She was a biker girl one night, a cowgirl the next. She drank in busthead bars and was probably the wet dream of the men and college boys who hung in them. But the clothes she wore and the life she led were a self-abasing deception. She spoke French and German, had an IQ of 160, a degree in English literature from the University of Virginia, and was the daughter of United States Senator Romulus Finley.

“How do you commit battery with undergarments?” I said.

“It’s easy when a cop kicks open your motel room while you’re dressing,” she replied.

“What were you doing in a dump like that, anyway?”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t remember.”

I paused a moment. “Your old man won’t spring you?” I said.

She seemed to think about it. “If I asked him, yeah, he probably would. Yeah, he might,” she said. She looked at me, as though confused by her own words and the sad implication in them. She got up and walked to the bars. I could smell the cigarette smoke in her hair and the mixed drinks that had gone sour on her stomach. “Get me out of here, Billy Bob. I’m really hung over this time.”

AN HOUR LATER we walked out of the jail. “Why was Johnny American Horse carrying a gun around?” I asked.

“It’s those oil companies he’s trying to stop from drilling on sacred lands. He thinks they put a hit on him.”

“A hit? From an oil company? Maybe some of their CEOs are moral imbeciles, but oil companies don’t have people killed,” I said.

“Right, that’s why we’re taking over Third World countries-we don’t care about their oil. See you later, B.B. I’m going to sleep for three days.”

B.B.?

AS THE SUN dropped behind the ridge of mountains on the west side of the Jocko Valley, Johnny American Horse walked the perimeter of his four-acre lot, examined the wire and tin cans he had strung earlier in the day, then continued on up the slope into the trees bordering the back of his property.