Sweat streamed into Johnny's eyes, burning. He stood bent over, his hands on his knees gasping for breath. He looked straight up into Cody's smug face.

Come on City Boy, Cody thought. He had pinned up his braids for the game, but the thin scalplock, braided from the short hair on the top of his head, had worked loose and was dangling in his eyes. Panting he brushed it away. "You play white man's basketball," he jeered diving past Gage. The tall and impossibly thin Emerson Shangeau, the engineer for Pine Ridge 1, passed the ball to White. He dribbled.

John crowded close, blocking and watching for an opening. It came. He snatched the ball, pivoted, and raced down the court. Cody pounded after him. Gage leapt, shooting, but Cody jumped too. His momentum carried them both to the ground. Johnny fell at the bottom of the tangle, the rough asphalt of the school yard basketball court scraping his elbow. This was the fourth time they had gone down. Johnny rolled over, groaning softly as he flexed his arm. I'm going to be a mass of bruises, he thought, sourly. I hope I cushioned Cody's fall.

"Sorry, City Boy," said Cody sarcastically. "I can treat that for you, if you'd like."

"No thanks," hissed Johnny getting to his feet. You little shit, he added silently. He ran down the court trying to get in the open for a pass.

Roy sat in the grass next to the sidelines watching. It was hometown firefighters vs. visiting paramedics. The game was fast, wild and a little out of control. Johnny is going to be tomorrow's lesson, at the rate things are going.

"Hello."

Roy looked up. Andrea was standing next to him, shading her eyes. God, she is beautiful, he thought. "Hi," he said scrambling to his feet.

Andrea sank gracefully to her knees. "Who's winning?" she asked.

"The local firefighters and paramedics. Fortunately for our victims, my partner is a better paramedic than he is a basketball player." He seated himself next to Andrea. "The only one on the visiting team that is scoring is Judy TallTimber," laughed Roy. "And the bruised male egos out there quit passing to her twenty minutes ago."

Andrea laughed, settling back for a better view. Her movement brought her closer to him.

On the court, Johnny got the ball. His sore arm hampered his movement. He spotted an opening and passed to Judy. She jumped and the ball flew into the basket. "Way to go," he shouted clapping and backpedaling toward the other basket.

Roy turned to Andrea. "That makes it 15 - 29 -- a massacre." He watched her watching the game. She was sitting with her legs so close he could feel her body heat radiating through his jeans. He shifted, trying to distract himself.

"You're not playing."

"No, somehow I didn't feel welcome."

"Yeah, well if welcome is what Johnny is feeling..." she broke off, laughing.

"What Johnny is currently feeling is pain," chuckled Roy.

"How did you know the game was happening?" she asked.

"Some of my students told me."

"Roy, they were inviting you to play." Andrea fell silent for a minute remembering all the imagined slights and snubs before she understood this. "If you were not invited, no one would have told you about the game."

Roy mouthed a silent 'Oh'.

For a few minutes, Andrea sat quietly watching the game. The sunlight imparted a soft glow to her olive skin. "Roy, some of us are going into Rapid -- Rapid City -- this weekend. You know, to get a good meal, a couple of drinks and do some dancing. Want to come?"

"Yes."

*******

"TGIF," whispered Roy, dropped the eraser into the chalk tray and wiped his fingers on his pant leg. Slapping at chalk dust on the leg of his pants, he turned closing his lecture notes. He slipped his notebook into the briefcase Joanne had given him when he passed his instructor certification exam. 'A teacher needs a place for his papers,' she had said kissing him. In an hour he and Johnny would trade groups of students and he would give the same lecture to his afternoon class. Outside the prefab classroom he could hear his students talking while eating lunch. He pulled a brown paper bag containing a couple of peanut butter sandwiches and an apple from his case.

Blinking in the bright sunlight, Roy climbed down the wooden stairs. He made a quick scan of the surrounding grounds. Several of his students sat at a worn picnic table gossiping and laughing in Lakhota. Whoever thought Indians were stoics never meet this lot, he thought. Johnny isn't here. Not that Roy was surprised. Some cousin or other of Johnny's worked in the tribal college offices and had introduced him to some of her friends. Roy suspected Johnny was, as the local vernacular put it, 'snagging' during lunch rather than eating. He selected a nice grassy patch away from the parking lot and sat down.

"Teacher," said Ted Elk Boy walking up beside him.

Roy gestured to a spot on the grass. "Please, join me." He ripped one of his sandwiches in half and offered it to Ted. As Ted accepted, Roy started to ask what he wanted. Instead, he choked back the words.

Ted swallowed a smile with the sandwich. Believe it or not, I know how you feel, he thought. I felt that way through two tours in Viet'nam. Between Cody trying to single handedly drive John Gage off the rez and poor Roy's loneliness and confusion, he really was beginning to feel sorry for these two. Neither one was anywhere near as bad as some of the people who came to the rez to 'solve the Indian problem.' After all, Roy had come without dreamcatchers, ponytails, or a condescending east-coast liberal attitude. Best of all no Cherokee princess great-grandmother. He's working with us not for us. He pointed with his chin to Roy's wedding ring and asked, "You have kids?"

"Two," answered Roy. He set his partially eaten apple on top of his lunch bag and reached into his pocket pulling out his wallet. He passed a picture of his kids and Joanne to Ted. "Chris, Jennifer and my wife Joanne."

"Nice looking family," he said taking out his wallet and handing a picture of his family to Roy.

Roy looked at the two boys wearing baseball caps and braids, a girl in a pink shirt with the too widely spaced eyes of fetal alcohol syndrome and a heavyset woman with curly hair and a merry smile.

"Emmet," said Ted pointing to the taller of the two boys, "And Ronnie." He touched the little girl's picture. "Our foster daughter Jodi and my wife Lucy."

"Nice family," said Roy handing back the picture.

Ted took a last look at Roy's family before returning the photo. "You must miss them."

"Terribly," said Roy.

"If you feel the need step over toys on the floor or listen to kids fight over the TV, feel free to stop by." He smiled his eyes twinkling. "Besides, my kids are dying to know if you've rescued any movie stars."

He chuckled. As Ted stood up stretching, Roy said, "Ted, Thanks.... For -- well -- making me feel like I'm not the enemy." Let's hope you didn't just put your foot so far into your mouth that you're going to get athlete's tonsils, he thought.

Ted's expression became wry. "Reaching past history and racism is hard -- for both sides."

*******

Johnny wandered down the bleached concrete drive in front of Pine Ridge Fire and Rescue 1. A hot sluggish breeze carried the sound of children playing. Weekends here bring new meaning to slow. I'd take a good home improvement or weekend warrior rescue right about now. The July sun and the humid air were pressing down upon him. In the cool, shadowed interior of the vehicle bay he could see Cody and Ted squatting on the floor performing a routine equipment check. So much for the theory that it might be Cody's day off, thought Gage. He stepped through the bay door, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dimness and taking a deep breath of the familiar smell of smoke and gasoline. The smell is the only thing homey about this place, he thought, as his clearing vision allowed him an ever sharpening view of Cody White's cool, indeed, distinctly unfriendly gaze. Ted continued to count IV setups seemingly ignoring both of them, although Johnny could sense he was listening carefully. He turned from his two students to examine the engine, an old Pirsch pumper.

