* * *
While Yellow Thunder quietly drank his beer at the Sheridan Lounge, Les Hare, age twenty-eight, his younger brother Pat, and friends Toby Bayliss and Butch Lutter tossed back a few on the front porch of his dad Dean’s house a mile or two west of Gordon. Les’s girlfriend, Jeannette Thompson, just eighteen, was there but not drinking. Les, Pat, and Butch had been coyote hunting—a despicable sport—that day, Butch flying an airplane overhead spotting coyotes; Les, Pat, and Dean chasing after them in Dean’s extended-cab pickup; three killer dogs poised to leap from the bed of the truck and take down any coyotes by their back legs, flip them over, and kill them by ripping open their throats. Lucky for the coyotes, the hunting was not good that day. Unlucky for Raymond Yellow Thunder, the boys were frustrated, anxious to stir up some shit—not just because they had failed at coyote hunting but also because there was a big USO benefit that night at the American Legion Hall, and everyone would be there except Les and Pat, who had been eighty-sixed by the “dumbfuck manager” Bernard Sandage. Earlier that day, they had been told never to come back because they refused to take off their cowboy hats and because Les was caught patting an older waitress named Thelma on her fanny.
“We was just having a little fun. Shucks.”
* * *
Suddenly I’m in Gordon, so lost in thought I didn’t notice the last few miles roll by. Highway 27 turns into a four-lane Main Street, which could very well be the boulevard of a bigger city except there is little traffic. I pass several blocks of tidy post–World War II suburban tract homes, the Jack & Jill Food Market, a Dollar General store, vacant lots leading to a downtown of solid-looking brick-façade buildings. Unlike those in Rushville or Hay Springs, none are boarded up. Beyond downtown loom three towering white grain elevators, multi-silo behemoths, the tallest buildings in Western Nebraska—bigger than the stinky sugar beet factory in Scottsbluff. They so dominate Gordon’s skyline it is hard not to get distracted, but then on my right, just past Stockmen’s Drug, of all things, I spot the sign for a sweet little coffee shop: COFFEE NOOK & GIFTS. I park Villa VW and go inside. The display racks in front are crammed with handcrafted ceramic cups and saucers, jars of homemade jams and gourmet mustards, popcorn, and Dark Canyon brand coffee beans. There are cute signs to hang in your kitchen, one of which reads BELIEVE IN THE POSSIBILITY; decorative dragonfly sculptures; Bless this Home pillows; patchwork quilts, and tons of Nebraska Cornhusker football merchandise: caps, T-shirts, sweatshirts, jerseys, shot glasses, banners, ashtrays, coffee mugs, decals, game-day blankets, and fanny packs emblazoned with a big red N or Huskers.
Hidden in back of the merchandise is the coffee counter, and next to it are a few iron-rod tables and chairs occupied by a clique of blue-haired ladies who appear to be drinking coffee and eating cake—Gordon’s female aristocrats holding court; their husbands night be dead, or perhaps it’s poker night at the Hacienda Lounge out on old Highway 20. The middle-aged barista has her back to me as she whips up a peppermint mocha, which I see by a nearby sign is the Good Friday special. When she finishes, she turns to me, and I order a small latte with an extra shot of espresso.
She asks what to me is a very strange question: “Do you want any flavorings?”
On the shelf behind her I see dozens of bottles, DaVinci brand syrups. There’s orange, lime, cookies and cream, cherry, cheesecake, hazelnut, chocolate, watermelon, raspberry, root beer, pumpkin pie, and, of course, peppermint.
“No, thanks. I’m trying to avoid sugar.”
“Well then, cowboy,” she says, “how ’bout some whipped cream?”
Giving in, I go for the whipped cream. While the barista finishes my drink, I mention to her that I was in Rushville this morning and that the Gordon downtown area seems to be much more alive than downtown Rushville. “You’re lucky,” I say. “Most businesses there are boarded up.”
“That may be so,” she says, “but there are some good people in Rushville, working hard to keep it going.”
I ask her if she knows anything about the old Hotel Pfister, the pawnshop lady who had the fabulous collection of Indian artifacts. Surprisingly, she knows quite a bit. “It was a sad ending,” she says. “Helen was sick for many years, and when she died, there was a court battle over her estate. Her collection was sold off to pay legal bills. Nothing is left.”
