At The Injun That Could, a jalopy bar drooping and lopsided on the bank of the Colorado River—a once mighty red body now dammed and tamed blue—Guy No-Horse was glistening drunk and dancing fancy with two white gals—both yellow-haired tourists still in bikini tops, freckled skins blistered pink by the savage Mohave Desert sun.
Though The Injun, as it was known by locals, had no true dance floor—truths meant little on such a night—card tables covered in drink, ash, and melting ice had been pushed aside, shoved together to make a place for the rhythms that came easy to people in the coyote hours beyond midnight.