"I worked on one of these when I started in the department," began Johnny, in his best 'let's be friends' voice. Behind him Cody tipped his head, watching Johnny out of the corner of his eyes. "Station 10. A great house, with a pole...," his voice trailed off.

"We tried the ol' horse and travois fire engine, City Boy, but it kept throwing our engineer," said Cody sarcastically.

He sensed more than heard Ted's soft snort of agreement. Smart ass, thought John. He turned slowly back to face the men and met Cody's eyes. "Out of the classroom and off the record, what's your problem?" he demanded.

Elk Boy pivoted smoothly on the balls of his feet to face Johnny. "You interfered with his snagging all those Ojibway girls."

"Huh?" said Johnny.

"You," interrupted Cody, standing up. "You and all the other mixed-bloods who come back here from your cozy wasicu cities and lives, acting like you're the answer to all our problems." He stood up his face flushed with rage. "You come in your fancy cars, with your new clothes and designer dogs to torment us. Look around," he said waving out the open door, "Do you really think we need a reminder of everything we don't have."

"Hey, now just wait a minute," started Johnny.

"You guys never admit your fair skin is an advantage," he said, cutting off Johnny. "You got all the Indian jobs, all the scholarships, you name it because you're safe and non-threatening to the white's." Cody sighed turning his back on Johnny. "Well, at least leave us our pain...."

Johnny looked up the dusty street at the worn out cars and the old men in sweat stained feedbill caps sitting on a crumbling brick wall. "It's not like that," he stammered. "I grew up here, I know the score."

"Knew the score."

Ted nodded.

Cody stalked out of the vehicle bay. "Maybe, you should try livin' your people's fight," he called back.

Johnny looked at Ted.

Ted shrugged, bowing his head and pursing his lips. "He's got a point." He turned his attention to the drug box on the floor in front of him.

Johnny sighed, leaning against the ambulance. He rested his head against the metal, closing his eyes and remembering.

*******

Johnny pulled his knees up to his chest curling in a ball to protect his stomach. The chalky yellow brick of the Odeon theater wall rubbed against his back while old soft drink and popcorn containers littering the alley blew against him. Roosevelt Short Bull's even brown fist slammed into his mouth again, splitting his lip. The salty blood from his lip mingled with that from his nose, soaking rapidly into the dry ground. He couldn't remember a time when Roosevelt's fist hadn't comprised his entire universe. Over the roaring in his ears, he heard Clement Brewster cheering Roosevelt on. He's just glad it's not his turn to be on the receiving end of this post-John Wayne and Sal Mineo double feature, thought Johnny.

Suddenly, Roosevelt was flying through the air, spinning into the dust. He scrambled to his feet and raced down the alley. Clement followed and the gravel pelted from his torn black Ked's rattled in the weeds around Johnny's prone form. The cavalry, he thought spitting a mouthful of blood onto the ground. The Duke come to rescue me.

But it wasn't John Wayne. His cousin Dwayne stood hands on his hips looking down at Johnny. "You OK?" he asked.

"Yeah," he mumbled past his fast swelling lips.

Dwayne reached down offering his hand. "Come on the bus is waiting." He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Johnny. "Clean up your face. Father Dave sees that and we'll get a week's worth of Hail Marys." He turned and headed out of the alley toward the street.

Johnny slowly followed. Waiting in front of the theater was an ancient school bus, its once yellow paint faded to a pale beige. Behind the wheel sat a young man in Jesuits' robes. As Johnny climbed aboard he remembered Roosevelt's eyes - cold obsidian chips of rage. Even at ten he understood that rage, he felt it flowing like a terrible mourning song wailing over the land. It rose from the dust of 150 million victims of a 400 year war and soaked into the water in the creeks and wells. He saw it in the twisted rusting hulks of cars, the bruised legs of women, the green glittering fragments of Thunderbird wine bottles, the graves of suicides, and the school yard fights.

*******

The bebop sounded. Johnny jumped adrenaline surging. He stifled the reflexive rush to respond. Instead he stepped clear of the ambulance. Woah, Gage, he thought, not your call.

"Child choking, #7 Watertower Rd, Oglala," called dispatch.

Cody raced through the bay door and jumped into the driver's seat. He started the engine while Ted acknowledged the call. Holding the slip of paper with the address, he pulled open the passenger door. Ted paused for half a second, appraising Johnny. I'll clear it with the captain later, he thought. "Coming, City Boy?" he asked.'

Johnny scrambled into the cab fastening his seat belt. "Yeah."

Elk Boy piled in after Johnny. He leaned forward looking past him at Cody. "Number 7 is the Walking Crane place, ennit?"

"Yes," replied Cody turning on the siren and pulling out on to Hwy. 18.

Gage braced himself against the dash as they swerved into the opposite lane to avoid an elderly pickup, which was slow in pulling onto the shoulder. What ever else you might say about him, thought Johnny, he can drive. The speedometer was pushing seventy-five on the straight sections of road. I didn't think you could get one of these going this fast. The road curved up out of the draw and the shoulder widened. A stained white water tower appeared on the crest of the hill. Cody braked and turned onto a freshly graded dirt road.

The ambulance rolled to a stop in front of a cookie cutter HUD project house. Cody and Ted jumped out and began retrieving their equipment from the back. He grabbed the O2 bottle and the defibrillator, trotting after them. A pus-yellow dog, so scrawny and starved that he made Johnny worry for the safety of the small children playing in the yard, growled at them as they passed.

Johnny burst through the door. A teenage boy writhed on the floor, his shirt and face stained with vomit, blood and mucus. His blue lips moved in agony. A pair of terrified teenage girls stood into corner of the living room, their eyes fixed on their friend. Ted knelt next to him and grabbed an airway from one the boxes. Johnny dropped to his knees beside them and helped hold the kid still. "Take it easy we're going to help you." He looked up at the girls. "What's his name?" asked Johnny.

One girl stared at Johnny silently. "Jason," the other replied.

"Jason, this will help you breathe." Johnny adjusted his grip on Jason's shoulders, his struggles were become less violent. The kid's mouth was a mass of rapidly swelling burns, that kept filling with secretions. What the hell happened to him, he thought.

"What happened?" Johnny asked.

The girl glared at her friend in the corner who had answered Johnny earlier and then looked back at him. "Wasicu iwaya sni."

Fortunately she used one of the few phrases he remembered. Yeah, right, he thought. You don't speak English and I'm Santa Claus.

Meanwhile, Ted was struggling to keep the boy's mouth suctioned so he could insert the airway. Finally he was able to slip it into place. "Airway is in." he announced to Cody as Johnny attached the O2 to airway. Ted began taking Jason's vitals.

Cody picked up the radiotelephone transmitter. "Base, this is rescue 1. How do you read me?"

"Loud and clear. Go ahead rescue 1," crackled the radio.

"We have a 15 to 16 year old male with burns of the mouth and throat." Cody began the familiar litany of a condition report.

"I think he was engaged in creative substance abuse," said Elk Boy.

"Montana gin?" asked Cody.

"Probably." Ted bent down to listen to the boy's lungs. "Bilateral ronchi, I think he aspirated," he said pulling the stethoscope from his ears. Despite the oxygen, the teen's color was not improving. "He is still cyanotic." His respirations were shallow and very labored. Ted turned to the pair standing in the corner. "Lysol?" he asked.

The young woman Ted addressed, her eyes wide with terror, shot another rapid glance at Johnny. She shuffled nervously shifting the position of her hands, which she held behind her back. She looked away from Ted and Johnny, staring down at the floor.

