Research Proposal:
The Role of Setting in Mathilda Zeller’s “Kushtuka,” and Stephen Graham Jones’ “The Only
Good Indians” and Its Impact on Themes of Survival and Resistance
The proposed paper delves into the significant role of the setting in the narrative of “Kushtuka” by
Mathilda Zeller and its impact on the themes of survival and resistance. THESIS: The harsh
Alaskan landscape in ‘Kushtuka’ and “The Only Good Indians” not only forms the backbone of a
survival narrative but also significantly enhances the theme of cultural resistance against colonial
exploitation. Through its portrayal of a remote, harsh environment, the setting serves as a symbol
of both physical and cultural survival, accentuating the Indigenous characters’struggle to maintain
their identity and heritage in the face of external threats.
The study is centered around three main areas of focus. PARAGRAPH FOCUS 1: First, it delves
into the impact of geographic isolation on Indigenous cultural identity and resilience.
PARAGRAPH FOCUS 2: Second, it contrasts experiences within native and invasive
environments to highlight resistance to colonial exploitation. PARAGRAPH FOCUS 3: Finally,
it investigates how local myths, particularly the kushtuka, and Elk Head Women intertwine with
the setting to enhance the narrative’s spiritual and cultural dimensions. Through methodologies
such as textual analysis, this paper aims to shed light on how the setting in “Kushtuka” and
“The Only Good Indians” acts as a dynamic element, shaping the narrative’s progression
and symbolizing the struggle for survival and resistance. Throughout my research, I will
actively seek out and address any potential biases that might influence my interpretation of
the setting and its thematic significance in the novel. Additionally, I will document how my
understanding of the novel’s themes and the role of the setting has evolved over the course
of my research.
The research expects to reveal how the setting in “Kushtuka” and “The Only Good Indians”
transcends its traditional role, becoming an active element that profoundly influences the
narrative’s themes. By examining the Alaskan landscape’s physical, cultural, and spiritual
dimensions, this study aims to demonstrate the setting’s multifaceted impact on character
development and thematic progression.
Annotated Bibliography:
Gordon, Heather Sauyaq Jean. “Alaska Native Subsistence Rights: Taking an Anti-Racist
Decolonizing Approach to Land Management and Ownership for Our Children and
Generations to Come.” Societies (Basel, Switzerland), vol. 12, no. 3, 2022, pp. 72-,
https://doi.org/10.3390/soc12030072.
PDF Link: file:///C:/Users/rubar/Downloads/societies-12-00072%20(1).pdf
The article provides a comprehensive examination of the lasting effects of
colonization on Alaska Indigenous Peoples, shedding light on the methods and
outcomes of cultural suppression and assimilation. Gordon discusses the imposition
of Western land management practices, which often clashed with the sustainable,
relationship-based stewardship approaches traditionally used by Indigenous
communities. This aspect underscores the disparity between Indigenous knowledge
systems and Western perspectives, offering a nuanced understanding of the
complexities involved in cultural and environmental conservation.
Furthermore, Gordon delves into the concepts of racialization and systemic racism,
particularly in the context of education and land ownership. She explores how
historical policies such as blood quantum laws and the Alaska Native Claims
Settlement Act perpetuated a racial hierarchy, significantly impacting the cultural
transmission and survival of Indigenous communities.
This article is particularly relevant for research on Mathilda Zeller’s “Kushtuka,”
as it provides a real-world framework for grasping the themes of cultural survival,
resistance, and the intricate relationship between Indigenous Peoples and their
environment. Gordon’s personal and scholarly perspectives offer valuable insights
into the struggles and resilience of Alaska Natives, enhancing the thematic analysis
of setting and identity in Zeller’s narrative. The article serves as an essential
reference for examining how historical realities are reflected and symbolized in
literature, particularly in stories that explore the complex interplay between
Indigenous identity, culture, and the land.
Jones, Stephen Graham. The Only Good Indians. Simon and Schuster, 2020.
Ricky, an Indigenous character, grapples with issues of identity, survival, and
resistance in the contemporary setting of Williston, North Dakota. This narrative
segment is crucial in elucidating the central themes of Mathilda Zeller’s
“Kushtuka,” particularly in its portrayal of the protagonist’s struggle against
societal and cultural marginalization.
Ricky’s journey from his reservation to North Dakota, driven by the death of his
brother and a quest for better prospects, mirrors the broader Indigenous experience
of displacement and cultural isolation. His role as the sole Indigenous member on
a drilling crew, derogatorily nicknamed ‘Chief,’ is a reflection of the cultural
insensitivity and stereotyping prevalent in non-Indigenous environments. This
portrayal serves as a microcosm of the Indigenous struggle for identity and dignity
in the face of systemic societal challenges.
The setting of the narrative – a harsh, industrial backdrop of North Dakota –
parallels the Alaskan landscape in “Kushtuka,” underscoring the critical role
of setting in amplifying themes of survival and resistance. Ricky’s internal
monologue and interactions reveal a deep sense of dislocation and a longing
for a connection to his cultural roots, highlighting the intrinsic link between
physical environment and cultural identity.
Grant, Shelagh D. Northern Nationalisms, Arctic Mythologies, and the Weight of History: selected
writings by Shelagh Grant. Edited by P. Whitney Lackenbauer, pp. 118-135.
http://lackenbauer.ca/wp-content/uploads/2023/04/Grant-Northern-Nationalisms-ArcticMythologies-and-the-Weight-of-History.pdf
This article provides an analysis of the differences in perspectives on the Arctic
between Indigenous and non-Indigenous populations. The author examines the
historical European and southern Canadian views of the Arctic as a distant and
enigmatic wilderness, contrasting them with the Inuit perspective of the Arctic as a
fundamental aspect of their cultural identity and way of life. These differing
viewpoints contribute to political and environmental tensions, particularly in
relation to resource extraction and conservation initiatives.
The article focuses on critiquing the idea of the Arctic as a ‘wilderness’, which
Grant argues is a construct of outsiders’ imaginations without historical or
experiential basis. It highlights the Inuit’s comprehensive perspective of their
surroundings, which includes the land, sea, sky, living beings, and spiritual entities,
questioning the Western anthropocentric view that separates humans from nature.
Grant further explores the political ramifications of varying perspectives, including
discussions surrounding land ownership, resource management, and environmental
conservation. The article is essential for understanding the relationship between
Indigenous knowledge, cultural identity, and environmental policies, emphasizing
the impact of misunderstandings and mythologies on policy and societal
perceptions of Indigenous peoples and their lands.
Grant’s work provides a contextual backdrop. It deepens the understanding of how
the Arctic setting is perceived and represented differently by Indigenous
communities and outsiders. This contrast can greatly contribute to the exploration
of themes in “Kushtuka,” particularly in highlighting the significance of the
Alaskan landscape as a vital part of the characters’ identity and narrative, rather
than just a backdrop.
Thompson, Tok Freeland. “Gone Native: Immigrants, Natives and the Quest for the ‘Real
Alaskan.’” Journal of Intercultural Studies, vol. 29, no. 4, 2008, pp. 399–412,
https://doi.org/10.1080/07256860802372345.
In this article, Thompson explores the complex dynamics of identity in Alaska,
highlighting the contrast between ‘real Alaskans’ and immigrants. The author
carefully examines how the Alaskan identity is shaped by culture and society, with
a particular focus on the significant impact of Indigenous cultures despite their
minority status. Thompson also observes how immigrants in Alaska often
incorporate Native elements into their own identity, navigating the complexities of
cultural appropriation. This appropriation extends to material culture and folklore,
highlighting the broader theme of cultural convergence and identity challenges.
Thompson’s exploration is invaluable for the proposed paper, offering a
sociocultural context that enhances the understanding of the Alaskan setting in
“Kushtuka.” It serves as a real-world parallel to the narrative’s depiction of cultural
identity, survival, and resistance, supplementing the discussion on how the setting
of a story can reflect and amplify broader social and cultural dynamics.
Zeller, Mathilda. “Kushtuka.” Never Whistle at Night: An Indigenous Dark Fiction Anthology,
edited by Shane Hawk and Theodore C. Van Last Jr., Random House Canada, 2023, pp. 3-
20.
