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at me and says, “Well, if you’re so goddamned set on bein’ part of the White Man’s world, you’ve got to have you a White Man’s name. Walkin’ Wolf might be a mighty fine name for a Comanche, but it ain’t no kind of name for a White Man.” He worked his chaw real thoughtful for a second. “You wouldn’t happen to know your real name, would you? No? In that case, we’ll have to come up with a name on our own. Wouldn’t be the first time a man’s named himself out here … Let’s see now … William’s a good name. But you’re too young for a serious first name like that. How about Will? Naw … You look more like a Billy to me. Billy. Yeah, that sounds good! But Billy what? Smith and Jones are popular, but not exactly what I’d call distinctive. You want yourself a handle that folks’ll remember …” Buffalo-Face’s bloodshot eye wandered about the camp, his gaze finally settling on the cookfire. He grinned suddenly, displaying tobacco-stained teeth. “That’s it! Skillet! Billy Skillet! How that sound to you, Walkin’ Wol—I mean, Billy?”
    I gave it a thought, rolling the name around on my tongue for effect. Billy Skillet. Damned if it didn’t feel good in my mouth. “I like it.”
    Buffalo-Face let out with a laugh like a wild ass in heat. “Then that’s who you are, by damn! Billy Skillet! And don’t let no one tell you otherwise!”
    So that’s now I got my White name. Here I was, barely fifteen years old, and I already had me three—possibly four—names. That’s as many, or more, than a Comanche brave gets in a whole lifetime.
    At the end of four weeks, we’d finally come within passing distance of a White settlement big enough to think it was a town. Buffalo-Face took me up on a rise that overlooked the slap-dash collection of wood houses and dirt streets.
    â€œThat there’s Vermilion, Texas. White folks live there. Few Meskins, too, but mostly Whites. You’ll excuse me if I don’t walk you down to the city limits. I don’t do no tradin’ with White folk in Texas—except for the Spaniards. They’re pure out-and-out businessmen, them Spanish. Don’t give a rat’s ass what color a man’s skin is, long as his coins are silver or gold. Don’t care if you’re selling liquor and guns to Injuns, either. Man’s business is a man’s business.”
    Buffalo-Face turned to look at me, shaking his head sadly. “You’ve been good company on the trail, boy. I’m sorry to see you go. I just hope you don’t turn mean-crazy once you get yourself civilized. I reckon there are kindly White folks out there, somewheres. Lord knows, I never run across one. But, then again, I ain’t never seen an elephant, neither. Mebbe your luck will be better’n mine on that count. Just remember what I told you, and you’ll stand a halfway decent chance dealin’ with ’em.”
    I threw my arms around his wide, scarred shoulders and hugged him as I would my own father. “Thank you for giving me my new name, Buffalo-Face.”
    â€œShoot, t’weren’t nothing, son.” Suddenly his smile disappeared and he wagged a tobacco-stained finger in my face. “But whatever you do, don’t tell ’em you’ve been keepin’ company with a Black feller who sells guns to Injuns! All that’ll do is put you on the wrong foot from the get-go!”
    With that, he returned to his oxcart laden with contraband. The last I saw of him, he was spitting tobacco juice and snapping his whip over Goodness and Mercy, cursing a blue streak. We never met again, although I heard, years later, that he had run afoul of White settlers in Oklahoma, who—upon learning he sold guns and ammunition to the Comanche and Apache—lynched him from the nearest cottonwood tree.

Chapter Four
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