Lysol?! thought Johnny, looking down at the kid's face. The boy's struggles had stopped and he lay ominously still beneath his hands. He placed his hand on the boy's chest. "Respiratory arrest," he exclaimed grabbing the ambu bag.

Finally, the girl whispered an agonized confirmation. "Han," she said pulling the bottle from behind her back. Ted pulled the bottle from her hands.

Cody dropped the radio and grabbed a plastic pitcher from a nearby table. He sniffed the contents and nodded to Ted. "Kastan yo!" he exploded. He glared at the girl, her outstretched hands frozen in front of her. "Kastan yo!" he repeated, shoving the pitcher into her hands and pointing toward the sink.

She scurried into the kitchen. Johnny heard the splash of liquid hitting the enamel. The odor of the disinfectant mixed with the smell of vomit and denaturing blood. He gagged. "He drank Lysol?" he gasped. "On purpose?"

Cody nodded. "Base station, an informant at the scene says he drank Lysol."

"10-4, Rescue 1. Begin IV D5W..." Cody scribbled the doctor orders in a series of quick shorthand codes.

While Cody and Ted started the IV and administered medications trying to stabilize the boy, Johnny closed his eyes momentarily blocking the ugliness of the scene from view. But, the smell kept bring him back. He lifted his head and opened his eyes. The three plastic cups sitting in a row on the table filled his view. These kids were about to share a cup of death. From beneath the table, a toddler stared at him with frightened, tear-filled eyes.

Ted tapped his arm. He paused getting the rhythm then displaced Johnny's hands from the ambu bag. "Help Cody with the gurney."

While Johnny lost himself in the routine of packaging the teen for transport, Cody adjusted the transmitter frequency. "Dispatch," he said, "This is rescue 1."

"Go ahead, Cody."

"Dorris, send someone up to the college to get Emma Walking Crane and bring her to the hospital."

"Karen?" asked the dispatcher, referring to the toddler beneath the table.

"No, Jason."

"Is it bad?"

"Yeah, Dorris, it's bad." Cody signed off and reached under the table gathering up the toddler. "Come on." He trotted after Johnny and Ted. As he mounted the step on the back of the ambulance, he handed the girl to Johnny. "I'm not leaving her with that lot. Take her up front."

Johnny took the girl in his arms. As he climbed into the cab, he looked back though the open door. The stains from the boy's blood were dark on the faded linoleum.

*******

Johnny sat on his haunches, his back against the slowly cooling brick wall of the hospital. The sky was turning dark blue with a thin line of red along the western horizon. The wind whispered in the leaves of the cottonwoods in the creek bottom, sounding like falling rain. A few stars twinkled in the sky and the moon was a thin crescent. Never look at the moon when you're sad. It will reflect your despair down on others, he thought quoting his mother.

Cody walked around the corner of the hospital loading dock. He could see Johnny, a dark silhouette, against the wall. He settled himself on the ground beside Gage. The moonlight reflected off his braids. He watched the blinking lights of a plane crossing the sky. After a few moments, he looked out the corner of his eye at Johnny. "They call it Montana gin." He drew a circle in the dirt with his finger. "Pour the Lysol in water in the right proportion, separate it the right way and the resulting brew packs quite a punch. They say it's like huffing gas and drinking beer at the same time. It's the poor kid's high, 'cause they can find it at home or buy it or steal it."

Johnny pulled a clump of dried grass from the ground and flung it through the air. "Why?" he demanded.

"City Boy, if I knew the answer, I'd write a book. If I knew the answer, we'd be taking back the country not burying our children," shouted Cody.

"He didn't make it," stated Johnny flatly.

Cody angrily scrubbed out the pattern in the dust before him. "No. The pulmonary edema was too severe." He looked over at Johnny, who met his eyes. In them he could see the desperate need to be superman in the face of poverty and despair. Cody looked away to hide the same look in his eyes. "What'd you care?" he asked angrily. "You come and, when you can't take it anymore or we disappoint you, you go." He paused. "Hell, in two weeks you go, anyway. We're the ones who have stay here and live with it."

Johnny closed his eyes and slumped against the bricks. "They're my people too," he whispered.

Cody bowed his head turning away from Johnny.

*******

Roy took a sip of his beer. He frowned slightly at the bottle. Grain Belt is defiantly not my brand, he thought. Leaning against the red vinyl seat back he watched the dancers. Andrea spun and stepped, tossing back her hair and laughing. The red and blue lights of the Miller and Coors signs flashed off her long, complicated earrings.

He was having a surprisingly good time. Andrea's friends, a teacher from the Catholic boarding school and a pair of IHS doctors and their wives, were good company. The night life in Rapid City wasn't much by LA standards but they had had some good steaks and conversation. And, now they were in a smoky cowboy bar by the stockyards.

The band took a break, laughing sweating couples streamed off the floor. The young, redheaded teacher walked over with Andrea on his arm. He was flushed and perspiring. "You've done me in," he said to Andrea sliding into the booth.

Andrea slid in next to Roy, she hadn't even broken a sweat. "I'm just getting started," she said. "You'll have to join me for the next set, Roy."

"No, I don't dance..." he started. He looked into her smiling brown eyes and changed his mind. "I don't know how."

"Well, I'll teach you."

Roy took another sip of his beer. "Okay."

The lead singer climbed back onto the low stage and slung the guitar strap over his shoulder. "All right, folks let's dance," he called over the mike.

Andrea grabbed Roy's hand dragging him toward the dance floor. She took his hands. "Just watch and follow; it's not that hard."

Roy watched her feet and followed the pressure of her hands. He lost himself in the intricate rhythms that Andrea and the other men and women in lines on the dance floor were following. The whole time the man on the stage sang about love and loss in a pickup truck. After a few songs he found himself dancing -- at least competently. He stepped and turned with her.

"You're a natural, Paramedic DeSoto," said Andrea as the song ended.

"All I've done is not trip over my feet." Roy smiled at her.

"Here's a nice slow one for all you lovers out there," announced the lead singer.

Roy tried to turn and head off the floor, but Andrea still held his hand. She looked up in to his eyes. He hesitated for a minute, then he wrapped his arms around her. As they danced he looked down into her face. She closed her eyes and he bent forward to kiss her. It seemed so natural. As he closed his eyes, he felt the wedding ring grow cold upon his finger. He froze inches from her lips. Images of Joanne floated before his eyes. He stepped backwards, sick. What am I doing?!

Andrea opened her eyes. "Roy, are you all right?" she asked.

"Yes," he stopped. "No. I.... I need some air," he said weakly. He turned and all but stumbled to the door.

Outside he gasped, sucking in great lungs full of humid, cow scented air. On the horizon over the dark bulk of the Black Hills heat lightening flashed soundlessly. "Oh, God," he prayed, "What have I done?" He dropped onto the low brick wall at the edge of the parking lot. Joanne, forgive me! It wasn't that he had never found another woman attractive since he had married Joanne. But, he had never, never let it go beyond a look. Joanne, I was so lonely. I never meant to do this. He felt his eyes fill with hot tears of shame as he thought of her.

He stood up and wandered the parking lot. A man brushed past him nearly colliding with him, but Roy didn't even notice. "Drunks," muttered the man in disgust.

"Roy," called Andrea. She stood in front of him, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest.

He turned his back to her. He felt his face flush with rage over his own actions.