“Dirty shame,” I say. “Helen said it was going to be her ‘retirement.’ I guess she didn’t live long enough to retire.”
“Frail bird, she was. Smoked like a chimney.”
I learn that the barista’s name is Barb Haller. She grew up in Gordon, moved to Santa Monica in her twenties, came back, has owned the Coffee Nook for a couple of years, loves it here, will never leave again. Walking out the door, I taste the latte. It’s yucky sweet thanks to the artificial cream, but I don’t care; it will keep me awake all the way to Alliance. Looking back up the street, I am surprised to see that the Sheridan Lounge is still there, still open, still serving drinks, I presume, to falling-down drunks—cowboys and Indians alike.
* * *
Raymond Yellow Thunder stumbled out of the Sheridan at around ten thirty that fatal night in 1972. He was headed north toward Borman Chevrolet so he could sleep in an old panel truck parked in the back lot—something he did when he was too drunk to sleep on the sofa at Arlene Lamont’s house. Arlene always welcomed him, but Arlene was close to his sisters who lived on the rez, and she might tell them how drunk he was, which would be embarrassing.
The Hare brothers, Les and Pat; their friends Toby and Butch; and Les’s girlfriend, Jeannette, were still driving around Gordon in Toby’s newly painted blue Ford. Earlier that evening they had stopped at the Wagon Wheel liquor store to stock up on liquid refreshments. Les liked Schlitz, which came in bottles, and Pat liked Budweiser, which came in cans, so they bought a case of each. Toby and Butch didn’t give a shit—they would drink anything as long as it got them blasted—and Jeannette was not drinking. When one of the boys finished a beer, the empty can or bottle was tossed out the car window, mostly onto the lawns of people they despised: churchgoing, uptight Gordonites. When a glass bottle shattered, everyone laughed, and someone would shout, “Fuckin’ A!”
Les was the first to spot Yellow Thunder. “Look at that goddamn Indian! Let’s get him!”
On cue, Toby whipped his car over the curb onto the sidewalk in front of Yellow Thunder. Before it came to a complete stop, Les jumped out, ran up to Yellow Thunder, slugged him as hard as he could on the side of the head, knocking him down, and hopped back in the car.
As they sped away, he hollered, “I got him good!”
Others were cruising about Gordon that night, mostly teenagers with nothing better to do; it was a standard activity in small Nebraska towns—get away from the adults, socialize, drink beer. Still, the gang had to be careful; no one cared if an Indian got his ass kicked, but the cops were fed up with the Hare brothers and their antics. The cops would love to find an excuse to put them in the same slammer with the same Indians they harassed, throw away the key, and watch the fun.
And damn if they weren’t out of beer again—one more trip to the Wagon Wheel and this time just one case: half Schlitz, half Bud, and maybe a pint of Old Crow.
By now they were so drunk on their collective asses that when Toby accidently stepped on the back of Pat’s heel as they came out of the liquor store, both went tumbling to the ground and remained there for a few moments, hysterically laughing. No one remembers who came up with the plan for what they should do next; Les said it was Toby, who said it was Pat. The brilliant idea went like this: Let’s find that goddamn Indian, stomp him some more, take off his pants, haul him over to the Legion, and throw him inside. It will be funnier than hell. Dumbfuck Sandage will call the cops, and the cops will shut down the dance; they’ll send people home.
“Hell, Sandage might even lose his bullshit job.”
“But where is that Indian?”
A few moments later, Raymond Yellow Thunder would have
been safely tucked inside the panel truck where he had stashed a blanket for such occasions, but as he staggered into the Borman used car lot, Les caught sight of him.
It didn’t take long for Les to reach Yellow Thunder. He grabbed his arm, yanked him to the ground, and yelled out: “Yeah! I got the son of a bitch.”
As Toby came running, he saw that Les was hanging on to the truck for leverage, that he was violently hopping up and down on Yellow Thunder’s face and torso, kicking him in between hops.
“I’m stomping him,” Les said.
Toby reached down, grabbed Yellow Thunder by his hair, lifted his head, and punched him hard in the mouth, twice for good measure.
“Come on, Butch, this is hella fun,” Toby yelled out.
