We eat chicken fried steak at the Tomahawk Café on Main Street, behind the rows of dusty Ford pickup trucks where everybody calls me Hoss. It is the Oklahoma is OK small town with oil wells at the edge of a one street town where most of the houses are painted white and chickens scratch at the edge of the road. Joe’s Barber Shop, next door, has a back room for whiskey and poker with cheap cigar smoke that hangs over the game of five card stud, jacks or better to get the local Indians drunk and take their government checks. Sam Two Feathers thinks it is still better than the reservation because the locals let him sleep it off on a bench behind the shop and pat him on the back when he is broke and that is better than the alternative. The wake-up call is an old dog that licks his face good morning. Sam will sit up, stare down into the red dirt trying to clear his head and then stagger down to the Tomahawk where I will order him biscuits and red-eye gravy and everybody will call him chief.