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The
car
sits
there
while
the
dust
settles
,
shimmering
in
the
sun
.
I
know
it
is
n't
tourists
with
cameras
because
they
never
drive
this
close
to
the
village
.
If
they
want
to
buy
fish
they
buy
them
back
at
the
highway
;
they
do
n't
come
to
the
village
because
they
probably
think
we
still
scalp
people
and
burn
them
around
a
post
.
They
do
n't
know
some
of
our
people
are
lawyers
in
Portland
,
probably
would
n't
believe
it
if
I
told
them
.
In
fact
,
one
of
my
uncles
became
a
real
lawyer
and
Papa
says
he
did
it
purely
to
prove
he
could
,
when
he
'd
rather
poke
salmon
in
the
fall
than
anything
.
Papa
says
if
you
do
n't
watch
it
people
will
force
you
one
way
or
the
other
,
into
doing
what
they
think
you
should
do
,
or
into
just
being
mule-stubborn
and
doing
the
opposite
out
of
spite
.
The
doors
of
the
car
open
all
at
once
and
three
people
get
out
,
two
out
of
the
front
and
one
out
of
the
back
.
They
come
climbing
up
the
slope
toward
our
village
and
I
see
the
first
two
are
men
in
blue
suits
,
and
the
behind
one
,
the
one
that
got
out
of
the
back
,
is
an
old
white-haired
woman
in
an
outfit
so
stiff
and
heavy
it
must
be
armor
plate
.
They
're
puffing
and
sweating
by
the
time
they
break
out
of
the
sage
into
our
bald
yard
.
The
first
man
stops
and
looks
the
village
over
.
He
's
short
and
round
and
wearing
a
white
Stetson
hat
.
He
shakes
his
head
at
the
rickety
clutter
of
fishracks
and
secondhand
cars
and
chicken
coops
and
motorcycles
and
dogs
.
"
Have
you
ever
in
all
your
born
days
seen
the
like
?
Have
you
now
?
I
swear
to
heaven
,
have
you
ever
?
"
He
pulls
off
the
hat
and
pats
his
red
rubber
ball
of
a
head
with
a
handkerchief
,
careful
,
like
he
's
afraid
of
getting
one
or
the
other
mussed
up
--
the
handkerchief
or
the
dab
of
damp
stringy
hair
.
"
Can
you
imagine
people
wanting
to
live
this
way
?
Tell
me
,
John
,
can
you
?
"
He
talks
loud
on
account
of
not
being
used
to
the
roar
of
the
falls
.
John
's
next
to
him
,
got
a
thick
gray
mustache
lifted
tight
up
under
his
nose
to
stop
out
the
smell
of
the
salmon
I
'm
working
on
.
He
's
sweated
down
his
neck
and
cheeks
,
and
he
's
sweated
clean
out
through
the
back
of
his
blue
suit
.
He
's
making
notes
in
a
book
,
and
he
keeps
turning
in
a
circle
,
looking
at
our
shack
,
our
little
garden
,
at
Mama
's
red
and
green
and
yellow
Saturday-night
dresses
drying
out
back
on
a
stretch
of
bedcord
--
keeps
turning
till
he
makes
a
full
circle
and
comes
back
to
me
,
looks
at
me
like
he
just
sees
me
for
the
first
time
,
and
me
not
but
two
yards
away
from
him
.
He
bends
toward
me
and
squints
and
lifts
his
mustache
up
to
his
nose
again
like
it
's
me
stinking
instead
of
the
fish
.
"
Where
do
you
suppose
his
parents
are
?
"
John
asks
.
"
Inside
the
house
?
Or
out
on
the
falls
?
We
might
as
well
talk
this
over
with
the
man
while
we
're
out
here
.
"
"
I
,
for
one
,
am
not
going
inside
that
hovel
,
"
the
fat
guy
says
.
"
That
hovel
,
"
John
says
through
his
mustache
,
"
is
where
the
Chief
lives
,
Brickenridge
,
the
man
we
are
here
to
deal
with
,
the
noble
leader
of
these
people
.
"