"Roy DeSoto," she repeated softly but firmly.

Slowly he turned. I should have insisted Johnny and I come out here in separate cars. Then, he thought, I would have an escape vehicle.

"Roy, look at me. You must know I never meant for this to happen."

"Go away," he paused, "Please."

"Roy I'm sorry but I will not take the blame for this, just so you can feel better. It takes two to do what we just did."

"I know," he shouted, hearing the rage in his own voice. He grabbed her shoulders roughly. Shocked at his own actions, he suddenly released her. "Damn it, don't you think I know that? Don't you think its killing me?" He turned away from her.

Andrea turned away and headed back into the bar. Her eyes were filled with tears.

*******

The flash of heat lightening threw the lock into sharp contrast. Roy fumbled with the key. Inside he sensed more than saw Johnny sitting in the darkness. Shit, he thought. I can't take this.

"Roy," said Gage.

He groaned. He knew that 'I need you, Roy' tone of voice. "I'm beat and am going to hit the sack." Roy walked rapidly through the darkened living room.

"Roy," repeated Johnny.

Just as he heard Johnny's voice, Roy's shin collided with the hard edge of a chair. "Damn this hellhole," he roared kicking the chair against the table. A glass tumbled to the floor and shattered. He turned on Johnny, who stood in stunned silence. "Whatever it is, Gage, I don't want to hear it. Use your head for once and solve your own problems. And, leave me ALONE!"

A flash of lightening briefly illuminated Johnny's face. It was flushed with surprise and rage. He turned and fled out the door.

Roy heard the door of the Land Rover slam and engine start. "Damn it," he yelled pounding his fist on the wall.

*******

Johnny turned the Land Rover off the graded road east of Potato Creek onto the rutted dirt track that led to the back side of his mother's allotment -- now his allotment. He hadn't been on the land since his father's memorial feast. After his death, Johnny's mother had developed serious diabetic complications. He had spent hours on the phone persuading her to move in with relatives in Rapid to get some decent health care. His salary was not sufficient to help out adequately, forcing him to sell off the remaining stock and let the tribe lease the land. Never before had the Baptiste land been used by an outsider.

He stopped at a shiny new gate blocking the road, installed by the white rancher leasing the land. Just beyond the gate he could see the shadow of a windmill pump and a new stock tank. The bank had no trouble lending a wasicu money to drill some wells, he thought seeing the implementation of the improvements his father had always wanted but had lacked the capital to make. He slipped from the truck, stretching as he walked to the gate. A chain with a large padlock prevented him from opening the gate. "Damn it," he exploded, "You're not supposed to block access." He grabbed the gate rattling it, kicking it, raging at it as though it were the rancher, Roy, Cody and kids who died trying to get high off of Lysol.

The night breeze evaporated the sweat from his shirt, leaving him chilled. Johnny rose from the ground by the gate brushing off the seat of his jeans. Reaching into the Rover, he grabbed his keys, a bottle of water and, as an afterthought, pulled from the glove compartment a small muslin bag of Bull Durham he had bought earlier in the week. He climbed over the gate and started down the road.

Johnny settling himself on the low hill behind the small grouping of cottonwoods that marked the location of the original cabin his great-grandfather Louis Baptiste -- called Wasicu Cikala by his Lakhota neighbors -- and his great-grandmother Sina Waste Win had built. His grandfather had seen two brothers and a sister, return one by one from Genoa Indian School to die of TB and be buried here. Johnny and Dwayne used to come to this hill often as children and scare each other with ghost stories. A dog howled in the distance, a ghost is passing, he remembered his mother saying. Appropriate. He thrust Roy and his ever deepening anger and alienation from his mind. He searched the sky for the ghost road and when he found it, pulled the pouch of tobacco from his pocket. Closing his eyes and seeing his grandfather standing in this spot making his offerings, Johnny sprinkled the necessary pinches of tobacco. "Mitakuye oyasin," he whispered.

Dwayne, he thought, What has happened to us? 'We're the Great Sioux Nation,' that's what Auntie used to say. 'We beat Custer and the best damn army on earth.' What the hell has happened? Johnny closed his eyes, again seeing Jason writhing on the floor and the two girls, possessing that strange mix of fear and teenage defiance, staring at him.

Even the yuppies -- who'll pay five hundred dollars a head to crawl in a sweatlodge with an ersatz medicine man and pretend they belong to this land -- want to be us. Maybe they should try out that five hundred year Indian tradition of suicide by despair. Cody's right; where are the damn yuppies when our kids don't think there is anything in life for them beyond a quick high. He lifted his face to the sky. Where am I?

*******

Roy rolled over and groaned. The thumping continued. He looked at the alarm clock -- 10:15am. The pounding headache and gnawing guilt which had been with him when he had been awakened at 4:23am by Johnny's return, were still with him six hours later. He wanted to sleep forever, but someone was pounding on the door. He stumbled to his feet in time to see a clothed but disheveled and exhausted Johnny open the door.

Cody stood in the doorway. Beyond Johnny he could see the broken glass littering the floor and Roy still in his shorts and tee shirt. The city boys are cracking up.

For a split second Roy locked eyes with Cody and saw him surmising things Roy didn't even want to consider. Then he saw Cody direct his attention to Gage. I can't handle the miscegenation wars at this hour. He retreated to his bed.

Through the door he could hear Cody: "I have some people you need to meet and we'd better hit it since I told them you'd be there by twelve-thirty." After a long pause Johnny answered, "OK." Roy almost laughed when he heard Johnny agree to accompany his nemesis. He must really want to avoid me.

*******

Johnny leaned his head against the back of the pickup seat and closed his eyes against the glare of the late afternoon sun. His hair was damp and he was still lightheaded from the heat of the sweatlodge. I feel like I've been fighting a three alarm fire all night.

Cody slid behind the wheel of the pick-up. "First time you've sweated?" he asked starting the engine.

Johnny nodded.

Cody held a bottle of water out to Gage. "Next time drink more when they pass around the water." He held on to the bottle for a second after Johnny took it. "Although, it might be fun trying to find a vein on your scrawny arms."

"Why, do you want to check and see if my blood is red?"

Cody laughed and put the truck into gear. As he drove Johnny remembered an afternoon that left him both sadden and exhilarated.

*******

Albert Two Strikes, the director of Wapiye Oti was a tall, well built Lakhota man with a profile out of an E. S. Curtis print and a fondness for bright western cut shirts. He was candid and direct, clearly lacking the time for anything else. His office as a small closet sized room in a group of prefab houses at the end of a long gravel drive. On the wall hung a diploma from the substance abuse counseling program at Dull Knife Tribal College.

He described the appalling situation with same practiced ease that Johnny called in a cardiac arrest. "We're the only tribally run substance abuse program for all of the Sioux reservations. We serve clients on eight reservations, in three states. I have fourteen beds and at any given time fourteen clients. As kids, they huffed, drank and just about anything else you can think of. By now they're addicts." He paused collecting his thoughts.

"I watched one of the kids you are describing die, yesterday," said Johnny.

"And, you want to know why?" Two Strikes asked turning a pen over and over in his hands.

Johnny nodded.

Albert sat for a few minutes looking at a poster proclaiming Indian pride then he began to speak in a low soft voice. "I began to drink at twelve. Everyone did -- my relatives, the other kids at school..." He shrugged. "I remember the first time I got drunk, I felt so confident; all the worries and the anger, they faded away. I thought 'I always want to feel this way'. So I kept drinking. Soon, I couldn't stop, 'cause I couldn't handle being sober. I had no coping skills what-so-ever. When I was drunk it didn't matter." He stopped.

