Pole Dancer - a short story

I can't recall when I wrote this short story, though sometime during the 80s is a safe guess. It's about a man, an American Indian man, visiting a strip club to watch his sister perform. The idea came to me after I had visited a strip club. I'd had a conversation with a dancer who was upset because her father had come into the club to watch her perform and to try to convince her to quit her job. The bouncer had thrown him out before he'd had a chance to do either. 

Reading the story again after many years, I can still feel the anger in my words that I felt following a failed marriage and, most likely, still suffering from PTSD from my time as an infantry machine gunner in Vietnam. The sentences are choppy, and the dialogue stilted, but I refrained from launching into a massive edit job because it was written by the person I was at the time and not the same person I am now. Thanks for reading Pole Dancer and I hope you like it anyway.

Pole Dancer

Another hot Oklahoma day, dry clouds streaking a faded sky as dervishes of swirling dust burnished Joe Redbird's elbow. Two crows, examining an armadillo carcass, moved out of his path. Joe had other things on his mind and didn't notice as he passed a slow-moving pumping unit, siphoning the last greasy sips from a dying reservoir. Scattered remnants of a once proud industry littered both sides of the road, staining the dry earth with dirty water. Overhead, a lone hawk floated in a thermal updraft.

Redbird pulled into a pea-gravel parking lot surrounding a freestanding cinder block building. Broken neon lighting, mounted on two pilfered stands of drill pipe, proclaimed the place Valley of the Dolls.

Shading his eyes from noon sun, he steered the pickup between a red Chevy and a dented Fat Bob Harley. Waves of damp heat flooded the cab when he opened the door. He didn't bother stretching as he side-stepped a drunk Okie leaning against the wall.

He squinted into murky darkness, smoke accosting his eyes and loud music his ears. At least the air-conditioning felt good, chilling his sweaty neck as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. A half-nude waitress encircled his waist with slender arms, pressing her breasts into the small of his back.

"Whatcha having, Geronimo?"

"Pitcher of Bud," he said.

"Smile, Chief. Can't be all that bad."

Redbird's expression remained dark, despite the young woman's friendly prodding. He nodded toward the bar circling center stage. His mousy-haired server puckered her lips and made lewd kissing sounds. When he refused to respond, she wriggled her nipples between thumb and forefinger and then kissed him on the cheek.

"You need something, just whistle. I'm Anita."

Redbird's features remained impassive as Anita winked and backed away through the crowd. When his eyes dilated enough to see, he glanced over his shoulder at the dozens of other patrons. Bikers in leather and chains, soldiers with shaved heads and roughnecks in dirty overalls. They filled the large room to frantic capacity, and he had to elbow his way to an empty chair at center stage.

His dollar tip earned him a wet kiss when Anita returned with his pitcher of beer. Ignoring her, he wiped the lipstick off his face with the back of his hand. Anita shrugged and eased away through the crowd. After draining the first glass, he poured another. Then he faded into cool darkness as pulsating-neon flooded center stage.

Several-dozen prairie voyeurs rattling beer bottles soon replaced the jukebox. A new dancer was preparing to come on stage, and shrill whistles began piercing the darkness. Redbird cocked his head for a better view of the wooden stage.

Staggering up the short ramp, a young blue-eyed blond woman licked her lips. Clad in only a bra and gold sequined g-string, she smiled at the whistling, cat-calling audience staring back at her. When the jukebox began, she gyrated in a drunken simulation of sensuality. Above blaring rock and roll, a high-pitched voice shrilled.

"Hey baby, show us your snatch."

When someone put two soft hands on Redbird's shoulders, he knew who it was without turning to look.

"What are you doing here, Joe?"

Redbird pivoted in his chair, gazing up into a dancer's dark eyes.

"Pete Thompson said I'd find you here."

The young woman's long hair draped in raven waves over bronze shoulders. Reflections in her dark eyes rippled like black paint in a blender. Joe's neck grew warm as he sensed the gaze of everyone around them. They were admiring the attractive dancer, a woman with smooth skin, brown as his own.