“Kushtaka” is a story set in Alaska, intertwining themes of cultural identity,
survival, and resistance against colonial exploitation. The narrative follows a young
Indigenous woman navigating her mother’s manipulative plans, her community’s
challenges, and encounters with supernatural elements from local mythology. The
story’s vivid depiction of the Alaskan landscape is essential for establishing the
mood and setting and for reflecting the protagonist’s internal and external struggles.
The unforgiving and isolated Alaskan environment represents the fight for physical
and cultural survival. At the same time, incorporating local myths, such as the
kushtuka, adds complexity to the cultural and spiritual aspects of the story. This
short story aids in examining how literary settings can be more than just backdrops,
serving as integral elements that shape the narrative and emphasize essential
themes. It is beneficial for discussions on the interplay between environment,
Indigenous identity, and the influence of external forces on local communities.
Kushtuka: Mathilda Zeller
“You don’t have to love him, just make his baby,” Mama said, hanging the fleshy swath of salmon to dry. “It might have colored
eyes, you know, maybe blue eyes. He’ll pay you to keep quiet about it.” Mama had always been Machiavellian, but this was next
level. Not even the old ladies who gossiped about her would have guessed she’d try to pull something like this. I shuddered and
slid my knife up the side of another salmon, severing a long fillet of red flesh and silver scales. The cold, wet flesh reminded me
of Hank Ferryman’s lips, which he constantly licked while talking to us village girls. His hands were wide and stubby, his cheeks
were pocked and ruddy, and his breath smelled like a caribou carcass that had been left in the sun for a week. “He’s rich,” Mama
reminded me unnecessarily, “and I’m sure he wouldn’t be wanting his wife back in Kansas knowing he’s got a kid up here. The
money could really help, you know.” “He’s probably got kids all over the Kobuk Valley,” I muttered, “and I don’t want to make
anyone’s baby.” Except maybe Panas, but even then, that’s not happening until after I finish college. Which costs money. That we
don’t have. Which is why this conversation is happening in the first place. I brought down my knife too quickly through the filet
and caught the side of my thumb. Blood blossomed along the cut and I brought it reflexively to my mouth, the taste of my blood
mingling with the fish’s. Mama sucked her teeth. “Stupid girl! Go inside and clean that up. You’re getting blood everywhere.”
The cut stung, but it was a way out of this conversation and away from Mama. I jogged back to the house, pressing my jacket
sleeve around the cut, which extended from the tip of my thumb down the side of my palm. Not wanting to take the pressure off
it, I kicked the door with my toe. It was Pana, not my aana, who opened it. My heart fluttered a little, despite having known him
my whole life. “What are you doing here?” He grinned that perfect grin, complete with deep set dimples and one eyetooth
missing. “Having tea with your aana.” “Why?” Not that I minded, but he was supposed to be on shift in the mines.
“There was an accident down at the mines. Frankie and Aqlaq and a couple of the white guys too. You know, the ones visiting
from Kansas.” “Which white guys?” Maybe one was Hank Ferryman. Maybe Mama would leave me alone then.
“Jim and Bob. They all survived, but they’re in really rough shape. Had to be flown to Fairbanks.” “Oh.” My heart sank a lice.
“How did they get hurt?” Pana’s face darkened. “Maybe you should come inside.” Aana waited on the overstuffed chintz sofa, her
dark eyes smiling at me from their nests of deep wrinkles. She was aged but age-less. I swear she hasn’t changed since I was four
years old. “It was Sedna,” Aana said by way of greeting, “she’s the mistress of the underworld, and they’re mining into her
domain.” Pana shook his head. “The foreman said it was a bear, or maybe some wolves,” “A bear or maybe some wolves?” Aana
repeated, cackling. “He didn’t even see what happened, he is throwing guesses into the dark.” I sat down next to Pana. “Sedna is
mythology, Aana—” “Sedna is angry,” Aana interrupted. “They’re coming uninvited, and taking what’s ours. They don’t belong
here, in our land, in our beds—” She clenched her jaw tight, swallowing hard.” Sedna is gracious enough to give warning. She
only tore their guts out. A wolf or bear would have stayed to eat the guts. They wouldn’t be alive in the hospital right now if it
weren’t for Her grace.” I turned to Pana, my own innards tightening. “Their guts were torn out?” Pana nodded. “Torn up across
the abdomen. Torn up every-where, in fact.” I raised a skeptical eyebrow. “And they’re saying it was wolves?” Pana shifted
defensively. “If they weren’t saying it was wolves, you know who they’d be accusing.” Us. All of us. I nodded my head.
“What did you do to your hand?” Aana said, reaching for me with one hand and smacking Panas knee with the other. “Pana, why
didn’t you see she’s hurt? Go get the bandages.” Pana jumped up to get them. He didn’t need to ask where; he knew my house as
well as 1 did. As soon as he was out of the room, Aana leaned toward me. “He wants to marry you, you know.”
I sighed. “I know.” Pana had been saved last year by a visiting preacher and was now determined to marry me before I moved in.
Common-law marriage was what basically everyone else did, but not Pana, no. He wanted to go to a little white chapel and
promise God he’d love me first. “Your grandfather married me first,” Aana reminded me, smiling. “I know,” I repeated. I’d heard
the story a million times, how he’d waited and saved till he could take Grandma and Eddie, her baby from a visiting
schoolteacher, all the way out to Fairbanks for a marriage and adoption. He’d wanted to do it properly, he said.
She thought it was stupid at the time, but it had grown to be a major point of pride with her. I wasn’t sure I saw the point—it was
a lot of money, but Pana cared about doing it that way, and I cared about him. Pana returned with the first aid kits and pulled my
hand into his lap, gingerly unwrapping it from the jacket sleeve “I’m taking Hank Ferryman’s boy hunting this weekend,” he said,
pouring some iodine onto a bit of gauze. “Hank says he wants him toughened up out there on the tundra.” I rolled my eyes. Pana
and his crew would do no such thing— not if they wanted repeat business. They would take the kid out there, make him feel like
a big, tough hunter while doing all the actual work of packing things, unpacking things, and hauling things, and he would have
stories to take back to his buddies in Kansas. It was about the kid’s ego, and the dad’s too. “I’m sure he’ll shoot the biggest caribou
known to man,” I said, “with razor sharp teeth.” Pana grinned. “By the time he gets back to Kansas it’ll have turned into a polar
bear.” “That he killed with his bare hands,” added Aana, her face splitting into a wide grin, revealing teeth worn down by years of
leatherworking. “Like this- -” Her hands made violent strangling motions. Pana and I melted into a fit of giggles, as if we were
both ten instead of nearly twenty. Pana finished my hand and I stood reluctantly. Here—with him, with my aana—this was my
heart’s home. Outside that door lay wolves and bears, and Hank Ferryman and Mama. When I returned to Mama, she was
smiling. “You have a job this weekend.” “A job?” “With Hank Ferryman. He’s having a party at his lodge. He needs hired help.
You know, cooking, cleaning.” A curdling feeling gathered around my ears. “Why don’t you go work for him?” It was a stupid
question that we both knew the answer to. Mama rolled her eyes. “I already told him you’d go. You’re going.” “No.” “No?”
Mama’s hand tightened on the knife she was holding. I did my best not to look down at it. My heart trilled like it was trying to
beat for three people. “I don’t want to.” To my surprise, Mama’s grip loosened on the knife and she shrugged. “Maybe I’ll send
Esther, then.” My mouth went dry. Esther was my fifteen-year-old sister. My sweet, compliant sister. Mama wouldn’t. She
couldn’t. As I stared at her, though, I knew she would. “I’ll go.” I picked up my ulu and rocked it across the salmon, chopping its
head. “That’s what I thought,” Mama replied. Some days, I hate her. “The Land of the Midnight Sun,” bellowed Hank Ferryman,
punching my shoulder playfully, “more like the Land of the Six P.M. Bedtime.” Was he always this loud or was the closeness of
the truck amplifying his voice? He chortled at his own joke. “Tapeesa. Hey, Tappy,” I cringed at the improvised nickname.
