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Penucquem Speaks
A Look At Our World From A Different Culture

Author Edited Manuscript Copyright 2004/2005 by Ronald Thomas West

Final Organizational Form December 2005

2 “Words are the most powerful medicine used by mankind. All the words Ron used to tell the story of our world is the truth. I am the witness to this truth as told by my brother. When a Blackfoot Man speaks his words, that is the truth.” Chief of the Crazy Dogs: Floyd ‘Tiny Man’ Heavy Runner

For those Little Blackfeet Children I loved Most; Geneva Who will always be my daughter in my heart Sarah & Josh Who greeted me on my arrival at Badger Canyon Cheescum, Mikey, & Juniper, et al My Partners in Crime in the most dangerous joke I ever attempted in Indian Country And of course my own Thomas and Mike Who always had me in trouble with the Blackfeet Grandmothers

“Ron is someone that knows our Indian way of life” Pat Kennedy

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Table of Contents Foreword by Karl H Schlesier…………………………………………………page 4 Introduction…………………………………………………………………… page 6 Backdrop (A Little History)……………………………………………………page 8 1895 A Treaty is Made…………………………………………………………page 16 A Buffalo Ghost Returns……………………………………………………… page 32 My Beginning………………………………………………………………… page 36 A Visit with a Paiute Ghost…………………………………………………… page 43 Moving Forward……………………………………………………………… page 46 My Big Psychosis………………………………………………………………page 52 Don’t Squeeze the Charming……………………………………………… ..…page 55 The Chicken Feathers Shaking Tent……………………………………………page 59 A Reincarnated Blackfeet Discovers Her Roots…………………………… ….page 63 Brockett Pow Wow…………………………………………………………… page 66 The Stick Game…………………………………………………………………page 70 Life in Blackfeet Country……………………………………………………… page 84 A Very Special Pipe (The Plains Ojibwa Medicine Men, part one)….. ……… page 90 A Blind Date (The Plains Ojibwa Medicine Men, part two)………...………….page 96 Four Blackfeet and a Few Whitemen (Shamen and Politicians)….………… ...page 103 Strawberry……………………………………………………………………….page 134 Pat’s Purpose…………………………………………………....……………….page 136 Retrospective …………..………………………………………………………. page 140 Three Whites That Didn’t Get It…………………..………………………… ..page 145 Modern Indian Society………………………..…………………………………page 150 Penucquem Speaks………….…………………………….…………… ……… page 165 Ni-na-wa-ki…………………..…………………………………………………..page 193 End Notes…………………………….………………..………………………… page 195

4 Foreword This is the story of a man who reinvented himself as an Indian or, who was reinvented by fate and circumstance and the kindness of others. The others, at the beginning of this process, were an old Blackfeet couple living at the heart of the reservation in northern Montana. These old people, healers in the traditional Blackfeet way, became the healers of a young white man with a shattered physique and a disturbed mind resulting from the strain and the calamities of the Vietnam War. This veteran did not become a generic Indian but a Blackfeet Indian, beholden to that specific people and its culture. In the long and disturbing history of Indian-White relations in North America there have been other Whites, men and women, who became full fledged members and shared the fate of the tribes in the struggle for survival. These, often, had been taken as prisoners when young, and they grew up with new siblings and new parents and a new, wide range of relationships. They were not discriminanted against because in the old world of the tribes skin color never mattered; what mattered were the expressions of one’s spirit and the voice of the heart. But adoption by a human alone was not enough. The adoptee had to open himself/herself to the spirit world of the specific tribe and had to be embraced by it. Thus, adoption was made final or was denied on the highest spiritual level beyond a first move made by adoptive elders. This is how it was in the past when the tribes were still functioning as free and independent systems obeying ancient laws. From the end of the White wars, when the tribes were confined to prisons called reservations and were reduced to poverty status, to today few, if any Whites made themselves availiable for genuine inclusion and full membership in a tribe. It would require a rare person to join voluntarily a people economically located on the bottom of American society. Even if one would try he/she would be pitied, perhaps ostracized by the larger society and rejected, at first, by the Indian hosts. The individual’s motives would be questioned, especially by those Indians who are the most assimilated to White society and who have distanced themselves from the traditional culture of their own people. These are usually the power brokers on reservations and the co-conspirators in government policies and schemes enacted by the Bureau of Indian Affairs. They view the novice with suspicion, searching for a hidden agenda they expect to be geared toward some sort of economic gain. If the novice is genuine he/she might be rescued by traditional people who apply criteria of cognition based on ancient principles of the culture. These complications are reflected in Ron West’s story. There are benchmarks the presence of which is essential for the transformation of a person leaving one and joining another culture. One is the rejection of one’s own culture in favor of the other. This difficult step is undertaken not solely on emotion but on reason, comprehension and intellectual honesty. It is based on seeing. But to refuse most of what one has learned growing up in one’s culture is nearly impossible to do. It requires a mental and psychological crisis brought about by the revelation that one’s culture is incompatible with its pretensions. This crisis happened to Ron West in the Vietnam War

5 and its aftermath and led to what he calls his Big Psychosis. He has eloquently described events leading to it in this book. Another benchmark is a willingness to accept the other culture. Blackfeet culture today, as it survives on and off the reservation, has lost much of its complexity and splendor of old but still maintains features and behavior patterns and values that are attractive. The Blackfeet people still exist, and many are much like the people as they used to be a long time ago. Today they are often burdened by sets of problems they have no control over. There are also Blackfeet who are lost, who seem to belong nowhere, neither to the Blackfeet world nor to the White world. And there are those who work against their own people for the benefit of surrounding Whites and for local and national schemes to defraud them. Of these three groups the first can be assisted, the second one must be left to the ceremonial people to heal, and the third group must not only be endured but must be fought. Ron West has done that. He has shared himself and the limited funds of his disability pension, granted for permanent injuries suffered in military service, fully, totally with those Blackfeet families he has become related to by adoption. With traditional leaders he has bitterly, successfully, fought attempts of exploiting Blackfeet sacred lands by energy companies allied with a Blackfeet clique in the reservation agency. Ron West takes the reader through good and bad times and through happy times. As a Blackfeet he tells the story as seen through Blackfeet eyes, his vision is sharpened by his closeness to traditional leaders who were his teachers. Where he feels it necessary to tell hard truths he is unflinching and uncompromising. Although conflict on and around the reservation is examined, because it exists and cannot be wiped away, the book is not about conflict. It is about Blackfeet life at the beginning of the new millennium and about the people he has come to know intimately. Some features of the culture still important today are explained with great clarity. The chapter on Stick Game, for instance, is the best and most insightful description of this game and its spiritual underpinnings extant in the literature. “Indian Humor,” the ability to mock reservation conditions that seem impossible to overthrow pervade the whole book. Ron West’s journey is a journey of the heart. Karl H Schlesier

6 Penucquem Speaks A Look At Our World From A Different Culture Introduction I am typing this introduction to the book Penucquem Speaks as my mentor, teacher, and especially a friend of many years, the Medicine Man Pat Kennedy, lies in State on the Blackfeet Reservation at Starr School, Montana, waiting to be buried. It is Monday, December 13, 2004. Pat’s funeral procession will be on Thursday. Pat and I had discussed this book last winter when he visited my home here in the Southwest, and again we talked about Penucquem Speaks this past summer when I visited his camp on the Rocky Mountain Front in Montana. Pat’s statement to me at that time was “I want the whole World to know.” Just a month or so ago I had a phone conversation with Pat after I had sent the draft manuscript of Penucquem Speaks to Pat and his wife, Lorna McMurray, and they had had a chance to go over the work together. I asked Pat specifically where I had made mistakes, whether I had messed it up. Pat’s statement to me at that time was “You didn’t mess it up.” He was probably too generous. It is very hard to undertake a project like this and get it right. Just what is it Pat wants “the whole World to know”? Several things that is one and the same. How an Indian used his mind before the advent of the Whiteman. All of the possibilities of our relationships in the World we live in, whether person-to-person, nation to nation, even species to species. And especially the idea that Western Civilization is not the only possibility for the future, taken together with a courageous vision that is not an abstract, but is a toolkit salvaged from the fires that have taken down the house of Native American Civilization over the past several hundred years. Pat probably received his surname from Jesuits that could not pronounce his ancestor’s name, did not trouble themselves about it and assigned the Irish sobriquet ‘Kennedy’ because it sounded somewhat similar to them. That is how many Indians received their family names when the governments of the USA and Canada decided it was time for an Indian census and the establishment of membership rolls for the several conquered tribes. Arbitrary name assignments, without consideration for who these people were, are not that uncommon. But Penucquem Speaks is not about Pat as much as it is on behalf of Pat. Certainly Pat is arguably the books most important character and it is largely because of his influence that the book has been written. But the book is set in autobiographical terms, although it is not about me as much as it is about the places I have seen and the people I had discovered. After twenty years of close association with Pat, I distanced myself from Indian Country these past few years when I realized that it was becoming difficult for me to think like a Whiteman. Not that I care to think like a Whiteman anymore, but it is an important skill to refresh if you want to write a book for the Whiteman. And that is exactly what Pat had asked me to do.

7 I had returned from Vietnam with what the Veterans Administration described as a “Schizoid Personality” (Big Surprise) which probably resulted from the deep realization that people had actually wanted to, and actually on occasion had tried to kill me for a sustained period of months during which time I should have been in college instead, at least if I was going to have a ‘normal’ American life. So who was it that wanted me dead? The Viet Cong? Maybe. But not if I had stayed home and minded my own business. Ultimately I had to struggle with the idea that it was Uncle Sam that had put me in harms way over none of his business. That idea hurt, but over the years I’ve faced it, and drawn some surprising conclusions. Relating to this, the book is essentially nonfiction, but with a caveat: “The best fiction is the truth written as fiction.” I don’t know who originally penned that phrase, but it has been in my mind for any number of years. Accordingly, I introduce ‘Dom Tay’, a literary device, a character in Vietnam that these many years later probably cannot be proved (or disproved) to have existed. I leave it to the reader to believe in his existence or not. But what Dom Tay witnessed should be investigated. Consider that if indeed the American intelligence services had bought up the opium crop of South East Asia’s Golden Triangle (to buy the areas tribes loyalties against Communism) and had a war zone that was effectively unpoliced to set up and process that opium into heroin, is it plausible that this was the source of the drug that had plagued the American army by 1971? It is very plausible. If it happened, it needs to be dealt with. A second literary device is the character ‘Penucquem.’ Imagine Native American Civilization producing a person the equivalent of Margaret Meade, but in this case an expert in the subjective study of the Whiteman. Penucquem is either loved or despised by the persons I have given samples to. But Penucquem is very important, even to those that hate him. Penucquem is a composite character of several highly observant Indians I have known, and through Penucquem I have provided those persons the tool of my Social & Theological education to ‘savage’ the Whiteman in terms that the Whiteman can understand. Penucquem’s stories and observations are drawn from authentic sources in Indian Country. Penucquem is intended to be painful reading. He gets the job done. Throughout, the book is about real people, real lives. Some of them are now dead and cannot defend themselves. Say La Vee. Others are alive, but I am not afraid of that, the history is accurate and the other stories are true per the old beliefs system of the Indians, even the one story that occurs when I am experiencing a lingering state of psychosis. Subsequently, I am not afraid of any assertion I have made, whether it is tearing down the urban legends surrounding the dead George Bird Grinnell or the living Chief Earl Old Person. This is certainly not a book that romanticizes Indians or the so-called ‘Good’ Whitemen. It is a book about Indians and Whites, Good and Evil. It is written with the intent that it is honest, at times inspiring of the good in man, at times exposing man at his worst, whether Red or White. It is intended to be hilarious at some points, it is a depressing story at times, but throughout it is meant to teach a way of looking at the world that is different. Some people who love one portion of the text could easily hate the book overall. The reverse could be true as well. As much as possible, enjoy it.