"Pete's right. I'm a dancer."

Glancing over his shoulder at the girl on stage, Redbird said, "Like her?"

When Victoria shut her eyes, Redbird could almost feel the hot flush spreading up her neck. Opening them, she stared at the floor.

"Mom send you?"

In a voice barely audible above the loud music and grating background voices, he answered, "Mom doesn't know you work here. Maybe you can tell me why you do?"

Redbird leaned forward, touching her hand, causing her to wrench away and back into a drunk at the table behind her. The man groped her leg before she could move away.

"I have no answer. Least one you'd understand."

"Try me."

"Vicky, you're up next," someone called from behind the bar.

"Have to go," she said. "Finish your beer and get out of here before you embarrass us both."

"Will it embarrass you to have your big brother watch you strip and do squat thrusts while these monkeys masturbate in the dark?"

Vicky shook her dark mane. "I don't do that. They are to watch me dance. That's all."

Glancing at the girl weaving drunken circles on stage, Redbird said, "You call that dancing?"

"What about you? You've been here before."

"Different," he said.

Victoria tried to smile, but her quivering lower lip betrayed her true feelings. She leaned against the table so no one else could hear her reply.

"Why is it different?"

"Because people are laughing behind your back," he said.

"Who are they laughing at? You or me?"

"I don't dance in a titty bar."

"Yeah, and I suppose all your friends have great respect for the way you earn a living, driving a garbage truck."

"Honest work."

"So is dancing."

"This isn't dancing, Vicky. It’s obscene. I feel sorrow for you and shame for our family."

"Only thing you feel is your throbbing head and queasy gut when you wake up Sunday morning with puke on your pillow."

"Doesn't change things," he said.

Victoria touched his hand and said in a whisper, "I can't expect you to understand. I've wanted to dance since I was a little girl."

"But why here?"

"Because we all have decisions to make, and don't always have enough choices."

Redbird folded his arms and shook his head. "These scumbags don't care if you dance, or parade around on all fours. In fact, I'm sure that's what they would prefer."

"I do it for myself, Joe. Not them, and not you." When he didn't reply, she said, "Just get out of here. Please."

He stayed in his chair, noticing glints of sadness flicker and fade in the darkest corner of her eyes. Her lip quivered, and she drew a breath, almost losing the tiny halter covering her breasts when she exhaled. Clutching it to her bosom, she hurried away through the crowded tables.

Though impassive, his shoulders began shaking in an almost imperceptible tremble. Sitting straight up in the rickety bar chair, he locked his folded arms against his chest and turned toward center stage. Everyone locked on to the blue-eyed dancer. No one had noticed the confrontation. Enveloped in her third song, she'd already discarded the sequined halter covering her breasts. As he watched, she yanked on her golden g-string.

With eyes like a stalking wolf, she promenaded across the stage on hands and knees. When she spotted Redbird and saw his frown.

Pulling the snap of her g-string, she twirled it once around her head, sniffed it, and then tossed it around Redbird's neck. With a satisfied smirk, she flipped over, wrapping long legs around her neck. She rolled across the stage, displaying her shaved privates. Her performance brought whistles from the drunken crowd.

Redbird turned away. Some perverse curiosity returned his gaze to the stage. He locked onto the young woman's sweating body, dirty from the dust tracked floor. She writhed in widening circles, not forgetting Redbird until the music ceased.

When the song ended, she collected the dollar bills scattered across the stage and grabbed her outfit in a slight bend of the knees. Redbird folded his arms and turned away, trying to lose himself in the remaining slug of beer. At least, until a hand touched his shoulder.

"Another pitcher, Chief?"

Redbird nodded. After returning from the bar, Anita filled his glass, sipping from it before handing it to him. Confused by his rampant emotions, he studied the rose tattoo on her breast and the strange gold fleck in her left eye. She licked foam from her lips with an overt flick of her tongue. His dollar tip earned him another wet kiss, followed by solitude as she departed to wait on someone else.