To his credit, I suppose, Butch was horrified and did not want any part of this, but he did nothing to stop it. Pat too declined to join in the beating. He stood watching, not sure what to do until his brother turned to him and said, “C’mon, damn it, help me get his pants off.”
Pat followed his brother’s instructions; they stripped Yellow Thunder of his shoes, pants, and underwear, leaving him only his socks from the waist down. While Les and Pat carried him toward the car, Toby jogged ahead to open the trunk.
Toby hollered back at the brothers, “Ain’t no way that stinking Indian rides in front.”
Les and Pat stuffed the dazed but still conscious Yellow Thunder into the trunk as Jeannette watched passively from the front seat. After Toby slammed the lid shut, the four men piled back into the car and sped off, leaving Yellow Thunder’s shoes, pants, and underwear piled on the ground.
Next stop: the American Legion Hall.
It was around midnight. The parking lot at the Legion Hall was crammed; there were people coming and going, and it was obviously not the right time for pulling off a prank without being detected. Toby drove by without stopping, went back to cruising up and down Main Street. They would return when things died down, but first there was more serious drinking to do. More empties to throw onto the lawns of the local bourgeois.
“Hey, Les,” Butch said. “That stinking Indian is as drunk as we are. Suppose he might like a beer.”
“Hell, no. Ain’t going to waste no brewski on no goddamn Indian.”
“I just hope he ain’t barfing in my trunk,” Toby said to no one in particular.
* * *
About an hour later, down to one last beer apiece, they decided to give their scheme one more try. “If it doesn’t work this time, we’ll take Geronimo back to the car lot before his nuts freeze off.”
The Legion was still busy, but now everyone was inside except for some dude sitting in his car near the front door, his motor running, lights on. Right away, they recognized Max Anderson, one of Jeannette’s friends from high school. Too young to go into the Legion, Max was waiting for his two older buddies to score some beer before they continued on their merry way. Jeannette volunteered to talk to him. She walked up to the car, motioned to Max to roll down the side window, and said, “Hey Max, ain’t I your friend?”
Max smiled at her. “You always have been.”
“Can you turn your lights off? We got this drunk Indian in the trunk with his pants off, and my friends are gonna throw him into the dance.”
Max did as he was asked, just as if it were just another ordinary Saturday night in Gordon, Nebraska.
Afraid to struggle or cry out, Yellow Thunder was relieved just to be out of the trunk. He went along willingly when Pat said, “Hang on, Chief. We’re going to take you inside where it’s warm.” Pat and Butch guided their victim up the steps, through the foyer, and into the ballroom, where they gave him a stiff shove, nearly knocking him over, and ran back outside, making sure to shut the doors tightly behind them.
Woozy from the beating and bouncing up and down inside the trunk, not to mention the boilermakers he’d had at the Sheridan Lounge, Yellow Thunder was stunned by the bright lights, the loud twang of a steel guitar, banging drums, thumping cowboy boots, whirling ladies with billowing dresses, farmers dancing the country two-step. Embarrassed, he grabbed the front of his shirttail, pulled it down to cover himself, and frantically looked for the door, a way out. The dancers stopped and stared at him for what seemed like an eternity. Disheveled, bruised, his forehead caked with dirt and blood, eyes bloodshot, half naked, and an Indian—Indians aren’t allowed in the Legion! When someone finally acted, it was the pharmacist, Marvin Wheeler, sitting in a nearby booth with his wife, Virginia. Grabbing his jacket from the coatrack, he tried to cover up the poor Indian, but Legion manager Sandage intervened with his bartender, Bob Buchan. Pushing Wheeler and his coat aside, they guided Yellow Thunder to the front door and outside into the freezing night.
“What the fuck is going on here?” Sandage asked.
“Some white boys roughed me up,” Yellow Thunder replied.
When Buchan asked Yellow Thunder if he wanted them to call the police, Yellow Thunder shook his head and said, “Just let me go.” He trotted back into the bitterly cold night toward the highway, crossing the gravel parking lot with only socks between his feet and the frozen ground, as Buchan and Sandage testified. Rumors have been circulating for years that people inside the Legion thought that Yellow Thunder’s sudden appearance—drunk without pants—was hysterically funny. Making him dance “Indian style,” they pushed him around the dance floor, whooping like drunken warriors themselves, and only when they tired of this frivolity did they push him outside—so the story goes. None of this was proven.