8 Backdrop (A Little History) A Buffalo Ghost return haunts the legacy of George Bird Grinnell, Conservationist and Anthropologist. Was Grinnell a ‘Friend’ of the Blackfeet Indians, or a cynical Trickster? Over roughly a span of ten years beginning the middle 1980’s, there was a clash between the Blackfeet Indian traditionalists (American Indian religious practitioners) on the one side, with the United States and the oil and gas industry on the other, over gas and oil exploration in so called ‘ceded lands’ just outside the Glacier National Park. The area in dispute was part of roughly 800,000 acres taken from the Indians by George Bird Grinnell on behalf of the United States in a treaty process concluded with the Blackfeet tribe in 1895. But the Indians still hold reserved rights in the area and claim it further as “Sacred Land” critical to the pursuit of their religion. From the native point of view, any disturbance of these lands by industry diminishes the ability of these lands to produce the necessary dreams enabling Blackfeet cultural survival. As a ‘White Indian’, I found myself circumstantially at the center of this dispute for several years. I was at this time, through a process of socialization and reverse assimilation, a Blackfeet Indian myself, and brother to a traditional War Chief of that tribe, Floyd Heavy Runner. I am very loyal to these people. I never meant to write this story, but the adventures I had encountered assisting this war chief, and a new perspective acquired from ‘looking back’ at those days, taken together with the prodding of my mentor of many years, the Medicine Man Pat Kennedy, have convinced me there is a different side of the Indian story to be told. Especially a side of the story from the ‘Old Indian’ perspective that has not often been related in the world exterior to today’s Indian reservations. This book begins with the George Bird Grinnell story from the perspective of Blackfeet Oral History, because this man was involved in events in 1895 that were still reverberating and impacting Blackfeet lives as recently as 1995. At the center of the dispute that this story is in part about- between the Blackfeet Indians, those that still can speak their language, and today’s Whitemen- is the treaty of 1895, and the legacy of Grinnell, who that man really is to the Blackfeet, and the ongoing problems posed for the Indians by this man’s brilliant legacy in the world of the Whiteman. This modern dispute over an old treaty, and Grinnell’s role in making that treaty, very nearly blew up into a new, very real, live ammunition shooting war between the Indians and the United States, before the United States and its associated industries backed off the oil and gas exploration, at least for the time being. As amazing a proposition as it may seem, that the Indian wars of the United States continue, albeit as a mini ‘Cold War’ in these modern times, is a proposition I would not have guessed to be true, coming from the dominant western society a mere 30 odd years ago. But the underlying tension is always there. It blew up in Sioux country in the 1970’s with the siege at Wounded Knee, and has been brought to armed standoff in Blackfeet country just north of the border, in Canada, most recently in the 1990’s with the

9 Blackfeet warriors known as the Lone Fighters in a standoff with the Mounted Police over the diversion of a river named for a Blackfeet deity: The Old Man River. Also there was the 1990’s siege of the Mohawk Indians in Canada over the proposed destruction of a sacred grove of trees to make way for a golf course. About 1989, when I had asked a Blackfeet friend, my ‘Niscuni’ Mike Little Dog, a Korean War Veteran, what would be the outcome of the looming United States battle with today’s Montana Blackfeet over the oil and gas development of the last tribal Sacred Lands, his reply did not in any event suggest that the battle would not happen. He only stated that the Indians would not win, come what may, because “We don’t have the necessary munitions and equipment.” These are the same Indians that have and continue to volunteer their services to the United States Military, always honorably, and these same Indians have a record of being the highest per capita volunteer rate of any population group in the service of the United States modern wars.. With only a single case of treason in all of the North American tribes, dating back to World War One. So what explains the seeming dichotomy? It is the work of the Medicine Men. In the Blackfeet culture specifically, and the Native American culture generally, the warriors have always visited the medicine men for their instructions. And so it continues to this day. When the young Indian men have gone to war for the United States, fighting the Whiteman’s wars on the Whiteman’s behalf, the Medicine Men instruct them that their oath to serve is sacred. The only proscribed behavior is “Do not commit the crimes of the Whiteman, the things we know he does, the things he has already done to us. If you take a prisoner, his life is to be respected. Do not terrorize the weak, and the elderly, do not harm the children or abuse the women of the enemy. Only a bully and coward will do these things, and it is your duty to uphold our image as native peoples. Whatever you will do, that is how the world will see us all.” So that is the instruction to the Native American soldier in respect to his service to the United States. But there is a distinction drawn when the United States is violating its oath to the Native American community, violating the treaties, and destroying Indian culture. When the treaties are violated by the United States, the Medicine Men will say to the young men “It is just up to you, what you will do. But what ever you decide to do, think of your family first, if you have children, and do nothing to disgrace our people.” But the Whiteman does not get it. So long as the Whiteman does not kill the Indians, there will be no more Indian wars. But what the Whiteman does not see is that to kill the place where the stones and trees reveal the dream to the Indian, to destroy the Sacred Groves, the Sacred Land, kills the Indian. And now, this same Indian that will never betray the United States in battle as a member of the USA’s armed services, the Indian that will never give up this USA to a foreign terror, this Indian that will never know treason in those several respects, now this Indian will fight the United States. But only in self-defense and in defense of his culture where the Indian sees no distinction.

10 The USA, and its agents, especially those agents that know something of the truth of the history of the USA’s relations with the Indian, are concerned with how badly the Indian has been treated by the United States. Does this move the USA to compassion? No. Justice and compassion for the Indian are not the concerns I am speaking of. These agents are nervous because, their only concern is, that the Indian may have his just revenge by becoming friends with the enemy. But this is a poor assumption. Genuinely traditional Indians, especially those that still speak their language, do not see the world in terms of the ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ Al Qaida will have little luck finding sympathy among the people in Indian country. Because when the Native American is not under attack by the United States, he is a patriot. And that has to do with the Indian keeping the sacred oath, when the gifts were exchanged and the ‘Peace Pipe’ was smoked at the making of the treaties. But what happens when the Whiteman does not keep his promise, and repeatedly sets out to destroy the Sacred Land that defines what it means to be an Indian, that is another story. And so I discovered myself in a unique circumstance, a veteran of an American war that had become an Indian, in a balancing act between my allegiance to my United States citizenship, and my loyalty to the Blackfeet families that had given me a home as a socially alienated Viet Nam Veteran in a near conflict that simmered on the edge of open and armed hostilities between my new Indian community and the community of my birth: the people and culture I had walked away from years before. This odd circumstance became a leg on the journey of my personal evolution. And it was the renown American conservationist, George Bird Grinnell, that 56 years before my birth was at the center of a chain of events that culminated in my working for a traditional Blackfeet War Chief: in a ‘Medicine’ state of war, a war of wits, .. to avert a live shooting war between this chiefs warriors and the United States of America. The Blackfeet Confederated tribes of the 19th century were comprised of the ‘Siksika’ (Blackfoot), ‘Kainah’ (Many Chiefs, also known as the Blood Indians), and the ‘Pikuni’ (Many Buffalo Robes), all of which speak a mutually comprehensible language, but with distinct dialects. The Pikuni were split into two subdivisions, the ‘Amskapi’ Pikuni, these are the present day Montana Blackfeet, and the ‘Skinni’ Pikuni, presently at Brockett, Alberta, Canada. These last two are commonly, and improperly, referred to as the South Piegan, and North Piegan, respectively. Blackfeet Oral History states the Skinni Pikuni became a separate tribe when they were as a group banished from the Blackfeet Confederacy for law breaking. After a time, reparations were made and they were readmitted to the Blackfeet but did not ever completely reintegrate with the main group of Pikuni, keeping a separate identity. However the two groups, to this day speaking identical dialect, shared and recognized each others traditional Chiefs and ceremony as though they continued to be a single tribe. There were two unrelated satellite tribes associated with the greater Blackfeet Confederacy, the Athabascan speaking Sarcee people, and the Arapaho speaking Atsina, also known as the Gros Ventres (French = Big Bellies.)

11 According to Blackfeet Oral History, the Sarcee were originally an enemy tribe that was so decimated by the Blackfeet that one of the Blackfeet Holy People determined that the extent to which the Blackfeet had destroyed these people was wrong. This pronouncement caused the remnant of the Sarcee, consisting almost entirely of the elderly, widows, unmarried women and children, to come under the protection of the Confederacy as a people, as human beings, rather than as slaves. These surviving women were given Blackfeet husbands to reconstitute the Sarcee tribe. From this time forward, the Sarcee were established in the Confederacy as relatives. The Atsina, or Gros Ventres, on the other hand, came into the Confederacy by inter-tribal treaty. These people were Arapaho in everything but name and political alliance. They shared with the Arapaho tribes both their language and the same ceremonial ‘Flat Pipe.’ The Atsina alliance and membership in the Blackfeet Confederacy was interupted by a war with the Amskapi Pikuni over the theft and parody of the Atsina Warrior Society ceremony by the Pikuni Crazy Dogs warrior society, a foolish event that caused a lot of grief for both tribes. After several years and many deaths on both sides, sapping both tribes strength, a peace was made and the Atsina rejoined the confederacy. But the relationship was never the same. Before White Calf, the Paramount Chief of this confederacy, became mentally broken and completely capitulated to the White Man, his role as the law giver of these people was much misunderstood by the new outsiders, the strangers, these Whites. White Calf was never anything more than a spokesman for his assembled chiefs in his capacity as Paramount Chief. When the leadership of the assembled bands of the several tribes met in governmental proceedings, the Paramount Chief’s job was to listen to his Chiefs and restate their decision, a law giving, on a given subject matter. That was all. A Blackfeet Chief was not a lawmaker, outside of councils, but was only a Statesman bound by the will of his many chiefs. Blackfeet laws were made by a mix of theocratic and republican process, not by any individual chief, and in fact a higher Chieftaincy status conferred little actual power, but was much more an office of ‘spokesman’ for the laws that ultimately were shaped by the many lesser chiefs arriving at decisions in assembled council. This was White Calf’s only role; he was a spokesman for these chiefs when the confederacy met for purpose of governmental proceeding. But the Whiteman self servingly saw the Paramount Chief’s office as something different than what it was: They saw White Calf as an autocrat whose decisions were binding on his people. This was never true. There was a previous Blackfeet Chief, Little Dog, not the Chief Little Dog at the treaty of 1895, and this earlier Little Dog had given up information at the agreement of 1855 with the Whites that did not reflect the decision of his chiefs in council. Little Dog had told Commissioner Stevens of the existence of the Marias Pass upon being questioned of the possibility of a route for the Whiteman’s ‘Iron Road’ (Railroad.) The several chiefs had not authorized Little Dog to give up this information, and when Little Dog returned home his own people killed him for that act. This first Chief Little Dog had broken the Blackfeet law; he had broken a sacred trust with his people. But by the time of the treaty

12 making of 1895, it was no longer possible to follow the old Blackfeet laws, many things had changed. What had not changed was the Whiteman’s using any Chief that would cooperate with the new order of things, to the Whiteman’s advantage. White Calf had become such a chief. And the Blackfeet, now prisoners on their new reservation, could not kill White Calf for his transgression; the old Blackfeet laws could no longer be applied. White Calf was now the United States, and the Indian Agent’s, favorite chief. White Calf was protected by the United States from the wrath and vengeance, the capital punishment called for by his own Blackfeet people’s former laws. The Blackfeet Chief Three Suns, according to Blackfeet Oral History, would have visited capital punishment on four of the main players concerning this proceeding of 1895, Three Suns would have visited death by the Stone War Hammer, smashed their skulls, upon White Calf, Joe Kipp, James Willard Schultz, and George Bird Grinnell as the prime Blackfeet associated players, for the part they played in the theft of Blackfeet lands. It was during these early reservation days, that Schultz and Kipp, under the protection of White Calf, and by proxy, the United States, became friends with the sometimes amateur anthropologist and professionally trained naturalist George Bird Grinnell. Grinnell had been the expedition naturalist for George Armstrong Custer when that man had violated the United States treaties with the Sioux during the 1874 exploration for gold in the Black Hills, leading to the last great war with the Sioux tribes and the much deserved death of Custer two years later. Grinnell had skipped Custer’s invitation to go along on the 1876 Little Big Horn trip that led to Custer’s demise, because of a scheduling conflict. As a young naturalist, having contributed to the death of the free Sioux culture and the theft of the Black Hills over gold, but escaping Custer’s fate, Grinnell survived to become a prime player in a subsequent theft of Blackfeet lands over gold, nineteen years after Custer’s death. Joe Kipp, halfbreed Mandan son of American Fur Company trader and serial bigamist James Kipp, was educated by the Jesuits and collaborated with that society in one of the early Blackfeet-English grammar dictionaries. But these academic ventures were the exception, not the rule in his life. Joe Kipp, married to a Blackfeet woman, was much more a White trader (especially known as a whiskey trader to his wife’s Blackfeet people) and frontier scout in his father’s mold than an Indian. Relating to gold and the divesting the Blackfeet of their lands, a bit of 1895 prehistory surrounding Joe Kipp in the early Montana mining days concludes: The Sweet Grass Hill placers were discovered in the fall of 1884, near the Canadian border. In the fall of 1884, Marion Carey, Fred Derwent, George Walters, and John Des Champ, went into camp there, wintered in the mountains, and in the spring prospected on the east side of Middle Butte. The next spring Joe Kipp, Charley Thomas, Hi Upham, and about ten others, came into camp, formed a district and located claims. That spring the Carey party took out 11 1/2 ounces of gold from the gulch, obtaining as much as $1.50 worth of placer gold per pan. They reported that the west side of West Butte was particularly rich (Leeson 1885; Burlingame and Toole 1957). Montana State D.E.Q.

