by Thomas King
And the soldiers began shooting for all they were worth. And John Wayne and Richard Widmark ran back and forth, encouraging the men, the bullets flying around them.
“Take your time and aim,” shouted Widmark.
But the Indians kept coming, relentlessly, moving through the water. Then, in the background, along with the music, there was the sound of a bugle, faint at first and then louder, until it filled the speakers, and over the hill behind the Indians came a troop of cavalry charging down the hill into the river bottom.
“Hooray,” shouted John Wayne, and he took off his hat and waved it at the charging troops.
“Hooray,” shouted Richard Widmark, and he buttoned up his vest and ran a hand through his hair.
“Hooray,” shouted the soldiers, and they all leaped from their hiding places and watched the Indians, who were trapped in the middle of the river.
“Hooray,” shouted Bill Bursum, and he bounced in place, keeping time to the music with the remote.
“Hooray,” shouts Coyote. “Hooray.”
“Oops,” said the Lone Ranger. “I thought we fixed this one.”
“Yes,” said Ishmael, “I thought we did, too.”
“A lot of them look the same,” said Hawkeye.
“Boy,” said Robinson Crusoe, “this is sure a lot of work.”
“Come on,” said the Lone Ranger, and he began to sing.
“I didn’t mean hooray,” says Coyote. “I meant oh no! That’s what I meant.”
The Lone Ranger’s voice was soft and rhythmic, running below the blaring of the bugle and the thundering of the horses’ hooves. Then Ishmael joined in and then Robinson Crusoe and then Hawkeye.
“Come on, Coyote,” said the Lone Ranger. “You can help, too.”
“I had nothing to do with it,” says Coyote. “I believe I was in Houston.”
As Charlie watched, the Indians stopped in the middle of the river. Portland sat on his horse and looked back at the closing cavalry. None of the Indians moved. They sat there as if they were resting or waiting for a bus.
On the one side of the river, John Wayne and Richard Widmark and the soldiers yelled and cheered and waved their hats.
On the other side of the river, riding at full gallop, the cavalry thundered along the valley floor. And as they came, as the music swelled, there was a new sound, faint at first, but building until it lay against the cadence of the oncoming soldiers.
As the troops got closer to the Indians waiting in the river, every soldier drew a saber, and each saber caught the sunlight and flashed silver in the pale blue sky. And as the horses came, tearing at the earth with their hooves, you could see the pale yellows of the sand and the deeper greens and blues of the grass and the sage.
There at full charge, hundreds of soldiers in bright blue uniforms with gold buttons and sashes and stripes, blue-eyed and rosy-cheeked, came over the last rise.
And disappeared.
Just like that.
“What the hell,” said Bursum, and he stabbed at the remote.
Everywhere was color.
Portland turned and looked at Wayne and Widmark, who had stopped shouting and waving their hats and were standing around looking confused and dumb.
Without a word, he started his horse forward through the water, and behind him his men rose out of the river, a great swirl of motion and colors—red, white, black, blue.
“Get back, men,” shouted Wayne, and he began firing at the Indians. Widmark pulled both guns and began firing from the hip.
The soldiers ran back to their logs and holes and rocks, shooting as they went. But as Lionel and Charlie and Eli and the old Indians and Bill and Coyote watched, none of the Indians fell. John Wayne looked at his gun. Richard Widmark was pulling the trigger on empty chambers. The front of his fancy pants was dark and wet.
“Boy,” said Eli, “they’re going to have to shoot better than that.”
And then Portland and the rest of the Indians began to shoot back, and soldiers began falling over. Sometimes two or three soldiers would drop at once, clutching their chests or their heads or their stomachs.
John Wayne looked down and stared stupidly at the arrow in his thigh, shaking his head in amazement and disbelief as two bullets ripped through his chest and out the back of his jacket. Richard Widmark collapsed facedown in the sand, his hands clutching at an arrow buried in his throat.
“Jesus!” said Bursum, and he stabbed the remote even harder.
