by D. Henbane
“I at least deserve that, considering I hardly know you, and brought you into my home, cared for you, dressed your wounds, and offered you sanctuary just as Jesus would.” Mcfeely says.
“I belong to an elite group, you won't find them listed in any phone book, and I specialize in data extraction. I was stationed here to retrieve some information, along the way, things got complicated, and in the end the mission was terminated, at a level above me, and I was supposed to be among the dead you see on your television. I have no forms of identification, because the person I once was is now dead on paper.” I say.
“Your story is hard to believe, but I have to trust the lord. The lord has sent you to me for a reason. I do not know that reason now, but I have faith that god is watching over you. As a man of the cloth, I must abide by my oath. What can I do for you son?” Mcfeely says.
“I have a friend I need to see. He is in the hospital, recovering, because I got careless. He is in Spearfish regional, and I really need to check on him. Can you give me a ride there?” I say.
“I can't do that son. I have an AA meeting in my garage in 45 minutes. I am the moderator, and I can't miss it. Cliff is going through a really hard time, and I worry that he will relapse. So driving you there is out of the question.” Mcfeely says.
“Please father... If you can't drive me, can I borrow your car? I wouldn't ask, but I have no choice. I have to see my friend right away.” I say.
“It's obvious, the drugs rule your life, and yet you continue to try to lie to me. When your friend the dealer doesn't have your fix, what are you going to do then? If it is so important to see your friend, then I want something in return. You want my car, and I need something done for me. I hope your knees are in good shape.” Mcfeely says.
“WHAT? Why does everyone think I am gay? I am not on drugs, and I am not sucking you off. I need to see my friend, but I will walk a million miles before I slob down on any knob. You know... you called me a freak for sleeping with my sister, but guess who the freak is now? YEAH! You! You perverted old man, masquerading around as a man of god, preying on innocent boys, and all other forms of nasty stuff.” I say.
“I don't understand...” Mcfeely says. He stands up, adjusts his collar, and pulls back the curtains of his large bay window. The light rushes in, smashing into my retinas like small wrecking balls, only aggravating my massive head ache. I look out the window, directly before me is a relatively large garden, that shows clear signs of neglect. “I wanted to ask you to weed my garden, when you get back from your friend, but as you can see, it is no small task. Weeding a garden is hard on the knees, and I spend all my time helping people.”
I avoid eye contact with the priest, while a touch of red paints my cheeks with embarrassment. I continue to stare at the ground, shuffling my feet, trying to get up enough nerve to apologize. “Look father, I am really sorry. I shouldn't have said those things about you.” I say.
“Don't worry, I have heard much worse. You can take the car, but when you get back I expect you to honor our agreement.” Mcfeely says.
“You have my word.” I say.
“One more thing you should know. The roads in and out of town are barricaded by the National Guard. The only way out of town is if you have a really good excuse.” Mcfeely says.
“Great! So I am trapped here.” I exclaim in frustration.
“Not exactly. The Lakota people are able to leave town freely. You don't have to look very far to see the devastation the federal government inflicted on the native tribes of this area. The anger is very well alive to this day, demonstrations, protests, and all out acts of defiance that including turning down federal funds to reimburse them for the atrocities of the past. These people have never forgotten, and chances are never will until the black hills are returned to them. The only way out of town is with one of them, and you are going to have to travel through their land to get to Spearfish. The roads are not paved, no road signs either, once you cross that line you are in a different country. I'm telling you now, white man is not welcome on their soil.” Mcfeely says.
“I guess you're also going to tell me that you know just the guy?”
“I think I know why the lord has sent you into my life, and yes I know the right guy. His name is Tatanka. His friends call him “Tat” or “Little Bull”, and he is a considered to be an extremist activist. I have tried many times to reach out to him, but he won't talk to me.