13 These gold explorations involving Kipp were a full three years before the Blackfeet Indians were forced to cede these hills to the United States and were patently illegal. The third member of this triad, James Willard Shultz, was an Ivy League type that had never returned home from an adventure to the dying Indian frontier as a teenager. He saw the last Buffalo hunts of the free Blackfeet, married a Christian Blackfeet woman and came under the protection of the Blackfeet Confederacy Paramount Chief White Calf. The young Shultz had chronicled his adventures with the Blackfeet in print, via magazine article submissions, but with a twist.. the Blackfeet did not have the habit of pen and ink in those days, largely they did not read or write, and subsequently Schulz freely took credit to himself in his articles for adventures among these people, credit that in fact did not belong to him. Schultz became a self-aggrandizing liar in his reporting on his life among the Blackfeet. By elevating his role among these Blackfeet people, and freely stealing from the Blackfeet stories of their own valor, Shultz accomplished selling his literature. But word got back to the Blackfeet of what Schulz was doing. Were it not for White Calf’s, and by proxy, the United States protection of Schultz, both Three Suns and Bring Downs the Sun, Pikuni Chiefs, would have already killed this man for in their view, the theft and perversion of Blackfeet history and spreading stories about the Blackfeet in a form that constituted lies. They hated Schultz passionately, and as it turns out, with even more good reason. By this time, Chief White Calf was no longer recognized by most of his own Blackfeet Chiefs, White Calf had converted to Christianity and preached that the Indians would have to be ‘broken’ to the Whiteman’s ways. The far more important chiefs of this period, from the Blackfeet people’s perspective, were The Pup, Three Suns and Young Bear Chief. The story of Kipp, Schultz, Grinnell and their legacy with the Blackfeet needs to be told from these several chiefs perspective, a ‘Pagan’ Blackfeet perspective, because the Kipp, Schultz and Grinnell legacy in Blackfeet country has only been told to the outside world from the perspective and in the legacy of the Christian White Calf and his friends, a chief who by his own admission and deeds, was no longer Indian. It was from the relationship with White Calf and Kipp that the Schultz and Grinnell myths were born in the White world of anthropology and literature. These myths state Schultz and Grinnell were friends of the Blackfeet Indians and had been given names and status. But in fact this is but frontier legend, altogether in the modern sense of urban legend. In the Blackfeet history that has not been written by Whitemen with the accommodating help of Christianized Indians, this image of Schultz and Grinnell is simply not true. By early 1885, Grinnell had become aware of the articles of Schultz and had contacted him about visiting the Blackfeet. Shultz and Joe Kipp took Grinnell hunting that fall on Blackfeet lands in the area of St Mary Lakes in the present day Glacier National Park. They became friends, and Grinnell continued his visits to Blackfeet Country and his friends, the adventure writer Schultz, and whiskey trader and army scout, Joe Kipp, nearly every fall to hunt over the ensuing 25 years. On one of these earlier trips, Grinnell began a mapmaking project of the Continental Divide range of the Northern Rockies with the full knowledge and support of Schultz and Kipp, and due to Grinnell’s amateur interest in anthropology, many of the accurate aboriginal place names given in the ancient

14 times by the Blackfeet were employed. The United States Geological Survey subsequently referred to Grinnell’s map and many of these real Blackfeet place names found their way into modern times. But Shultz, in his typical fashion, took credit where credit was not due and subsequently penned an article related to these ventures, “We Name the Mountains.” He did not give proper credit to the Blackfeet, rather insinuating that he and the Blackfeet accompanying the map-making parties had fancifully made up the place names from their considerable knowledge of Blackfeet lore and legend. This was to have a significant impact on the Blackfeet one hundred years later. By the time Grinnell was mapmaking with the help of Shultz and Kipp, around 1887, the Blackfeet, starving and without a Buffalo hunt in five years, had been forced to give up their lands to the east over gold, known particularly in the Blackfeet language community as “Ceding the Sweet Grass Hills” (the most sacred places were euphemism, you did not speak the proper name to strangers or, in some cases, outside the context of ceremony, these are actually the “Sweet Pine Hills”, recall that Joe Kipp had staked claims there.) Applications for gold extraction continue in these sacred hills into the present times. These hills see Indians fasting in the present day as well. It is a continuing source of tension. But Grinnell’s continued support of gold exploration in Indian lands on behalf of the United States, and his seemingly being accessory to a crime on behalf of his friends Kipp and Schultz over gold in Blackfeet country, came in September, 1895, relating to a further theft of Blackfeet lands. The oil and gas drilling controversy that only recently caused a near war in Blackfeet country, was located in the area of the Badger and Two Medicine Rivers, just south of Glacier National Park. The modern controversy had its roots in these early reservation days when this so called ‘Squaw Man’ James Willard Schultz, aka ‘Apikuni’ (Blackfeet = Shoddy Robe) was a co-conspirator and member of a criminal cabal that had been illegally performing mineral explorations on these Blackfeet lands that now in part constitute Glacier National Park. Shultz and company, known to the Blackfeet Indians of that time as the “Kipp Gang”, seemed to be convinced that gold existed in veins in these mountains, but they could not legally and openly perform the necessary extended mineral explorations that would have to happen to confirm this. First the lands in question would have to be wrested from the Indians. White Calf would be their lever to pry these lands free from Blackfeet ownership. Outside of White Calf’s very limited sphere of influence with his own people, restricted by 1895 to the minority Christianized Blackfeet, Kipp, Schultz and Grinnell were seen in a very different light than in today’s myth and legend. The Christianized Blackfeet Indians from which the Kipp, Schultz and Grinnell stories have been drawn are considered by their own Oral History to be “Collaborators”, “Army Scouts”, and worse, literally traitors to the Blackfeet people. Many of the Blackfeet, reflected in the leading Chiefs at the treaty proceedings of 1895, actually hated Kipp, Schultz and Grinnell. But then it is generally the victors that write the history books. These 1895 ‘pagan’ Blackfeet chiefs were the losers.

15 The pre-white Blackfeet tribal government was in fact a theocratic republican form that has never been properly, thoroughly, investigated and understood by the White anthropologists and historians. A short understanding of the roles these chiefs played, in relation to their own people, and the constraints put upon these chiefs by the cruelties of history during this period of their conquest, is necessary to understand how George Bird Grinnell accomplished divesting the Blackfeet of certain lands, the leverage Grinnell had at his disposal to accomplish the task at hand, and perhaps most importantly to the Whites that might read this, what might have been Grinnell’s motives for becoming associated with a bit of history, which closely scrutinized, must open the question of whether this man’s integrity and legacy are in fact forever tainted. But let us go where the truth leads from a Blackfeet language community –the historic Indian- perspective, with all of the information necessary to open an investigation into the past, and Grinnell’s part in the treaty of 1895. To buttress the Oral History accounts Blackfeet Indians have related to me concerning the events surrounding 1895, I need rely on but two documents: The Report of Michael Foley of the United States Indian Claims Commission and a copy of the original 1895 treaty and its associated reports and minutes from the National Archives.

16 1895- A Treaty is Made As mentioned, by 1895 Grinnell had become very close friends with Schultz and Kipp, with Grinnell visiting Blackfeet country, they had explored and hunted together nearly every year since 1885. It is approaching 1895 when Joe Kipp “… admits being interested in mining claims, staked up just over the ridge of the mountains from the place or locality in question... As they admit of their company or combination having the whole range staked off, and also state no other person or persons, have claims in this region, it would seem that they are about the only persons directly interested in the development of the alleged mining interests…” or so says Inspector Thomas Smith in 1894 according to the investigative report (circa 1950-52) of Michael Foley for the United States Indian Claims Commission. Cheating Indians had been so pervasive that special tribunals had been set up for the United States Courts to investigate American dealings with the Indians and the report of Mr Foley has an entire section devoted to just this treaty. It is hard to imagine that Grinnell, who would move on to conclude the so called “Grinnell Agreement”- wresting the gold bearing Little Rocky Mountains from the Gros Ventres Indians for a paltry $350,000, would not have known of the illegal mining explorations of his friend Schultz and the so called “Kipp Gang” in Blackfeet country, in fact not only Kipp, but Shultz and the previous Indian Agent, ‘Captain Cooke’ as well, had ‘pre-staked’ claims in the Northern Rockies Continental Divide Range, anticipating the coming land cession to the Whites. These are the very lands that Grinnell, Shultz and Kipp had explored in Grinnell’s map-making ventures beginning in 1887. Suddenly, in September, 1895, Grinnell was back in Indian country as a duly appointed representative of the United States whose business was to conclude a land cession of the suspected mineral bearing properties of the Blackfeet, now comprising portions of Glacier National Park and further lands, the Forest Service properties Badger (Bear) River and South Fork of the Two Medicine Lodges Rivers, south of US Highway 2 and the present day national park boundary. The Blackfeet Chiefs of 1895 had their backs to the wall. The United States had starved them into submission, first by the policy of destroying the Buffalo herds, then the Blackfeet were not delivered their promised foods until thousands had died (known as the Starvation Winters, with an under-reported death toll in the annals of the USA, between 1882 and the end of the starvation winters many Blackfeet simply vanished from the Oral History, the southernmost Bands of Indians that would have been Big Lake’s people particularly noted here) and the ridge a few miles below the Badger Canyon was so littered with caskets and unburied bodies, that it became known as Ghost Ridge. Ceding the Sweet Grass Hills due to this starvation, in 1887, was supposed to have given the tribe the requisite wealth to take them into to the future, down the Whiteman road, but most of this money had been stolen by its United States administrators, and not surprisingly, the unwilling Blackfeet Chiefs now were back before the negotiators sent by the United States who now wanted these further lands with the suspected mineral potential. The

17 meeting of the Blackfeet Chiefs and the United States Commissioners to discuss this issue was at the Blackfeet Indian Agency hospital building in what is now Browning, Montana. Commissioner Pollack to the Blackfeet Chiefs: “We understand that you have agreed on what part you wish to sell, that lies entirely with you.. Commissioner Grinnell to the Chiefs: “What I shall say to you will be simply to second Mr Pollack’s remarks.. Commissioner Clements: “We are not here to drive a bargain, the government simply desires to buy land that the Indians do not want.. Little Dog [a bad translation, this is the ‘Pup’] to the Commissioners: “The Indians did not ask the Government to come and buy their land..” The Pup rebuts the commissioners opening remarks as absolutely untrue. The Pup is a ‘pagan’ Blackfeet, as are most of his people at this time, and does not want to sell the mountain home of his tribe’s gods. Besides, The Pup is convinced these men are here to cheat his people. The Pup’s presumptions are not without foundation, it has already been falsely reported to the United States Indian Commissioner Browning that the Indians nearly unanimously want to sell the mountain portion of their reservation, which, excepting White Calf, is absolutely rebutted by the further speeches of these chiefs.. “White Calf to the Commissioners: “We Indians, in my mind, are nothing but common dogs. The Great Father has taken it into his head to break in these wild dogs and has done so..” White Calf is a Christian and a broken man, not a chief in the old sense. White Calf is a sycophant that always will grovel before the United States, as indicated in his terms of speech ‘The Great Father.’ White Calf is under the absolute influence of Joe Kipp and James Willard Schultz, and what is described in the investigative reports of the United States Indian Claims Commission as the [criminal] “Agency Ring.” Commissioner Grinnell is so close to these thieves that he is in fact considered by most of the Indians present to be a de facto member of the same criminal ring, known to the Indians at the agency as the „Kipp Gang.“ Three Suns to the Commissioners: “We will approach each other with caution..” Three Suns knows these men cannot be trusted, the USA has relentlessly persecuted this chief for his “Pagan” beliefs, but he also knows business must be done or the Whites will take what they want regardless, and by means of violence if necessary. Commissioner Pollack: “We want to know if you will [also] sell the land south of the rail road.. As to the value of it, you have owned this land for many years and you have been

18 over it and know what it is. We, the commissioners, except Mr Grinnell, have not, so you know more of it than we.” It has been Joe Kipp and James Willard Schulz, under escort and protection of Christianized Blackfeet loyal to White Calf who is protected by the United States, that have guided Grinnell on numerous trips through these lands over the ten preceding years. White Calf: “I am glad to the action of the commission in treating with the Indians, you are disposed to be fair.” The sycophant White Calf, simply put, is licking the Whiteman’s boots. “I don’t think the Indians and yourselves should have any violent discussions..” This is White Calf’s warning to his fellow Chiefs, White Calf has seen 80% of his people die as a direct consequence of the Whiteman’s general actions against Indians. White Calf is a mentally broken man for that fact and White Calf is afraid. White Calf will give up anything the Whiteman asks.. “When the news came that the government wished to buy the land from us, we looked around for men to represent us. Mr Grinnell and Mr Conrad are among them. They will help us in forming this treaty.” There is at this time a criminal syndicate of Agency employees and associates that have been agitating for this land cession. Grinnell’s bosom friends, Kipp and Schultz, are among them. Grinnell’s role, stated by White Calf, as representing both the United States and the Indians is a gross conflict of interest. It is White Calf, used by the Whites, that has requested Grinnell be a Commissioner for the United States, and it is White Calf, in his capacity as confederacy chief that has been further used by the Whites to falsely represent to the United States that the Blackfeet majority wants a land sale of the area in negotiation. Schultz and Kipp’s other acquaintance representing the Indians, Conrad, has already personally profited from the previous (1887) Sweet Grass Hills Blackfeet land cession through the selling of his gold bearing mineral claims there (likely acquired from Joe Kipp) to Great Northern Rail Road magnate J.J. Hill. Little Bear Chief [a poor translation, this is actually Young Bear Chief] to the commissioners: “I would like to know for what purpose you are here..” Young Bear Chief has just called these men liars, a direct response to the opening remarks of Commissioners and an attempt to reign in White Calf. He does not accept the purpose of these proceedings on its face. Young Bear Chief knows that there is always a hidden agenda when dealing with the Whiteman, and it is invariably bad luck for the Indians. Young Bear Chief knows these Whitemen are highly untrustworthy and perfectly capable of cheating the Blackfeet. The Blackfeet majority did not invite these men, it was Schultz and Kipp, using White Calf, that have brought these men here and Young Bear Chief consequently expects to be cheated. He will not be disappointed in that expectation.

