Blood & Tacos #3 (13 page)

A light breeze gathered the thick cloud of marijuana smoke and floated it directly into the path of a mother and her three children. The woman wrinkled her nose and cast a dark glance up the rising slope that ended in the shade of an immense cottonwood. Her expression paled at the sight of the men sprawled there, and she put her hands on the backs of her two smaller children to hustle them forward. She hissed several words to her teen daughter, who loitered several paces behind with a smile threatening her lips. The girl rolled her eyes then quickened her pace in her mother’s wake.

The gang of Gravemakers, seven men and two women, who rested in the shade passing joints and sharing a fifth of Jack Daniels, laughed and jeered. They were a rowdy bunch, aware and reveling in the discomfort their presence evoked in the more wholesome people forced to pass by them on their way to cool off in Frenchtown Pond. It was a community place, on the edge of a small town, just off I-90. Like the locals, these scruffy motorcycle outlaws were here to escape the heat of summer-come-early in western Montana. But unlike the folk splashing at the shores of the small pond in shorts and swimsuits, the bikers made few concessions to the heat when it came to their attire. All wore boots and jeans, men and women alike; some even covered their denim with leather chaps. A couple were shirtless, though most wore T-shirts or stained muscle shirts. They all wore leather vests emblazoned with the red, gold, and black colors of the Gravemakers MC, with their almost comical pistol- and machete-wielding skeleton mascot in an oversized sombrero at the center.

No one dared laugh in passing, however. Only the ignorant or the young even glanced.

If not for the marijuana, it’s likely the stench of their sunburned and unwashed bodies, soured by sweat, oil, and gasoline, would have been the primary assault against the summer air. Still, the reek was not unnoticed.

“Do you never wash,” a quiet voice said, “or did the back alley whores who squeezed you out into the gutter not teach you such things?”

As one, the bikers turned their heads to face the speaker. He was tall, dressed not unlike them in cowboy boots and jeans, and shirtless beneath a vest. His vest was of deer hide, however, with fringe around the bottom seam. Where Gravemaker skin was sunburned and lined, bristling with hair, his was copper and smooth. His long hair, so black as to shimmer blue in the sunlight, floated like a halo in the kiss of wind around him. He crossed his arms over the single bear claw that hung from a cord around his neck, the movement sending ripples of muscles up and down his biceps.

A large silver belt buckle at the front of his jeans was etched in swirling script: Native Pride.

The Gravemakers’ faces froze, incredulous; joints half drawn upon, whiskey in mid-guzzle, laughter dying before it could pass gapped teeth.

The speaker laughed. “Do not look so surprised,” he said. He glanced to the left of the bikers, where their hogs, menacing even at rest, were parked, to a young Indian woman cowering under the watchful eye of another woman in Gravemaker colors. “After all, you cannot expect to take one that belongs with the People and not expect retribution.”

The gang staggered to their feet. One of the Gravemakers took two slow paces forward. He was not tall, but powerfully built; almost rectangular in shape. His hair, streaked with gray, was pulled into a single braid that trailed down his back. Pale, illegible tattoos in greenish-blue etched his chest and arms like a highway map. He spit, only half of the output making it through the patch of beard and mustache that ringed his mouth.

“And just who the fuck are you?” the biker said. “You look like Tonto, but I don’t see no fuckin’ Lone Ranger.”

The Indian smiled, waiting for the laughter from the biker gang to subside. “My name is Blood.”

“Blood? Is that supposed to scare me? ’Cuz it don’t.”

“It is nothing more than my name.”

“Maybe I’ll call you Buck instead.” More laughter from his companions.

Blood shrugged, his gaze narrowing.

The Gravemaker produced a switchblade from his pocket and flicked it open, the blade glittering in the sunlight. “Well, Buck, you should know, we Gravemakers take what we want, when we want.” A murmur of assent echoed his statement as the bikers produced a clatter of weapons: an assortment from blades to blackjacks to chains.

Blood didn’t waver. “Not from the reservation you do not,” he said.

“You ain’t on the rez no more, Chief.”

The Indian uncrossed his arms and squeezed his hands into fists. Veins bulged, sinews popped. “North America is my reservation.”

With a yell the leader of the Gravemakers hurled his body knife-first at Blood.

Dancing aside as if his Tony Lamas were bare feet, Blood avoided the clumsy charge and with a “Hiiii-YAH!” struck a thunderous blow with his elbow against the back of the biker’s neck. The man skidded face first across the weed-choked ground, the toes of his boots leaving twin trails in the dirt.

With whoops and screams the remaining bikers engaged the Indian; a stomped-up cloud of dust soon obscured the action.

Blood was a cyclone of fury, a dust devil of destruction beyond the abilities of the gang of simple brawlers. He exceeded anything they had faced or even seen before. Their lack of organization worked against them in their first rush to attack, and Blood took full advantage of it. His fists and elbows struck like hammers, his knees and feet like cinderblocks. He eschewed picking up any of the more lethal weapons being wielded against him, even though he had ample opportunity to do so. In fact, a large knife was sheathed at his back, though his grip never strayed to its carved-antler hilt.

In moments it was over. The bikers littered the ground surrounding the tree, men and women alike, moaning in pain or unconscious. Streams of gory red seeped from noses, lips and foreheads, and several limbs were bent at unnatural angles.

The Indian called Blood stood a moment, his hair streaming behind him, chest heaving, sweat glistening, surveying the battleground. Satisfied, he turned and strode to the young Indian woman who now stood near the motorcycles. She watched him approach with wide eyes and quickening breath. Her face spoke of youth while her body, in hip-hugging bell-bottom jeans and a denim halter top, declared her woman.