His parents were involved in the Wounded Knee Incident in 1973. They were later killed in 1975 during a protest. Tatanka was only 6 months old. Left orphaned, he was cared after by his grandmother Makawee. Years of torment, and the stress of raising a child alone lead her to seek help. That is when I met her; she found comfort in the teachings of Jesus. Makawee became very involved in the church, later becoming a nun. Young Tatanka resented this, blaming the church for taking away his only known parent.
In blaming the church, he held me personally responsible for it, and never hid it from public view. I suppose he saw it, as the deepest betrayal possible. His own flesh and blood had abandoned their way of life, and the very identity he clung too.” Mcfeely says.
“So how am I supposed to convince him to help me?” I say.
“You can give him this...” Mcfeely walks over to his curio cabinet, gently opening the glass doors, and picking up a carved bison horn spoon. Looking at the piece held before me, I could tell due to its size, it was intended for a very small child. The detail of the engraving left me with the impression that this creation was a labor of love.
“A spoon?” I say incredulously.
“The very spoon that fed him as a baby. Makawee gave it to me, shortly before she passed away, and asked me to return it to Tatanka. Every time I try, well, I fail, so it is up to you. You can find Tatanka easily enough. He hangs out at the park on the south side of town, usually selling his “White Buffalo” to the youth of this town. He refuses to sell his meth to natives, calling it the curse of Geronimo, the White Buffalo will finally bring its peace to the badlands, and justice for the Lakota people.” Mcfeely says.
I place the spoon inside the pockets of the pants the father dressed me in while I was unconscious. They aren't the right size, but hey, who am I to argue at this point? The man has a plan, a car, and a way out of this town. All I gotta do is drop off a spoon, tell the guy to get in the car, how hard can that be? “Thank you father, I won't let you down.” Just before exiting his house, I notice one more picture, in a small brass frame, the glass covering it is cracked. My mind starts to analyze the image, but before a solid picture is recreated in my mind; I am interrupted by the voice of the priest.
“God speed my son.” Mcfeely says.
***
I arrive at the park, shut off the ignition, and can't help be drawn back to that broken picture frame. A slightly younger Mcfeely, dressed in a tuxedo, standing next to an older native woman. Her age masked by layers of makeup, hair styled, and his hand resting on a young native boys shoulder. I understand what this mission is all about.
The priest wasn't joking about finding Tatanka. Could he be any more obvious for a drug dealer? Throw in an El Camino, swap out the pine trees for palms, you would be hard pressed to know the difference between here and Los Angeles.
“What do you want Havard?” Tatanka says in a spiteful voice. I didn't realize how intimidating he is, until he stood up from the corner of the picnic table. Standing tall, he was easily six foot three, and well over 190 lbs. Not a single pound of body fat to be seen. At a closer look he isn't at all what I had imagined. A single tattoo printed across his right upper arm, reading in simple English: There are much worse things than death, with a detailed dream catcher etched within the circle of words.
That kind of detail is not found in prison tattoos. The work done was by a true artist, and likely one paid heavily for their labor. Again, I am confronted with my own bias towards the types of people I am expecting to meet. “You must be the White Buffalo.” I say.
“Are you retarded? Do I got horns white boy? Do I look like a prairie grazin' cow to you?” Tatanka says.
“That's what they call you isn't it?” I say.
“THEY don't call me shit. What do you want Harvard?” Tatanka replies.
“I got something you want, and you got something I need. You want this to get complicated for no reason?” I say.
“Show me your tits...” Tatanka commands. I lift my shirt up, proving I am not wearing a wire, and then look at him with disgust.
“If I was working to bring you down, why would I approach you in public?” I say.
“Bring me down for what?” Tatanka says.
“I don't want your meth.” I say.
“Who the fuck said anything about that?” Tatanka asks.
“The same man who gave me this.” I slam the spoon in front of him on the park bench. His eyes grow large, and then he grabs me by the shirt, pulling me in close to his face.