Attracted by the booming jukebox, Redbird's gaze returned to center stage. As beautiful Victoria appeared through the neon-lighted darkness, he held his breath.

Except for her near-nudity, she seemed a beautiful princess, ascending dirty steps to a royal throne. Behind Redbird, the anonymous audience whooped and whistled their approval. He couldn't look her in the eye but couldn't take his own off her body. His face and neck grew red. Victoria was tall and dark, moving across the stage like a dandelion wafting in the breeze. She pirouetted in slow, measured circles, long raven hair billowing in synchronous waves.  Her eyes, dark and liquid, mesmerized and quieted the audience, Her movements possessed them. Victoria whisked off the tiny halter covering her breasts during a slow turn on the polished pole. As a single entity, the crowd gasped.

Joe Redbird watched, along with bikers, soldiers, and roughnecks. His skin flushed with rising anger. Unable to forget the leering creatures gaping at his beautiful sister, he turned away. His head began to shake with a subtle flutter that crept into his shoulders and down the base of his spine.

Victoria's last number sheathed its patrons in a tight knot of rapt concentration. As bass notes resonated through the murky darkness, her movements entwined them. Nothing disturbed her as she revolved around the polished pole, like a holographic vision in a giant music box. Finally, she whisked off her last garment.

Screaming shouts and wild applause punctuated her curtsied finale. Smiling at the ovation like a prima ballerina, she waved, acknowledging their praise. As she prepared to exit the stage, Redbird hoisted his half-filled pitcher of beer, hurling it at his sister.

She dodged the missile, watching it crash into the wall-length mirror behind center stage. An explosion of flying shards liberated the audience as angry patrons closed around Redbird. A fat security guard bullied his way through the crowd. When he reached for Redbird, the tall Native American took a round-house swing and knocked him on his ass. With fists raised, he pivoted in a semi-circle, daring anyone to touch him. Someone did.

Willowy arms encircled him; the gentle pressure of soft breasts in the small of his back calmed him like water on a lighted fuse. With fury bleeding from his soul, he allowed the woman to back him to the front door.

"Get the hell outa here and don't ever come back," the fat security guard called after them.

Someone started another song on the jukebox, and another dancer took center stage. Bar patrons grumbled but returned to consuming more beer and watching the next performance. Mousy-haired Anita pushed Joe Redbird into bright August sunlight of the graveled parking lot. He halted when she shouted at him.

"What right have you got pulling a stunt like that?"

Naked, except for a yellow strip of tawdry cloth covering her pubic hair, she waited for his answer. It never came. Instead, his apathetic stare caused her to shield her bare breasts with a perfunctory arm.

A pickup passed on the highway, honking its horn and raising dust devils on the blacktop. Heat from late afternoon sun sent perspiration trickling down Redbird's neck. Wiping it away, he continued staring at Anita in silence.

They stood like gunfighters preparing to draw their weapons. Brilliant sunlight revealed all the young woman’s physical flaws. Her self-confidence began to wane, and even the rose tattoo on her breast seemed to fade. Redbird stared at stretch marks on her breasts and belly, blinking as he studied her bowed legs. After gazing at angry scars of adolescent acne on her almost pretty face, he turned away.

Her shoulders sagged. Taking a single step backward, she tripped on a rock in the uneven parking lot and almost fell.

Quivering with emotion, she said, "Victoria is beautiful. Everyone loves to watch her dance. If you didn't want to see, you shouldn't have come."

Redbird didn't answer, unsure of what he had seen, or how he felt. Returning to his pickup, he lowered the windows before cranking the engine. The heat felt like the last agonizing breath of a bursting lung.

As he pulled out of the parking lot, he glanced again at sad Anita, her arms folded across her bare breasts. Numbed by emotion and too much beer, he spun the tires in loose gravel and drove away back down the lonely blacktop road from where he had come.

###

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French QuarterMystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the OysterBay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You might also like checking out his Facebook page.

