagon. âCorn dogs or Indian tacos?â
Peter checked the list of choices on the sign next to the sliding window. âWhatâs frybread?â
Gideonâs glance told Raina that sheâd neglected her sonâs culinary education.
âI donât know how to make it,â she explained.
âYou take a bunch of bread dough, smash it down, cut a piece offââ his quick hands made air frybread as he explained ââmake a slit, drop it in hot lardâ¦.â He peered through the window. âYou got any fresh frybread in there, Ron? I mean fresh. â Shoving his hand into his pocket for money, Gideon turned to relay the cookâs nod to the outside world. Then, in competition with the fan inside, he shouted into the window again. âWeâve got a guy out here whoâs never had frybread.â
A round, sweaty, bespectacled face appeared in the window, followed by a paper plate with the sought-after sample. Ron adjusted his glasses and gave Peter the once-over. â This guyâs never had frybread? â
âBoarding-school kid,â Gideon said as he pushed some bills across the counter. With a conspiratorial wink, he handed Peter the plate. âSpends all his summers at Disney World.â
âGeez, poor little guy. What did he cut his teeth on?â
âMouse tail.â
Peter nearly choked on his first mouthful of frybread.Gideon laughed and slapped him on the back. âIf you like this part, weâll have the works. Indian tacos. How about it?â Peter nodded, and Gideon ordered three.
âTwo for me,â said a voice at Gideonâs back.
âMarvin, hey.â Gideon wasnât sure Marvin Strikes Many would accept his handshake. But it was powwow time, time to socialize, so Marvin relented.
Gideon breathed a sigh of relief. He wanted everything to go smoothly today. No politics, no taking any stands. He shoved his hands in his back pockets and grinned. âIs your oldest boy around? Iâve got someone I want him to meet. My brother Jaredâs boy, Peter.â
Peter was a little slow on the uptake with the older manâs proffered handshake, but he had a mouthful of frybread to contend with.
âAnd this is Raina, Peterâs mother.â
Marvin nodded, then gave a gesture toward the bowery, where the afternoon elimination rounds were taking place in the dance contests. âTomâs over dancing right now. Competing in menâs traditional. Itâs his first year in twelve-to-eighteen.â
âIs that Arlen Skinner judging?â Gideon frowned slightly, craning his neck to get a look past the lineup of younger boys dressed in colorful double bustles, waiting outside the circle for their turn to dance. âHavenât seen him around in a while.â
âSome of us parents got together and asked him to come out and judge the dance contests,â Marvin reported with a clear sense of satisfaction. âArlenâs one of the real traditionals. He knows how itâs supposed to be done.â
Gideon watched the old man take one of the boys aside and demonstrate a dance step, shuffling his moccasins in the grass.
âHe sure does. Itâs good when the old ones do the teaching.â He glanced Peterâs way and gave an instructional nod. âItâs good when the young ones pay attention to them.â
âArlen can still bring a buck down with an arrow.â
âHe uses a compound bow,â Gideon pointed out as he indicated, again with a nod, that Marvin should help himself to the first two plates of Indian tacos Ron had served up.
âNothing wrong with taking advantage of an improvement.â Marvin handed his money through the window and claimed the plates. âBut Arlen still knows his culture. Knows his rights, too.â Hands full, he nodded his goodbyes and headed for the bowery.
âGood seeing you, Marvin,â Gideon
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