Blood gently took her chin between his fingers. He turned her face—angular, beautiful—from side to side to check for damage. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

“I am not injured,” she said.

“Did they …?”

“They did not,” she said. “They said something about a party tonight, though. That … that I should be ready.”

Blood nodded, rested his hand on her shoulder, and then pointed toward the parking lot thirty yards distant. “You’ll see my truck there. Wait for me.”

At each motorcycle Blood gripped any wires he could and yanked them free, immobilizing the gang’s means of transportation. He then moved through the fallen bikers and searched their bodies, throwing small handfuls of marijuana and pills into piles all around them and tossing aside weapons. He faced the growing crowd of people who had left the shores of the pond to bear witness to the mayhem. One boy began to clap, then a girl, and finally the adults joined in. Cheers followed.

Blood held up his hand but did not smile. “These bikers are criminals!” he said as the applause died away. “And they will not be down long. Whoever has the fastest car, or lives nearest, should go and call the police. There are enough drugs here to have them all in jail.”

“I’ll do it!” a man said. With a serious look on his face he ran toward the parking lot.

Blood turned and saw that the woman he had saved had not followed his instructions. Instead she stood over the biker leader, staring down with an angry look in her eyes. The man sputtered at Blood through gritted teeth. “You’re dead, Buck. You’re one dead fuckin’ Injun!”

For the first time Blood drew his knife, then kneeled beside the biker. He held its point just before the man’s eye, dangerously close to piercing the orb. “Remember my face, white man,” he said. “And make sure you describe it well to your friends. Because if I see any of you again, there will be war. See me first and run. You may live.” He grabbed the man’s ponytail and then with a jerk of the hair and a sweep of the blade cut it free. Finally Blood reversed the angle of the blade and struck a heavy blow with the hilt against the biker’s temple, knocking him back to unconsciousness.

Blood stood. The girl looked at him with wonder. “I have heard about you, Blood,” she said. “I would have thought you’d kill him. I would have thought you’d kill all of them.”

Blood looked away. He looked at the victims of his wrath, then at the faces of the crowd still watching him with admiration and fear. He turned his dark eyes back to the young woman. “On another day, yes, they would pay with their lives. But not today.” Sirens kicked up in the distance.

“I would kill them,” she said.

“Not here,” Blood said. “This is a place for families.”

Blood pulled his battered red ’64 Ford pickup off at the truck stop at the intersection of I-90 and Highway 93. From there it was only a short drive to the southern border of the reservation. The girl went to the restroom to wash her face and hands. Blood bought a foam cooler, a bag of ice, a 12-pack of RC Cola, and two Snickers bars. He stood outside waiting for her, leaning against the bed of his truck, sucking down an RC and munching one of the candy bars.

He turned the can in his hand. It was some special edition. MLB All Stars. Rod Carew, Minnesota Twins.

Blood knew there were still many proud, brave Indians in Minnesota.

The sun was angled slightly to the west. The rays beat against the asphalt until it softened, the heat reflecting off its surface. Blood closed his eyes, feeling the heat of the truck’s metal against his back, then the trickle of sweat that traced the length of his spine until it gathered at his belt line.

Traffic on the highway was a steady rush and rumble. A trucker rode his jake brake as he slowed, then turned into the lot, sputtering toward the diesel pumps, the noise more like a train than anything else.

When Blood opened his eyes the girl was approaching. She’d pulled her hair back and tied it in a loose braid. Her face was clean and fresh, her eyes large and dark. The girl was more young than woman, but Blood could appreciate the curve of her hips, the budding fullness of her chest. She came close and stopped in front of him. Blood offered her a Snickers. She peeled the wrapper halfway off, her eyes never leaving his face, then slowly eased the bar into her mouth and bit off a chunk. More sweat burst from the pores all over Blood’s body as she licked a smear of chocolate that had caught on her lip. He turned to hide the flush of his face and dug into the cooler for another soda. He glanced at it, then handed it to her.

“It is a George Brett.” He looked away, embarrassed. “I got a Rod Carew.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“We should get going,” Blood said. “I have a safe place I can take you.”

The two climbed back into the truck. Blood ground the gears pulling back onto 93, then turned north up the long climb that topped out at the reservation boundary.

“How did you even know about me?” the girl said, her arm out the window, her hand held into the wind so that the speed of their passage forced it up and down, up and down. “That those bikers had taken me, I mean.”

“I have eyes all over the reservation,” Blood said.

“More like mouths.”

“Mouths?” Blood said, glancing in her direction.

“Yes, my big-mouthed aunt. She works for The Colonel.”

“You should not talk about her like that,” he said. “If not for her, you would likely be dead.” He stared directly at her. “Or worse.”

Minutes passed in silence but for the wind blowing through the open windows, the big tires whining over the highway. “They are planning something,” she said. “Something big. Something to do with the powwow.”

“That starts in two days. How do you know this?” Blood said.

“I heard the bikers talking about it. They made some kind of deal with The Colonel.”

Blood frowned. His face flushed dark. “I knew it would come to this. It is time I had a smoke with The Colonel.”

“I will help you.”

Blood shook his head. “You are brave, Daniela, but such is not for you.”

The girl laughed.

“Did I say something funny?” Blood said.

“No one calls me that.”

“Calls you what?”

“Daniela.”

“What do they call you?”

She moved closer and leaned into Blood’s ear, her lips barely touching the lobe as she said, “Sweetgrass.”