Something Terrible - The Bombing of Alfred P. Murrah

Years ago, I wrote a short story called Prairie Justice. I had almost forgotten the story and found it again, recently, while deleting unnecessary files from my computer. As I reread and re-edited the story, details of why I wrote it in the first place flooded my brain.

The year was 1995. During April of that year, a madman blew up the Alfred P. Murrah Building, killing 168 innocent victims, including many children in daycare there. Anne, my wife then, was a fledgling lawyer, having gone to law school late in life (mid-forties). She partnered with Becky S., and we were about to move into our new offices when the bomb exploded.

I had returned home from an early-morning dentist’s appointment. I found Anne sobbing uncontrollably.

I was puzzled because Anne was a trooper. Despite all the bad things that had happened to us, I don’t recall having ever seen her cry. When I saw her that morning, she was crying like a baby.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Something terrible has happened.”

We turned on the TV to a local news station. Their helicopter was heading downtown to check out an explosion that had rocked the city.

“There’s lots of smoke coming from one of the buildings. I think it’s the Federal Building,” the chopper pilot said.

A cameraman was taking pictures. Except for the smoke, the front of the building looked normal. We watched as the chopper circled around the building. When the camera focused on what remained of the north side of the building, Anne and I gasped in disbelief.

“Oh my God!” the pilot said. “Oh my God!”

Days passed, and then weeks. The bombing was like a blow to the head for the entire City. It became all too common to be talking to someone, and suddenly have them dissolve into tears, blurting out some heart-wrenching story they’d kept bottled inside for far too long. Everyone had a story. Everyone was affected.

Shortly after the bombing, Becky sent Anne to interview a deadbeat, druggie client that had been put in jail for beating his wife.

“You may think he’s scum, but he deserves his day in court. He’s your client so treat him with respect, no matter how you feel about him in your heart,” Becky counseled.

Anne and I left Oklahoma City early one morning, heading west to El Reno, the Canadian County seat. I can’t even remember why we stopped there, but I remember the courthouse facilities and the historic town well. Leaving El Reno, we passed a Las Vegas-style bingo hall in nearby Concho. Gambling was in its infancy in Oklahoma. Sixteen years later, it’s rampant.

We drove through the tiny town of Okarche, to Eischen’s Bar. The longest continuously operating bar in Oklahoma was shut down at the time because of a flash fire. We made it to Enid shortly before lunch, finding the correction’s facility ensconced in an old neighborhood.

The jailers brought Doug (that was his first name) into a visitor’s room, wearing an orange jumpsuit, shackled in leg irons, handcuffs and a belly chain. I watched from a distance as Anne talked with him for about half an hour. Wearing her own shackles of lawyer/client privilege, she never told me what they talked about.

Later that night, I wrote Prairie Justice, a short story featuring Buck McDivit, a character that had suddenly invaded my mind. The story is about a crooked oilman and mirrors a real oilman responsible for the bankruptcy of the oil company Anne and I started from scratch. Most of the description in the story actually occurred.

Years have passed since I wrote Prairie Justice. Anne died three years after the Murrah bombing. I wrote Ghost of a Chance, my first Buck McDivit novel, some years later. It was published in 2005. The scar of the 1995 Oklahoma City Bombing has faded. Tears streamed down my face as I wrote this story. Buck McDivit is now a real person to me. The Murrah Building scar has faded, and people no longer sob during normal conversation. Maybe, but the bombing still rests like a red blotch on my soul, as I’m sure it does for everyone that experienced that sad day.

###

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He is the author of the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans and the Paranormal Cowboy Series. Please check it out on his Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Kobo and iBook author pages. You might also like to check out his website.

Summer Solstice Time Walk

Seasonal changes were sacred to the ancients and celebrated as holy days. In my book Blink of an Eye, P.I. Buck McDivit travels back 1000 years in time to Spiro, the once great center of the Mississippian people, to attend the Summer Solstice with more than 20,000 Native Americans. If you love history, adventure, and mystery, then take a magic carpet ride back a thousand years and prepare to see the New World as it was long before the white man arrived.

