A handful knew he was a quarter or more Indian, grandson to Broderick Rice, a full-blood by Indian count, a half-breed by white count. Yet they raised their glasses along with the rest to placate their friend, accepted as white by whites. None were stupid enough to mess with Bob Benner’s rage. The night Clarence’s cousin walked into Last Chance Saloon and ordered a beer, he not only defied the sign hung on the door, but his presence challenged the whiteness of Bob Benner. “Cousin,” he said to Benner. Benner looked into his face from the far end of the 1898 bar, with hand-carved boar heads along the edges, and saw a slightly darker version of his own countenance, sparking a murderous rage and self-hatred that would not be denied.
* * *
“Wonder where Uncle Leo and Auntie Rene are,” Kris sa
