Dead Silver

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Friday after work, Madbird and I were drinking shots and beers at the Split Rock Lodge when his niece, Darcy, came prancing through the door. The raucous conversations of the dozen barroom regulars stopped like somebody had dropped a girder on a squawking radio. Darcy knew how to steal a scene.

She was Blackfeet, same as Madbird, and she was some smoke-just turned twenty-one, full-bodied and vibrant, with hair that fell almost to her waist and gleamed like a raven's wing in sunlight. She'd grown up on the tribal reservation in northern Montana, then spent her late teens moving from place to place, looking for the things you looked for at that age. Now she was trying her luck in our state capital city of Helena.

She was as wild as she was pretty, and Madbird did his best to keep tabs on her-he'd gotten her a job waiting tables here at Split Rock because he and I were working nearby these days, remodeling some motel units-but Darcy walked her own walk.

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