They rode in one big mechanical, growling mass away from the clubhouse and down south, through the bottomland to Sugar Ditch. It was late, but there were still black men out drinking by the old grocery and kids running wild and holding sparklers by the tight-clustered shacks. Chains got off his bike at the store, the rest of the club behind him, but not dismounting, waiting for what was to come. Jason saw him walk up on the porch and grab the first black man he saw, a young guy in shorts and a blue tank top, and slap him hard on the mouth. An old man who was sitting with him raised up from his chair and Chains pointed a .38 at his head. Jason wished like hell he’d stayed with Jean.

There were words exchanged. Chains pistol-whipped the old man. Finally the young guy pointed down the road, the long, unpaved roads of shacks clustered on that nasty creek, where folks still washed their clothes, bathed, and dumped their sewage.

Chains got onto his bike and just zipped on forward, the kids holding burned-out sparklers standing, openmouthed, as the bikers roared past them in the night, down and around a curve and an old church that sat up on the only high land in the Ditch.

Beyond the shacks, nearly to Highway 45 and the county line, Chains pulled in front of a one-level house, neatly painted white but with a rusted roof. There was a wide-open porch where six or so men sat around two tables drinking and smoking, playing cards. A tall, upright man, young, stood from the group and walked away and into the yard. He wore a white tank top, black dress pants, and no shoes, a cigarette hung loose from his mouth. The other men followed him, standing behind him, backing him.

Some of the bikers did the same with Chains. Not that he needed or wanted the support. Jason followed Stillwell up the crowd facing each other.

“You Dupuy?” Chains said.

“Yeah. What the fuck you want?”

Chains stepped up and pointed to Hank Stillwell and said one of his people had killed his daughter.

“One of my people?” Dupuy said, cigarette bobbing his lips. “Slow down there, Fonzie.”

Chains slapped the cigarette right out his mouth. Dupuy didn’t move. Chains turned to his boys, who Jason saw now had some pistols out. The Born Losers carried chains, knives, and guns. This whole Fourth of July was turning to shit. Back at the clubhouse, he could have just ridden away, taken off. This wasn’t about being tough, brave, a man. This was about being crazy and mean. These people didn’t have anything to do with whatever happened to Lori and her friend.

“You tell us where to find this man or we start burning,” Chains said. “Shack by shack.”

“Go ahead,” Dupuy said, thumbing blood off his lip. “Law be all over your ass in ten seconds.”

“We are the law tonight.”

Big Doug had wrapped some rags around a fattened branch and started to pour a small can of gasoline over it. He flicked open a lighter and got the torch going. He ceremoniously handed it over to Stillwell.

“How about we start with your place?” Chains said.

The black men were outnumbered. The man called Dupuy just shook his head and spit onto the dirt, knowing he was beat. The two small tables on the porch of the old house were cluttered with playing cards and poker chips. And piles of money.

“I heard what happened,” Dupuy said. “Them girls yours?”

LeDoux pointed to Stillwell, slick-faced and wide-eyed, holding the torch.

“You ain’t got no truck with the Ditch,” Dupuy said. “Y’all just got it in for that one.”

“You ain’t stupid,” LeDoux said.

“Appreciate that, Fonz,” Dupuy said. “Y’all put out that fire, let me pour some drinks, and y’all cool out. I got some moonshine taste like birthday cake.”

“We want that man.”

“I’ll find him,” Dupuy said. “Right now, y’all white men my guests. You dig?”

LeDoux looked to Hank Stillwell and thought on it, slowly nodding. “Don’t you fuck me, nigger,” LeDoux said, “or we will turn your world to ashes.”

Dupuy kept hard eye contact but didn’t say a word, just turned to some of his people and then put on a pair of boots. They scattered into the slums as the Born Losers sat on their bikes or sat on the man’s porch drinking his moonshine, playing a few hands of cards with the older black men. Someone had some weed. They smoked.

Within thirty minutes, Dupuy was back. He was grinning.

Jason walked up to where LeDoux, Big Doug, Gangrene, and Stillwell spoke to the man. Everyone was smoking, pistol shots and fireworks cracking overhead. A group of ragged kids had come out to look at the motorcycles. One of the Losers let the kids take turns sitting on his Harley, letting them touch the dials and hold the handlebars.

In the small semicircle in the weak light by the porch, Dupuy held up a simple gold cross on a chain. “This look like hers?”

Stillwell snatched it out of Dupuy’s hands. “You son of a bitch,” he said. “We’re gonna murder your ass.”

Dupuy didn’t react. He popped a cigarette in his mouth and pointed north.

“Boy don’t live here,” he said, “ain’t from here. Came to see a local girl and then she told him to get gone. You see, he ain’t right in the head.”

Dupuy touched his temple as if it needed more explanation.

“Understand he got a tent up in the National Forest,” Dupuy said. “He sold that cross to a man I know for five dollars. Y’all need some directions to get the hell out of my world?”

A half dozen of those shitbirds walked into the Rebel at suppertime, taking a seat in the back booth Reserved for Johnny Stagg, Family, and Friends. Stagg didn’t need anyone to call attention to it, he saw them on his TV monitor, tasseled loafers up on the desk, and motioned over to Mr. Ringold. They couldn’t hear what was being said but watched as a waitress came over with a big smile and advised the bikers that they may want to find another place to sit. Whatever they said, it must’ve been unpleasant and crude, as the woman skittered away right quick, not handing out menus and ice water. A good five seconds later, Stagg’s phone rang and he didn’t even bother to listen. “Yeah, I seen them.”

“Mr. Ringold?” Stagg asked, hanging up the phone

“You could call the police.”

“Sure.”

“And have Colson take out this garbage, too.”

Stagg nodded. “I’d kind of like a little heart-to-heart with Mr. LeDoux,” Stagg said. “I don’t care to speak to his people. He got something to say about plans, then me and him need to get to talking.”

“I’ll stand with you.”

“Yes, sir,” Stagg said. “But I don’t care to have another shoot-out at the Rebel, that wouldn’t look too good on them AAA maps. This is a goddamn family restaurant.”

Ringold kept watching the monitor, sleeves pushed up on his black T-shirt, those tattoos covering his arms from wrist to armpit. Stagg wondered if the man even knew what all had been inked on him. He was as tatted up as any of them Born Losers except his tats were eagles, American flags, and military insignias Stagg didn’t understand.

Stagg picked up the telephone, calling Tibbehah dispatch, and told Mary Alice there was some more trouble. “No rush, but why don’t y’all send out someone when you can.”