Charlie had his hands out of his pockets, his fists clenched, keeping time to the singing. His lips were pulled back from his teeth, and his eyes flashed as he watched his father flow through the soldiers like a flood.
“Get ’em, Dad,” he hissed.
“Yahoo!” shouts Coyote.
And then the movie ended and the credits rolled to black and all the screens ran to static.
“Now, that was some movie, Bill,” said Eli.
“Well, something sure as hell got screwed up,” said Bursum, looking at the remote in his hand. “Damn. You put your faith in good equipment and look what happens.”
“Thought it was supposed to be black and white,” said Eli.
Lionel looked at the empty television screens, and he looked at the Lone Ranger, Ishmael, Robinson Crusoe, and Hawkeye, and somewhere in the back of his mind, right on the edge of his consciousness, something told him that whatever mistakes he had made in the past, his real problems might just be beginning.
“Yoo-hoo,” says Coyote. “I’m back.”
“About time,” I says.
“Did you see that movie?” says Coyote.
“Forget the movie,” I says. “We have work to do.”
“Where’s Thought Woman?” says Coyote.
“Floating,” I says.
“Still floating?” says Coyote. “Say, is there something I’m missing?”
So Thought Woman floats around. That one floats around and makes up lists.
Under the bad points, says Thought Woman, I am floating around with nothing to do.
Under the good points, I do not have to make any decisions.
Under the bad points, says Thought Woman, I have no one to talk to.
Under the good points, it is very quiet and peaceful.
Under the bad points, I have no friends to share my travels with.
Under the good points, says Thought Woman, there are no Coyotes.
* * *
“Whoa,” says Coyote. “That’s not a nice thing to say. That hurt my feelings.”
“Calm down,” I says. “It’s just a list.”
“Under the bad points,” says Coyote, “there are soldiers waiting on shore to capture Thought Woman. How do you like that?”
“Oh, no,” I says. “You have done it again.”
“See how Thought Woman likes that.”
“So,” I says, “what’s the good point?”
“What good point?” says Coyote.
“Silly Coyote,” I says. “There are good points and there are bad points, but there are never all good points or all bad points.”
“Are you sure?” says Coyote.
“Positive,” I says.
“Okay,” says Coyote. “The good point is that the soldiers have flowers in their hair.”
“That’s a good point?” I says.
“It’s the best I can do,” says Coyote.
So Thought Woman floats around and pretty soon she winds up on a beach in Florida and pretty soon some soldiers with flowers in their hair come along and arrest her.
Are you the person responsible for these flowers in our hair? say those soldiers.
I’m Robinson Crusoe, says Thought Woman. I’m in charge.
Good grief, says one of the soldiers with flowers in his hair, another Indian. And those soldiers with flowers in their hair take Thought Woman to Fort Marion.
“I’m sorry,” says Coyote.
“Too late for being sor
ry,” I says.
“I got a little carried away,” says Coyote. “But I’ve got it straight now.”
“Are you sure?” I says.
“You bet,” says Coyote. “But just to make sure, could we go through it one more time?”
This according to Hawkeye:
“Wait, wait,” says Coyote. “When’s my turn?”
“Coyotes don’t get a turn,” I says.
“In a democracy, everyone gets a turn,” says Coyote.
“Nonsense,” I says. “In a democracy, only people who can afford it get a turn.”
“How about half a turn?” says Coyote.
“Sit down,” I says. “We got to tell this story again.”
“How about a quarter turn?” says Coyote.
This according to Hawkeye:
One day Old Woman is walking around and looking for good things to eat. Something tasty. So, that one thinks. And that one makes tasty things to eat in her head. Pretty soon that one sees a big tree and she sees a tender root sunbathing near that tree. Yum, says Old Woman to herself. There is a tender root.
Eeek! says that Tender Root. It looks like Old Woman out looking for tasty things to eat.
Yes, says Old Woman. That’s true. Are you tender?