"Well, I stayed drunk until I was twenty-two. One day I was lying in bed and my infant son was lying on the floor crying. My head hurt and I just wanted him to shut up." Two Strikes' voice shook. "I picked him up. By the grace of God, I heard my grandmother's voice, inside my head, telling me what the Lakhota word for children meant -- they are sacred." He looked down at his desk. "I was so frightened I vowed I'd never drink again. It took me three years in and out of treatment to get clean." He shook his head.

Johnny sat very quietly.

"Let me show you around."

As they walked, Albert explained the treatment approach. "We use a mixture of traditional Lakhota healing methods and conventional AA. We try to give them drug free coping strategies. We teach them culturally appropriate methods to deal with anger, fear, anxiety. We try build self-esteem. And we work with the tribal college to provide educational services." He stopped and looked at Johnny. "We have the highest success of any program on the rez."

Johnny looked at the mostly young faces, all with old eyes. He followed Two Strikes through classrooms and therapy sessions. Albert led him outside to a small grove of trees next to a dry wash. In the center was a low hut of willow shoots - the initi.

"Our culture is not dysfunctional, but our adaptation to the dominant society often is. Central to a successful treatment program is a spiritual component. The sweat lodge is an important part of the treatment. It gives a place to heal and purify." Two Strikes shifted watching Johnny, closely. "We talked about it this morning and would like to invite you to join us. After what happen you may need this as much as my clients."

Johnny looked at the small shelter, remembering what Dwayne taught him about the sweatlodge. Some purification would be good about now. He nodded.

*******

Roy stared at the blank pad of paper and the textbook on the table in front of him. The words didn't make sense. Instead he kept seeing himself bending toward Andrea. Fool, he cursed himself. The screen door rattled. Roy looked up from his lecture notes.

"Hello," Ted Elk Boy stood in the doorway.

"Come in," said Roy rising. "Sit down."

"I can't stay. I have my kids in the car."

Roy looked past Elk Boy to a muddy four-wheel drive. A young girl -- Jodi, he recalled -- waved at him.

"I just came to see if Johnny was OK. He seemed at little shaken." At Roy surprised look he continued. "He came with Cody and me on a run, yesterday. A bad one. A kid died after drinking disinfectant."

"Oh," said Roy. "He's not here. Uh, he went somewhere with Cody."

Ted raised his eyebrows. "If he isn't back by nightfall I'd call the tribal police."

*******

Roy climbed out of the Land Rover stretching his legs. He looked around curiously. A half a dozen men and boys unloaded tables and chairs from the back of a pickup parked next to a pine covered circular shade. A knot of women and children swarmed around a nearby house. A teenage boy was setting up a portable loud speaker. Beside him a middle-aged man with a barrel shaped chest carried on an intense conversation with an elderly woman. Johnny slammed the truck door. "Well Roy, where to you think I can do the most damage -- helping with the sound system or in the kitchen?"

Roy chuckled, remembering the tape recorder and the squad radio; not that Gage in the kitchen was much better. He's trying so hard to pretend we never fought. They had passed the week since his blow-up with brittle courtesy and careful silence, burying what happened in an avalanche of small talk. Roy didn't think he had said six words of significance to Johnny the whole week. "Better stick to the kitchen." As they walked over to the building he asked, "Now, exactly what is happening here today?"

"Smoky, my father's eldest sister's grandson, is getting his Indian name."

"Oh," said Roy. "I thought you told me once your family didn't really take part in the old ceremonies."

"We didn't," answered Johnny. "But my father's niece married a traditionalist and she does. Beside things are changing and the old-ways are coming back. After all in 1978 we were finally granted a legal guarantee of freedom of religion." He stopped, shading his eyes and looking toward the western horizon.

Roy raised his eyebrows. "I think you mean 1778 or when ever it was that the Bill of Rights was written."

"The Bill of Rights didn't cover Indians. I mean 1978, that's when congress passed the Native American Religious Freedom Act...." Johnny trailed off and looked Roy in the eyes. Can the 'Red Rage' act, Gage, he thought. He doesn't need your problems; what ever he's been carrying around is heavy enough.

Roy could all but see the wheels turning in Johnny's head as he reconsidered the diatribe into which he was about launch. Yeah, Junior, watch-out for the crazy man.

Johnny closed his mouth. He turned and led the way up some steps into the house. Roy blinked in the sudden transition from the bright sunlight to the dim interior. The kitchen was a mad house, packed with women cooking, scrubbing, carrying, or slicing food. At an enormous kitchen table an elderly woman emptied jars of mayonnaise into a huge vat of chopped potatoes, onions and pickles.

A gray haired woman in a faded calico apron calico apron dropped a paring knife into her pocket and wrapped her arms around Johnny. "T'oshka," she exclaimed. She released Johnny and reached up smoothing his hair back from his forehead. "You're getting a little gray up here...."

Johnny rolled his eyes. Chet had been teasing him for months about the few gray strands that had appeared after his accident. Kelly had put enough tubes of Grecian formula in his locker to color the entire station's hair. Great, what'd Chet do, call my folks?

"....Makes you look like your father."

"Auntie." He pointed quickly with his chin to Roy. "My partner, Roy DeSoto."

Roy held out his hand. Johnny's aunt gave him a gentle handshake. "Pleased to met you, ma'am," he said nodding.

"Welcome to our home, Roy." She gave him a smile. "I'm very pleased that my nephew's good friend can join us, today. We've all heard so much about you."

I bet, thought Roy. That should probably make me nervous.

Johnny grabbed a slab of watermelon from a bowl heaped with sliced melon and took a huge bite. Chewing, he looked around the kitchen and leaned through the door into the living room. He wiped the juice from his chin. "Mama here yet?" I hope she wasn't too sick to come, he thought.

"She came in with Danielle and Emile this morning." His aunt turned back to the tray she was filling with dinner rolls. "She's in the back bedroom resting."

"Oh," said Johnny disappearing into the back of the house.

Roy looked through the door after him. A young boy dressed in a ribbon shirt and shorts squirmed while a tall man braided the boy's hair. The coffee table next to them was heaped with beadwork. Roy looked around the room full of strangers and cleared his throat uncomfortably. Don't leave me here, Junior. He turned to the elderly woman struggling with the potato salad. "Ma'am, let me get that for you," he offered taking the spoon from her hand. He stirred the huge vat; after a few minutes he dropped the spoon and rubbed his arm. This could feed the entire department. "Ma'am," he said to Johnny's aunt, "If you don't mind my asking, how many people are you expecting?'

"Nearly a hundred and fifty." she replied.

"Oh."

Johnny reappeared in the door. "Roy," Gage called tossing his keys to him. "When you have a minute, please get the camp stools and mess kits from the back of the truck. Set them up in the shade."

"We saved a place for you -- next to your mother," said his aunt. She turned to Roy. "It the green chair with the blue shawl on the back. Why don't you go get set up. We are almost ready."

"OK," he replied.

*******

The field around the arbor had begun to fill with cars and pickups. People walked by carrying lawn chairs or stood in small groups talking. A couple of teens sat on the ground by the open door of a pickup, listening to Duran Duran on the radio. At the west side of the shade, a pair of men wearing baseball caps proclaiming 'Wolf Creek Ramblers' carefully fitted a blanket covered drum on to its stand.