“That bastard priest sent you! Alright, you wanna know what happens when you mess with a bull. You get the fucking horns!” Tatanka slams me to the ground, but I quickly get back onto my feet.
“I'm not the one you need to fight. From what I understand, I can actually help you, but then again, maybe peddling drugs is all you're good at.” I say.
“You got some balls whitey. I will give you that. Who am I supposed to be fightin'?” Tatanka asks.
“All of them. The whole United States government, the very people whose forefathers stole your land, raped your heritage, and stripped every part of your culture from your lives; the same ones who sent your children off to Catholic schools to remove the savage from your tribe. Banned speaking of your native tongue, and almost eradicated your entire verbal history.” I say
“You gotta be the dumbest white boy I have ever seen. Me and what army? My people are broken, the fighting spirit grows weaker with every generation. The fire of our determination dwindles to embers and with it the desire to keep going. The mighty Sioux, made slaves to your alcohol, and oppressed at every chance in life.” Tatanka says.
“Who says you need an army? There are far more powerful things than armies these days, like I said before, you got something I want, and I got something you need. So please, take this olive branch, and just hear me out.” I say.
“You got a nuke hidden in a briefcase?” Tatanka says.
“Even better than that. Every facet of life in the western world is controlled by a complex network of servers, databases, and an overall addiction to everything digital. Just as you tried to squeeze money out of junkies to further your goals, there is a far richer junkie out there. One that is much more vulnerable, if you know what to do, and the consequences far more devastating.” I say.
“So, what do you want?” Tatanka asks.
“I want out of this town, I need to get past the checkpoints, and I am told you can get me onto the Reservation. Grant me safe passage, provide guide services, and then direct me to the nearest highway. I got a car, no need to waste your gas, if you can do that for me, I got a weapon that would make Sitting Bull proud.” I say.
Tatanka stares at me incredulously, slowly grinding his teeth in deep thought, when suddenly he stops moving, and stares directly into my eyes. I stand with my gaze fixed on my former attacker, beads of sweat streaming down my face, and I wonder if I have made a painful mistake. Tatanka tilts his head to the side, resembling an owl observing its prey from above.
“You got a deal.” Tatanka says.
“Great, you drive.” I say tossing my keys at him.
***
The reservation isn't at all what I had imagined. I pictured small children with feathered headdresses, chasing each other around, while a mixed breed dog nips at their heels. Rustic wood fences, surrounding modern suburban split level style houses, with winding pathways connecting them all. The truth was a stark reality check, not only to my own ignorance, but also the fact I really should get out of the house more often.
The landscape resembled a warped painting by Dali, vibrant green prairie grass land, gutted down the middle by a ravine of barren desert hills, as if a flood had eroded away areas of a golf course, and no one bothered to reseed it. The lifeless bands of the earth's exposed layers below, made it feel almost alien, but the aging wooden sign inscribed in clear English reminded me that I was still on Earth.
Sporadic encampments dotted the landscape. Unpaved roads, bike trails, and well worn walking paths all interconnected like a dirt work spider web; rotting trailer houses, windows missing, and others without doors. Long abandoned cars, rest stuck in the mud, stripped of anything of value, ghosts, haunting the landscape like stone monoliths from ancient times.
“Your people did this to us.” Tatanka says calmly, while gripping the steering wheel, head held firmly focused ahead, avoiding eye contact with people along the road. Some asked for money, others just wanted to see a local legend, and a few tried to get his attention by flashing their breasts.
“You're a popular guy.” I say.
“I'm not, but my money is...” Tatanka says.
“Money you got from selling drugs?” I say.
“I don't like the way you say that. You see it as dirty drug money, I see it as a way to help my people, yeah the cash is dirty, but I do good with it. I buy baby formula, get people clothes, supplies, gas, and get peoples lights turned back on.” Tatanka says.
“So you're Robyn Hood?” I say.
“They don't call me that. But kinda...” Tatanka says.