19

Commissioner Pollack to Little Bear Chief: “You have a large tract of land which you cannot use. The better plan is for the government to buy this land that you may be provided for when your present treaty expires. You must do this or the government will be obliged to support you..” This is a thinly veiled threat to starve the Blackfeet if they do not sell, the last time they had no treaty annuities, less than ten years previous, the Blackfeet had brought countless bodies to the top of Ghost Ridge, too starved to have the strength to bury their dead in the frozen ground. And now most of the subsequent Sweet Grass Hills treaty annuities have been exhausted, for the most part squandered or stolen by Whitemen present for these proceedings, especially the criminal cabal whose members count Kipp, Schultz and the USA’s supervising Indian Agent among them. Little Bear Chief: “After I make my offer of what I wish to sell, I don’t want you to say that you want more land. It is my privilege to say how much land I want to sell you.” Young Bear Chief is the leader of what is left of the Blackfeet warrior class. His responsibility is the guardianship of the tribe’s resources, especially game for hunting. This chief knows the value of the mountain game as a resource to keep his people alive when treaty annuities are exhausted, a critical resource considering the Buffalo are now extinct in Blackfeet lands. Young Bear Chief knows he will be forced to sell, the Whiteman always takes what he wants, but nonetheless Young Bear Chief will struggle to keep what he can. “From the Cut Bank north to the Boundary Line is what I wish to sell.” This was an ingenious suggestion by Young Bear Chief. He has moved the commissioners proposed southern sale boundary north to the outer edge of territory that would be White Calf’s responsibility were White Calf still adhering to the Blackfeet Laws and Gods. North of the main fork of the Cut Bank River is the Hudson divide and inclusive of the mountains on the other side, especially the Paramount Chief Mountain, representing White Calf’s Chieftaincy and his christians, this can go with White Calf’s decision to sell, a foregone conclusion in Young Bear Chief’s thinking. Young Bear Chief has his fellow Chiefs’ concurrence in this idea after there is an adjournment for a private discussion between the Commissioners. Little Dog: “We have decided to sell from the Cut Bank to the Boundary Line..” It is official. The Pup is the Chief of the Amskapi Pikuni. White Calf cannot argue with this. But the Commissioners buy time by means of another adjournment in the proceeding to discuss some arm-twisting of the Indians, conversations that they do not want on the record. After this adjournment, Little Dog both gives some ground and complains of the tactics.

20 Little Dog: “We do not want to sell the land north from Birch Creek, but think that we will sell the land north from the rail way.” Alluding to the dirty tactics employed to confront the Indians with the coercion he sees coming from the adjournments, The Pup continues “We do not go outside to come to any conclusions about this, and we don’t think you should do so..” Commissioner Pollack: “We have decided to propose to pay for the lands north from the rail way one million dollars, and from Birch Creek north one million two hundred and fifty thousand dollars..” Here is what The Pup, Three Suns, Young Bear Chief and the rest of the Indians saw coming. The Whitemen do not know how to take NO for an answer. They will have everything, north and south of the railway. Pollack continues with a deadly threat every Indian present understands“I fully agree with the agent, Major Steell, that when he said that it would be impossible to keep the Whiteman off of that portion of the reservation- that it would take nearly the whole army to do so.. ..we want you to consider it well..” The Pup and the Blackfeet know what happens when the army comes to protect the Indians.. the Army murders the Indians on the smallest pretext. Custer murdered the Cheyenne before he had received his just desserts when coming to murder the Sioux. Chief Heavy Runner’s son is present, he was at the Sweet Grass Hills on a Buffalo Hunt when his father’s village was murdered on the Marias by the army only twenty some years previous, nearly 200 dead, mostly the elderly, women and children. And it is the “Agency Ring” leader, the whiskey trader Joe Kipp, a bosom friend of Grinnell, who is now working for the Indian Agent on this proposed treaty that led the Army to Heavy Runner’s camp on the occasion of that massacre. And only five years before this treaty negotiation, the United States Army had murdered Big Foot’s band at Wounded Knee. The Pup did not appreciate this threat. Little Dog: “We don’t like the proposition you have just made.. ..We are of peaceful mind towards you and don’t intend to have any violent debate..” But The Pup is trapped. Pollack has just made it clear that the Whiteman will have everything he wants whether the Indians like it or not, and from the Indian point of view, by violence if necessary. Pollack: “You have made no [counter] proposition..” Pollack thinks having The Pup in a corner will break his will.

21 Little Dog: “I am about to make a proposition.. I think it will surprise you; make you faint and fall down..” The Pup hopes to drive these people away by asking three million dollars for the land north of the rail way only, but it is futile, he and Pollack argue over the mountains worth to the Indians, Pollack telling the Indians the mountains are of no value to them, The Pup disagrees and insists “we do not intend to retreat or go back.” It is becoming heated, but White Grass intervenes. White Grass: “My friends, while we shake hands, let us come to a peaceful understanding.. The Pup’s words are good. All he said, I agree with..” White Grass, cognizant of Pollack’s threats, justifies The Pup to Pollack in terms of economics, there is no Indian present that would dare to mention this is the abode of their Gods, this is how and why Big Foot’s band was murdered only five years before, at Wounded Knee, over the evangelical’s paranoias generated around Ghost Dance, and the practice of Indian religion which has long been outlawed by the United States. Bull Shoe also comes to The Pup’s defense and attempts to preserve the mountains south of the rail way for the Indians. All of the Indians know something will have to be given up, but what can be saved? Bull Shoe: “The words of The Pup and White Grass are my words..” Bull Shoe goes on to appeal to Grinnell to basically act like a Human Being, all in terms of economics, the only argument they can be allowed make. Grinnell knows full well what the Indians cannot say, what they are not allowed to say, that their sense of humanity, their very identity as Indians is being stripped away, the home of their gods, their ability to practice their religion, taken at gunpoint, under Pollack’s allusions to starving the Blackfeet and to bringing the army in. Little Dog to Grinnell: “We are waiting for you to speak” The Pup knows what Grinnell says will be.. White Calf had already been used in the name of the Blackfeet to bring this man into these unwanted negotiations. Grinnell is supposedly a “Good” Whiteman the Indians can “trust”, the phony frontier legend surrounding Grinnell relative to these people has already begun some ten years ago when the Christian White Calf’s group of Blackfeet has given this man a name and adopted him into the tribe on his first arrival in this country, an event unthinkable only two decades before, when names and membership had to be earned by deeds, to belong to these people. White Calf’s bunch and his heirs, represented in the present day Chief Earl Old Person, have freely given out names and ‘adoptions’ to persons such as Grinnell that are totally meaningless in the old Blackfeet context.. to people who have done nothing to deserve the honors, including Ronald Reagan, the 1950’s actor. Now The Pup and the

22 Blackfeet will discover just what sort of “friend” they have acquired by the Christian Blackfeet ‘adoption’ of Grinnell. Grinnell: “You have asked three times as much as we think those mountains are worth..” Grinnell sets out to destroy any remaining hopes the Indians will either keep a portion of their mountains or get a fair deal. The non Christianized Blackfeet remembered this man in the pejorative sense ever after. He was, after all, the friend of Schultz and Kipp. “We do not wish to make fools” [of the Indians.] Grinnell knows this is an insult, belittling the Indians position. “After we make a treaty.. the papers.. must go to Washington to the Big Chief of all the Indians..” Grinnell not only further insults these people, he is reminding them who is the boss, Grinnell holds the executive appointment of ‘the Big Chief of all the Indians.’ Grinnell goes on to tell what every Blackfeet present knows is a lie, excepting the Christians who will receive favorable treatment, that the sale of the lands in question will provide for the Indians and that they will become rich, and how important this is and how much Grinnell worries about their children. All the Indians and Grinnell know that the Indian’s administrators are thieves and that the money is habitually squandered on the Indian Agent’s friends in cush jobs requiring little, if any work, and that most of it is stolen. The Indians have made this point repeatedly known in the larger context of the proceedings. Little Plume: “I will not go out of the trail marked by The Pup..” The Indian resistance continues, isolating White Calf, but now White Calf intervenes to prevent his chiefs taking this direction. White Calf: “I am in favor of resting, I see that we cannot come to any agreement.. If we rest, some may change their minds, I am in favor of going away and councilling among ourselves..” White Calf has gone directly against The Pup and the rest of the Chiefs’ resistance, playing the Whiteman game, he sets out to adjourn for purpose of maneuvering behind the scenes. Three Suns rebuts White Calf, pointing out who actually speaks for the Blackfeet. Three Suns: “The Pup has told you what part of the mountains we wish to sell, we are all willing to stand by him.. You have said the mountains are poor, no, they are rich.. we want to reserve a part of the mountains- as when a man is selling his horses, he keeps one for himself.. We have decided today [imperative, done, finished, last offer]

23

to sell the mountains north of the rail road.. It is useless for us to go away again and council together..” This is directed as much to White Calf, telling him to shut up, that he is a nothing chief, as it is to the Commissioners. Running Crane backs Three SunsRunning Crane: “I think we should have no extended discussion..” The Blackfeet, with the sole exception of White Calf, are saying to the Whitemen ‘take it or leave it.’ Middle Calf: “We will not recede from our.. offer.. ..We will be very glad after you go away..” What the Commissioners do not understand, except for Grinnell, is the Indians are placing their real feelings, grossly insulting the Whites, via thinly concealed allusions, into the greater discussion. This would be typical of a hot topic in the Blackfeet language councils, but the context is lost in the translations, the Whitemen don’t get it, except for Grinnell who has previously insulted the Indians in kind. In formal Blackfeet language proceedings, the really contentious points of a subject’s discussion are indirectly alluded to, likewise, insults are placed like concealed darts in the greater context of the conversation. Throughout the greater context of these conversations, there have been allusions to the Whiteman’s history of cheating the Blackfeet. All the while, nearly every Chief works to undermine White Calf’s adjournment proposal. Four Horns continues the work of isolating White Calf who will give away everything, if presented the opportunity. Four Horns: “I don’t believe the Indians will deviate from their proposition or price [three million dollars for north of the tracks only] Don’t take this in an unfriendly way, it is your fault if you don’t make a treaty, not mine..” After Four Horns has backed the other Chiefs’, White Calf capitulates to his fellow Blackfeet, momentarily. White Calf: “This is the Chief Mountain in the country..” White Calf is referring to himself in aboriginal terms, as himself being indistinguishable from Chief Mountain: to please his Chiefs, he is now addressing the gathering as though he were the mountain itself speaking. For this moment only, White Calf has reverted to his role under Blackfeet law and capitulates to his several chiefs pointed directive. “And now we offer it to you from the rail road to the boundary line..”