Roy unlocked the back of the Land Rover. He surveyed the densely packed interior. The amount of equipment Gage could pack in the back of any vehicle he drove constantly amazed Roy. "I wouldn't be surprised if you had a porta-power and a K-12 in here," he mumbled poking through camp equipment and climbing gear. He finally located the camp stools and a canvas bag of cooking equipment under a sack of rope and a huge first aid kit.

He closed the hatch and headed to the arbor. Johnny was helping his mother to her chair. Marie Gage looked wasted and sick. Roy knew she had been very ill that winter. He realized with a start, as she passed holding Johnny's arm and moving tentatively toward her chair, that she was losing her sight. He bent to set up the camp stools, as he straightened he caught Johnny's eyes. No wonder he's been so upset, he decided, watching Johnny settle his mother in her chair. At times like this, medical knowledge is not a blessing.

People began to line up at the buffet tables outside the shade, responding to some signal Roy had missed. Johnny touched his mother arm. "We'll bring you a plate."

Roy stood in line, watching Johnny greet his millionth relative. As he nodded numbly through another convoluted genealogy explaining exactly how this person was related, he held out his plate which was heaped with boiled beef, potato salad, stewed tomatoes, three bean salad, watermelon, pie and a dark purple pudding. A piece of frybread was placed over the lot. I'll never be able to eat all this, he thought walking back to his seat. I can barely carry it.

"Roy," said Johnny holding out a bowl. "You forgot this."

Roy sniffed suspiciously at the murky grayish soup Johnny handed him. "Thanks. Uh -- what is it?" he whispered.

Johnny hurriedly swallowed. "Taniga," he answered between bites.

"What?"

"A Lakhota delicacy. Think of it as Indian menudo."

"Tripe," stated Roy.

"Bingo," said Johnny around a mouthful of frybread. "Waste not, want not -- it's an old Lakhota saying."

Behind him Roy could hear a couple of kids speaking in Lakhota. Over the past few weeks he had learned a few words, one of which was wasicu - white man. Roy leaned over and whispered in Johnny's ear. "They're making fun of me aren't they?"

"I don't know, Roy," he started shrugging his shoulders. "I don't speak Lakhota."

Yeah, Junior. You know enough to tell whether or not they teasing me. "So you say," he said setting the bowl in the grass beside his chair. A pair of teenage girls walked around the circle of guests carrying a galvanized bucket and dipper. They stopped in front of Roy and filled his cup with mint iced tea. He looked at the arbor full of Johnny's relatives. It seemed strange that his partner had come from such a close-knit family but had chosen to live alone in a city so far from home.

"Shoo," hissed Marie suddenly.

Roy jumped. At his side, a spoon rattled against the metal bowl. He looked down and for a split second locked eyes with a small puppy that had braved the crowd for scraps. The remnants of Roy's serving of taniga dripped from his jowls. Laughter exploded behind Roy. The frightened pup tore through the crowd. Thank you, he thought after it.

"I could get you some more," said Gage.

"No, thanks I couldn't eat another bite."

*******

Johnny watched his young cousin sitting in a lawn chair draped with a star quilt and piled with blankets. Behind the boy stood a middle aged man with bad skin -- the hunka ate, the second father. He tied an eagle plume attached to a quilled medicine wheel to a lock of the boy's hair.

An elder admonished them to remember their obligations to the people and each other. "You must take this child as your own. You must honor this man as your father. You must share with each other and all the people. That is what being a hunka is about." The old man called out Smoky's new Indian name, "Wapaha Payuktan Yuha." He began to name all the boy's ancestors.

As the women passed out the gritty, rich wasna and the teenage girls made the rounds with the bucket of chokecherry juice, Johnny remembered Jason on the floor his lips blue. He looked back at Smoky's parents conferring with the eyapaha. I hope you are giving him the tools to resist the social chaos of this place.

Marie stood slowly up. "I have to go take my medicine and I think I'll lay down a bit. The heat is getting to me." She put her hand on Johnny's shoulder as he started to rise. "Stay here." She looked toward Roy, squinting in the bright sun. "Roy'll help me."

"That's OK, mama, I'll give you a hand," he objected.

"No, it'll give Roy a chance to tell me if you're behaving."

Roy stood up and took Marie's arm. Johnny shot him a dirty look. DeSoto helped her up the stairs and into the back bedroom.

"Thank you, Roy. I didn't think I could take another one of Johnny's guilty 'I should be taking care of my old, feeble mother' looks." She disappeared into the bathroom. "Sit and visit with me for a minute," she called.

Roy sat on an old kitchen chair beside the bed. He remembered the last time he had seen Marie.

*******

Jennifer DeSoto sat at the kitchen table her French homework spread before her. Marie Gage pointed gently at the paper correcting the child's spelling. They had been working for over an hour. "Mrs. Gage," she asked, "Where did you learn French?"

"My grandpa taught me." Marie unhooked her reading glasses from behind her ears and set them on the table. "He was French-Canadian from Quebec."

"I thought you were Indian?"

"I am. I'm also French and Irish. My maiden name was Baptiste. My grandfather ran a trading post. My other grandfather was from county Cork and worked for the Union-Pacific."

"So Uncle Johnny is Sioux, French and Irish." Jennifer's eyes were wide. Roy suspected she was working up her courage to ask Marie a different question about Johnny.

Marie smiled. "His father's mother was from Sweden. I suspect if you look far enough back in both our families you'd find some Cheyenne, Crow and Pawnee ancestors too."

"How much Indian is Uncle Johnny?"

"Enough." Marie took Jennifer's hand and looked into her eyes. "Who you are, honey, is about how you were raised. We raised your Uncle Johnny to be a good person."

Jennifer pondered this for a moment. Roy sensed she was about to ask the real question for which she had been building up her courage. "Is Uncle Johnny going to die?"

"No." Marie wrapped her arm around Jennifer's shoulder, giving her a quick hug.

"Dad says he was hurt pretty badly..."

Roy shook his head at Marie. "No," he mouthed silently making a quick slashing motion with his hand. Although he trusted Marie Gage not to say too much, Jennifer worried far too often about her father's safety. They didn't need nightmares tonight. "Don't you worry about Uncle Johnny, the doctors are taking good care of him." Roy could see his daughters shoulders relax as she gave a soft sigh of relief. He offered a fervent prayer that circumstances would not make him a liar.

Joanne set a cup of hot tea in front of Marie. "Bedtime, young lady." Jennifer opened her mouth, but Joanne cut her off. "No arguments."

"Parents," she whispered under her breath while gathering up her homework.

Roy stood in the kitchen door holding a mug of tea and listening to Jennifer clomp disgustedly up the stairs. "Someday, she's going to go right through the floor doing that." He heard her pound on the bathroom door and yell at her brother to hurry up. "Marie, you don't need to help the kids with their homework. I'm sure after being at the hospital all day you need to rest."

"Roy, honestly, I'm glad of the distraction." Marie bowed her head.

Joanne slipped into a chair beside her, taking her hand. "Johnny's strong. We are all praying for him." She squeezed the older woman's hand.

"I know." She gave a weak laugh. "Sometimes, I think he's doing better than we are."