Chapter 12

Buck fumbled in the dark with the keys when he reached the front gate of Thorn’s property. She was asleep in the passenger seat and hadn’t moved since they’d left the Roadhouse. Pard and Maggie were raising a ruckus in the backyard as he unlocked the front door and turned on the porch light. Thorn was dead weight. He had to wrestle her onto the bed. As he pulled off her boots, Maggie and Pard watched, wagging their tails. Knowing how bad it felt to wake up with a hangover, he thought about removing her jeans and blouse. Instead, he covered her with a quilt, deciding he didn’t know her well enough. Turning out the lights, he went into the kitchen.

Maggie and Pard demanded attention. After popping the top on a cold beer he found in the refrigerator, he obliged them. They gobbled up a couple of dog treats, then returned to Maggie’s extra large doggie bed by the stove.

Turning off the lights, he went into Thorn’s cozy den. Pulling off his boots, he plopped on the old couch that sat in front of her pot-bellied stove.

“Good for you, Pard,” he said, glancing at the doggie bed. “At least one of us has a girlfriend to keep them warm tonight.”

A storm came up, with thunder rattling windows as rain drummed a cadence on Thorn’s tin roof. Lost in a dream world, Buck didn’t awaken. At least until a bright light shining in his eyes caused him to open them. When he did, he sat straight up on the couch, not believing what he saw.

Before him stood a beautiful woman, an aura of blue light radiating from her naked body. He first thought it was Thorn. Instead, it was someone he’d never expected to see again. His heart began racing inside his bare chest.

“Is it you, Esme, or am I dreaming?”

“Come to me and see,” she said.”

When he pressed against her and began smothering her with kisses, he knew she was real.

Esme was tall and graceful, her long hair and demanding eyes as dark as the storm raging outside the house. As he pressed against her soft breasts, a familiar rush coursed through his body. Just to make sure it was she, he turned her around. As he remembered, a rattlesnake tattoo highlighted the supple curve of her shoulder.

“It’s been two long years. Not a day has passed that I didn’t think about you,” he said. “Why did you go away?”

“I know it hurt you, Buck McDivit. I could not help it because I am from a different place and time.”

“What place, and what time?” he said.

“You will see. I will take you there. First, you must become as naked as I am.”

Buck’s jeans dropped to the floor. “I’m ready,” he said. “Where are we going?”

“To a place you’ve never imagined,” she said.

Esme held his hand as they passed through the locked door as if it weren’t there. The storm had grown stronger as rain poured down in sheets. Thunder rocked their steps, lightning sizzling across an angry sky.

Sharp stones from the gravel driveway didn’t hurt his feet. Though rain gushed off his head and shoulders, he was oblivious to it. Esme led him down the hill, their feet sinking into the mire as they reached a pond overflowing from the deluge. Lightning laced the darkness above them. He hesitated when she stepped into the roiling water.

“Come with me,” she said.

He continued to waver. “It’s dangerous.”

Pulling him toward her, she said, “Trust me.”

Neck deep in churning water, they embraced as lightning kissed the pond. It set off a kaleidoscope of radiating colors that made his head spin. When he opened his eyes, darkness was gone. So was the storm. Dancing rays of sunshine radiated through the cloudy sky. Birds soared overhead, and only friendly drops of rain rippled the water’s surface.

“We’ve crossed over,” she said.

“That was the wildest ride I’ve ever taken. What just happened?”

“You did this once before. You just don’t remember.”

“Did what?” he asked.

“Walked across time,” she said. “Brace yourself for culture shock because you are now in my world.”

They were in the river. Esme took his hand and led him out of the water to a teepee near its bank. The same teepee Esme lived in when he’d met her near the pagan village of Lykaia. When they pushed through the flap, he saw Beauty, Esme’s giant wolf dog. They moved toward one another, meeting in the middle, and were soon rolling on a deerskin rug.

“Where the hell have you been?” Buck said, giving her big neck a warm hug.

“She’s missed you, and so have I,” Esme said.