24 White Calf is giving up only the territory The Pup had indicated he would give up. At this point, White Calf’s speech is an attempt to reassert an idea, that he is the leader of the Blackfeet who have long abandoned his leadership in favor of the leadership of The Pup. Significantly, no lands south of the rail road are offered, and any small chance of White Calf reasserting authority with his chiefs must fall into line with The Pup’s position. White Calf now finalizes this idea. “All we have said on this subject we will always say, and we will not change.” By traditional (pre-White) Indian law, White Calf cannot over-rule his Chiefs. They have spoken, he is their mouthpiece, that is that. But White Calf is a two faced liar these days and will shortly sell his chiefs out to the Whiteman in a secret meeting Little Bear Chief: “When I heard there was to be a treaty I thought I would not come.. Before I came I saw that there would be trouble ahead.. It is because a snake has crawled into our councils..” Young Bear Chief is making an allusion to the cabal of Schultz, Kipp and company, the “Kipp Gang”, Young Bear Chief wants to say Kipp and Schultz are corrupt, but cannot do so in the presence of Grinnell, their friend, in the open “..when it was decided to sell, it set very heavy.. if the Great Father [sardonic] wants to know how.. first in regard to the land north of the Cut Bank and how they [the Indians] changed [the proposed sale boundary south to the rail road from Cut Bank], let him come to me and find out..” Young Bear Chief wants either of the two Commissioners, other than Grinnell, to know of the corrupt nature of the proceeding, and what pressures are being applied to the Indians behind the scenes.. the deals being made behind their backs. Young Bear Chief’s problem is that these men already know and, what’s more, don’t give a damn. Wolf Tail: “You should be well pleased with your trip, you got bear skins and goat skins” This refers to Kipp and Schulz taking Grinnell hunting to get everyone of the visiting Whitemen trophies commemorating their trip “..these thing you got are as good as money..” Wolf Tail is rebutting the Whites contention the mountains are without value to the Indians, this lie must be refuted, these are the last of their subsistence hunting lands, and very valuable indeed. Bull Calf: “It makes me glad when I can pull trout out of the mountain streams..” Grinnell: “It is getting late and I want to say a few words before we adjourn..”

25 This is the adjournment the Indians did not want before a deal is concluded, they know the Whitemen will regroup together with White Calf, Schulz, Grinnell and Kipp, among others, and find a means to cheat them “..In all of this time I have never told you anything but the truth..” Grinnell continues “..now in this treaty [north of the rail road only] we will give you one million dollars and leave you all the wood you need and take only the rocky ridges..” In fact William Running Crane, aka ‘Goat’, who receives his power from the creature for which Goat Mountain is named- Chevron’s proposed drilling site in these lands of recent times- states these very words in the Blackfeet language, from Oral History, on video tape in the 1990’s, that the deal translated to the Indians for the mountain portion of the reservation in 1895 was in fact only for the “Rocky Ridges.” Grinnell now threatens the Blackfeet “..If you people would rather have the government sell the land for you..” This is a very ugly threat, in effect, I will take the land anyway and give you what I like, without the pretense of negotiations. Little Dog: “For what object shall we meet again?” The Pup AGAIN rejects Grinnell’s threats, the entire affair should end now. Pollack: “Some have not spoken, and we want to give you a another chance to talk this matter over..” Pollack does not honor the fact that these Chiefs have spoken the will of the Blackfeet people, according to their tradition. He refuses the Indians desire to end the whole business now. Little Dog: “We cannot agree. Why meet again then?” Pollack: “The land is yours..” With this lie the Indians were dismissed. Proceedings were terminated, but the Indians have been misled into believing that the negotiations are over. There is a meeting in the middle of the night arranged with the Commissioners by Joe Kipp and then, following a secret meeting between the commissioners and White Calf, together with only those few Christianized Blackfeet that support the land cession, the Indians are reconvened:

26 Pollack: You have consulted among yourselves and your friends and have determined upon some plan.. We are glad to meet you again.. White Calf: Our Father, Major Steell, our friend Joe Kipp, and the butcher Joe Cook, are the ones that have led us to take a new view of this treaty.. Major Steell, the Indian Agent, like the Indian Agent before him, Captain Cooke, is a member of the criminal syndicate, Whiskey Trader Joe Kipp, the guide that led the army to Heavy Runners village for the massacre on the Marias in 1870, is the ringleader of that syndicate -the “Kipp Gang” at the Blackfeet Agency- and a member also, is Joe Cook. White Calf then gives a fawning speech to the Whites about how good they are to guide this effort to the betterment of the Indians.. in short, the worst fears of The Pup and his close supporters are now realized, a back door deal has been made and The Pup has not been notified and is not present. Suddenly White Calf has, to his own benefit- and the benefit of his limited group of Christian Blackfeet only, given the lands from the Birch Creek, the lands south of the rail road that the Indians under The Pup had altogether refused to negotiate, all the way to the border line with Canada, inclusive of the negotiated lands, for one million, five hundred thousand dollars, the sycophant White Calf, a self described “broken common dog”, has delivered exactly what the Whitemen have asked. But it is spoken of in context of a ‘new’ agreement. Here, the minutes are tampered with. This ‘new’ agreement is never recorded into the minutes by the stenographer, when twice read over to the Indians, one of those readings by Grinnell himself, it is merely noted in the minutes that this ‘new’ agreement has been “read” to the Indians by Grinnell, at a subsequently called session. It is mentioned by the Indians in the minutes that the Indians expect to keep all of the timber and grazing lands, and the right to hunt and fish in the transferred area, essentially everything is retained by the Blackfeet, in their view, except the “Rocky Ridges”, as previously stated would be the case by Grinnell in an earlier statement and as is reflected in the Oral History of the Blackfeet. But the treaty translated to the Indians does not show up in the agreement. The fact that the translated sale was exclusively confined to the “Rocky Ridges”, and there was continuing Indian ownership of the mountain timber and meadow lands, together with their aboriginal hunting and fishing rights, and continued ownership of the water. The real deal offered the Indians can be drawn from their speeches and the statement of Grinnell, and reflects in today’s Oral History of the Blackfeet. But this is not what was written into the agreement. Now there are two agreements: The paper agreement in the National Archive is the “Agency Ring’s” total sellout. The other agreement is the agreement translated to the Indians, the one that persuades many of the chiefs to sign after the fact. This second agreement, what was actually translated to the Indians, was never recorded into the minutes or officially adopted on paper. The official record, taken together with Blackfeet Oral History, can clearly identify this event as a classic ‘bait and switch.’ The agreement translated to the Indians, made in the absence of The Pup, any false written agreement in the National Archives notwithstanding, is the Blackfeet transferred

27 only the “Rocky Ridges” and retained ownership all of the timber and grazing lands within the mountain tract, plus the aboriginal right to hunt and fish. This Oral agreement made with the Blackfeet would stand on its own legs, except for the fact that any agreement was made under extreme duress, in violation of Blackfeet tribal law- against the express will of the Blackfeet people under the leadership of The Pup. In actuality, there has only been contract fraud and the ceded lands in their entirety still rightfully belong in the possession of today’s Blackfeet Nation, Glacier National Park inclusive, extending at least as far west as the original Blackfeet place names. Grinnell’s most bald faced lie concerning this treaty was in the Commissioners report to the United States upon the treaty’s conclusion- when it was written to the Commissioner of Indian Affairs in a document signed by Grinnell: “We.. studiously avoided making any promise or saying anything that could be constructed into a promise that something outside of what appears in the agreement would be done for the Indians.” Another lie Grinnell signed off on in this report on the treaty was the statement that the Indians had expressed happiness with the Sweet Grass Hills land cession, to wit: “The Indians expressed themselves as well satisfied with the former agreement..” In fact the general context of the Indians speeches throughout the negotiations led by the Pup indicated the Indians felt persistently cheated by the Whites, inclusive of the Sweet Grass Hills cession treaty Grinnell refers to as the “former agreement.” Grinnell particularly, being familiar with the speech habits of these Indians, would have known this. Grinnell was also well aware of the constraints put on the speeches of the Chiefs because of matters of both culture and history. The Indians could not speak of the mountains importance from a standpoint of religion for two very great reasons, the Gods generally cannot be spoken of, or named, outside of the context of ceremony, and the Indians were being forced into Christianity at gunpoint during this period and both the Indians and Grinnell knew that any admission of continuing Indian religious practices risked jail, even death at the hand of the Army for the Indians. This forced all of the speeches into the context of economics at the treaty proceedings, per the pretenses of the Whitemen present and the broken man, White Calf. Three Suns was highly cognizant of this fact, the investigative report of Michael Foley for the United States Indian Claims commission backs Blackfeet Oral History’s assertion that Three Sun’s band centered in the area south of Browning towards Heart Butte was discriminated against by the Indian Agents who saw these people as “Pagans” unfit and totally undeserving of favorable treatment, unlike the Indians associated with the ‘Good Indian’, the sycophant, collaborator and Christian, Chief White Calf. Refusing Christianity is why Three Sun’s people were starved to death up to 1885. There was no incentive on the White administrators part to care for these people, they wished them dead as “Pagans.” A third great lie signed off on by Grinnell in the report to the United States on the treaty, is that the lands in question, outside of the mineral potential, are without value to the

28 Indians whatsoever. In fact these were the last useful hunting lands in the possession of the Blackfeet and a significant hunting and gathering resource in times of lean, a demonstrable fact that continues to be true in the not infrequent starvation times to the present day. Without this resource Three Sun’s band would starve again, because of the discrimination they experienced at the hands of the Indian Agent who largely favored and took care of only the Christian converts among the Blackfeet, centered at Browning. A further problem with the treaty is, if members of Joe Kipp’s cabal were the translators, Grinnell’s reporting to the United States that the accuracy of the translations were assured by means of utilizing two translators, one English to Blackfeet, the other Blackfeet to English is disingenuous. There are two, and they are both well known Blackfeet historical personages, capable of the correct phonetic spellings of the Blackfeet whose names are translated, Blackfeet to English, on the signature pages of the agreement. Both are friends of Grinnell. Both belong to what United States Indian Claims Commission investigations describes as a criminal cabal at the agency, calling it the “Agency Ring.” One is Joe Kipp. The other is James Willard Schultz.* The agreement translated to the Indians is not the agreement to which their signatures are appended. The Amskapi Pikuni principle chief, The Pup, refused to sign the deal made by White Calf behind his back. Three Suns signed under the greatest of duress- the knowledge that his band centered at Heart Butte would know severe persecution and starvation by the Indian Agent if the Indians did not capitulate. Young Bear Chief has signed because his responsibility, the retention of the Indian hunting resource, has been preserved to the Indians per the actual translations to the Indians and the Blackfeet subsequent understanding of the treaty’s content in Oral History. What might be discovered were the ostensibly professional scholars, these many failed anthropologists, actually conscientious investigators of circumstance that followed the truth, regardless of where that path might lead? The picture is not pretty on its face. *2 I once heard Anthropologist Jack Holterman wonder aloud how Grinnell could have become mixed up in the corrupt treaty process of 1895. I have always liked and gotten along with Jack. And I think I may have found the answer to his question. It is likely not the answer Jack would have suspected. The answer will largely be heresy to both conservationists and anthropologists. But it is the answer the path of truth points to. George Bird Grinnell was Theodore Roosevelt’s hunting companion and mentor in the conservation movement. Grinnell was politically connected at the highest levels in the United States and keenly cognizant of establishing his own legacy in the preservation of the most stunning scenic wild lands of the West, and together with Roosevelt, is considered a founding father of America’s National Parks so called ‘crown jewels’, Glacier National Park inclusive. Remember that within two years of seeing these dramatic peaks, glaciers and lakes, Grinnell was busy returning to make maps of them. But Glacier could not have become a National Park, belonging as it did, to the Blackfeet Nation. It is unquestionably established that by the time of 1895, Grinnell had become