Roy closed his eyes, seeing it all again. His hands, as though disembodied, sliding the come-along under Johnny and his voice a stranger's calm tones; all the while smelling the stench of burnt flesh. Marco screaming in pain, as he and Chet fought to lift the blackened debris with a desperate, not quite sane strength. Gage's eyes mercifully remaining closed as they roughly pulled him free, lacking the time for a more gentle extrication. Stoker, his voice steady and his shoulders shaking, standing by his post at the engine talking to Johnny while Roy cut away the burnt clothing assessing his injuries.... Roy's hands shook splashing the hot tea; he inhaled sharply as the liquid scalded his hand. Last thing Marie needs is to see me fall apart. He opened his eyes to met Joanne's concerned look.

Marie lifted her head and smiled weakly. "I do get a kick out of hearing your kids call him Uncle Johnny." She patted Joanne's hand. "That would make you my daughter and I think I got a pretty good deal there." She stood up. "I'd better go to bed myself."

Joanne looked at Roy as they listened to Marie Gage climb the stairs. She walked over and wrapped her arms tightly around him. She steadied his shaking.

Roy clung to her drawing her strength into himself. Tonight he needed her living breathing warmth. She was a healing force. "Have I told you recently just what an amazing woman you are?" he whispered into her hair.

*******

Roy felt tears prickling his eyes as he remembered that night. "How's Joanne?" called Marie from the bathroom.

"Uh --," stammered Roy,"Ok." She doesn't need to hear my problems, he resolved.

She sat on the bed next to him. "Roy?" she asked. "What's wrong?" As he shook his head, blinking to clear his eyes, she continued. "Joanne's all right; isn't she?"

"Yeah, she fine." Roy looked into her compassionate brown eyes, so like Johnny's. He crumbled and began to tell her about Andrea.

Marie sat quietly, watching Roy dry his eyes. You know what you have to do, she thought stroking the worn chenille bedspread. "Roy, once there was a young man who wanted to marry a woman. Now in the old days before a man could marry, he had to prove himself in battle defending the camp or as a hunter. This young man had done neither." Marie looked away from Roy face, granting him privacy. "But, he was out riding one day and came upon the body a Crow scout who had been thrown from his horse. His body was still warm. So the young man dipped his club in the dead man's blood and called to the nearby camp scouts. They came and he told them he killed the Crow. He got his feather, his woman and lost his peace of mind."

Marie lay back on the bed. "Roy, go back out with Johnny. You'll miss the give away."

Roy stared at her stunned. What does this have to do with... Then it hit him. "Yes, ma'am." He stood at started to leave and then stopped in the door. "You mean I need to tell her or I'll be lying." Even as he spoke he knew this was the right thing to do.

*******

Johnny climbed into the driver's seat. He set a lard bucket next to Roy's feet. "Leftovers," he said. He handed Roy a beaded belt buckle. "They called you at the giveaway but you were inside." He started the engine.

"It's beautiful."

"My aunt made it for you."

"Thank her for me."

"Just remember her grandson in your prayers. That'll be enough."

Roy stared into the gathering darkness as they drove. He mentally practiced explaining his actions. Joanne, I was so lonely... Joanne, I... He turned the buckle under his fingers, feeling its smooth patterns. Every scenario he tried ended with Joanne packing her bags. Oh Lord, forgive me, he prayed. Finally, he let the gentle rise and fall of the land numb his mind.

When they turned off 44 toward Wounded Knee, Roy spoke "Ted, told me what happened to the boy. He said, it got you shook -up"

"Did he tell you it was self-inflicted?"

"Pretty nasty way to commit suicide."

Johnny shook his head to clear the images that came, unbidden, to his mind. "Yeah," he sighed. "He was trying to get high drinking the stuff. Apparently it's a fairly common practice among teens." He fell silent for a few minutes. "All in all, it was another suicide like so many others that occur around here by bottle or needle."

Roy sat quiet for a minute, listening carefully for the long familiar cues that told him his partner had finished. "Johnny, my behavior was inexcusable. Please forgive me." He shot a quick glance at Johnny. "I've haven't been myself lately." That's for damn sure, he thought sourly.

He waved away Roy's apology. "Forget it. But, if you want to talk..." he let his words trail off into silence.

Roy sat remembering the family that had surrounded John this day. "Junior, why did you leave?"

Johnny took a slow deep breath.

He's considering joking this off, thought Roy. "Please, not the crap you tell Chet when he asks."

Gage sighed. "I guess I got tired of rednecks and redskins."

Roy swallowed a laugh. He had heard Johnny read Chet the riot act about using that term. Football season had been hell what with the Washington Redskins and the KC Chiefs. "It's not an honor, it's racism in the name of fun and games"... The cap had forbidden Chet or Johnny to discuss football. Then, there had been baseball season and the Cap had finally threatened to trade shifts with Hookrader for a week. Mike and Marco had taken Johnny and Chet into the dorm and 'explained' how much better a game soccer was. Now, the three of them sat around listening to Marco translate for the soccer commentator on Telemundo, while he and Cap had to read the sports page to find out the football scores.

Johnny shot Roy a dirty look. I know what you're thinking. "Everybody had these preconceived ideas about what I was. I couldn't be Indian or white enough." He stopped. "And, there is so much pain here, Roy. Look around," he pointed to the hulk of car rusting beside the road. "This isn't America, it is the third world with good enough TV reception to let you know everyone else isn't living this way."

He pulled the Land Rover onto the shoulder and turned to face Roy. "I grew up surrounded by generations of walking wounded -- damaged by: boarding schools, sexual abuse, alcoholism, broken homes, violence and genocide. The refugees in 'Nam reminded me of some of my own family. I wanted to know more people who were alive than dead." He pointed to the beaded buckle in Roy's hands. "I love our ways and I will fight to preserve them. But I don't have the strength to fight racism, poverty and cultural genocide everyday." He tipped back his head and closed his eyes. The sound of cicadas in the distance came through the open windows.

Johnny let his hands drop from the steering wheel. He sat silent for a few minutes. "I got tired," he sighed, slipping the truck onto gear and pulling back onto the road.

Roy looked at Johnny's face reflected on the windshield. It was a mask of grief. "It seems that there is a lot of good here too, like your family or the people in our class. A lot of love and laughter."

Gage nodded. "Yeah, and that how we've defied the odds and survived. But, there have been so many causalities." He sighed, "Look, I'm not saying everything is terrible but would you want to live here?"

*******

Roy stood quietly in a circle with his students. Behind them stood family members and the ubiquitous loaded buffet tables. An old man stood in the center. He's a medicine man, realized Roy with a start. The old man's assistant walked around the circle waving smoke from a burning braid of herbs over the paramedics. Roy imitated Ted who stood next to him washing the smoke over his face and hands. As he fanned the smoke over his face, he smelled the sweet aroma of vanilla and something else indefinable yet familiar. The old man offered a stone pipe to the four directions.

Gage stood stock still across the circle from Roy. His expression was reverent. An odd look for Johnny. They've been doing this here for thousands of years, he thought in a sudden revelation. Roy felt he was intrusive presence at this ceremony and stepped backward, stopping when he felt the firm pressure of Elk Boy's hand on his back. He looked over at Ted who gave a quick shake of his head. Across the circle the old man handed the pipe to Cody White. He took a quick puff and gently handed the pipe to Johnny who handled it as though a living thing. Well Junior, you do know the meaning of the word restraint. Had I known what he was mocking when he held up that crummy plastic peace pipe, I'd have hit Chet for you.

