Down the Bay.”
“What’s Down the Bay?”
“The neighborhood where I grew up. Part of Mobile.” Satch’s lips were tight, the words not rolling out of his mouth the way they usually did. “These folks on the reservation would starve if the government didn’t send them food. But it’s no fun to eat old cheese and beans seven days a week.”
They came over the top of a small hill and a small settlement appeared: a cluster of tents surrounding a little wood house. The dirt road ended near the closest tent, and as Satch turned off the engine, three men watched them from the shadows of the house. They were wearing a strange mix of clothes—beads and worn buffalo hide and other traditional Sioux gear that Nick recognized from his books at school, but also wool army jackets and leather boots. They must have been hot beneath all those layers.
“Why are they wearing army clothes?” Nick asked as Satch opened his door.
“Because that’s what the government sends them.”
As Satch stepped out of the car, Nick took a deep breath. He wanted to stay in his seat, but he knew it would be rude so he forced himself to get out and walk over to Satch’s side. The three Sioux men were walking toward them, and Nick felt as if he could feel other eyes spying on him from the shadows of the tents. White people never came out to the reservation—there had been a kid in school who claimed his father had taken him once, but nobody had believed him.
“Are you sure this is okay?” Nick asked. “I heard they don’t like visitors.”
“I’m not a visitor,” Satch said. “I’m practically family. In fact, they made me an honorary chieftain. Their medicine men tell a story about how I brushed back an evil Indian commissioner with a Rising Tom and saved the tribe.”
“Really?” Nick asked doubtfully.
“If I’m lying, I’m dying,” Satch said with a broad smile.
The three Sioux men reached their side. “Hello, Long Rifle,” the oldest one said. His hair was gray, but his eyes were as black as ink. “Are you here to hunt?”
“Not today,” Satch said. “Just deer oil. And maybe a drop of something to light a little fire in my belly.”
One of the other Sioux men pulled out a clear bottle filled with a brownish liquid. He handed it to Satch, who uncorked it and drank. As soon as Satch swallowed, he bent over, his fists clenching and the veins in his neck standing out like ropes.
“Whooo, boy!” he said when he straightened. His voice was raspy. “That’s as fine as any of the moonshine down south.”
“Take what you want,” the older man said.
Satch shook his head as he handed back the bottle. “I generally believe that too much of a good thing ain’t hardly enough, but I’m supposed to be pitching tomorrow. Not to mention that I always believe in setting a good example for youngsters.” He glanced at Nick. “Remember that, kid. One sip is medicine. More than that is slow poison.”
“Yes, sir,” Nick said.
Satch looked back at the Sioux men. “I’ll be needing two bottles of deer oil today. One for me and one for my friend here.”
“I got a new batch in my tent,” the older man said. “Follow me.”
Satch and the three Sioux headed through the camp, Nick trailing a few feet behind them. Although Satch looked like he was walking slowly, his legs were so long that both the Sioux and Nick had to hurry to keep pace. They stopped in front of a large tent on the far side of the camp, and the oldest Sioux manwent inside. Nick stood close to Satch, his eyes scanning the surrounding landscape. Down the hill from the camp was a small lake. The coals of what must have been a huge bonfire smoldered on its shore, and a tent made of animal hides stood a dozen feet from the water. A man wearing only a simple loincloth had pulled a large stone out of the coals and was dragging it toward the tent with a pair of giant iron tongs.
“What’s that?” Nick asked, pointing.
Satch turned and looked.
“What’s Down the Bay?”
“The neighborhood where I grew up. Part of Mobile.” Satch’s lips were tight, the words not rolling out of his mouth the way they usually did. “These folks on the reservation would starve if the government didn’t send them food. But it’s no fun to eat old cheese and beans seven days a week.”
They came over the top of a small hill and a small settlement appeared: a cluster of tents surrounding a little wood house. The dirt road ended near the closest tent, and as Satch turned off the engine, three men watched them from the shadows of the house. They were wearing a strange mix of clothes—beads and worn buffalo hide and other traditional Sioux gear that Nick recognized from his books at school, but also wool army jackets and leather boots. They must have been hot beneath all those layers.
“Why are they wearing army clothes?” Nick asked as Satch opened his door.
“Because that’s what the government sends them.”
As Satch stepped out of the car, Nick took a deep breath. He wanted to stay in his seat, but he knew it would be rude so he forced himself to get out and walk over to Satch’s side. The three Sioux men were walking toward them, and Nick felt as if he could feel other eyes spying on him from the shadows of the tents. White people never came out to the reservation—there had been a kid in school who claimed his father had taken him once, but nobody had believed him.
“Are you sure this is okay?” Nick asked. “I heard they don’t like visitors.”
“I’m not a visitor,” Satch said. “I’m practically family. In fact, they made me an honorary chieftain. Their medicine men tell a story about how I brushed back an evil Indian commissioner with a Rising Tom and saved the tribe.”
“Really?” Nick asked doubtfully.
“If I’m lying, I’m dying,” Satch said with a broad smile.
The three Sioux men reached their side. “Hello, Long Rifle,” the oldest one said. His hair was gray, but his eyes were as black as ink. “Are you here to hunt?”
“Not today,” Satch said. “Just deer oil. And maybe a drop of something to light a little fire in my belly.”
One of the other Sioux men pulled out a clear bottle filled with a brownish liquid. He handed it to Satch, who uncorked it and drank. As soon as Satch swallowed, he bent over, his fists clenching and the veins in his neck standing out like ropes.
“Whooo, boy!” he said when he straightened. His voice was raspy. “That’s as fine as any of the moonshine down south.”
“Take what you want,” the older man said.
Satch shook his head as he handed back the bottle. “I generally believe that too much of a good thing ain’t hardly enough, but I’m supposed to be pitching tomorrow. Not to mention that I always believe in setting a good example for youngsters.” He glanced at Nick. “Remember that, kid. One sip is medicine. More than that is slow poison.”
“Yes, sir,” Nick said.
Satch looked back at the Sioux men. “I’ll be needing two bottles of deer oil today. One for me and one for my friend here.”
“I got a new batch in my tent,” the older man said. “Follow me.”
Satch and the three Sioux headed through the camp, Nick trailing a few feet behind them. Although Satch looked like he was walking slowly, his legs were so long that both the Sioux and Nick had to hurry to keep pace. They stopped in front of a large tent on the far side of the camp, and the oldest Sioux manwent inside. Nick stood close to Satch, his eyes scanning the surrounding landscape. Down the hill from the camp was a small lake. The coals of what must have been a huge bonfire smoldered on its shore, and a tent made of animal hides stood a dozen feet from the water. A man wearing only a simple loincloth had pulled a large stone out of the coals and was dragging it toward the tent with a pair of giant iron tongs.
“What’s that?” Nick asked, pointing.
Satch turned and looked.
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