“Tell me a Native story.” I shook my head. “That’s a bad idea.” The sun had set an hour ago and we were bumping over the halffrozen ground in the dark, with nothing but the truck’s headlights standing between us and the darkness. Snow had begun to fall,
thick and fast. Alone with someone like him, in the darkness like this, seemed like the worst possible place to bring up the stories
that could catch the attention of a spirit. “I’s a swell idea! Hank Ferryman doesn’t make bad ideas! Don’t forget, I hired you for the
evening.” The last sentence fell like lead between us. He hired me to cook and clean for his party, not tell him stories. I wasn’t
hired to do whatever he felt like doing. My hands curled into fists. Still, maybe it would shut him up. “Fine. Fine.” I wracked my
brain, but in the darkness, I could think of nothing bright and benign. “There was once a girl named Sedna. Her father threw her
over the edge of his fishing boat. She tried to save herself by catching on to the edge of the boat, but he brought a knife down
onto her fingers and cut them all off. They became the first seals, walruses, whales. She became the goddess of the Underworld.”
Hank waved his hand impatiently. “I already know about Sedna. I got your buddy Pana to tell me about her. Tell me something
new.” I pulled my coat tighter around me. “There are kushtuka. They appear to us, taking on the appearances of those we love.
They try to get us to go with them.” “To go with them where?” I pulled my coat even tighter, suddenly feeling cold. “I don’t
know.” Hank was quiet for a blessed minute. Then he let out a guttural snort that blossomed into full-blown laughter. “You call
that a ghost story, missy? Your ghost stories are as bad as your watermelons up here.” “We don’t have watermelons up here.”
“Damn straight you don’t. I can tell you some ghost stories from Kansas thard put hair on your chest. In fact-My head slammed
into the dashboard as Hank floored the brake, sending us into a fishtail. When the car finally stopped, he sat, his chest heaving as
he stared out at the road ahead of us. A figure stood before us in the headlights, cloaked in heavy furs. Black hair tumbled down
in wild rivulets to her elbows. She pushed back the ruff of her parka. She was me. Or would have been, were it not for the pupils
that covered the whole of her eyes, and the hideous, obscenely wide grin that distorted the lower half of her face.
Hank let out a small scream and floored the gas, ramming straight into her. A thunder roll of sickening thuds juddered through me
as she tumbled up and over the hood of the truck. I looked behind us but saw nothing in the taillights as Hank continued to pick
up speed, his breathing ragged and shallow. He muttered to himself thickly for a moment before looking over at me with a little
nervous laugh. “Some deer you got out here, huh?” I stared. “That wasn’t a deer.” “Don’t be stupid,” Hank scoffed, “I saw it with
my own two eyes. You saw it with yours. It was a deer, plain as the nose on my face.” A gentle tapping noise sounded on the glass
behind me. I shuddered, unable to turn around. “I think there’s something in the bed of the truck.” Hank’s hands tightened on the
steering wheel. “No there isn’t.” Тар. Тар. Тар. “Don’t you hear that?” I felt those eyes on the back of my head. Those eyes, all
sea-black pupil, wide and hungry. “All I hear is you trying to amp me up. Wasn’t enough to tell me your ghost stories, you want to
spook me now.” Тар, Тар. Tap. His body stiffened at the noise. “Stop it. Tapeesa. It’s not funny at all.” “I’s not me.” Surely he
could see both my hands, silent in my lap. He huffed impatiently, but didn’t say anything else. The tapping stopped. He relaxed,
laughed a little. You really had me going for a minute there.” I didn’t reply. There was no point. By the time we reached his lodge,
an oversize monstrosity on the edge of a lake, he was back to cracking bad jokes and resting his hand on my knee, removing it
when I batted him oft, only to drop it there again a second later. “You’ll love this place. I can’t believe I haven’t taken you out here
yet. I had everything flown in from Anchorage, it’s all custom. Top of the line.” He was grinning like a kid. I hated his familiarity,
as if I were a friend who hadn’t gotten around to visiting, instead of a village girl whose mother had leveraged to drag me out
here. He slipped out of his side of the truck, swinging his keys and whistling. I sat on the passenger’s side, my dread growing in
the stillness. Tap. Tap. Tap. I turned this time, and saw her. She was me, this kushtuka with inky black eyes and black hair,
billowing and wild. When our eyes met, her face split again into that freakishly wide grin that nearly reached her ears and
revealed pointed molars. Meat-cutting molars. Flesh-ripping molars. Hank’s voice registered from somewhere in front of the
truck. “Aren’t you coming, Tapeesa?” I opened my mouth and closed it again, unable to bring myself o make a sound.
The kushtuka tapped the back window of the truck once more with a long, black fingernail and disappeared. I tore my eyes from
the back window to see him trundling over to my door. “You’re one of these fussy, old-fashioned girls, aren’t you? You want a big
strong man to open the door for you, is that it?” He chuckled to himself and opened my door. I climbed out, scared to take my
eyes off the truck bed, as if doing so would make the kushtuka materialize again and leap on us, ripping ar us with those pointed
teeth.The lodge was massive, with vaulted ceilings and mounted animal heads everywhere. Above the fireplace hung two spears,
crossed over each other like they were European swords or some-thing. But they weren’t European. They were Inuit. I recognized
the carvings on them, the worn leather bindings that secured the pointed stone ends.
“Those spears—”
“Artifacts. They’re incredible, aren’t they? Genuine ancient arti-acts, you know.”
“They’re my grandfather’s.”
Hank Ferryman’s smile stayed frozen on his face. After a pregnant pause, he laughed. “You’re mistaken. There are so many spears
out there like these.”
“I recognize the carving.”
“They’re nothing; Indigenous motifs that have been carved a thousand times over.” The back of my neck felt tight—beyond
cringing. “If they’re not his, where did you get them?”
Hank shrugged, as if I’d asked a stupid question. “My secretary found them for me.
“Found them?” Stole them, more likely. From my widowed
“Found them, bought them, it doesn’t matter. You’re here to work. There’s the kitchen—” He pointed to a corner of the lodge
sectioned off by granite countertops. “My secretary was here
-they’ve dropped off recipes and groceries for tonight’s
I stalked over to the kitchen and grabbed the ulu that was sitting on a wooden holder on the counter. Hank bounded over and
snatched it from my hands.
“That’s an artifact. It’s for decoration.”
I looked down at the ulu in his hands. It was newly sharpened.
The baleen handle was worn, polished to a bright shine from all the times it had been gripped. I wondered whose aana he stole
this from. “I’s a tool. For cutting.”
Hank rolled his eyes. “You are basically white. Your dad’s dad was white, your mother is white. You should be able to understand
that modern knives are better.” He pointed to the block of knives on the counter. Carbon steel. Flown in from Japan. lop of the
line. Try them, honey, I promise you’ll never go back to an ulu.”
If he saw I was shaking with rage, he didn’t show it. I strode to the knife block and drew out the largest one, grabbing a cutting
board and a bag of potatoes before I could give in to my urge to run him through with it.
“See, now? Isn’t that fabulous?” Hank Ferryman pumped a fist as if he had just taught me to fish and I’d caught one. He didn’t
wait for a reply before continuing, “I gotta take a piss. Make sure the champagne is in the fridge, will you? No one likes it warm.”
