“Friend.” There it is again. He turns slightly towards the Indian, who is holding before him a strip of dark red bark, looking as proud as anyone ever has over dried meat.

“Try it.” The Indian lifts it up to the hitchhiker, obviously very eager to share this delicacy with, what he believes to be, a representative of civilized taste.

The driver is closer, but not yet close enough to save the hitchhiker from the chewy piece of meat before him. It is already in his hand, greasing up his thumb and forefinger; and before he can stop himself, the dangly strip is in his mouth. It tastes like fat and dirt somehow combined into one chalky, gristly mouthful. He hastens to get it down. Without water, it is almost an impossible chore. The Indian senses his discomfort and fetches a bladder presumably filled with water.

“Whatchya doin?” It is not a friendly inquiry, and the driver eyes the Indian up and down, even more menacingly, as the Indian trots back holding the buffalo gourd. It is doubtful whether the Indian caught a glimpse of the fist-sized rock the driver had been carrying. He dropped it as soon as he saw the Indian reappear from the shack. Still, the Indian looks him up and down, appraises him, in an unnervingly knowing way. The same haunting smile says, at once, “I know what you’re doing” and “I won’t interfere.” The driver has never had his intentions so clearly read, nor has he ever had them communicated back to him in such an uncomplicated, yet wholly revealing, smile. He realizes how readily, and yet as if on a whim, he was about to put an end to the hitchhiker’s travels. He hopes his face –or however else the Indian managed to read him- doesn’t show remorse. What he feels is more akin to a minor setback.

“You’re friend here was just sampling some of our family’s strepatche. Would you care for some?”

It is suspicious how the Indian’s English is more assiduous than the so-called ‘native speakers’ standing before him. The driver doesn’t like the whole situation. He lets it be known with a disgusted look upon his face. As hungry as he is –peculiar, since he managed to sufficiently stuff himself at Miss Meriwether’s just two hours ago- the driver is not willing to so much as touch this wild man’s wares, let alone ingest them.