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crowd into some sort of retribution (for which he was an obvious target!). He glanced around to see if he needed to make a quick exit, but the Tumbleweed clientele, whose patriotism was circumstantial and tied to their sense of Manifest Destiny and righteousness, were content that the powers that be had sufficiently whipped and contained the natives.
Clem returned from the backroom and slid a bow on the bar, and Smoke stared at it as he drained his drink. He tried to remember the last time he’d shot a bow—had he shot a bow? Traditional weaponry had not been allowed at the mission school, and he hadn’t had much reason to take one up in the years since—he used his rifle for hunting. Smoke fingered the weapon and felt a ripple of pride—it was beautiful, the weapon of his people, of course he could shoot it. He picked it up. The bow was made of scrub oak coated with glue, most likely from the hooves and tendons of buffalo. The arrows were long and straight from chokecherry, with the split feather of a hawk for fletching glued to the butt end. The craftsmanship made him about burst with pride. He ran his hand over the flint tip
“Outside,” Clem said.
“In the very streets of Mondak!” Wendell shouted, swinging his arms and nearly pulling himself over by the momentum. At first, no one paid him much mind. He raised his fist and shouted, and some other men shouted, and it was good fun.
“Goddamn it people!” Wendell shouted. “I’m about to look into the eyes of Death.”
“Death doesn’t want anything to do with you,” someone jeered, and Wendell chuckled, appreciating a good smartass.
“You won’t want to miss it,” Wendell pointed to the middle-aged cowboy and then to a young fellow from the work camp.