I made dinner. Other men showed up and ate, made passes at me, laughed and talked to Hank. I passed the hours in a deep fuzzy
rage, forcing myself through the motions of arranging canapés on a plate, pulling a roast from the oven, slicing it up on a serving
tray I couldn’t bring myself to fake smile at them. There was something outside the house that was clearly murderous and looked
just like me. There was something inside me that was clearly murderous and felt nothing like me. Someone popped the cork off
the champagne bottle and – jumped, letting out a small scream. The room exploded with laughter and Hank grinned at me,
pushing a champagne glass over the counter toward me. “You clearly need to loosen up.” I pushed it back toward him and left for
the bathroom. I needed to be somewhere, anywhere, away from these people. I locked the bathroom door and pulled myself onto
the counter, leaning my head back against the mirror. It was colder here, a welcome relief from the heat in the main area. I
breathed deep, sizing up my options, wondering if I could get the police to look into how Hank got my grandfather’s spears, if
they would actually care at all. Probably not. A heavy dragging sound slid along the hall outside the bathroom. I looked down,
watching a shadow pass along the crack under the door. The air filled with the thick smell of old fish. The shadow paused. I
pressed my lips together, hardly daring to Breathe. After an eternity, the shadow continued on, past the bathroom door and down
the hall. I slipped off the counter and stood in front of the door. The murmur of laughter and conversation went silent. Hank
Ferryman’s voice broke the silence. “Tapeesa, I told you to leave the artifacts alone.” His voice should have sounded plaintive,
but it didn’t. It trembled. A scream tore through the air, followed by a trampling of feet, breaking of glasses. More screams, I sat
on the counter, my mouth growing dry. Someone was running up the hall toward me. The handle to the bathroom door rattled,
followed by pounding that made the whole door vibrate. “Let me in!” THUD. The heavy crack of a skull on the floor preceded a
wet, tearing sound. Something dark seeped under the bathroom door, and it wasn’t until the smell hit me that I fully registered
what it was: blood. Primal growls turned into satisfied chewing and smacking noises. I pressed my back against the bathroom
mirror, drawing my knees to my chest. My heart thudded in my ears and my breathing sounded too loud. It, that kushtuka, would
hear me. It, that creature, would find me. My blood would join with the blood on the Door. After what felt like an eternity, a
rustling of furs and padding of feet told me it was leaving. I heard the front door banging open, the sound of feet on gravel
walking away. I couldn’t stay here. It could come back. It would come back. I needed to ger home, to my aana and her shotgun.
Would a shotgun work against a kushtuka? Surely it would—if it weren’t flesh and blood itself, it wouldn’t be able to do …
whatever it just did. I dropped to the floor as silently as I could, holding my breath while I turned the doorknob.
I had seen a lot of blood in my life. I had gutted fish and caribou, slaughtered ducks and sliced up eels. But that was orderly,
deliberate, purposeful. This—this was not that. Bloody footprints covered the floor. Blood spatters and smears graced the walls.
There weren’t men here, there were pieces of men. Entrails of men. I took a step forward and my foot grazed something wet. I
looked down; it was an eye, bloodshot across the sclera. It rolled, revealing a blue iris, as blue as Hank’s. I fell into a squat,
hugging my knees, pressing my toes down to stop myself from falling into the mess. I didn’t want to touch the ground. I didn’t
want to touch anything. I pressed my shoulders between my knees and vomited. Outside, Hank’s sled dogs started barking,
working up into a panic. I looked around. I had to get out of here. Hank’s keys had been in his pocket, but now—I could barely
bring myself to cast my eyes around the room again—this was a search I couldn’t undertake. The dogs. The dogs could take me
home, and away from that thing, whatever that thing was. I grabbed my grandfather’s spear off the wall, the ulu off the counter,
and stepped lightly out onto the gravel. New snow was starting to fall, dusting the gravel and recoating the already fallen snow in
the yard. I pressed my back to the log exterior and sidestepped toward the barn where the huskies were. Their barking had died
down and now they were all panting and whimpering anxiously. I stepped into the shadowy barn, straining my eyes against the
darkness. If she was in here, they’d know, wouldn’t they? If she was still there, they’d still be barking. But they weren’t. They were
just whimpering and staring at me. Still, my scalp prickled. She’d be coming back. Something deep inside me knew it.
grabbed their harness and began hooking them up as quickly as I could, praying that the snow was deep enough, that the dogs
would know where to go, that I wouldn’t fall off. I’d driven a sled a few times before, but I wasn’t good at it. Nor by a long shot.
Something shuffled in the dark. The dogs’ whining intensified. My hands shook as they buckled the last clasp and I jumped onto
the runners. Something shuffled again, and the rancid fish smell filled the air. She was here. “Go,” I hissed to the dogs. “Mush!”
The dogs whimpered, looking around anxiously. I tried to whistle at them, but my mouth was too dry. Something bit into my arm,
sharp and cold. I screamed, and the dogs took off like a shot. I snatched the handle with one hand and slapped the kushtuka with
the other. Her nails dug into my flesh and searing cold shot through me. I raised the arm she was gripping and bit down hard on
her hand.A scream echoed across the tundra as she fell back, and we gained speed. I looked over my shoulder and saw her in the
moonlight, a dark spidery figure loping toward us across the white snow. I shook the reins, urging the dogs to go faster. The
sound of her awkward lope and heavy breathing grew louder. We swerved through scrub brush. She bounded over it. She was
gaining on us. BLAM. A shot rang out across the hills. BLAM. It was a shotgun. Who on earth was shooting their gun at this time
of night? BLAM. I prayed the bullet would miss us, that it would find my kushtuka. BLAM. We had come to the river and the
dogs swerved to run parallel to it. The kushtuka cur the corner, closing the distance between us. I could feel her breath on the
back of my head, smell the blood and fetid flesh. BLAM. The smell subsided. I looked back behind me, and she was on the
ground, inert. The dogs slowed to a walk and my knees buckled with relief. BLAM. Why were they still shooting? The kushtuka
was dead. Someone grabbed me, throwing a hand over my mouth and another around my waist, tackling me to the ground.
“Don’t. Say. A. Word.” It was Pana. “Buck—Hank’s boy—has absolutely lost his mind.” I nodded. We crawled behind a rock and
sat stock-still, muffing our breathing with our coat sleeves. Footsteps grated across the stones on the riverbank. “I got one, wo,
three, three little Indians all for me,” Buck sang. I ignored Pana’s whispered protests and peeked around the boulder to see Hank
Ferryman’s son nudge the inert kushtuka with the barrel of his rifle. “You’re an ugly one, aren’t you?” he muttered. The kushruka
shifted. Buck nudged the kushtuka with the butt of his rifle. “Are you dead, or do I need to blast you again?” He spoke as if he
were offering a complimentary turndown service at a fancy hotel, rather than threatening mortal violence. The kushtuka made a
quiet whimpering sound. “Or better, perhaps, with my own bare hands.” He dropped to his knees and put his hands around the
kush-tuka’s throat. It made a strangled sound, writhing against his tightening grip. A knot twisted in my stomach. I should have
been relieved to see the kushtuka go, but in that moment, she looked at me. She looked like me. Somehow, she was me.
Buck squeezed harder and she kicked and flailed, her foot connecting with the burr of the gun, sending it skittering toward me
across the snow. Ignoring Panas protests, I lunged forward, grabbing it and bringing it level, jamming the butt into my shoulder.
“Stop.” My voice didn’t sound like mine. It sounded desperate, primeval, superhuman. My finger went to the trigger. My voice
trembled when I spoke. “You’re killing her. Stop.” I fired a warning above his head and he froze, then slowly stood, hands above
his head, turning to fix me with a grin as ugly and unsettling as the kushtuka’s. “Those devil Natives thought they could abandon
me,” he said through his manic grin, “They were wrong. They were all wrong. I showed them.” Pana stood up now, turning a
flashlight on Buck. His blond hair and pale face, his expensive thermal coat and snow pants, they were all spattered in blood.
My finger went back to the trigger. He wouldn’t be missed; his father was already dead. If he lived, hed kill and kill again. He’d
kill my people. Hed kill Pana. I leveled the gun at him and took aim. Warm, gentle hands covered my hands, and I heard Pana’s
voice in my ear. “Please don’t. He isn’t worth what we’ll pay for this.” The tightness welling up into my chest broke into a sob. I
lowered the gun. This was it, how we all ended. Defeated by their brutality, and a world that would choose them and forget about
us. Buck screamed. There was a spear in him. The kushtuka on the ground held the spear, grinning widely. I was on the ground,
holding the spear. I was holding it, with my own hands, as Buck’s blood trickled down and warmed them. I let it go, scrambling
to my feet as he fell. There were bruises around my neck, my throat hurt when I breathed. Where was the kushtuka, where was
Pana? Buck fell onto his back, the spear sticking straight up out of him. Pana lowered the rifle, tears streaming down his face.
