Wild Blood by Nancy A. Collins

get so close to the truth only to run smack into a brick wall—a hundred-year-old wall wearing cowboy boots and a baseball cap, at that—was incredibly frustrating. But what was he supposed to do? Force the old lady to tell him what she knew?
    As he wiped at the sweat rolling down his brow, Skinner spotted an adobe building up the road. There were a couple of dusty pickups and a Harley-Davidson motorcycle parked outside. He grinned and picked up his pace. Maybe he could get a ride into town from one of the locals.
    As he drew closer, he saw a neon beer sign flickering in the solitary single plate-glass window and heard muffled music coming from inside. The bar didn’t seem to have a name, but there was a hand-lettered notice tacked to the front door: NO DOGS OR INDIANS ALLOWED .
    Skinner stepped inside, cautiously scanning his surroundings. There was a full bar at the back and a couple of well-worn pool tables near the front door. Hank Williams Jr. was playing from the jukebox. A couple of locals were shooting pool, while what looked like the owner of the Harley drank at the bar. It was hardly the kind of place Skinner usually picked to hang out, but it felt good to get out of the heat and, come to think of it, he could use a beer.
    The bartender looked at him funny as he pulled up a stool and sat down.
    â€œGimme a cold ’un.”
    The bartender hesitated for a moment, as if trying to decide whether to card him then grunted, producing a bottle of beer from behind the counter. Skinner handed over a couple of crumpled dollars and sat back to enjoy his drink.
    Funny how he’d left a dead-end, inbred town stuck out in Southern bayou country, only to end up in an equally moribund and isolated desert community. If anything, Los Lobos was even more depressing than Choctaw County. At least the landscape surrounding Seven Devils looked alive.
    Still, he had to admit that the nearby Coyote Mountains were indeed awesome, rising from the desert floor like the hackles of an angry beast. The scenery in Choctaw County was flatter than a pancake. Hell, the levee was the closest thing to a hill he’d ever seen before going off to college. But proximity to such breathtaking vistas didn’t seem to have much of an effect on the denizens of Los Lobos County, at least as far as he could tell.
    Suddenly a meaty finger prodded his shoulder. “Hey—Hey, you.”
    It was the biker who owned the Harley he’d seen parked outside. He was dressed in a pair of grease-stained jeans, an equally dirty T-shirt and wore a pair of steel-toed boots. His beer belly hung over the top of his jeans, exposing several inches of hairy midriff. That and the drooping mustaches he wore made him look like a walrus. He reeked of grease, gasoline, whiskey, and body odor.
    â€œWhat’s fuckin’ wrong with you?” the walrus growled. “Can’t you fuckin’ read?”
    Skinner looked at the bartender, whose eyes refused to meet his, then turned to address the biker. “Beg pardon?”
    â€œDon’t you get fuckin’ cute with me, asshole!” the biker snarled, leaning even further into Skinner’s face. His teeth were a grayish yellow color. “You saw the sign on the fuckin’ door, didn’t ya?”
    â€œWell, I—Uh—”
    â€œAre you a fuckin’ injun?”
    â€œNo.” He said it without even thinking. It was an automatic response from nineteen years spent thinking of himself as a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant.
    â€œThen you must be a fuckin’ dog!” the biker laughed as he punched Skinner in jaw, knocking him to the floor.
    He lay there in the sawdust, too dazed to do anything except stare up at his attacker. The biker turned and took the half-finished beer from the bar and up-ended over Skinner’s head.
    â€œYou shouldn’t be messin’ with the firewater, Chief! You know that ain’t allowed! Now get your lousy prairie nigger ass