“Ol’Brown, he nobody’s fool.  No sir.  No, I’m telling you, listen here.  Pay attention now.  I may be old, but I still know how know my ass from a hole in the wall.  Now you sign this line,” Brown said.

“So this means I’ll own the place?” Colter said.

“Now don’t you worry about that.  But yes, on paper you’ll own the Beaver Hole.  You need to understand, you outside the law.  Cherokee Nation, Geronimo, and shit.   Listen here.  With that tribal license, and this being tribal land, you can run this sort of joint.  Gambling, hookers, you just call it native culture. Whereas, Ol’Brown?  Ol’ Brown is seen now as a white man, a Cubano imported, pale faced citizen of America’s Great Society, laid down and stomped on now by state law.  To me, last state session, the senators’ say ‘no thanks’ to my Beaver Hole.  So before the deputies make their way out here, I need your signature and a copy of that tribal card.  Damn it, Colter, just sign here and keep your job,” Ol’ Brown said.

“Yes, Sir,” Colter said, signing his name.

Colter Wayne Hobbes