“I thought he was going to kill you.” “The kushtuka—” “Buck went on a rampage. Both elders who came hunting with us are
dead.” “There was a kushruka—the kushruka killed him. She was right here. She looked just like me- Pana opened his mouth to
protest, then looked down at Buck. He took a deep breath. “You know what, Tapeesa? I think you were right. I think there was a
kushtuka.” I pulled my hands into the thick furs I was wearing. They were beautifully made. The trim was black with little red
Rowers and green leaves trailing along the edge. They were handmade. Artifacts, even. “I thought I saw that hanging in Hank
Ferryman’s lodge,” Pana said. “It looks just like one my aana made once.” I walked to the sled, my legs shaking. “Let’s take it
back to her then, okay?” Pana nodded, tossing one last glance over his shoulder at Buck. His freshly dead body smelled good, so
good, I was sure the wolves would find him soon. I swallowed the saliva gathering in my mouth. “Come on, Pana. I think I have
your aana’s ulu on that dogsled. She’ll be wanting it back.” Pana paused, then nodded, raking my arm. “Thanks, Tapeesa.” I
smiled. “You, my dear, are most certainly welcome.”
The Only Good Indians: Stephen Graham Jones
Chapter 1: Williston North Dakota
The headline for Richard Boss Ribs would be INDIAN MAN KILLED IN DISPUTE OUTSIDE BAR.
That’s one way to say it. Ricky had hired on with a drilling crew over in North Dakota. Because he was the only Indian, he was
Chief. Because he was new and probably temporary, he was always the one getting sent down to guide the chain. Each time he
came back with all his fingers he would flash thumbs-up all around the platform to show how he was lucky, how none of this was
ever going to touch him. Ricky Boss Ribs. He’d split from the reservation all at once, when his little brother Cheeto had
overdosed in someone’s living room, the television, Ricky was told, tuned to that camera that just looks down on the IGA parking
lot all the time. That was the part Ricky couldn’t stop cycling through his head: that’s the channel only the serious-old of the
elders watched. It was just a running reminder how shit the reservation was, how boring, how nothing. And his little brother
didn’t even watch normal television much, couldn’t sit still for it, would have been reading comic books if anything. Instead of
shuffling around the wake and standing out at the family plot up behind East Glacier, everybody parked on the logging road
behind it so they’d have to come right up to the graves to turn their cars around, Ricky ran away to North Dakota. His plan was
Minneapolis— he knew some cats there-but then halfway there the oil crew had been hiring, and said they liked Indians because
of their built-in cold resistance. It meant they might not slip off in winter. Ricky, sitting in the orange doghouse trailer for that
inter-view, had nodded yeah, Blackfeet didn’t care about the cold, and no, he wouldn’t leave them shorthanded in the middle of a
week. What he didn’t say was that you don’t get cold-resistant because your jackets suck, you just stop complaining about it after
a while, because complaining doesn’t make you any warmer. He also didn’t say that, first paycheck, he was gone to Minneapo-lis,
bye. The foreman interviewing him had been thick and windburned and sort of blond, with a beard like a Brillo pad. When hed
reached across the table to shake Ricky’s hand and look him in the eye while he did it, the modern world had fallen away for a
long blink and the two of them were standing in a canvas tent, the foreman in a cavalry jacket, and Ricky already had designs on
that jacket’s brass buttons, wasn’t thinking at all of the paper on the table between them that he’d just made his mark on. This had
been happening more and more to him the last few months, Ever since hunting went bad last winter and right up through the
interview to now, not even stopping for Cheeto dying on that couch. Cheeto hadn’t been his born name, but he had freckles and
orange hair, so it wasn’t a name he could shake, either. Ricky wondered how the funeral had gone. He wondered if right now
there was a big mulie nosing up to the chicken-wire fence around all these dead Indians. He wondered what that big mulie saw,
really. If it was just waiting all of these two-leggers out. Cheeto would have thought it was a pretty deer, Ricky figured He had
never been a kid to get up early with Ricky to be out in the trees when light broke. He hadn’t liked killing anything except beers,
probably would have been vegetarian if that was an option on the rez. His orange hair put enough of a bull’s-eye on his back,
though. Eating rabbit food would have just got more dumb Indians lining up to put him down. But then he’d died on that couch
anyway, not even from anybody else, just from himself, at which point Ricky figured he’d get out as well, screw it. Sure, he could
be this crew’s chain monkey for a week or two. Yeah, he could sleep four to a doghouse with all these white boys, the wind
rocking the trailer. No, he didn’t mind being Chief, though he knew that, had he been around back in the days of raiding and
running down buffalo, he’d have been a grunt then as well. Whatever the bow-and-arrow version of a chain monkey was, that’d be
Ricky Boss Ribs’s station. When he was a kid there’d been a picture book in the library, about Heads-Smashed-In or whatever it
was called-the buffalo jump, where the old-time Blackfeet ran herd after herd off the cliff. Ricky remembered that the boy
selected to drape a calf robe over his shoulders and run out in front of all those buffalo, he’d been the one to win all the races the
elders had put him and all the other kids in, and he’d been the one to climb all the trees the best, because you needed to be fast to
run ahead of all those tons of meat, and you needed good hands to, at the last moment after sailing off the cliff, grab on to the
rope the men had already left there, that would tuck you up under, safe. What had it been like, sitting there while the buffalo
flowed down through the air within arm’s reach, bellowing, their legs probably stiff because they didn’t know for sure when the
ground was coming? What had it felt like, bringing meat to the whole tribe? They’d almost done it last Thanksgiving, him and
Gabe and Lewis and Cass, they’d meant to, they were going to be those kinds of Indians for once, they had been going to show
everybody in Browning that this is the way it’s done, but then the big wet snow had come in and everything had gone pretty much
straight to hell, leaving Ricky out here in North Dakota like he didn’t know any better than to come in out of the cold. Fuck it. All
he was going to hunt in Minneapolis was tacos, and a bed. But, until then, this beer would work. The bar was all roughnecks,
wall-to-wall. No fights yet, but give it time. There was another Indian, Dakota probably, nursing a bottle in a corner by the pool
tables. He’d acknowledged Ricky and Ricky had nodded back, but there was as much distance between the two of them as there
was between Ricky and his crew. More important, there was a blond waitress balancing a tray of empties between and among.
Fifty sets of eyes were tracking her, easy. To Ricky she looked like the tall girl Lewis had run off to Great Falls with in July, but
she’d probably already left his ass, meaning now Lewis was sitting in a bar down there just like this one, peeling the label off his
beer just the same. Ricky lifted his bottle in greeting, across all the miles. Four beers and nine country songs later, he was
standing in line for the urinal. Except the line was snaking all back down the hall already, and the last time he’d been in there
there’d already been guys pissing in the trash can and the sink both. The air in there was gritty and yellow, almost crunched
between Ricky’s teeth when he’d accidentally opened his mouth. It wasn’t any worse than the honeypots out at the rig, but out at
the rig you could just unzip wherever, let fly. Ricky backed out, drained his beer because cops love an Indian with a beer bottle in
the great outdoors, and made to push his way out for a breath of fresh air, maybe a fence post in desperate need of watering. At
the exit the bouncer opened his meaty hand against Ricky’s chest, warned him about leaving. Something about the head count and
the fire marshal. Ricky looked past the open door to the clump of roughnecks and cowboys waiting to come in, their eyes flashing
up to him but not asking for anything. It was the queue Ricky would have to mill around in to wait his turn to get back in. But it
was starting to not really be his decision anymore, right? Inside of maybe ninety seconds, here, he was going to be peeing, so any
way he could up the chances of being someplace where he could do that without making a mess of himself, well. He could stand
in a thirty-minute line to eyeball that blond waitress some more, sure. Ricky turned sideways to slip past the bouncer, nodding
that he knew what he was doing, and already a roughneck was stepping forward to take his place. There wasn’t even any time to
stiff-leg it over beside the bar, by the steaming pile of bags the dumpsters were. Ricky just walked straight ahead, out into the sea
of crew cab trucks parked more or less in rows, and on the way he unleashed almost before he could come to a stop, had to lean
back from it because this was a serious fire-hose situation. He closed his eyes from the purest pleasure he’d felt in weeks, and
when he opened them, he had the feeling he wasn’t alone anymore. He steeled himself. Only stupid Indians brush past a bunch of
hard-handed white dudes, each of them sure that seat you had in the bar, it should have, by right, been theirs. They’re cool with
the Chief among them being the chain monkey, but when it comes down to who has an eyeline on the white woman, we, thats
another thing altogether, isn’t it? Stupid, Ricky told himself. Stupid stupid stupid. He looked ahead, to the hood he was going to
hip-slide over, the bed of the truck he hoped wasn’t piled with ankle-breaking equipment, because that was his next step. A clump
of white men can beat an Indian into the ground, yeah, no doubt about it, happens every weekend up here on the Hi-Line. But
they have to catch his ass first. And now that he was, by his figuring, about three fluid pounds lighter, and sobering up fast, no
way was even the ex-running back of them going to hook a finger into Ricky’s shirt. Ricky grinned a tight-lipped grin to himself
and nodded for courage, dislodging all the rifles he couldn’t keep stacked up in his head, rifles that were actually behind the seat
of his truck back at the site. When he’d left Browning he’d taken them all, even his uncles’ and granddad’s—they were all in the
same closet by the front door-and then grabbed the gallon baggie of random shells, figuring some of them had to go to these guns.
