“That’s Black River.”
“No,” the man said, looking down the highway toward the gas station where Wade's crew had parked. “Black River came from this.”
Eli’s mouth went bone dry. There were legendary stories about the original vests—whispered late at night in the clubhouse when the older members had drank enough whiskey to remember their history honestly. There had been seven original patches, all hand-stitched. Only one was believed to have survived the decades. The founding vest.
It belonged to a rider called Hawk—Samuel “Hawk” Hayes.
Some of the younger guys claimed Hawk had been nothing more than the quiet, tag-along brother of the club's charismatic founder, Walter Hayes. But the older legends painted a different picture. Samuel had been the brilliant mechanic who kept their first seven bikes running when they couldn't afford parts. He had carried medical supplies in his saddlebags because he’d served as an Army medic in Vietnam. He found jobs for returning veterans and repaired the homes of injured riders.
An old, gray-bearded member had once told Eli:
“Walter gave Black River a voice. Hawk gave it a spine.”
“What’s your name?” Eli swallowed hard.
The old man held his gaze for a long moment before answering.
“Samuel Hayes.”