“You can’t imagine how much I’ve missed both of you.”

“Yes I can,” she said. “Let’s get you dressed. I have much to show you.”

Soon, Buck looked like a Mississippian warrior, Esme like a medicine woman. Beauty hadn’t left Buck’s side until Esme told her to stay and guard the teepee.

“She doesn’t like crowds,” she said.

Buck gave the large beast another hug and then followed Esme out the door. He could hardly believe the sights that began unfolding around them.

Dozens of canoes occupied the riverbank and more floated in the river. When they crested the natural levee, his jaw dropped. Wooden houses with thatched roofs stretched for as far as he could see. Indian women, naked from the waist up, were working small truck gardens. Men, returning from a hunt, carried a deer and a large turtle.

“They are preparing for the festival,” Esme said.

Buck was curious. “Festival?” he said.

“You’ll see.”

They were both resplendent in colorful paint and feathers. Esme seemed to know everyone and exchanged smiles and greetings as they passed. They soon reached a palisade. Behind the timbered walls, stately mounds, topped by wooden houses, jutted toward the sky. Activity outside the entrance to the palisade was heavy.

“It’s festival day,” she said. “Some of the people have traveled a thousand miles to be here.”

“Tell me about this festival.”

“Tomorrow is the first day of summer, the longest day of the year. For my people, it is one of our holiest days. Today is the eve of the summer solstice. Our chief will speak, and there will be a game of chunkey. Following the game, the bonfire is lit, and everyone feasts, chants, and dances until dawn.”

Buck had met Esme for the first time during a solstice celebration. He remembered because he’d been the only male present. He and several hundred naked pagan females had danced the night away in a solstice ceremony. When he’d met Esme, she’d been the spiritual leader of the pagan enclave known as Lykaia.

“Are we going to dance like we did when we first met?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I am the medicine woman. I must feast with our chief, the elders, and the emissaries from many other tribes. I have other plans for you.”

“What tribes?”

“Mississippians from all over, Aztecs and Mayans from Mexico, and Anasazi from Four Corners.”

“You must be kidding.”

“I assure you I’m not.”

They all wore their festival best. Pearls, shells, and colorful beads adorned the braids in many of the women’s long hair. Most of the men had painted faces and shaved heads with only a top knot. Colors of their costumes moved like a kaleidoscope in slow motion.

The palisade was on a hill. From their vantage, they could see the bend in the large river. Hundreds of canoes lined the bank, more still arriving. Everyone, it seemed, was smiling.

“How can so many tribes coexist?”

“Spiro, as you know it, is the religious hub of our universe. There can be no war, strife, or disagreement in this holy place, especially on the eve of the summer solstice. Well, except for chunkey,” she said.

The scene reminded him of the open marketplace in Santa Fe. This was similar but ten times larger. A myriad of color, noise, and excitement, and jewelry wasn’t the only thing for sale.

The aroma of fresh corn, squash, grapes, and a dozen other vegetables floated in a warm breeze. A big black dog that no one seemed to own sniffed his leg before disappearing into the crowd.

“This place is shoulder to shoulder,” he said. “Reminds me of the crowds at the state fair or an OU football game.”

“There are many thousands here today,” she said.

“Thorn would be in heaven,” he said.

“She descended from Mississippians.”

“I can’t imagine anyone loving their cultural history more than her.”

“She is a good person. Maybe too good for the likes of you.”

“What about for you?”

Esme’s smile disappeared. “We were never meant to be.”

“Star-crossed lovers?” he said, squeezing her hand.

“We must live in the moment. I have you now, at least for a short time, and there are many things I need to tell you.”

They strolled through the open-air market, marveling at the crafts. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, only a flock of gulls circling to land on a pond created by a bend in the river.

“It’s time to enter the palisade,” she said.

“I understand every word these people are saying. They can’t be speaking English.”

“You left your clothes and many other things in Oklahoma. While you are here, you are one of us.”