The idea had been that he was going to need stake-money when he hit Minneapolis, and rifles turn into cash faster than just about
anything. Except then he’d found work along the way. And he’d got to thinking about his uncles needing to fill their freezer for
the winter. Standing in the sprawling parking lot of the roughneck bar in North Dakota, Ricky promised to mail every one of
those back. Would he have to pull the bolts, though, mail them in separate packages from the rifles, so the rifles wouldn’t really
be rifles anymore? Ricky didn’t know, but he did know that right now he wanted that pump 30-06 in his hands. To shoot if it came
to that, but mostly just to swing around, the open end of the barrel leaving half-moons in cheeks and eyebrows and rib cages, the
butt perfect for jaws. He might be going down in this parking lot in a puddle of his own piss, but these grimy white boys were
going to remember this Blackfeet, and think twice the next time they saw one of him walking into their bar. If only Gabe were
here. Gabe liked this kind of shit— playing cowboys and Indians in all the parking lots of the world. He’d do his stupid war
whoop and just rush the hell in. It might as well have been a hundred and fifty years ago for him, every single day of his
ridiculous life. When you’re with him, though, with Gabe… Ricky narrowed his eyes, nodded to himself again for strength. To
fake it anyway— to try to be like Gabe, here. When Ricky was with Gabe, hed always want to give a whoop like that too, the
kind that made it where, when he turned around to face these white boys, it’d feel like he was holding a tomahawk in his hand.
It’d feel like his face was painted in harsh crumbly blacks and whites, maybe a single finger-wide line of red on the right side.
The years can just fall away, man. “So,” Ricky said, his hands balled into fists, chest already heav-ing, and turned around to get
this over with, his teeth clenched tight so that if he was turning around into a fist it wouldn’t rattle him too much. But … no one?
“What the—?” Ricky said, cutting himself off because there was something, yeah. A huge dark form, clambering over a pearly
white, out-of-place 280Z. Not a horse, either, like he’d knee-jerked into his head. Ricky had to smile. This was an elk, wasn’t it? A
big meaty spike, too dumb to know this was where the people went, not the animals. It blew once through its nostrils and
launched into the truck to its right, leaving the pretty sloped-down hood of that little Nissan taco’d up at the edges, stomped all
down in the middle. But at least the car had been quiet about it. The truck the elk had slammed into was much more insulted,
screaming its shrill alarm loud enough that the spike grabbed onto the ground with all four hooves. Instead of the twenty logical
paths it could have taken away from this sound, it scrabbled up across the loud truck’s hood, fell off into the between space on the
other side. And now that drunk little elk was banging into another truck, and another. All the alarms were going off, all the lights
going back and forth. “What is into you, man?” Ricky said to the spike, impressed. The feeling didn’t last long. Now the spike
was turned around, was barreling down an aisle between the cars, Ricky right in its path, its head down like a mature bull—
Ricky threw himself to the side, into another truck, setting off another alarm. “You want some of me?” Ricky yelled to the elk,
reaching over into the bed of a random truck. He came up with a jawless oversized crescent wrench that would be a good enough
deterrent, he figured. He hoped. Never mind he was outweighed by a cool five hundred pounds. Never mind that elk don’t do this.
When he heard the spike blow behind him he turned already swinging, crashing the crescent wrench’s round head into the side
mirror of a tall Ford. The big Ford’s alarm screamed, flashed every light it had, and when Ricky turned around to shuffling
hooves behind him, it wasn’t hooves this time, but boots. All the roughnecks and cowboys waiting to get into the bar. “He … he—
” Ricky said, holding the wrench like a tire beater, every second truck in his immediate area flashing in pain, and showing the
pounding they’d just taken. He saw it too, saw them seeing it: this Indian had got hisself mistreated in the bar, didn’t know who
drove what, so he was taking it out on every truck in the parking lot. Typical. Momentarily one of these white boys was going to
say something about Ricky being off the reservation, and then what was supposed to happen could get proper-started. Unless
Ricky, say, wanted to maybe live. He dropped the wrench into the slush, held his hand out, said, “No, no, you don’t understand—”
But they did. When they stepped forward to put him down in time-honored fashion, Ricky turned, flopped half over the 280Z he
hadn’t trashed, endured a bad moment when somebody’s reaching fingers were hooked into a belt loop, but he spun his hips hard,
tore through, fell down and ahead, his hands to the ground for a few overbalanced steps. A beer bottle whipped by his head,
shattered on a grille guard right in front of him, and he threw his hands up to keep his eyes safe, veered what he thought was
around that truck but not enough-his hip caught the last upright of the guard, spun him around, into another truck, with another
stupid alarm. “Fuck you!” he yelled to the truck, to all the trucks, all the cow-boys, just North Dakota and oil fields and America
in general, and then, running hard down a lane between trucks, hitching himself ahead with more mirrors, two of them coming off
in his hands, he felt a smile well up on his face, Gabe’s smile. This is what it feels like, then. “Yes!” Ricky screamed, the rush of
adrenaline and fear sloshing up behind his eyes, crashing over his every thought. He turned around and ran backward so he could
point with both hands at the roughnecks. Four steps into this big important gesture he fell out into open space, kind of like a
turnrow in a plowed field, caught his left boot heel on a rock or frozen clump of bullshit grass, went sprawling. Behind him he
could see dark shapes vaulting over whole truck beds, their cowboy hats lifting with them, not coming down, just becoming part
of the night. “White boys can move…” he said to himself, less certain of all this, and pivoted, rose, was moving again, too.
When the footfalls and boot slaps were too close, close enough he couldn’t handle it, knew this was it, Ricky grabbed a fiberglass
dually fender, used it to swing himself a sharp and sudden ninety degrees, into what would have been the truck’s long side, what
should have been its side, but he was sliding now, he was going under, leading with the slick heels of his work boots.
This was the kind of getting away he’d learned at twelve years old, when he could slither and snake.
The truck was just tall enough for him to slide under, through the muck, his momentum carrying him halfway across. To get
across the rest of the truck’s width, he reached up for a handhold, the skin of his palm and the underside of his fingers
immediately smoking from the three-inch exhaust pipe. Ricky yelped but kept moving, came up on the other side of the truck fast
enough that he slammed into a beater that didn’t have an alarm. Two truck lengths ahead, the dark shapes were pulling their best
one-eighty, casting left and right for the Indian. Duck, Ricky told himself, and disappeared, ran at a crouch that felt military, like
he was in a trench, like shells were flying. And they might as well be. “There he is!” a roughneck bellowed, and his voice was far
enough off that Ricky knew he was wrong, that they were about to pile onto somebody else for ten or twenty seconds, until they
realized this was no Indian. Ten trucks between him and them finally, Ricky stood to his full height to make sure it wasn’t that
Dakota dude catching the heat. “I’m right here,” Ricky said to the roughnecks, not really loud enough, then turned, stepped
through the last line of trucks, out into the ditch of the narrow ribbon of blacktop that had brought him here, that ran between the
bar’s parking lot and miles and miles of frozen grasslands. So it was going to be a walking night, then. A hiding from every pair
of headlights night. A cold night. Good thing I’m In-dian, he told himself, sucking in to get the zipper on his jacket started. Cold
doesn’t matter to Indians, does it? He snorted a laugh, flipped the whole bar off without turning around, just an over-the-shoulder
thing with his smoldering hand, then stepped up onto the faded asphalt right as a bottle burst beside his boot. He flinched, drew
in, looked behind him to the mass of shadows that were just arms and legs and crew cuts now, moving over the trucks. They’d
seen him, made his Indian silhouette out against all this pale frozen grass. He hissed a pissed-off blast of air through his teeth,
shook his head once side to side, and straight-legged it across the asphalt to see how committed they might be. They want an
Indian bad enough tonight to run out into the open prairie in November, or would it be enough just to run him off? Instead of
trusting the gravel and ice of the opposite shoulder, Ricky took it at a slide, let his momentum stand him up once his boot heels
caught grass, then transferred all that into a leaning-forward run that was going to have been a fall even if he hadn’t caught the top
strand of fence in the gut. He flipped over easy as anything, the strand giving up its staples halfway through, just to
be sure his face planted all the way into the crunchy grass on the other side Ricky rolled over, his face to the wash of stars spread
against all the blackness, and considered that he maybe should have just stayed home, gone to Cheeto’s funeral, he maybe
shouldn’t have stolen his family’s guns. He maybe should have never even left the rez at all. He was right. When he stood, there
was a sea of green eyes staring back at him from right there, where there was just supposed to be frozen grass and distance.
