"You two must be magicians," Les says.

His wheelchair crowds the bonfire. It's a cold night at the Man Camp. Arctic winds came early.

"How's that?" I say. Shift in my seat at the fire.

Sam zips up her jacket. Sits next to me. A dozen or so oil workers huddle with us. One of them, Moe, tunes a guitar.

"Because my guys tell me you went for trash bags. Came back with plenty. Plus more money than when you left," Les says. "Good work."

We handed over the trash bags once we got back. The scrawny guy with the shotgun spotted our cash. Said he changed his mind about us keeping the change.

I didn't want to put up a fight. Not then and there. So we gave the money up.

"Yeah, we wound up with a pallet of trash bags. Sold half of them to workers," I say.

"You're thinking like me now," Les says.

The wind carries something like cat pee into the air. The meth lab.

Sam smells it, too. Wrinkles her nose.

I ignore it. So do the workers. They stare into the fire. Too tired to talk.

Les, on the other hand, announces its arrival with pride.

"I love the smell of money," he says. Leans back in his wheelchair. A grin fractures his leathery face.

"I still think it's gross," Sam says.

Moe's guitar goes silent. A relief. The tuning isn't going well in the cold.

Les straightens up in his seat.

"Aw, don't get all high and mighty on me now. You know who Wyatt Earp is, right?" Les says.

"Sure. Shootout at the OK Corral and all that," Sam says.

Les digs out a bottle of peppermint liquor. Takes a pull. Passes it to Moe. The bottle makes its way around the fire.

"Close, but no dice," Les says. Exhales. Burns the alcohol off his breath. "The shootout happened behind the OK Corral. And I suppose you think Earp was a lawman, too?"

"Yes. But you'll probably say I'm wrong about that, too," Sam says.

"Half wrong. He didn't start life as Mr. Law and Order. He was the Pimp of Peoria. Ran a whorehouse in Illinois," Les says.

I take a pull from the bottle. Too sweet. Pass it to Sam. She feigns a sip. Passes it on.

"Then he beat the shit out of some cowboys. He was headed to jail, but ol' Earp, he weaseled his way out of it. Told the sheriff he'd help handle cowboys getting out of line," Les says.

The bottle makes its way to back him. Empty. He tosses it into the night. Lands with a sharp clink on the cold ground. We'll be picking that up tomorrow.

Les says, "That got him a job as a lawman. He also ran shotgun for Wells Fargo. Kept their investments secure. After he retired, he met someone named Marion Morrison. Do you know who that is?"

Sam shakes her head. I know the answer.

"John Wayne," I say.

"Very good. John Wayne, the actor. Used Earp as a template," Les says.

"What's all this have to do with a meth lab?" Sam says.

Good question.

Les says, "The point is this. To organize chaos, you have to be bad before you can be good. The bedrock of any civilization is a bunch of bad people doing bad things. They're the invisible hands pulling the strings, making everything tick."

"So you're a bad guy?" Sam says.

"Yes. And I'm proud of it. This prairie needs a Wyatt Earp. Someone to do the dirty work until civilization is established. Same as it's been throughout history. Criminals become the lawmen, the government. Shouldn't be a surprise," Les says.

The scrawny guy appears at the edge of the fire. Holds a fresh bottle. Hands it to Les. Gives Sam a long look before leaving.

Les pops the bottle open. Takes a loud chug. Passes it to a worker.

"Go back to ancient times. Civilization was just a group of people sitting around a fire. Kind of how we are now," Les says. "Every now and then, raiders would come and steal their supplies.

"But it didn't make sense to rob these people blind. They couldn't produce as much to steal later on. So the raiders charged a protection fee. They'd fight off other raiders. In return, they got just enough food and shelter in return.

"Now you have a population that can produce things without fear of attack. Now you have a civilization with a chance. The more the civilization grew, the more these raiders expanded their power. Formalized things. Became governments and institutions. Until the original raiders basically became invisible. Doesn't mean they aren't there, though.

"And now history is repeating itself. Right here on the prairie. Starting with bad guys like me. Cheers to that."

The bottle makes its way to Sam. She polishes it off.

"Great story. I suppose this gives you a pass to feed meth to oil workers," Sam says.

Les laughs.

"I like you," he says. Looks at me. "You're a lucky guy."

I look at Sam. I certainly feel lucky. I just don't know if I am yet.

"Meth keeps these guys working. Too much money out here for morals," Les says. Points his cane at Moe. "You gonna play us a song? Or just tune that damn thing all night?"

Moe strums out a couple tunes. I think he makes them up as he goes. Don't recognize them. Might also be due to the fact he's missing two fingers on his fret hand.

The scrawny guy fetches more bottles for Les. We drink until the fire dies. Then it's off to bed.

I take the couch again in the RV. Sam gets the bed. I almost feel like asking if she needs company. It's cold.

Almost.

A soft wind rocks the RV. Sleep comes easy under warm blankets on the couch.

I'm halfway there. Get the feeling I'm being watched. Glance out the window.

I'm right.

*** PLEASE SUPPORT MY WRITING! ***

This story will only be posted on Wattpad for a limited time. If you'd like the full version, head to your favorite online e-book/book retailer and pick up your own digital/print copy. Search for "Invisible Hand Sobieck." Or leave a review of the book on Amazon once you're finished reading on Wattpad. Thank you. ~Ben