After the blessing, Roy wandered between groups of students, meeting family members and saying good bye; Ted walked over with his two boys. He pointed with his chin to Johnny who was chatting away with a tall, pretty woman, totally oblivious to the fast approaching Cody White. "Uh-oh."

Roy nodded.

"City Boy, that's my sister." started Cody.

Roy hadn't seen Johnny lose interest in a woman so fast, since the day one of his dates showed up at the fireman's picnic with the six kids she had forgotten to mention. "Nice meeting you, Susan," he stammered.

The woman and Cody carried out a brief, rapid fire exchange in Lakhota. Johnny tried to slip away but Cody grabbed his arm.

"This is better than TV," whispered Roy to Ted who chuckled.

"Here, City Boy," said Cody pushing an envelope into Johnny's hands. "Toksa, man."

"Yeah, Toksa," said Johnny shaking his hand.

Elk Boy turned to Roy. "We got to go."

Roy shook his hand. "So long. It was good to have had you in my class."

Ted smiled. "Take care, Teacher. Toksa."

"Doksa."

Johnny walked over to Roy. "Ready, to go home?"

"Yeah," said Roy. "More than you know, Junior." He nodded toward the package in Johnny's hands. "Is it ticking?"

Gage laughed. "Take a look." He handed Roy the package. Inside were two quilled wheels.

*******

Joanne stood in the backyard looking past the vacant lot into the canyon. The evening sun touched the grasses and brush with gold. It has been so dry, she thought, remembering Roy sprawled motionless across the bed, sleeping for over twenty hours after working the brush fire in Laguna Hills last summer. Inside, she could hear the soft clicking as he stacked dishes in the drainer. The kids were away for the night: Chris camping with the scouts and Jennifer at a friend's for the night. I planned this evening to be for us but... Maybe tonight she would be able to find out what was bothering Roy. Every since his return from Pine Ridge, he had been quiet and distracted. Johnny had come over earlier in the week. He had brought presents for the kids and no answers for her.

"I don't know what's wrong, Joanne." She sensed him withdrawing evading the question. "The place got to him. He spent a lot of time being the only white -- uh, non-Indian around. He found out what it is like to be a minority." She felt him deliberately attempting to put her off, using the Indian nationalism she found so unappealing.

Joanne felt Roy's hands on her shoulders, startling her. She jumped.

"Let's go for a walk," he said.

They cut across the empty lot to the canyon. He didn't take my hand, Joanne thought. Normally they walked hand in hand. This canyon had always been their special place, a nearby retreat. But, now...

"Roy?" she asked.

He stopped and closed his eyes.

She put her hand on his shoulder. He flinched. "Roy," she repeated.

He turned slowly toward her. His blue eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Joanne, forgive me," he said his voice barely audible.

She stared at him, filled with dread.

"I betrayed you -- us," he began, telling her about Andrea.

Joanne stood frozen. It felt like some merciless giant had wrapped his icy fist around her heart and was squeezing it in two. Her mind refused to accept anything beyond the image of Roy in another woman's arms. He spoke meaningless words of apology and explanation, which she could not understand.

"Forgive me," he repeated.

Joanne felt something snap inside her heart. She watched herself with cool detachment as she spoke, showing no mercy to either of them. "Was she pretty, Roy?"

"Joanne," he began in an agonized whisper.

"Did she still have her girlish figure -- because she hadn't carried your children."

At the mention of the children he blanched bowing his head. "I was so lonely..." he began.

"So was I."

"I made a mistake."

"You sure as hell did," She turned and began to run up the path.

Roy ran after her seizing her shoulders. "Joanne, let me explain. I didn't..."

"What? Sleep with her? So. Give yourself a medal." Joanne watched his face flush with rage and then shame. Her heart almost broke. "This isn't about sex; it is about trust," she said coolly. "Now, take your hands off me, Roy DeSoto." Her voice shook as she said his name.

He dropped his hands. "I know," he whispered as she ran away.

*******

Roy walked into his garage workshop. He stood in the middle of the room, looking at the neatly arrayed jars of hardware and the ranks of tools. It had nothing to do with the chaos his life had become. The baby food jar full of screws shattered against the wall as he threw it. Glass and screws scattered across the floor. "My life," he whispered looking at the shiny shards of glass on the concrete floor. Roy slumped against the wall and slid to the ground.

Outside the neighborhood grew quiet. Kids went to bed, car doors stop slamming, people turned off Johnny Carson calling it a night, even the dogs quit barking. Only the crickets still made noise. Roy rose from the floor and walked into the house. He quietly climbed the stairs to the bedroom. He stopped with his hand on the doorknob half expecting to find it locked. It turned.

Joanne sat on the edge of the bed in her nightgown -- the one he had given her for Christmas two years ago. The light from a single reading lamp lit the room with a soft golden light. He could see her face in the dresser mirror. Her eyes were red.

Roy stood at the edge of the bed, directly behind her. "Joanne, forgive me. I never wanted to hurt you."

She gestured for him to come to her. He knelt on soft carpeting before her. She put her hands on his shoulders.

"We'll work through this," he whispered. "I can't live without you." She drew his head into her lap. After a few moments, she bent, kissing the back of his neck. It felt like rain.

*******

The bulletin board of the Intertribal Friendship House of Los Angeles overflowed with sheets of paper advertising: adult literacy programs, powwows, fifth Sunday sings, yard sales, educational grants, Indian health service surveys and what not. A heavyset Apache man, new to the city, tried to memorize the bus route information the receptionist gave him. In a soft voice he repeated her directions. Johnny nervously ran his hand through his hair. He was awaiting his interview for the Big Brother program the Friendship house ran. As he waited he could hear Cody's voice 'Try living your people's struggles.' "Okay," he whispered.

"Mr. Gage," said a voice behind him....

*******

Authors note (and translation guide): Again, I hope I didn't tread too heavily on anyone's reality. This story grew from a request for a squeal to Honor Dance where Johnny and Roy go to the rez. They were going to go to a naming ceremony but... It got a little out of control and next thing I knew, Johnny was riding with the tribal rescue squad and Roy was almost kissing a woman who wasn't his wife. I want to especially thank Kathy Woodbury for her help with Roy and his tough spot.

I hope I have not offended with my story about substance abuse in the Native community. The all too prevalent drunken Injun stereotype has stifled honest discussion of the problem. Unfortunately the drinking of Montana gin is all too real and sadly fatal as the graveyard on many rez's will attest. However, during the late seventies and early eighties, the disastrous increase in fetal alcohol syndrome, premature death and ruined lives le d to a powerful new Native Sobriety movement. Healing is beginning within Native communities using Native methodology. Wapiye Oti is drawn from the many tribally based treatment models being developed. Albert Two Strikes is purely fictional, although his story could be real. This new movement like everything in Native life has found its expression in song. The Sobriety song at the beginning of this story is one of a number of such songs which are now preformed by various drums.

Now for an incomplete list of translations: T'oshka - nephew on the brother's side (but not the sister's, as Lakhota kinship terminology is shaped by the ancestral practice of both the sorarate and levirate); Toksa - catch 'ya later; Sina Waste Win - Good Blanket Woman; Wasicu Cikala - Short Whiteman; Wapaha Payuktan Yuha - Standard Bearer (sort of) a wapaha payuktan is the crooked lance standard of some of the old warrior lodges which has evolved into the modern eagle staff.

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