Mighty Chief Chappose Picks Berries — Benjamin X. Wretlind

Dan shook a memory from his jarred head. Iron Horse. He replayed the man's voice, the inflection, the words. It was all familiar, even after two years out of the big house and on parole, the voice was familiar . . . chilling. Synapses connected, neurons engaged, electric impulses flashed across Dan's brain, coalescing into a twisted vision of a thickset man festooned with Aryan tattoos across his chest and arms, a scowl that never failed to reveal yellowed teeth, a hideous scar from a burn that covered half a shaved head. The twisted vision of the man resolved into a yard bounded by a tall fence and concertina wire, by guards with their backs turned, by unfocused figures jeering and taunting and yelling and forming a ring of no escape.