The Native American Settlement of Rolling Hills
“Wilum!” Matthew called from the sidelines.
I waved him off and got set to defend on first base as the pitcher whipped a fastball over the plate. Hitchcock, a chubbo whose belly moved slower than his hips, whipped thin air—with the bat and the belly. I rolled my shoulders and pounded the glove with a fist to loosen up, hoping my brother would go away. I didn’t get a chance to play ball with the other guys very often, and I didn’t want to be pulled off the field. Besides, I’d really come down to the tribal rec center to find James, but he wasn’t around. I planned on looking for him pretty soon.
“William Greyhorse!” Matthew yelled. “Hey, man, you need to get your butt home.”
“Not now.”
“Okay. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. The old man’s