29 intimately familiar with these Blackfeet lands through his exploration of them every year with Schultz and Kipp. The investigations of the United States Indian Claims Commission establish that Grinnell, by this time, did not believe these lands that today comprise a large portion of Glacier National Park had any commercial mineral potential. Yet in the negotiations with the Indians, Grinnell initially valued the Glacier Park portion alone at four times the value over the other half of the lands comprising the 1895 land cession. And Grinnell only offered a fraction of that amount to the Gros Ventre and Assinaboine Indians for the known gold bearing features of the Little Rocky Mountains. Grinnell’s friends, Schultz and Kipp, and their partners comprising the ‘Kipp Gang’ (called the “Agency Ring” by the investigator for the United States Indian Claims Commission), appear to have been the only Whitemen to have staked the literally several hundreds of claims over the mountain area, an area Grinnell doubted had commercial mineral potential whatsoever, but making it look like there was a “Gold Stampede” in progress. It was the ‘Kipp Gang’, indistinguishable from the “Agency Ring”, United States government officials inclusive, that suggested the “Army be brought in to the area to prevent a Gold Stampede”, a weapon of intimidation used against the Indians over the areas eventual ownership. It was the ‘Kipp Gang’, using White Calf, that falsely reported to the United States that the Indians were anxious to sell. Finally, it was the Kipp Gang’s friend Grinnell that, through his false reputation as a ‘friend’ of the Blackfeet, via the invitation of White Calf, and his political connections, became the main player who sheparded the Indians out of the future Glacier National Park ownership. The biggest cheat in the phony written treaty, the paper that was not ever properly recorded by the minutes as given in translation to the Indians, is a cheat which almost certainly reflects the personal interests of Grinnell. Article One of the written treaty provides that the Indians continuing rights to hunt, fish and gather wood upon the ceded land (the aboriginal rights in the unrecorded translation to the Blackfeet as preserved to the Indians in perpetuity) are only good “so long as the same shall remain public lands of the United States.” What Grinnell knows concerning this clause is that “Public Lands” can be withdrawn from the public lands status by the United States, a detail that would be lost on the Indians even had it been translated, and that is exactly what happened with the northern portion when, only fifteen years later, Grinnell played a key role in establishing Glacier National Park and terminating Blackfeet timber, grazing and hunting rights in those lands, which should have been guaranteed by this treaty in perpetuity. The Indian’s Oral History understanding of this treaty is that all timber and meadowlands, together with the rivers and attending right to hunt and fish has been reserved in ownership to the tribe so long as there is a United States, and that the Whiteman has taken, per Grinnell’s assertion to them “I have never lied to you.. and [we] take only the Rocky Ridges” means just that, only the rocky ridges have been sold. At this time of the treaty negotiation, Grinnell is already influential in the conservation movement, and the further theft of the reserved native rights by withdrawal of the lands from the ‘public lands’ status, in the creation of Glacier National Park, a national park creation highly important to the Grinnell conservation legacy, had to have been

30 anticipated by Grinnell with the “so long as the same shall remain public lands of the United States” clause in Article One. Remember, these Commissioners, Grinnell inclusive, were perfectly willing to threaten the Indians with both starvation and the Army, and finally, those threats failing to move The Pup, Grinnell himself threatened to have the land sold by the government for them, with no pretense of negotiations or any say in the matter by the Indians. What was in it for the “Agency Ring”, the ‘Kipp Gang’, Grinnell’s close friends? At least another ten years of treaty annuities that could be pilfered from the Blackfeet. And White Calf’s Christians would continue to receive their preferential treatment at the hands of the Indian Agents. The losers were those Blackfeet that wished to keep their cultural identity, the sacred mountains, and their last subsistence hunting grounds. In 1895, that would have comprised a majority of the Blackfeet people. Did the Indians believe there was gold in these mountains? Some of them possibly did, considering all of the phony claims that were staked by the Kipp Gang to make the appearance of a ‘Gold Stampede.’ But largely I think not. If there was gold, the Indians would have known it. These highly observant people knew thousands of years before Darwin’s birth that there was an age the earth was ruled by reptiles. The ancient Blackfeet stories related to this reptilian world that had been buried in mud is only recently a discovery of the Whiteman as his archaeologists dig dinosaur bones from the earth that was Blackfeet country. In the minutes of 1895 there were direct references to gold by the Indians in their comments to the Whites. But knowing a little something about the Indian habits of speech, I am inclined to believe that these references were a means of calling the Whiteman’s bluff- a way of saying ‘put up or shut up’ concerning the Indians demand of three million dollars for the land north of the Railway. The Indians were saying ‘If you really think there is gold in these mountains, then show us the money.’ The bottom line is they did not want to sell. A supposed mineral assay by Schultz, noted by Investigator Foley, was likely intended to hoodwink the greedy Indian Agents, the likes of Captain Cooke who had some 100 or more claims staked over the area, into pressing for the areas cession by the Indians. I would not be surprised at all if the mineral Schultz submitted for analysis was from the Helena area, where gold in its raw state was easily come by. In fact gold was never discovered in the area concerned with in the treaty of 1895. My hypothesis is that Grinnell, together with Shultz and Kipp, wrote this entire play, to enhance Grinnell’s conservation legacy. This is how Grinnell was able to become, only fifteen years later, the founding father of Glacier National Park. The only ‘gold’ was the majesty of the lands that are home to the Blackfeet Gods. Grinnell stole these lands for his legacy.

31 Subsequently, Grinnell’s criminal associations –and lies- leaves a Grinnell legacy not only of an icon in anthropology and conservation.. Grinnell could also be ‘Jabez Stone’ who sold his soul in ‘The Devil and Daniel Webster.’ I would like to see a law school hold ‘moot court’ on Grinnell’s guilt or innocence related to this event of 1895, but more importantly, this case should be presented in reality in the civil venue, before the United States Federal Court, to effect returning these lands to their rightful owners, the Blackfeet Indians.

*A statement of Schultz I discovered after writing this, that was not included in the records reproduction of the original 1895 treaty and associated documents from the National Archive was discovered at the Oklahoma State University Archives: I, J. W. Schultz, hereby certify that I wrote the names appearing upon the foregoing pages, the same being those that were signed by the parties by making their mark; that the same was done by them freely and voluntarily, and the names appearing thereon are Indians, both full bloods and mixed bloods, belonging upon and attached to the Blackfeet Indian Reservation.Given under my hand at the Blackfeet Agency this the 28th day of September, 1895. J. W. SCHULTZ. And: We, Charles Simon, James Perrine, and Richard Sanderville, do certify that the annexed and foregoing agreement by and between the United States and Indians, both full bloods and mixed bloods, residing upon and attached to the Blackfeet Indian Reservation, in Montana, was fully interpreted to said Indians and they made to understand the same; that after said interpretation the said Indians whose names appear subscribed to said agreement signed the same in our presence. We further certify that said Indians are members of said tribe and reside upon said reservation, set apart for said Indians in Montana, and that said subscribers are male adults over the age of 21 years. Given under our hands at the Blackfeet Indian Agency this 28th day of September, 1895. CHARLES SIMON, Special Interpreter. JAMES PERRINE, Indian Interpreter. RICHARD SANDERVILLE, United States Agency Interpreter. [These Whitemen’s or halfbreeds relationship to Joe Kipp and the ‘Kipp Gang’ bear further investigation] *2 Sally Thompson [aka Sally Greiser} should not be lumped into the category I define as ‘Anthropological Mercenaries.’ In fact Sally (and Weber Greiser) went to great lengths attempting to respectfully investigate the Blackfeet traditions despite the considerable handicaps placed upon them by traditional Blackfeet laws and boundaries which they took pains not to violate, a refreshing and unusual approach from the outside.

32 A Buffalo Ghost Returns Returning to Grinnell’s mapmaking hobby, it has become a historical footnote that has loomed large in the recent times, relevant to those Indians that continue to seek their dreams in the ceded lands, inclusive of the area south of Glacier National Park. That footnote is the idea that these place names originate with Schultz, Kipp and Grinnell, rather than the Blackfeet, to be later adopted by the United States Geological Survey onto today’s maps. Today, as the United States takes a new look at exploring these Blackfeet Sacred Lands for gas and oil, some anthropologists are claiming the Blackfeet religious claims to these sites are undermined by Grinnell giving the names. Essentially it is being insinuated by the United States and their hired anthropological mercenaries that the Blackfeet traditionals are making their religious claims up, that these religious sites are modern inventions of the Indians. So the insults follow on the continued injuries to the Blackfeet peoples. But if this historical record is not corrected, then these so called Anthropological Scientists will have weakened the Blackfeet traditional religious practitioners case for these sites protection, and the gas and oil interests may well proceed with activities that will destroy the fasting and dream sites as viable cultural properties. This is Ethnocide by ethnology. Perhaps in today’s world there is a remedy: holding these failed anthropologists personally liable for their shoddy, superficial work- via the civil lawsuit. During the prior period of Grinnell’s mapmaking hobby, and his associated days of exploring the Continental Divide Range of the Northern Rockies in Blackfeet country to that purpose -with Joe Kipp and James Willard Schultz- there were several instances that the original proper Blackfeet place names were assigned to the actual geographic features, in some instances correctly, sometimes off by a short distance. The idea that these Blackfeet names originated in most instances with Grinnell, Kipp, Schultz, and subsequently the United States Geological Survey, is patently wrong. Rising Wolf Mountain stands above Rising Wolf’s historic mountain campsite on the Two Medicine Lodges River, below the lake. Rising Wolf earned the right to that mountain name. It is nearly without question that it was on account of Rising Wolf’s status and counsel that the Blackfeet never fought a general war against the Whiteman, whether in Canada or the USA. That he was a great Blackfeet personage deserving of a mountain named for him by the tribe is without question. Mountains and other geographic features were named by the Blackfeet for the great personages of their society, especially if those mountains or other geological features are associated with acquiring power or were the fasting locations or near the habitual campsites of these individuals. Red Blanket Hill, the south ridge above the Cut Bank River near Starr School, is just such an example. Running Eagle Falls on the Two Medicine River also is one. Mount Pablo, in the Blackfeet ceded lands, is reputed to be the fasting site of that man from the historic enemy tribe to the west. Chief Mountain itself belongs to the Paramount Chief of the Confederacy, stated in no uncertain terms by White Calf himself when he said to the Commissioners after the treaty proceedings “Chief Mountain is my head. Now my head is cut off.” There is no dispute that many of

33 the Indian names on the western side of Glacier National Park originate with the Kootenai. So why cannot the Blackfeet names originate with the Blackfeet? It is the Blackfeet traditional religious practioners themselves that have, in part, prevented the truth coming forward. How can that be? In the earliest times of exploration of this general vicinity by the Whites, the Indians did not conceal nearly as much information from these ‘strangers’ as they subsequently decided to. When these Indians discovered that the Whites realistically recorded knowledge via the alien magic of pen and ink, whether in drawings or the strange habit of print, and could take the Indians knowledge away and disseminate it widely, things changed dramatically in the aboriginal mindset. In the Indian’s thinking, if you had intimate knowledge of another’s power, their ‘medicine’, their ceremony and sacred places, you can use that knowledge to ‘kill’ that person or people’s power. That became a concern. Taking this knowledge away to perhaps be so widely spread that it would come to be the knowledge of enemy tribes, required a new parameter in dealings with the Whites. The Sweet Pine Hills became the Sweet Grass Hills. The Grizzly Bear or Real Bear River became the Big Badger River, although it had already been called that name for many generations by all of those Blackfeet who belonged to the religious group called the Medicine Pipe Society, because they are taught to be careful when to use this bear’s name, and under certain circumstances, they are not allowed to speak the name of the Grizzly Bear at all. So instead it is the “Big Badger.” And there were other problems. You are not supposed to discuss certain sacred matters outside the context of ceremony. Most anthropologists do not know how to unlock the code leading to ceremony and are unable to acquire the authentic sacred knowledge. And if they did know how, they would not likely be anthropologists anymore in the academic sense. Because their parameters of knowledge, and with this, their perceptions, even their approach to their life and their discipline, would have changed. Much of the Blackfeet Ceremonial and Sacred Place knowledge written of in books is not accurate, because habitually it has been spoken of in figures of speech or couched in concealed terms that are lost in translation. Layer over the top of that the idea that the studies of these peoples by ethnology are most certainly subjective studies, as they must be, as one culture sees another, then subsequently, sadly, those books and articles are the source of what many of today’s Indians, those who do not speak their language, know of their own culture. So now we can already have fourth hand reporting coming from Indians that the anthropologists might assume are first hand sources. Bad information is reinforcing itsself. It becomes even more complicated than that. Some of the authentic Medicine Men have no qualms whatsoever about giving disinformation to the anthropological investigators. These particular informants see it as essential to protect their knowledge from these prying people. Especially the anthropologists that are known to be christians.