It was a great herd of elk, waiting, blocking him in, and there was a great herd pressing in behind him, too, a herd of men already
on the blacktop themselves, their voices rising, hands balled into fists, eyes flashing white. INDIAN MAN KILLED IN
DISPUTE OUTSIDE BAR. That’s one way to say it.
Chapter 6: That Saturday
Since Cass’s square body crew cab didn’t have a winch, each time he couldn’t tell where the road was and slogged out into the soft
stuff, everybody had to pile out again, take turns on the stretched-out come-along, the other two digging with planks and trying to
do some magic or other with the jack, one person behind the wheel to feather the accelerator and work the shifter, keep the truck
rocking back and forth. Four separate times at least, certain death loomed, but either that wobbly high-lift sliced down into fluffy
snow instead of crunchy skull, or the come-along hook snapped back over the cab of the truck, instead of through any faces.
It was so funny even Lewis was laughing. It didn’t feel like anything could go wrong. Sure, yeah, he wanted an elk and wanted it
bad, but all the same, this was what hunting is about: you and some buds out kicking it through the deep snow, your breath
frosted, your right-hand glove forever lost, your Sorrels wet on the inside, Chief Mountain always a smudge on the northwest
horizon, like watching over all these idiot Blackfeet. At least until they got to where it happened. It was a steep hill, maybe a half
mile in from the lake. The big snow was already crowding in, pushing the wind ahead. That’s the only thing Lewis has to explain
how the elk didn’t hear Cass’s Chevy struggling through the snow. The squirrels had been chattering about it, the few birds that
were still out were annoyed enough to glide to farther-and-farther-away trees, but the elk, maybe because of that wind in their
faces, they were oblivious, just trying to chomp whatever they could, since it was all about to be buried. Looking back, Lewis
tells Shaney that the one thing that could have maybe saved them was some horses, the wild ones that were always showing up in
the least expected places all over the res-ervation, their eyes wide and crazy, their manes and tails shaggy and tangled. If four or
five of them had pounded through on some important horse mission or another, that might have spooked the elk, or at least got
them listening closer, smelling harder, paying better attention. But there were no horses that day. Only elk. What happened was
the same thing as had been happening the last half mile: Cass lost the road again, in spite of Gabe guaranteeing that it turned here,
here, here. Instead of trying to back up and find the road again, though, Cass drove into this wrong direction, his foot deep in the
pedal, the wheels already churning for purchase, the only thing keeping the truck going its own sagging momentum.
“Going for the record, going for the record here…” Gabe said, lifting his butt off the seat like he was the thing weighing them
down, and, in the back, Ricky rocked forward, trying to help the truck along. Sitting beside him, Lewis wondered what the
penalty was just for being in the elder section. But he knew: nothing, so long as you’re not rifled up. If you are carrying, though?
Denny throws the key away. “We’re gonna make it, we’re gonna make it!’ Cass said, one hand on the wheel, the other to the fourwheel-drive shifter to tap the transfer case into high should they be so lucky as to need it. What he was doing, not exactly on
purpose, was driving from one part of an S-curve in the road to the other, snow flying every which direction, the tires spinning
great white rooster tails of it up and over, some of it probably not even landing, just hitching a ride on the wind, to sift down over
Cutbank or Shelby somewhere so far away from this as to, right then, just be a legend, pretty much. “Shit, shit” Lewis said,
hooking a second hand through the grab strap, straightening his legs against the floorboard even though he knows that’s the
wrong way to take a jolt. It was just instinct to brace himself, though. Three times already they’d barely missed a lichenshadowed boulder left behind by some glacier twenty thousand years ago. They had to be owed one right in the grill-teeth sooner
or later, right? Instead of that granite stop sign, what they almost drove onto and down into was open space. Cass didn’t have to
hit the brake, he just had to stop gunning the truck forward. “What the hell?” Ricky said, not able to see from the backseat.
Lewis, either. The engine sputtered out, dropping them into a vast silence. “Good one,” Cass said, disgusted, trying to clear his
side of the windshield, finally cranking his window down instead, and Lewis was just thanking any gods tuned in right now: they
should be a smoking wreck at the bottom of this drop-off. “Shh, shh,” Gabe said to them all then, and leaned forward over the
dash, looking down and down. And then. “What?” Shaney asks. Then Gabe reached over for his rifle, his fingers coming into
place on the pistol grip one by delicate one, like all four at once might be too loud. What Lewis remembers clearest about the
next sixty seconds, maybe closer to two impossible minutes, is the way his heart clenched in his chest, the way his throat filled
with… with terror? Is that what too much joy and surprise can ball up into, when it comes at you all at once? There was the
instant sweat, his head full of sound, his eyes letting in too much light for his head to process. It was like … he doesn’t have words
for it, really. “That fight or flight rush, he tells Shaney, only, running wasn’t even a distant option. It was what he’d always
imagined war to be like: too much input all at once, his hands acting almost without his say-so, because they’d been waiting for
this moment for so long, weren’t going to let him miss it. Gabe either. He popped the handle of his door, rolled down into the
snow smooth as anything, his rifle whipping out after him. Following his lead, nobody said anything, just fell in, Ricky coming
out his door, Cass trying to jam the truck into Park so it wouldn’t roll over the rock lip it was teetering on. The door on Lewis’s
side opened like a whisper, like fate, and when he committed his right foot down to the powdery surface that ended up being two
feet deep, he just kept falling, his chin stopping a hand’s width into the powder the front tires had churned up. His forward motion
never faltered, though. He crawled ahead like a soldier, pulling with his elbows, his rifle held ahead to keep the barrel clear.
And-that was when the frenzy washed over him. He’d seen big herds in the Park, over at Two Dog Flat, had seen them in spring
over by Babb, bounding across the road at night, but this many huge perfect bodies against all that stark white was something
he’d never seen this close before. At least, not with a rile in his hands, and no tourists around to snap pictures.
Gabe’ rifle going off was distant, was down at the other end of some long, long tunnel. Lewis, knowing that this was how you got
to be a good Indian, finaly remembered how to as a you in. Once it was seated, he pulled that Tasco up until it cupped his right
eye, and he was fring now as well, and firing again, just waiting to pull the triger until he could see brown in the crosshairs. Just
anywhere near the crosshairs—how could he miss? He couldn’t. Three rounds, then he was rolling over, digging in his pants
pocket for shells, and the elk, trained in the high country, the sharp drop in front of the truck throwing the sound every which
way, their first instinct was to crash uphill, to what was supposed to be safety. On the other side of the truck Ricky was screaming
some old-time war whoop, and Gabe maybe was too, and so was Lewis, he thinks. “You couldn’t hear if you were or not?”
