Free The Water Museum by Luis Alberto Urrea

What’s the deal with white boys, anyway? Getting a tan out here?
    Horses stared as he passed, his head clicking in small increments like the Terminator. About fifty yards down the road, he stopped. He watched in the rearview. That was just squirrely, that scene. Guy looked dead. His feet in high-tops splayed out, unmoving. His head slumped to the side, mouth open.
    Horses told himself it wasn’t any of his business. If some wasichu decided to get out here and croak—well, more power to him. Nothing good was going to come of getting involved.
    He pulled over and parked. Checked his cell phone. No signal. But he already knew that. He put it in reverse and slowly backed up. Came even with the man and hit the window button.
    “Hey,” he said.
    Nothing.
    “Hey!”
    Hubbard jumped, just a little.
    “Hey! Wake up!”
    Hubbard cracked his eyes open and cast around as if he were a scuba diver looking at a reef.
    “Huh?” Hubbard said.
    Don raised his hand.
    “How,” he said.
    He loved saying that to white boys.
    Hubbard focused his eyes.
    “Some truck,” he croaked.
    “You all right?”
    “Not exactly. All right. No.”
    Don nodded. Now he’d tore it—had to pull over. Had to make sure. Now this clown was going to be on his hands.
    Hubbard looked at the cottonwood in the field.
    “Car broke,” he said.
    Horses leaned over and stuck out his head to look at the Volvo. A thick braid tumbled down and hung there. “Let’s take a look,” Don said.
    “Gee, could you?” Hubbard said.
    Don Her Many Horses parked, put down his size-thirteen black cowboy boot.
    Horses reached back into the truck and extracted a big black cavalry hat. It had a high crown and an ample brim, curved down over his eyebrows. Braided horsehair hatband, and a feather attached by some kind of thong.
    “Nice hat,” Hubbard said.
    Horses walked past, saying nothing.
    He rested his fists on his hips and observed the landscape. He didn’t seem to be in any particular hurry to rescue Hubbard. “Pronghorn,” he said.
    “Excuse me?” he shouted, barely maintaining.
    “Pronghorn. Antelope. Right over there.”
    Hubbard squinted.
    “I mean. Really! For Christ’s sake!” he declared.
    “What?” said Horses, thinking: Oh, wonderful—white boy’s crazy.
    Hubbard waved his hand as if to show Horses it was nothing.
    “He’s watching us,” Horses said.
    “As we are watching him.” Hubbard smiled.
    “You stretch out on the grass over there,” Horses said, pointing with his chin. “He won’t be able to stay away. He’ll be so curious, he’ll walk over to take a look.”
    “Do tell!” Hubbard enthused.
    Horses said, “Watch this.”
    He took off his hat, waved it above his head. Suddenly, like a tawny ICBM, the little antelope sprang straight into the air. He pogoed away, bouncing along and casting disapproving glances back at them.
    “Hey!” Hubbard cried.
    “Yeah,” Horses said. “Wish I had my rifle out.”
    “Pronghorn steak,” said Horses. “Marinated in wild blueberries. That’s good eatin’.”
    Screw it. He reached into the cab. Grabbed out his red pack. Tapped out a smoke and hung it on his lip. “Smoke too much,” he said, lighting up. “That’s my Indian name.” He rasped out a laugh, blew a stream of smoke at Hubbard. “Is that a bear claw?” he said.
    Hubbard fingered his Chittimacha hoodoo on its thong.
    “Gaaatorrr. Tooothhh.”
    Horses fished out a chain from under his shirt.
    “Grizzly,” he said. “Clawwww.”
    Hubbard started weeping.
    “What about the carrr?” he asked.
    “The car?” said Horses. “It’s a Volvo.”
    Hubbard just stared at him, eyes wet.
    White guys, Horses thought. They’re just not that funny.
    *  *  *
    While Don Her Many Horses tried the ignition and listened to its screech, Hubbard’s pills kicked off like cheap Fourth of July fireworks. Pop! Pow! He flew off the hood and bounced around on the blacktop. Holy SHIT! The SUN! It was SO BRIGHT! He hopped around like a