34

Does everything the Whiteman touch turn into a lie? Whenever it has to do with Indians, it would seem so. Western science has failed to properly assess the cultural differences, there are often times no general equivalent perceptions of the world, as seen by Indians, in western culture. The western world’s science and empirical methods have failed, in the studies of these peoples. Science does not yet fathom why it is, that if you wound a mountain, that mountain will no longer produce dreams in the Indian psyche, the dream site and the dreamer are now dead, the Indian sees himself as dead. This can be directly related to White Calf’s statement “Chief Mountain is my head. Now my head is cut off.” No matter that the body lives. White Calf knew he was no longer an Indian. Now, for a few paragraphs, I will be a turncoat on the Blackfeet culture, and the old Blackfeet rules of behavior, to demonstrate in the empirical sense for the Whiteman, that those anthropologists and historians who believe that Schultz, Kipp, Grinnell, and the United States Geological Survey, originated the Blackfeet place names in the Blackfeet ceded lands, Glacier National Park inclusive, are wrong. Below Buffalo Mountain (the Buffalo’s ‘Hump’.. “Bison Mountain” according to the USGS map), and it’s “Head” (head mountain on the USGS), there is a sloped plain, it is really these mountain features shoulder, shared between the Blackfeet reservation and Glacier National Park. This is just four or so miles north by northwest of the large historic tourist lodge at East Glacier. This plain abruptly ends in a cliff overlooking the present day artificial lower Two Medicine Lake, which has been created by a dam. A probe of the base of that cliff, and the ancient ‘Pishkun’ that is there, would reveal this is a site where Buffalo were run off the cliff and fell to their death. That would be some amazing coincidence of naming by the USGS, that their “Bison” Mountain and it’s “Head” Mountain precisely overlook this site of a most ancient ‘Pishkun’ and/or ‘Okun’ (both Pishkun and Okun, in Blackfeet, mean ‘Corral’), and it is Okun which is precisely the term the Blackfeet employ to describe their so called Sundance. But it does not stop there. This is also the origin of the name of the Two Medicine Lodges River which this site overlooked before it became today’s Lower Two Medicine Lake with the installing of the dam. Sundance, Medicine Lodge and Okun are all synonyms and related to Pishkun- Sundance and Medicine Lodge being English bastardizations of the meaning of Okun, or the Sacred Corral, whereas Pishkun is Buffalo Corral. But both terms can and do refer to the ‘Medicine Lodge’ of the Two Medicine Lodges River, Pishkun having been the term used by Brings Down the Sun to describe the origin of the name of the Two Medicine Lodges River. In the ancient days, before the artificial Lower Two Medicine Lake became what it is, every time there was a Sundance, Medicine Lodge, Sacred Corral or Okun, whatever you want to call it, above today’s artificial lower lake, close to Running Eagle Falls, there were actually Two Medicine Lodges, or Corrals, the second being the invisible Pishkun of the ancestors on the south bank, beneath Buffalo Mountain and its “Head” which are part and parcel of this plain and cliff.

35 This is the ancestor’s Pishkun that, from the Sundance, one could hike to. And until I had written this, the Blackfeet Sun Priests could still safely, from the concealment of this knowledge, go this ancient site to pray, fast and dream, they could and can still commune with this ‘Buffalo Ghost’, represented in the mountain above and Pishkun below. But perhaps now it will be just another tourist attraction like the so called “Head Smashed In Buffalo Jump” with its Bison relics under glass, to the north in Alberta, Canada. Losing its solitude, and the dreams that sustain it, the Blackfeet culture will continue in a death spiral. But this seems of little consequence to me, because the legacy of Grinnell, taken together with the present day anthropologists, their anthropological studies, and their many false assumptions, particularly the idea that impacts to the Indian’s dream sites can be mitigated, are killing the Blackfeet culture anyway. But perhaps the ongoing spiritual slaughter of these Indians, following on their physical slaughter, can stop. But that returns us to my fasting place, the ‘Real Bear River’ (Grizzly Bear River), called the ‘Big Badger’ by today’s Blackfeet, known to the present day Whiteman as the Badger Creek. And to the story of the greed of the Whiteman superceding all things the Indians hold sacred. It is about the treaty of 1895 stealing this land from the Indians so today’s Presidents’ Bush, the elder and younger, can give these stolen lands to their friends in the oil and gas industry. Here following, is the saga leading to, and my part in this ongoing struggle on behalf of Floyd Heavy Runner and the Blackfeet that still speak their language. However the survival of Blackfeet culture will require that the more desperate sort of stories, stories of the modern bureaucratic wars with the Whiteman, and his past and present lies and cheats having nearly caused a modern shooting war, are necessary no more. I continue with my journey to Indian Country, and subsequent stories of my assimilation process that had me living as a modern Blackfeet, those that still can speak their language, ‘The Journey’ that brought me into a confrontation with the United States as an Indian, not as a Crazy Dog Soldier, but rather as a family member that happened to be a veteran, for my brother, the War Chief of the Crazy Dogs.

36 My Beginning It was a starry night, I was lying on my back thinking in retrospect, where/what my life had come to. For the past twenty minutes, my name had been, was still being shouted, “West!” I did not care. The sky was absolutely beautiful, that is what was important at this moment. My father had returned a hero from the Pacific after the defeat of Japan.. and I was the second mistake of his subsequent union with the young woman he had met at the USO. Nineteen years and several months subsequent to my birth, an intervening period in which I seemed at times to have been an abused lawn ornament, I only wanted to understand why. Why was I here. My name was still being shouted in several directions, sometimes near, at other times farther away. “West!” That did not matter. Retrospective contemplation and the stars were what mattered. My biggest resentment was that no one had taken the time to explain things. Not ever. Not in any way that had made sense. “West!” It was getting louder, but then the shouting would become muffled under me. This had already happened several times, no one was thinking of coming up to where I was lying. Looking again at the stars, I knew nothing would ever be the same again. I would never believe in anybody, anything. Suddenly there was a slight noise close to me. Ray was there. “You have got to come down” he whispered to me. “all right” I said, with a little resignation. Then I added “Bring me a beer first.” Ray whispered “OK” and disappeared. I had been lying on top of a sandbag, steel and concrete structure that I normally lived in.. it was a bunker. I was a Jeep driver for the pilots attached to the Headquarters of the 199th Light Infantry Brigade at the brigade main base near Long Binh, Republic of Viet Nam. Just an hour earlier I had smoked an Opium laced Marijuana cigarette and I knew I was in no condition to drive anyone, anywhere. Ray had returned with the beer and I had taken a swallow and then deliberately poured the rest of the beer down the open front of my jungle fatigue jacket. Clutching the empty beer can, I stumbled a little as I entered the Fire Ball Aviation ‘CQ’ (Charge of Quarters) office and mumbled to Major Lewis “You wanted me, sir?” I was not known to drink often, it was after my normal duty hours, and I was forgiven and dismissed. The Major made a call to Headquarters and found another driver and jeep for the several Command rank officers that had flown in on short notice. The few times I actually had drank in the several preceding months may well have saved my life. I was never a good drunk, always becoming sick, usually for at least a day, and on the first two occasions that I was sent on emergency duty as a helicopter flight gunner, substituting for the regular crewmen, it just happened that I had been drinking the night before, and the consequence was that it was decided for me by my superiors that I suffered from air sickness. I had quit drinking subsequently, but the ‘air sick’ label had stuck and I had become a jeep driver. So now I smoked dope, because if you did not drink or smoke dope in Viet Nam, you did not fit in. There would be nobody to relate to. No social life. And very few people want to be a loner. I was not yet a loner. But I was a good jeep driver, did not smoke dope during normal duty hours, was devoted to my pilots, always punctual, and on one occasion drove four of these pilots through a barrage of B-40 Rockets, exploding just short of us, without flinching. After all, we were the 199th, and a certain attitude was called for. I was promoted and given an Army

37 Commendation Medal before I left. As a group, our 199th Fire Ball Aviation unit was awarded the Viet Nam Cross of Gallantry with a Valor Device, but that is someone else’s story to tell. One year later I was still in Viet Nam, now with the 330th Transportation Company at the little Army Airfield at Vung Tau. In the intervening year, since the night on the bunker with the stars, possibly beginning that night, some profound psychological change had overcome me. My classmate and friend from Army Aviation School, Fred, had died, shot down. He had been assigned to the 25th Infantry Division (Aviation Support) after the 199th Brigade had redeployed to the States and disbanded. Fred and I were just short of the required six months in the war zone to return to the states and were reassigned in country. We had spent a nearly year together up to that time, trained together and shipped to Viet Nam to the same assignment. After the 199th, I had been sent to Vung Tau, a coastal French Colonial resort city that had seldom seen the war. I was still there, afraid to go home, volunteering extra time in a mythical corner of the war zone, a tiny Shangri La, already sensing I could never really know my old life, or my home again. In these days I was an E-5, equal to a Sergeant, and my life was surreal, like a movie. There was no open job that fit my rank, so I did several things at different times. For awhile I was the Non Commissioned Officer in charge of the off/on switch of a steam cleaner. I spent my days reading paperbacks, sun tanning and listening to a stereo while waiting for the privates to tow a helicopter to my steam cleaner machine so I could turn the switch to the machine on for them. I thought maybe I could do that for a few years, the war’s end seemed far away. But then I was pulled from that dream job to carry dispatches, Personnel files and Courts Martial records to Saigon, because I knew my way around that city and the intervening countryside. I used this job and its administrative passes to hitchhike around Viet Nam. I had learned from my six months in the 199th to keep a personal weapon with me at all times, and a Jungle uniform easily conceals a 45 caliber Colt automatic pistol. I never needed it. I lived a dangerous private life in my off hours. I had rented a studio apartment in the town of Vung Tau. It was an abode unknown to anyone except myself and the mysterious Vietnamese I shared it with, Dom Tay, and the Chinese madam that rented it to us together with her daughter and the more trusted whores. There was adjacent to the bar that the madam conducted her business from, a hallway that went from one of the main streets in town with the bars that catered whores, to an alley behind the bar that was a passageway to the market street with all its open stalls, a place you never saw Americans because they could not handle the smell. Our apartment had two unmarked doors into this hallway and it appeared as though they were entries to separate flats. Sergeant West always came and went from the main street with the bars, and used the hall entry to his apartment closest to that side, not an unusual sight. Soldiers were always frequenting rooms adjacent to the bars for their carnal cares. It was totally unremarkable. Dom Tay always left and returned to the hallway via the rear alley and used the entry towards the rear of the building, nearest this alley, and was seldom ever noticed. It was in reality as though we were neighbors from the outside view. But in fact we were alter egos. Having come in from the main street as Sergeant West, I would go back into the streets via the alley and market dressed in a south Vietnamese style military uniform without rank or

38 insignia, only my moniker translated into Vietnamese, “Dom Tay” (Mr West) embroidered on my shirt in place of the typical name tag. With dark prescription glasses hiding the lack of slant to my eyes and of short stature and dark complected, I looked something like a French/Vietnamese halfbreed, perhaps in the Intelligence Service. Nobody wanted anything to do with me downtown, the Vietnamese civilian police or the military police, Vietnamese or American. I would stare directly at them. They would look at me and keep moving. In Viet Nam, sometimes there were people you just did not want to know anything about. I was able to be one of those. I went about and did as I pleased. Viet Nam had become my personal Wild West. I had found its underbelly, I was functioning there, and it was a place seldom seen, let alone survived, by most of the Americans. The Chinese madam’s daughter was sweet on me, and I was circumspect in that relationship, I spent time learning the Mah Jongg with her together with her mother and the ‘girls’, never touched heroin and I did not sleep with the whores. There was a certain amount of respect and I am certain, protection attending my friendship with these people. It was the whores who did everything, they were runners for drugs, business couriers for criminal deals, cover for arranged meetings. But all I wanted to do there was watch what was going on. I needed to understand. What was all of this, really? Now my job had changed again. It was mid 1971 and anti war sentiment was growing in the troops throughout Vietnam, and it was evident in Vung Tau. The Playboy Magazine had come out with the ‘Viet Nam Veterans Against The War’ membership application and tens of thousands had joined from the war zone. I did not. But there were a few dozen soldiers in my company that were no longer going to contribute to the work at hand and had become troublesome to the cadres. The logical thinking was, here is a job for West. So I got my unofficial platoon leadership, my ‘Dirty Dozen.’ This included some of the anti-war guys, a few of the junkies and the only ‘Jesus Freak’, the one guy who was straight, he did not drink, he did not smoke dope, and he did not whore around in town. He was really sweet and nobody could stand being around him. He was normal and normal was unreal. All I had to do was keep these guys out of trouble. And it was about this time it looked like the war might come to Vung Tau. So my new job was a pain in the ass and I was rethinking staying forever in Viet Nam. But I worked out the details and it went like this.. The junkies could never be trusted to do anything, but if they had their junk, they were happy no matter where you put them. So they were sent to the helicopter graveyard, and arrangements made to supply them their junk. There they drooled and vomited with glazed eyes and seemed to see their world only in the colors of black and white, like old TV. Probably about 30% of our soldiers were addicted to heroin at this time, and I had the worst of them, the ones that were so bad they could not function. The anti war guys were all dope smokers and they were sent to sandbag detail. The deal was that only the most trustworthy of them could go to the adjacent village through the perimeter wire and bring back their marijuana and the heroin for the junkies. These guys suntanned, read books, smoked joints, listened to music and jumped up to work with shovels, sand and bags, on a signal that administrative people were sighted. They rotated the guard duty assignment set up for this signal system, intended to protect them from their own officers. Nearly everyone stayed out of trouble. I kept the Jesus Freak with me. Nobody ever seemed to notice there was little progress in