Shaney asks. Lewis shakes his head no, he couldn’t. But he does remember Cass standing behind his opened door, his rifle
stabbed through the rolled-down window, and he’s just shooting, and shooting, and shooting, only stopping to thumb another
round in, and another, one of them launching onto the dash and clattering the whole way across, hissing down into the snow by
Lewis. “We could have fed the whole tribe for a week on this much meat,” Lewis says, his eyes hot now. “For a month. For the
whole winter, maybe.” “If you were that kind of Indian,” Shaney says, getting what he’s saying. “There’s more,” Lewis says,
finally looking to the masking-tape elk on his living room floor. In the hollow deafness after all this, the four of them stood there
on that rocky ledge, the snow skirling past, the weather almost on them, and Gabe— he always had the best eyes-counted nine
huge bodies down there in the snow, each probably pushing five hundred pounds. Cass’s Chevy was a half-ton. “Shi-it” Ricky
said, breathing hard, smiling wide. This was the kind of luck that never happened, that they had only ever heard about. But never
like this. Never a whole herd. Never as many as they could bring down. “Okay there?” Gabe said across to Lewis, and Cass
reached up with the side of his finger, dabbed at Lewis’s right eye. Blood. Before, when he’d had scope-eye as a kid —when the
scope had recoiled back into his eye orbit—he’d felt that shock wave move in slow motion from the front of his head to the back.
It makes your brain fluid for a slowed-down moment, leaves you scrambled, and because of that you can never remember what
exactly it is you’re doing to make this scope-eye happen. Except the obvious: pressing it right up to your eye, pulling the trigger.
This time Lewis remembered every shot, the lead-on-meat slap of every slug, but never even felt the force of that sudden recoil
going from front to back through his head. Five years after this a dentist will look at his X-rays and trace out the bone evidence of
this trauma around his right eye and ask was it a car wreck, maybe? “Almost,” Lewis will tell him. “But it was a truck.” The last
time he saw Cass’s Chevy, it was up on blocks by a barbed-wire fence over at a high place north of Browning, the windshield
caved in, the hood yawning open like a long scream. The engine must have been good enough, otherwise it would have still been
there. The wheels and tires had been yanked as well. After Lewis left that part of the country for what he secretly knew was going
to be forever, the first cinder block holding that truck up went soon enough, he imagines, a rust-coated brake drum crumbling
down through that stony grey, making the truck look like a horse kneeling, and after that it would have been fast. The land claims
what you leave behind. That day with all the elk, though, back then the Chevy was still on its first or maybe second life, was
young and hungry, was telling the four of them it could carry as many elk as they could pile in. Realistically, even just three elk in
the back of a half-ton is pushing it, is going to have that truck sitting down on its springs, the nose pointing at the sky, the front
brakes useless. And that was if the stupid come-along was going to cooperate, help get those heavy bodies up the slope, and if
four Indians without gambrels or cherry pickers could somehow get the second and third elk in on top of the first.
“And that’s when it started snowing heavy, Lewis tells Shaney, touching his face with his fingertips like feeling those cold dabs
again. She doesn’t say anything, is just watching, soaking all this in. Not because she wants to know, Lewis doesn’t think, but… is
it more like she knows he needs to say it? To have told someone, at least? “Old-time buffalo jump!” Gabe called out then, and he
vaulted right the hell off the ledge, slid on his ass down into that jumble of dead and dying elk. Lewis and Ricky and Cass picked
their way down after him, unsheathed saws and knives, and got to work. Inside of five minutes it was clear this was going to be a
haunches-only affair—already big wet flakes were finding their way into the red body cavities, dissolving instantly against that
steamy heat. But pretty soon the flakes were going to start winning that little war, no longer melting but piling up, making these
carcasses look like giant stuffed animals slit open, all their batting leaking out. Gabe and Cass doubled up on the one bull that
fell, trying to keep his cape intact, since Gabe knew a back-alley taxidermy guy who’d do a mount for meat, so long as he picked
the cuts. Ricky was on a monologue about how this Thursday, Thanksgiving, was going a haul like this. to be an Indian holiday
this year, with the four of them bringing in “Thanksgiving Classic, Gabe said, giving what just happened a proper name.
Cass whooped once, setting that name in place. Lewis whipped his hand over his head about the cow he’d just dressed out in
record time— it’s a rodeo thing, is deep in his DNA — and moved on to the next, the young cow, but when he dropped to his
knees to make that first cut from her pelvis to her sternum, she found her front legs, tried to climb up out of the snow.
Lewis fell back, called over to Cass for a rifle. He never once looked away from this young elk, though. Her eyes, they were—
don’t elk usually have brown eyes? Hers were more yellow, almost, branching into hazel at the edges.
Maybe it was because she was terrified, because she didn’t understand what was happening. Just that it hurt.
The shot that brought her down had caught her midway through the back, from the top, and taken her spine out. So her rear legs
were dead, and her insides were going to be a mess as well. “Whoah, whoah,” Lewis said to her, feeling more than seeing Cass’s
rifle plunk into the snow just short of his right leg. He felt down for it, that young elk still struggling, blowing red mist from her
nostrils, her eyes so big, so deep, so shiny. “And I couldn’t find a shell” Lewis says to Shaney. “I thought I was out, that I’d used
my last up by the truck, when everything was crazy.” “But you had one” Shaney tells him.* “Two” Lewis says back, looking
down at his hands. This close he didn’t need the scope or a sight. “Sorry, girl” he said, and, careful of his swelling-up eye, lined
the barrel up, pulled the trigger. The sound was massive, rolling up the slope and then crabing back down.
The young elk’s head flopped back like it was on a hinge and she sank into the snow. “Sorry, Lewis said again, quieter, so Cass
couldn’t hear. But it was just hunting, he told himself. It was just bad luck for the elk. They should have bedded down with the
wind in their favor. They should have pushed through to some section the hunters didn’t have access to— that trucks can’t get to,
anyway. After the shot, Lewis looked behind him for some buckbrush or something to hang the rifle from, but then a sound
brought him back to the young elk. The sound was the crust of snow, crunching. She was staring at him again. Not dead. Her
breath was raspy and uneven, but it was definitely there, somehow, when no way should it have been. Not after having her back
broken, half her head blown to mist. Lewis took a long and involuntary step back and fell, jammed the butt of the rifle down just
ahead of his ass so he could be sure where the barrel was going to be, because he didn’t want it driving up under his head, trying
to separate his jaw from his face. She was trying to stand again was the thing, never mind that the top of her head was missing,
that her back was broken, that she should be dead, that she had to be dead. “What the hell?” Cass called over. “My rifle’s not that
off, man.” He laughed, leaned back down into the big cow he was insisting was his. Lewis had his right leg straight out in the
snow, was feeling in all his pockets for one more shell, please. He found it, ran it into the chamber, working the bolt back and
forward to be sure the cartridge seated right. This time, talking to the young elk the whole while, promising her that he was going
to use every bit of her if she would just please die, he nestled the Barrel right against her face, so the bullet would come out the
lower back of her skull, plow into her back where she’d already been shot once. Her one yellow eye was still watching him, the
right one hay-wire, the pupil blown wide, looking somewhere else, someplace he couldn’t see without turning around.
“So that’s where I put the barrel this time, Lewis says to Shaney. “I figured -I don’t know. That first shot must have glanced off
her skull, right? Looked worse than it was. So this time I didn’t want to give it any chance to bounce off. The eye could be like a
tunnel in—into her.” Shaney doesn’t blink. “You were gonna be a tough one, weren’t you?” the Lewis of back then said, his lower
lip starting to tremble, and then he pulled the trigger. Cass’s rifle bucked free of his one-handed grip and the young elk fell again,
and what he was saying in his head, what he was telling himself even though he was Indian, even though he was this great born
hunter, what he was telling himself to make this okay, to be able to make it through the next minute, and the next hour, it was that
shooting her, it was just like putting one in a hay bale, it was just like snapping a blade of grass in a field, it was like stepping on
a grasshopper. The young elk didn’t even know what was happening, animals aren’t aware like that, not in the same way people
are. “You believed that, too, didn’t you?” Shaney says. “For ten years,” Lewis says back. “Until I saw her again, right over there.”
“Still dead?” Shaney asks, sitting on the second step of the stairs now, her hand on the knee of his sweats, and that’s how she is
and that’s how Lewis is when Peta walks in the front door.
