He ignored the remark. “I’m here to advise these people, before they get into something too deep to pull out of. We’re going to vote on whether we should talk to anybody at all—whether we should take everything straight into the courts as a minorities harassment case. That way we get protection and bypass all the bullshit.”

A harassment case? She was incredulous. There was blood spilled out on that site; some of his people and hers were dead. How could he possibly be thinking of something so—petty? How dare he reduce this situation to trivialities?

That was when her temper went the way of her patience. This was not a law-class exercise, this was the real world—and there were real people who were really dead.

“Dammit, David,” she snarled, “there’s more than just a harassment case going on when you’ve got a body count! You jerkoff, there’s dead people involved here, kids whose daddies aren’t coming home, and somebody’s responsible for their deaths! That’s murder in my book, and not some two-bit legal sideshow!”

She dug into her pocket and came up with a handful of business cards. She shoved the cards at him, feeling her blood pressure rise with every second. “When you and the boys get tired of playing Indians and cavalry, give me a call,” she said sarcastically. “Maybe then we can start getting things settled, and maybe together we can find out who’s responsible.”

He didn’t take the cards; they dropped to the ground at his feet.

She turned on her heel and walked off, so angry she could hardly see. She stalked stiff-kneed and stiff-spined all the way back to the truck, threw herself inside, started it up, and backed out with a spinning of tires and spitting of gravel. This time she left tire marks on the road.

But at the crossroads, her temper cooled; she pulled over and beat her hands on the steering wheel. She wanted to beat her head on it—but that would leave bruises, and a bruised forehead would be hard to explain to the folks.

Oh, I just ran into David Spotted Horse, and I started beating my head against a wall.…

Then again, they’d probably accept that.

“Good job, Talldeer,” she muttered under her breath. “Really good job. Congratulations. You really made your point, didn’t you. Damn, damn, damn—”

Why did he have to be there? Why couldn’t it have been some other macho asshole from the Rights Movement? She could have handled a stranger. She wouldn’t have lost her temper. She’d handled every flavor and color of macho jerk there was, including those of her own people who had accused her, openly or veiled, of selling out to the White Man. Of being an Apple—red on the outside, white on the inside. She’d done it successfully, too. If it had just been a stranger—