But that Tender Root doesn’t say anything. That Tender Root jumps back in its hole. Oh, oh, says Old Woman. Looks like I’m going to have to do some digging.
So, that one finds a digging stick and that one gets down on her knees and that one puts the stick in the ground. Under that tree. That big tree.
Eeek! says that Tree. That tickles. If you keep that up, you’re going to make me laugh.
I am looking for a Tender Root that jumped in this hole, says Old Woman.
But that Tree is laughing too hard to hear Old Woman.
* * *
“I’m not very ticklish,” says Coyote.
“Can we get on with this?” I says.
“Except for feathers on my toes,” says Coyote.
“It’s getting late,” I says.
“Then I’m ticklish,” says Coyote.
“And people want to go home,” I says.
Old Woman digs and digs and that one chases that Tender Root under the Tree and around the Tree and pretty soon, that one has dug a big hole.
Ooops, says Old Woman, and she falls through that hole into the sky.
“Hey, hey,” says Coyote, “I know this story. I can tell this story.”
“Are you sure?” I says.
“You bet,” says Coyote. “This is the same story.”
Bill Bursum shook the remote and turned back to The Map. He rewound the tape for a minute and then hit Play. The cavalry came riding over the hill again, and just as they got to where the Indians were waiting in the river, they disappeared. The Indians charged out of the river and massacred John Wayne and Richard Widmark. Just like before. Bursum pushed the Rewind button again.
“Boy, that was sure a good time,” said the Lone Ranger.
“Yes,” said Ishmael. “We got to do that again, soon.”
“Something like that,” said Robinson Crusoe, “makes your whole day a little brighter.”
“Maybe we should sing ‘Happy Birthday’ again,” said Hawkeye.
Lionel smiled and held up his hands in defense, but the old Indians ignored him and began singing. Even Eli joined in. Bursum stood there pushing buttons, cursing, pushing buttons. Charlie was over at the desk on the phone. There was no place for Lionel to go, and he stood there as the old Indians and Eli, who was really getting into the singing, sang four choruses of “Happy Birthday.”
“Well, grandson,” said the Lone Ranger, “we better get going.”
“Yes,” said Ishmael. “We’ve done all we can do right now.”
“If we try to do too much,” said Robinson Crusoe, “things don’t turn out so well.”
“We’re not as young as we used to be,” said Hawkeye.
The old Indians said good-bye to Lionel. They shook hands with Eli and waved to Charlie, who was still busy on the phone.
“Good-bye, Bill,” said the Lone Ranger. “Real nice display.”
The sky outside was beginning to clear. Lionel watched the old Indians walk down the street. Bursum was still playing and rewinding the tape.
“Come on, nephew,” said Eli. “Let’s get some lunch.”
Bursum punched the buttons again. “Go ahead,” he said.“Minnie’ll be here soon. Hey, it’s your birthday. Take an extra hour.”
“Thanks, Bill.”
“Sure,” said Bursum. “And don’t forget Eli’s radio.”
Lionel’s shoes were still wet, and they squished as he walked.
“What about earphones, Eli?” Bursum shouted after them.“Lionel, see if your uncle needs a set of earphones for the radio.”
The Lone Ranger, Ishmael, Robinson Crusoe, and Hawkeye walked down the street single file. They moved quickly and quietly through the town, down into the river bottom, and out onto the prairies.
“Wait for me. Wait for me.”
The old Indians stopped and looked around. The Lone Ranger walked to the top of a rise and looked down into the coulee they had just crossed.
“It’s Coyote,” said the Lone Ranger.
“Wait for me,” says Coyote, running up the side of the hill.“Where are you going?”
“We’re going over there,” said Ishmael, gesturing with his lips.
“Can I come?” says Coyote.
The Lone Ranger looked at Ishmael and Ishmael looked at Robinson Crusoe and Robinson Crusoe looked at Hawkeye and Hawkeye looked at the Lone Ranger.
“It’s okay with us, Coyote,” said the Lone Ranger.
