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their backs.
    Du Pré ached looking at them.
    The drums went faster, the singers ululated.
    “Thanks, Du Pré,” said Madelaine.
    “Uh,” said Du Pré. “There is this seven hundred dollars there I don’t know I got.”
    “Oh, how is that?” said Madelaine. “One of your women you fucking tip you, you were so good one night?”
    “No,” said Du Pré. “One I am fucking put it in my wallet, though.”
    “Well,” said Madelaine. “Maybe, who knows.”
    Du Pré laughed.
    There was food being served in the cafeteria. They went in. There were pots of buffalo stew and fry bread and chokecherry syrup. Cost two dollars. They took their food to a table and Du Pré went to buy some soft drinks.
    “They don’t got pink wine,” said Du Pré, setting down the paper cups.
    “No shit they don’t,” said Madelaine. “They don’t allow no alcohol at all here. Too much trouble.”
    “I got whiskey in my truck,” said Du Pré.
    “They find it they beat the shit out of you,” said Madelaine.
    Some of the young men, who were the security people, came in, and they looked pretty tough.
    “Probably,” said Du Pré.
    “Well,” said Madelaine. “There are some of your Turtle Mountain people.”
    Du Pré glanced over. He waved at the Turtle Mountain people, in their bright red shirts and cowboy hats and boots.
    “We play some tonight,” said Du Pré.
    It started to rain outside, sudden slashing rain with a lot of wind. The sheet of glass in the windows flexed and shimmered.
    The buffalo stew didn’t have enough salt in it. Du Pré got up and he went to get some.
    He found some little packets of salt. He took ten.
    He went back. Madelaine was looking at her new bracelet.
    “It is very pretty,” he said.
    “Yes,” said Madelaine. “Me, I like this.”
    They ate their food. Pretty bland. Du Pré wished he had some pepper sauce.
    “You want to smoke,” said Madelaine, “you will have to go outside. Me, I will go and look around, these other traders.”
    Du Pré laughed.
    “You want money?” he said.
    Madelaine shook her head. “I got my nice thing,” she said. “You go and smoke.”
    Du Pré carried the used bowls and plates and plastic forks to a trash can and he dumped them in. Madelaine grinned at him and she went off down a side hall rowed both sides with tables.
    Du Pré made his way out front. The sidewalk was thick with cigarette butts.
    The rain had stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The sun was shining down in golden shafts through the black clouds. The air was fresh and smelled of lightning.
    Du Pré rolled a cigarette and he lit it and he drew the smoke deep into his lungs. He blew out a long blue-gray stream. He sighed. It tasted good.
    Knots of people stood around, smoking and chatting. Little kids shrieked and ran and jumped. Their parents were inside, shrieking and running and jumping, some of them anyway.
    Young bloods in ribbon shirts with fancy hairdos announced their tribe by their clothes and paints and bad attitudes of young warriors.
    Du Pré snorted. Backbone of the tribe is the women, they give life, strength of the tribe is the warriors, their humility.
    These boys, they got some to go, Du Pré thought. Spend a little less time, front of the mirror, little more time helping the old people.
    Du Pré glanced off at a little copse of blue spruce in the middle of the lawn. There was a sculpture made of stainless steel to one side.
    An old man dressed in ragged clothes was leaning against the sculpture.
    It was Benetsee.
    “Damn,” said Du Pré. He threw his cigarette on the ground and he began to walk toward the old man.
    “Hey!” Du Pré yelled.
    Benetsee moved. He was shuffling, fast enough, toward the little stand of spruces.
    Du Pré got to the lawn and he started to run.
    Benetsee went behind the trees.
    Du Pré cursed.
    He ran flat out, his cowboy boots slipping at each stride with a jerk, leather soles on wet grass.
    Du Pré tried to turn and his feet shot out from under him