“The white buffalo... it isn't a street name for your drugs it is what you are to these people. You are the hope of a better tomorrow, a warm meal, and someone who understands, that is what I would call Robyn Hood.” I say.
“I do my best.” Tatanka says.
“You got your map?” Tatanka says.
“Yes, thank you again.” I say.
“Just enter the words The Horns into the command prompt, press enter, and it will ask you to click yes to proceed. Once you click yes, there is no coming back.” I say.
“How will I know it worked?” Tatanka asks.
“Oh, you'll know! I suggest that after 10 minutes you destroy that laptop. You wouldn't want some guests paying you an unexpected visit.” I say.
“You are a true friend my brother. Too bad your skin just ain’t right for these parts.” Tatanka presses his fingers to his mouth forming a whistle. He exhales releasing a call into the open air, it sounds like an Eagle to me, but then again what do I know?
Soon a young boy rushes into the room, clearly winded from a long distance sprint. “Litonya, you go with this white devil, and show him off our land. Then you run back here as fast as you can.”The small boy nods, and we leave Tatanka to his business.
CHAPTER EIGHT
To Lovell In A Handbasket
The hum of the helicopter's blades buzz above Alex and Eve's heads, below them is the majestic Bighorn Mountains, evergreen trees congregating in dense uneven clusters. Thick, green grass covers the earth, speckled with purple wildflowers, an errant bolder every few hundred yards. Small creeks snake back and forth flowing towards the valley. “I see a bear! Oh wait there's another one. Look Alex!”
Alex leans over, peering out at the black animal resting below, and begins chuckling. “Eve, I think around here they call those cows.”
“Ok, so maybe you're right, but it's still very pretty here.” Eve says.
“It is. Makes me wanna grab a banjo, and skin me a deer!”
“You're really one to talk... You were born in Missouri.” Eve says.
“You had to go there woman?”
“Are we almost there? My ears feel like they are full of water.” Eve says.
“That’s the altitude change getting to ya. Don’t worry once we touch down, the feeling will go away. Try yawning, it tends to help.”
The mountains slip away into the horizon, the terrain of the Bighorn basin is very different from the lush green mountain pastures. The soil is barren in most spo
ts, with the exception of irrigated fields of crops, and the landscape is coated with Sage brush. They fly quickly over multicolored bands of dirt, long eroded by the hands of time, leaving behind jagged terraces of sandstone deposits.
The road leading to the airstrip is chained off, with a large sign informing any visitors that this land belongs to the United States Air Force, and access is denied to unauthorized personnel. A portly man steps out from a drab-colored building, partially shielding himself from the blowing sand, and waves up at them. “They all wear those sunglasses; they all wanna be top gun.” Alex says.
“Welcome to Wyoming Alex, and looks like you brought a visitor. Follow me inside, and we can talk.” Erik says.
“Been a long time Alex. Good to see your staying in shape, wish I could say the same.”
“It's the branch you chose that did it to you. You should have come to Africa with me, but I suppose Susan would have had a fit.” Alex says.
“Do you really blame her man? Things changed fast after Katie was born. Susan was okay with me being a military man, but she wanted me at a desk job.”
“I would love to catch up man, but we are pressed for time. Do you know where I can find her?” Alex says.
Erik rubs his forehead nervously, looks at the floor, and lets out a deep breathe. “You took an oath Erik, all of us did, and sometimes you have to hold the line even if you disagree about where it is drawn.”
“I can't do it Alex... That's my wife's family, and if anything goes wrong. I won't be able to look my wife in the eyes for the rest of my life.” Erik says.
“Tell me Erik, they aren't sending in a force, just little ol' me, and I am not going to let anything happen. I swear to you, I will take a bullet before I let anyone else get hurt. I will give you 24 hours. Create an excuse, and get your wife's family out of there. Take them fishing, or an unexpected shopping trip, whatever you need to do. I will head out there, scout the area, confirm she is there, and then bring her in once everyone is gone.”