Notches by Peter Bowen

and his whiskey and tobacco back to the sweat lodge and he sat on a stump smoking and drinking whiskey and looking up at the stars. A green streak of fire shot across the black and it bloomed and faded in seconds.
    Meteor.
    Another.
    Another.
    Du Pré wondered why they burned with green fire, little yellow, but mostly green.
    He had a slug of whiskey.
    Du Pré heard some singing coming from the sweat lodge.
    The lodge would be cooling and soon the old man would crawl out, wearing only his loincloth, and he would dance in the cool night air while the sweat rolled off him in streams.
    Du Pré rolled a cigarette for the old fart.
    I got plenty question for him, thought Du Pré.
    The flap of canvas over the door shook and then a hand poked a stick up into it and opened the door all the way. Steam rose in the night air.
    A young man emerged, naked, carrying a dipper.
    He stopped when he saw Du Pré, reached back in the lodge and brought out a towel which he wrapped around his waist.
    Du Pré waited for Benetsee.
    He didn’t come.
    The young man stood with his arms raised to heaven, his lips moving but making no sound.
    Then he went around behind the lodge and he pulled his clothes from the branches of the blue spruces and he dressed.
    Du Pré smoked.
    That old fucker, he thought, he is not even here.
    “Good evening,” said the young man, coming toward Du Pré. He was dressed in jeans and boots and a worn Western shirt. He had a belt buckle made of black metal and bear claws. A turquoise and buffalo-bone choker around his neck.
    “I come to see Benetsee,” said Du Pré. “Would you like some wine?”
    “I don’t drink anymore,” said the young man. “Thank you, though.”
    Du Pré nodded. Res Indian here.
    “Where is Benetsee?” said Du Pré.
    “He gone to North Dakota,” said the young man. “You are Du Pré.”
    “Yes,” said Du Pré.
    “He say you catch these guys he come back then.”
    “WHAT?!” said Du Pré.
    “Don’t yell,” said the young man, “the spirits are still here, they do not like yelling. You know that.”
    “I got to talk to Benetsee,” said Du Pré.
    “Look,” said the young man, “I am telling you what he told me to tell you, I don’t know about nothin’ else.”
    “Shit,” said Du Pré.
    “I am here to take care of his place and do … some things,” the young man said. “I don’t be telling Benetsee what he may do.”
    “Who,” said Du Pré, “the fuck are you?”
    “I don’t got a name yet,” the young man said. “I had one but Benetsee said it wasn’t my name so I …”
    “Christ,” said Du Pré.
    “Well,” said the young man, “he said you’d help me I needed it.”
    “Yah,” said Du Pré, “look, I am sorry. I am wanting to talk to that old bastard and it made me mad he was not here.”
    “He is not coming till you catch those guys,” said the young man.
    “You told me that,” said Du Pré.
    “I am sorry,” said the young man.
    “It is all right,” said Du Pré. “Maybe I just kick that old fucker’s ass I see him.”
    The young man said nothing.
    “You got food,” said Du Pré.
    “No,” said the young man, “I been fasting and praying, and Benetsee …”
    “Come on then,” said Du Pré. “My Madelaine always likes feed people. When you eat, last time?”
    “Long time ago,” said the young man.
    Du Pré got up from the stump. He picked up the wine and whiskey and the cigarette he had rolled for Benetsee. He stopped.
    “You smoke?” he said.
    “Sure,” said the young man.
    Du Pré lit the cigarette and gave it to him. They walked to his old cruiser and got in and they sat there a moment and then Du Pré started the engine and he drove to Toussaint and up to Madelaine’s. The lights were all off.
    Du Pré opened the door and went in. The young man followed him to the kitchen. Du Pré set down his whiskey bottle and he opened the refrigerator and he got out some cheese and a pot of venison stew and some green beans.
    Jug of