Cannibal Corpse, M/C

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 to play it. “What tribe you with?”

“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.

“What makes you think I know?”

“You do.”

The old man almost smiled. “You white people always think Indians are wellsprings of darkest mystery. Some of us are. Most of us aren’t. A few of us just happen to be real good with barbecue.”

Slaughter did smile. “And a few of you are real evasive.”

“Not on an empty belly, son.”

Feathers took up his carving knife and cut a slab of meat for Slaughter, then another for himself. When Slaughter asked if he needed some dipping sauce Frank told him it would only mask the pure wonder of the meat itself. He was right. The pronghorn, made in the Barbecue King’s inimitable style with secret rubs and slow-smoking, was unbelievable. It was tender and sweet with a little zing of spices that made your tongue stand up and take notice as you chewed.

Slaughter could only say, “This is good. I mean, this is really good.”