The high-timbered palisade surrounding the enclave was more spectacular than Thorn had described. A moat filled with water surrounded the tall timbers. Guards armed with spears left little doubt that no one entered except by invitation. He and Esme were on the list. They followed a circular maze until it opened into the ancient gated city of Spiro. The panorama blew him away.

“I visited the Archaeological Park yesterday. I had no idea it looked as spectacular as this.”

“The new world’s version of Camelot,” she said. “The game is starting. Would you like to see?”

In the distance, hundreds of spectators occupied a large arena where two teams were beginning to compete.

“It’s a half-mile away. It’ll be lunch before we get there,” he said.

“We don’t have to walk,” she said, snapping her fingers.

Four men appeared with a hand carriage, waiting until Esme and Buck had climbed aboard. Hoisting it to their shoulders, they began trekking toward the chunkey game. The rampant noise grew louder as they approached the arena, covered seating awaiting them. Play stopped as the players, and the crowd acknowledged Esme’s appearance.

“They treat you like a goddess,” Buck said.

She wasn’t smiling when she said, “To my people, I am a goddess.”

Forty people occupied covered seating opposite them. A man in bright paint sat in a cane throne decorated with wreaths of flowers and feathers. The throne rose high above everyone else in the box.

“He must be a bigwig,” he said.

“Walking Wolf is chief of the Mississippians. He’s without a doubt the most powerful person in North America.”

Walking Wolf’s throne was quite a distance away for a good look. Still, the regal old man seemed strangely familiar to Buck.

Chapter 13

Buck had attended many sporting events, both amateur and professional. He’d never seen one quite as loud and raucous as the chunkey match.

Eight contestants and a referee, surrounded by several thousand adoring fans, occupied the football-sized field. Dressed in breechcloths, the competitors had faces painted white with black eyes like raccoons. Both teams wore pillbox hats woven of straw. One of the men stood at least six feet six inches and towered over the others.

“That’s Talako,” Esme said. “He’s the captain of our team. We have never lost a game.”

“Impressive,” he said. “Who are they playing?”

“A team from a large Mississippian settlement called Cahokia. They have also never lost.”

“One of their dudes is almost as big as Talako,” Buck said. “How is the game played?”

“With short spears and a stone roller chiseled from quartz. Talako and the big man from the other team are the spears. They do all the throwing and most of the scoring. Each team has a disc roller, and two members call fronts that run interference. Only the disk rollers can touch the disk, and only the spears can throw them. The fronts use their spears for tripping and preventing the disk from going through the goal posts. That’s five points. You’ll get the gist once they start playing.”

One of the Cahokians had a six-inch stone disk with a hole in the middle. Taking a stance like a pro bowler, he rolled it toward the opposite goal. The referee waited until the disk had traveled about twenty feet and waved his hand. Talako and the big man from the Cahokia team launched their spears. When the disk stopped, a ref ran onto the field, picked up the closest spear to the disk, and held up a finger.

“One point,” Esme said. “The first team to reach twelve points wins.”

“What’s the significance of the hole in the disk?” Buck asked.

“If a spear penetrates the hole, then the game is over. The team that makes the toss is the winner.”

“Seems unlikely for that to happen.”

“Almost never,” she said.

Eight men ran toward the disk when the ref waved his hand again. The melee that followed resembled hand-to-hand combat. Both teams pushed and shoved, the fronts doing their best to break their opponent’s legs. A Cahokian retrieved the disk and launched it toward the goal. The scrum continued, both teams fighting for position and scoring a few points. The crowd had grown inflamed.

“There’s massive betting going on in the stands,” she said. “Much property will change hands because of this match.”

“Most everyone’s rooting for our team,” Buck said.

“Not all. There’s a large contingent of Cahokians here to watch the game.”

Talako’s spear landed within inches of the disk, the crowd standing and yelling. When the ref waved his hand, the two Cahokian fronts took Talako’s legs out from under him. When they did, the big spear kicked him in the side.

“Damn! That looked like a foul to me. Those boys are serious. They don’t have a penalty box in this game?”

