Sit around the campfire and rest your feet, dust the charcoal off your hands and listen to a story.
My grandfather was there the night they scared away the Tinman, the Pathfinder, Road Warrior, Wanderer and Hellhound. Here how they started their journey to save our Five Hills from the Black Flood and our hospitality, to such guests.
They took off late in the evening one spring night, they took off in pursuit of the Buzzards that stole from us and killed our kin. Our people came across what they did in the days that followed, arrows placed with care in the bodies of Buzzards, cables hewed with skill and care and bodies blown apart by brawn and bullet. When they came back they brought with them a Buzzard girl and her truck, our ancestors in their hurry did seek vengeance on her and so they taught us to be wary of our ways. I don’t know what happened next to them as they left in the night our torches still burning bright.
A merchant came a few days later with stories of them, how a car smeared with gore had dismantled both house and looper. Of a Indian woman unflinching as she pelted and sold her wares in front of him.