Another Man's Moccasins

He smiled. “They cut yours, too.”

It was quiet for a moment, and I felt compelled to ask, “Where to next?”

He looked around but figured there weren’t any VC in the immediate vicinity. “Hill 861 and then back over the fence to Laos!”

“I didn’t know they were in the war.”

He shrugged and sipped his beer. “They are not.”

I nodded. “What’s on Hill 861?”

“Cong.” He smiled. “But there will be a lot less in twenty-four hours!” He nudged the Montagnard. “Powder River!”

The tiny bushman screamed out in a voice as high-pitched as those of most of the women in the bar. “Powder River! Mile-wiye an inch-deep letter buck!”

The Cheyenne Nation stood there, illuminating pride. “I figured if he was going to be on Recon Team Wyoming, he should know the history.”

“Boy howdy.”

“Would you like to hear his rendition of ‘Cowboy Joe’?”

I shook my head and looked back at Henry. “You’ve gone native.”

He smiled, but it was all teeth. “I have always been native.” He tipped his beer up and downed it in three swallows, slamming it down alongside Quang Sang’s knee. The tiny man followed suit, so I slammed mine and held up three fingers.

He flipped a thumb toward Babysan. “Do you know the story on these people?”

“A little.”

He leaned in close, and our more reasonably projected conversation took place over Babysan’s knees as I handed them their beers. “They’re a combination of Malay tribesmen, Chinese Han, Polynesians, and Mongols.” He smiled again, and again it was all teeth. “Did you know that the Mongols used to ride 250 miles a day?”

I made a face.

“Made the Pony Express look like pikers.” He took a sip of his beer. “They do not get along with the rest of the Vietnamese. They figure they are a bunch of effete snobs that wouldn’t last twenty minutes out in the bush. The lowlanders call them . . . ,” he looked around, and his eyes dismissed the other southern Vietnamese in the loud room, “. . . savages.”

I nodded along with him. “I get the point.”

“They make fun of them because their skin is darker and their pronunciation is different, but they routinely whip the VC with bows and arrows.”

“I got it.”

“They have a jungle economy, so money does not mean anything to them. The French used to pay them in beads. . . .”

“Got it.”

“Uncle Sam pays Quang Sang sixty bucks a month, and he’s the highest-paid yard in his tribe.” I stopped saying anything. “These people have one of the strongest warrior ethics of anyone I have ever met.” Even though we were close, his voice had risen to the previous level. “They have been abused by the Vietnamese, the Communists, the French, and now by us. And when this criminal war is over, I can guarantee you that they will pay the highest price.”

I took a breath and waited as the all-around radical calmed back down. Henry had always been a hothead, but it seemed as if his temper had gotten worse in the last few years; maybe it was the war, maybe it was the times. “I guess that ‘native’ remark got you a little angry.”

He took another swallow of his beer, reset his jaw, and looked at me some more. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry. I sometimes think I’m funny.” I watched him continue to watch me as I sipped my beer, a little slower now.

It was well into the witching hour. I had introduced Mai Kim to Henry and Babysan. We had transferred the party to the piano bench, and Henry and I watched as the two of them slowly danced to “Hurt So Bad.” I was accompanying Little Anthony and the Imperials with a one-finger melody. It was a big piano bench, which was good, because the Cheyenne Nation and I pretty much filled it up. He was turned toward the dance floor, while I was drunkenly focused on the piano keys.

Henry Standing Bear swayed with the music but broke the rhythm by bumping my shoulder. I turned to look at him, and he gestured with his beer toward the dance floor. I half turned on the bench and looked at the pair. They were the only dancers still out there, and they swayed in the green and red glow of the dim Christmas lights and in the shadows of the floods from the air force base.

After a few turns, Babysan Quang Sang gave me the thumbs-up. “I think he likes me.”

Henry smiled. “I think he likes her better. He was negotiating true love, but I told him you were paying for her services. I arranged it with the pilot over there.”

I shook my head and looked back toward the bar. Hollywood Hoang raised a glass of what looked like champagne to seal the deal, and I looked back at Mai Kim. “She’s a good kid.”

I could feel him studying the side of my face and turned back to the piano. He continued to watch me. “You get some?” I shrugged and shook my head no. “Why not?” He took a sip of his beer, I took a sip of mine, and we sat there in silence longer than sober people would. “You still dating that blonde back in Durant?”

As near as I could remember, Henry had only met Martha once at the county rodeo dance, but the Cheyenne Nation didn’t miss much. “I don’t know if I’d call it dating. I haven’t heard anything from her in about a month and a half.”