“But you can’t take any pictures,” said Ishmael.
“I wouldn’t do that,” says Coyote.
“And you can’t make any rude noises,” said Robinson Crusoe.
“You mean like burping and farting?” says Coyote.
“And you can’t do any more dancing,” said Hawkeye.
“Okay,” says Coyote. “I won’t do any of that stuff.”
The clouds moved away from the sun as the old Indians and Coyote made their way through the prairie grass. Ahead, the mountains rose off the prairie floor, supporting the clouds and the sky.
“This is a lot of fun,” Coyote says to himself quietly. “I feel like . . . singing.”
The morning had been slow, the breakfast crowd small, mostly regulars, except for the three men sitting near the window, watching the storm clouds grumble out of the west.
“I’m Louie,” the large man in the plaid shirt told Latisha when she came to take their order. “And this is Ray. The ugly guy is Al.”
Latisha smiled and nodded. “Louie, Ray, Al. Welcome to the Dead Dog.”
“We’re from Manitoba,” said Ray. “We get together each year for a fishing trip.”
“We’ll have the breakfast special,” said Al.
Latisha could hear Billy in the kitchen banging pots and singing. Cynthia was at the register, talking to someone on the phone.
“Louie is a poet,” said Ray. “Teaches literature at the University of Manitoba. Al is a priest, but we’re not supposed to tell anyone that, are we, Al?”
“He’s jealous because I catch all the fish,” said Al.
“I work in Ottawa,” said Ray.
Latisha looked back to the kitchen. Billy was leaning on the pass through, only his head and shoulders showing. He was smiling and pointing at the table with his chin, making happy sheep sounds. Cynthia was still on the phone.
“Friend of mine was through here ten, twelve years ago,” said Louie. “Said you had some really good fishing.”
“Must have been before the dam,” said Latisha.
Louie took a map out of his jacket and spread it on the table. There were colored lines around several lakes in Montana and a couple in Alberta.
“Figured we’d drop down he
re and hang around Scott Lake,” said Al, pointing to a small lake circled in orange. “Does that special come with toast?”
Cynthia was waving at Latisha. She had the phone in her hand. Latisha took the orders and hung them on the wheel.
“It was the same guy as yesterday,” Cynthia told Latisha.“He was kind of rude this time. I told him you’d be free in a minute, but he hung up.”
“No name?”
Cynthia shrugged. “Just said he’d catch you at the Sun Dance.”
“Then it wasn’t Lionel.”
“Your brother? No, don’t think it was him.”
“It must be Eli.”
“Cute,” said Cynthia. “He sounded cute.”
Each year Latisha’s parents went to the Sun Dance. Harley had a tepee that had been his father’s, and every July he would haul it to the Sun Dance camp and set it up. When they were younger, Latisha and Lionel spent most of July with their relations and friends and neighbors. Lionel stopped going as soon as he moved out of the house and got an apartment in Blossom, but Latisha went back each year, spending much of the time helping her mother and Norma fix the food and assist the women’s society.
It was George’s idea to get married in late June and honeymoon at the Sun Dance. Latisha had never heard of such a thing.
“I don’t think anyone’s ever done that,” Latisha’s mother told her. “It sounds progressive, I guess.”
“You think there’ll be any problems if I bring George?”
“Well,” said her mother, “I don’t know that you can leave him home.”
Norma let them use her lodge, and she moved in with Latisha’s parents.
“So this is it,” George said as he sat in the tepee among the mattresses and blankets and cooler chests and water jugs. There was a gas cook stove near the entrance and an open fire pit in the center with a blackened grill sitting on a circle of stones.
It was strange being there in the tepee alone with George. Latisha could not remember a time when she had ever been alone with a man at the Sun Dance.
“What happens if it rains?” said George, looking up at the smoke hole.
“You close the flap. Most of the time the water will just run down the poles onto the ground.”
“This is great, Country. Just like the movies. Any way you can lock the door?”