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The depravity of man’s heart knows no floor, and everyone in this hard country has a sordid chapter in the story of their life, that they’re trying either to atone for, or stay ahead of. It’s what binds us one to the other.
“Now my people call me Takes No Scalps or The Fullblood,”
This is how I died, with the Cat Man’s blood slithering down across the crust of the snow, filling my eyes and nose and mouth, my own blood leaking out of me from too many greased-shooter holes, and one cold bite deep in my shoulder.
You Black Robes know about drinking blood, don’t you? You make your people in these wooden seats do it every time they’re here. In that way we’re the same.
What I am is the Indian who can’t die. I’m the worst dream America ever had.
We never called this place ours like that, though. But that didn’t mean it was yours.
This was what we call Starvation Winter, Three-Persons, and I say it like that because I don’t want you to write the sounds down in your book and trap it, make them small like all the other words. Because this winter isn’t small for us. Six hundred Pikuni died in the snow because rations never came. Even more people than died on the Bear.