“Chunkey emulates combat. Bones are often broken. The crowd expects the team to play through their pain.”

“Brutal. Sort of like pro football. How long till the ref calls a break?”

Esme shook her head. “They’ll battle until they drop, or the game is over. There are no quarters.”

“And the reward?” he asked.

“Life, the losers killed and their scalps displayed on the winner’s belts.”

“You gotta be kidding me,” he said.

“If the visiting team wins, our chief will pardon them because this is a religious holiday. If our team loses, they will lose their heads.”

“Doesn’t look like they’re in any danger of that. They’re ahead by six points.”

“I pray not,” Esme said. “Talako is Walking Wolf’s only grandson, and the greatest warrior our tribe has.”

“Your chief wouldn’t allow his own flesh and blood to have his head chopped off.”

“Not only allow it, he would proclaim it so. He would have no choice,” she said.

“You seem distressed. You okay?”

“These games always frighten me.”

“You want to leave?”

“I can’t,” she said.

“Something you aren’t telling me?”

“Walking Wolf and I are time walkers, inherited only when both parents are also walkers. The only other walker in the tribe is Talako.”

Buck stared at her anxious expression, trying to decipher what she had just told him.

“So you and Talako are . . . ?”

“Betrothed,” she said. “We must marry and have a child.”

She squeezed his hand, her eyes begging for understanding.

“I had hoped we were going to do more than just hold hands tonight.”

“I am so sorry. That is not possible,” she said.

“Do you love him?”

“As much as I love you.”

“Then I guess it’s okay,” he said.

When they returned their attention to the game, they saw that the Spiro team had drawn within a point of winning. The Cahokian roller gave the disk a great heave, the crowd waiting until the referee waved his hand. As he did, Talako and the big Cahokian launched their spears. The disk hit a bump and fell on its side as Talako’s spear sailed over it.

When the Cahokian’s spear began its descent, every spectator in the arena sensed what was about to happen. As the missile landed in the hole in the disk, the crowd grew deathly silent. The chief came down from his cane throne, motioning Talako to approach him. Esme’s face turned bright red as she squeezed Buck’s hand.

“I can’t believe this,” he said.

“If he can break Talako’s spear, then it is a sign that the Great Spirit wishes him to die. Walking Wolf will have to take his head.”

Buck stood. “I’ll stop it,” he said.

Esme pulled him back into his seat. “No. If the spear breaks, then it is ordained.”

Talako’s head hung low as he knelt in front of his grandfather and handed him his spear. Removing a serrated stone dagger from his ceremonial belt, Walking Wolfe drove it into the earth. Then he raised the spear over his head and did a slow turn so that everyone in the stands could see.

Esme let go of Buck’s hand, her tears flowing and the veins in her neck bulging. She clenched her hands, almost as if she also had hold of the spear.

Though smaller than his grandson, Walking Wolf looked anything except weak. Buck could see he was preparing to break the spear and had little doubt that he could complete the task. As the rapt crowd watched in silence, his muscles strained, his face turning red. Buck and everyone else expected the spear to snap at any second.

Despite his efforts, the spear never even bowed. Finally, the anger imprinted on his face disappeared, replaced with a smile. He turned again to the crowd.

“This spear is unbreakable. Would anyone care to try?” He walked around the arena, offering it to anybody that might accept it. No one did, not even the contingency from Cahokia. “Then the Great Spirit has spoken,” he said. “I deem this contest a draw.”

Cheers erupted from the crowd as Chief Walking Wolf returned the spear to Talako. Buck glanced at Esme, her hands still clenched and tears streaming down her face. He took her hands and uncoiled her fingers. Two deep red welts occupied her palms. He began massaging them.

“You saved him, didn’t you?” he said.

Her breathing labored, she answered. “It took every ounce of power I have. I couldn’t let him die.”

People began filing out of the arena as Esme regained her composure.

“What now?” he asked.

“A meeting with Walking Wolf. You are about to learn why we brought you here.”

###

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the Oyster Bay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You can also check out his Facebook page.