What did happen is bad enough. The good white folks of Gordon did not give a whit for Yellow Thunder’s welfare. They left him outside in below-freezing weather wearing no pants, underwear, or shoes.
Guilt is a strange thing. Les Hare got to thinking how cold it was, decided they should find the goddamn Indian and take him to retrieve his shoes and pants. So for a third time, they drove around looking for Yellow Thunder, found him past the railroad tracks, east of the grain elevators, coaxed or forced him into the trunk, and drove off to get his stuff. This final task accomplished, Les broke down and offered Yellow Thunder a beer for being such a good sport.
Once he had his pants and a can of beer, he was free to go—and the very same Raymond Yellow Thunder who at the Legion Hall didn’t want anyone to call the police went directly to the police station. He told the cops about the white boys beating him up, about being thrown into the Legion Hall, and asked them if he could have a sleepover in one of the vacant cells. The Gordon police were very familiar with Raymond, liked him because he was quiet and never caused a bit of trouble. Granting his request, they noted what had happened to him but did not bother to investigate. It was no big deal, just some whacked-out cowboys, probably the Hare brothers, having a little too much fun. Happened all the time.
While Yellow Thunder checked into his cell, Les and his gang moved their rolling party to a late-night café on the edge of town with the odd name Seger Oil Company. As on most Saturdays after midnight, the place was packed. Seger had great steak and eggs and chicken and waffles and acceptable coffee. Many of the customers had been at the dance and were buzzing about what they’d seen, wondering how the hell that naked Indian ended up on the dance floor. Jazzed up, Les foolishly began to brag in a very loud, drunken voice. Everyone heard him.
“We pushed that naked Indian right into the Legion dance,” he said over and over. Toby thought Les was hilarious; he couldn’t stop laughing. Butch, Pat, and Jeannette were grinning but not so sure they wanted everyone in town to know they’d been involved in such a childish prank.
“Should have seen the look on his face when we stuffed his ass in the trunk and slammed the lid shut. Scared him shitless. And I’m not kidding. Look here, I have shit on my hands,” Les said, turning his palms up to show Jeannette.
More than most young women, Jeannette had a high tolerance for brutishness, seemed to find it amusing, but this was where she finally drew the line.
“Jesus Christ, Les,” she sai
d angrily. “Go into the fucking bathroom and wash your hands!”
* * *
A few years later the Seger’s Oil Company was rechristened Western Café. The menu was changed to Chinese cuisine, drawing much derision from local folk who thought that if they were going to serve “Chink” food, the name should have been changed to the Eastern Café. Looking out the window of Villa VW at the corner of Highway 27 and Highway 20, I see there is still a café; it looks like the same building. These days it is the Antelope Creek Cafe, featuring Gordon home-style cooking—tuna casserole, meat loaf, chicken cutlet sandwiches, hot plates with real mashed potatoes. Tempting, perhaps, but the thought of Les Hare washing shit off his hands in the bathroom sink is more than enough to keep me from venturing inside.
Just east of the Antelope Creek Cafe is the old American Legion Hall, a sprawling, ugly green metal building with no windows. The American flag is fluttering atop a disproportionately tall flagpole. The same gravel parking lot Yellow Thunder once traversed in his stocking feet is still there. And most notable, on the corner near the highway is a Vietnam-era Bell HueyCobra attack helicopter with what I assume are deactivated M75 grenade launchers. I am amazed that American Indian Movement activists never burned down this hateful place, never trashed the helicopters.
* * *
Head pounding, Raymond Yellow Thunder woke up in his cell the following morning with no appetite, declined to eat the instant cereal offered him, and left the jail looking for the one thing that might relieve his aching head, a bottle of cheap wine. A few hours later, on his way to his janitorial job at the First National Bank, fifteen-year-old George Ghost Dog spotted Raymond when he cut through the Borman back lot. He caught a glimpse of a head poking through the window in an old panel truck and recognized one of his mother’s cousins, the nice man who liked to draw pictures and hand out quarters to Indian kids.
Good Friday on the Rez Page 21