39 the sandbagging, only that the only that the anti war guys were being forced to work at the job soldiers most hated. It was slick. But this job had also subverted my psychology further. I was not a dope smoker before I went to Viet Nam and I have not been a dope smoker for many years. But at this time I was smoking some of the most robust marijuana in the world, like a Jamaican dock worker. This was normal in the surreal world that we lived in. I had come from the 199th where people were dedicated soldiers although some of them recreationally smoked dope, others drank, to relax from what could be an unimaginably brutal job. The courage of the men of the 199th could not be questioned, and their devotion to duty sometimes delivered them to their deaths. These were fine men, and my admiration for them is undiminished to this day. We are Americans, and one thing that is totally American is the right to follow your beliefs. These men I knew of the 199th, these titans of personal courage, saw themselves as having defended American ideals of freedom and democracy, and they are forever entitled to see themselves in that light. Because that is what they did. And I will never question that mentality in these men. But that mentality was breaking down in me. As ‘Dom Tay’, my alter ego, I had seen the corruption of war, up close. Prostitution, Racketeering, Drug Trafficking, all departments were involved, and at high levels. My own First Sergeant did not know Dom Tay as I watched him, our Mess Sergeant and our Battalion Sergeant Major, make the deals and collect the money, selling our soldiers rations downtown. Repeatedly, the food service to the soldiers was cleaned up for a day or two, as the Army inspections and visiting congressmen were brought to Vung Tau by the soldiers’ complaints. Then the good food was sent downtown again. At a meal served a couple of days after one of these visits and a few decent dinners, I took the ribs served to us outside to a starving dog. This dog only had the strength to turn 180 degrees so that his ass was where his mouth had been when I offered him the meat. A starving dog would not eat it. We all had to buy our food back at the sidewalk cafes in town to survive. The sergeants a rank higher than myself were privileged to eat in the officer’s mess and their food was fine. One of the cooks, a private, became so outraged that he made marijuana brownies for the officer’s cafeteria. As Dom Tay, I saw the food he was supposed to prepare for us sold downtown by our own superiors, who formed a mafia. As Sergeant West, I delivered this same cooks Courts Martial papers to Saigon. What else did Dom Tay discover? That American Intelligence Service officers were the source of the Heroin that plagued our army. The Golden Triangle opium crop bought by the CIA to secure the loyalty of the remote tribes against the communists was processed into heroin and marketed to the United States Army in Viet Nam. I had seen enough. It was time to go home. But I had no home. Before the extension of my Viet Nam tour expired, and I was actually able to leave, a couple of remarkable things had happened. On my arrival in Viet Nam, as a member of the 199th, I had seen the invasion of Cambodia, professionally handled, militarily. The political aftermath of that had been Kent State however, and now the Army was in a different mood. Now, before I was to leave, I was to see the result of that mood with the invasion of Laos.

40 Nixon’s ‘Vietnamization’ of the war propaganda had been thrown at us repeatedly by the US Army newspaper, the Stars and Stripes. It worked well. Senior officers were now having to personally lead their troops into the field, walking the point that would be ambushed. It was the only way to get the American Army to fight. The soldiers would go along on these sorties just to see their leaders shot. Hand grenades were more often used to murder the more criminal cadres, the assholes, it happened in my company at Vung Tau shortly after I left. One of the Sergeants First Class that was part of the Cabal I had seen selling our food downtown had his toe blown off, but lived, apparently because the grenade rolled under his bed and the mattress absorbed the brunt of the explosion. A soldier I knew, Wally, did time in Leavenworth for that. So things had gone from bad to worse since the invasion of Laos. But it was the Laos invasion that was the scene of a war wide sit down strike by the American Army. At Vung Tao, when the 330th transportation company was ordered mobilized to assist in the effort to extract the Army of the Republic of South Viet Nam from a pre laid ambush on a titanic scale by regular divisions of the North Vietnamese Army, and the southern soldiers were being slaughtered like pigs in a pen, instead of loading their gear into the trucks as ordered, our company’s soldiers turned up Jimmy Hendrix Star Spangled Banner to a deafening decibel level and sat down in the assembly area clapping their hands and chanting “Hell no, we won’t go!” and they did not. Do you Courts Martial an entire Army? It happened everywhere. I learned years later that one of my former pilots from the 199th made so many trips into Laos due to the shortage of crews to the rescue, that even though he was shot down twice, managing to survive, rescued both times, he kept making trips. South Vietnamese soldiers were hanging on the skids of helicopters to get out alive. It was a slaughter brought on by Nixon’s propaganda. The war was being turned over to the Vietnamese. They would fight it. By now, the attitude of the American Army was ‘Well, let them.’ I recalled how General Lee’s deployment of the Confederate Army in the Wilderness Campaign caused General Grant to tantrum on his cot. Our allied Vietnamese army never stood a chance against the prepared and deployed line divisions of the North. Of course, the situation being what it was in Viet Nam, my guess would be that the North Vietnamese had the detailed invasion plan before the before the Southern army ever invaded. Dom Tay had already witnessed a world where all sides met and did business together. North, South, American, Viet Cong, all bedfellows, all criminal. Money could accomplish anything. After Laos, for the most part, the 330th soldiers were no longer trusted with their weapons, they had to remain locked up in the armory. Some war huh? By this time you can’t trust your own army with their rifles! Well, this had an interesting consequence. Thirty percent junkies, fifty percent dope smokers that sometimes used psychedelics, and twenty percent drunks, our army airfield was a disaster waiting to happen. We were receiving ‘care’ packages from the states, the people at home were being asked to support the troops, but this was a draft army, and a lot of the troops did not want to be here and in fact had been drafted out of areas that were hotbeds of the anti-war movement. So it was not unusual to receive ‘peace and love’ care packages that contained as many as one thousand doses of LSD. A C-123 cargo plane with a collapsed nose gear that had been simply dragged off of the end of the airfield runway was the ‘trip ship’, with more than

41 50 LSD ingested soldiers using it as a giant See-Saw- 15 or 20 men out on each wing, men sitting atop the fuselage and the rest inside trying to keep their balance. Not an uncommon sight. And then it happened one night. The unheard of Red Alert, an impending attack, the junkies did not even care, 200 soldiers high on LSD reported to the armory for their weapons, all of our senior sergeants and our Commanding Officer turned up shit faced drunk, and the guy with the keys to the armored building containing the weapons could not be found, he was passed out drunk, but nobody knew where at the time (with his whore in the village.) There actually was no backup set of keys to this building that could be located. I secured my personal weapon that I kept unknown to my superiors, plotted my escape route to the Australian compound that neighbored us, just in case I needed to be with a group of soldiers that could fight, and sat on the stair to a second floor barracks, and watched the riot that unfolded below. Our First Sergeant simply stood frozen like a statue, and he had both pissed and shit his pants. Men were milling in panic around him, screaming like idiots, and they were easily identifiable as mostly drunks, these were our cadres, and nobody paid any attention to them at all. It was surreal under the floodlights that illuminated what was happening. But now here came a group of the LSD freaks, 20 or 30 of them, they had somewhere rounded up an utility pole, of the sort power lines are strung on, and now they had it employed as a battering ram against the door of the armored building. Again and again they slammed the pole against the door, and I could see our Commanding Officer was sobering up fast and now directing this effort, the United States Army of the 20th Century, employing a siege weapon older than Rome, trying to break into their own fortified building. Finally, someone had located the backup set of keys, and I put my personal weapon away and went to draw an M-16 Rifle. The heroes of this fiasco were the Cobra Helicopter crews. While our soldiers were locked out of their weapons, these crews had scrambled with loaded rocket pods and mini guns. And these were the weapons that turned back the assault. After the riot from being locked out of the weapons, we received out rifles and deployed to our assigned stations, and I was hugely relieved to have a sober captain commanding our squad, but nothing happened. The attack did not materialize close to us. I was visiting with a Cobra crewman, he had come to see me particularly, after the grand riot. I had been informally working with the junkies that wanted to quit heroin for several months, I could not stand the tragedy of these people. There were no programs for them, they simply rotated out of Viet Nam and went home addicted. And the addicted soldiers that did not want this fate looked me up, I had a reputation for being willing to help them try and quit. On this occasion, the Cobra crew chief was not a junkie, but had been high on LSD while arming rockets for his pilot, and just wanted to talk about it. He said the experience made him want to examine his life and we talked about that. It had scared him straight. After this, I knew of two soldiers that did not drink or use drugs, this man, and our Jesus freak. Just a few examples of heroin stories, people I personally knew, two Texans, Thedford and Mitchell were both heroin addicted. By the time they were due to go home, finally there was urine screening and the junkies were being diverted to Japan for hospitalization, because of the heroin epidemic. Thedford took a ’clean’ urine sample

42 with him, along with copious amounts of heroin, he was not drying out or being diverted. Mitchell, a former Bull Rider, toughed out his withdrawals before he left, rupturing his skin which he showed me, huge blotches of red, like foot square bee stings. Darling from Indiana gave lip service to quitting, but did not have the resolve, a naive young man, innocent in the extreme, he did not even know what heroin was before he became addicted. Davis asked me what to do about his addiction on his way home and I told him just to be up front when he was out processed, tell them immediately he was addicted badly and be diverted to a hospital for detoxification. Many others known to me faced this problem. Modic had the worst luck of all. Modic was never cut out for the Army and he saw his time in Viet Nam as a prison camp, a prison he was desperate to escape. He had taken LSD and had the idea to be someone like Papillion who had escaped the French Penal colony in South America. Modic told me he was going to re-enlist for the bonus money and desert. His plan was to take a short trip to Singapore with his money and disappear forever in Asia. I told him he was crazy. He had only a few more months to tough it out. His plan did not work. He re-enlisted, got his money and could not get out on his R&R vacation. Desperate, he tried to get kicked out by becoming a heroin dealer, very brazen, but no one turned him in. Now he began using the heroin himself, burning up his money, even his dog was addicted, he would tap a little into his dog’s mouth from the vial each time he was snorting the drug himself. Horribly addicted, Modic finally was busted. Sent to Long Binh Jail, an unimaginably brutal place, he did his heroin withdrawals there without medical mitigation, and returned a broken shell of his former self. Offered his one wish at his Courts Martial, to be allowed to leave the Army, Modic could no longer mentally function. He opted to stay in for the duration of his six year re-enlistment, the course of action he was advised at his Courts Martial hearing „would serve to make him a better man.“ I had talked with Modic on his return from Long Binh Jail. He was not even cognizant of what had happened to him. I had never met a more mentally broken man. I tried heroin once. It was in Viet Nam. Something deep inside me told me there was something fundamentally wrong with simultaneously feeling orgasmic and vomiting. In the middle 1970’s, I recall estimates of as many as 500,000 homeless Viet Nam Veterans were living on the streets of America. If that were true, this one half million American men should have been in the prime of their life as productive citizens. Today, in 2004, they are reduced to something like ten thousand. These were the junkies. Many of them are dead. A more certain fact is: as of this writing, more American Vietnam veterans have committed suicide than died in the war. I had arrived in Viet Nam on April 7, 1970. I returned to the United States on November 8, 1971. I was not addicted to heroin. But I felt homeless. Like a man without a country.

43 A Visit with a Paiute Ghost Before I had left Viet Nam, I had had a prescient dream. I had a dream of an aerial view, a landscape that I was not familiar with, it was a view such as you'd get from a low flying helicopter. There was a kind of sand dunes populated with a scrub pine and I was looking out over an Eastern seaboard. Very clearly, a voice in the dream instructed me that this was North Carolina and that I'd be going there. When my rotation date came up after my extended tour of duty in Viet Nam, I was reassigned to the 82nd Airborne Division at Ft. Bragg, North Carolina, Aviation Section, Division Artillery. I was shocked when I saw my orders because the dream told me specifically that it was North Carolina and that I'd be going there, and when I did arrive, it was the same landscape that I'd seen in the dream. It was too weird. At Ft Bragg, I immediately applied for, and was granted, an early out from the active Army. Released, I relocated to Tucson, Arizona. I had been in the tropics for over a year and a half, and the thought of Montana in February was not appealing. It was in Tucson I discovered Barranada Ranch, and a Christian commune. I took refuge here to stop smoking dope and take stock of my surroundings. I had no idea of what to do. It was early spring, 1972. In September of 1972 I began the fall/winter semester at Azusa Pacific College in Southern California. I was a reasonably good student and pulled in a 3.25 grade average, with a solid A Grade in Old Testament Literature, and straight B grades in each; New Testament Literature, Western Civilization and Evangelical Christian Education. But things were not going as well as my academic result indicated. I had been back from Viet Nam for less than a year, and was looking for answers or guidance, really, because of that experience. I did not know where else to turn, except to religion, and Azusa Pacific was an attempt to resolve the questions I had concerning my recent witnessing of Man’s violence towards his fellow Man. Initially following my release from the active service, I had circumstantially discovered a Christian commune attempting reconstruction of the lifestyles based on the Acts of the Apostles, that commune was located at the old Barranada Ranch on what was in those days the outskirts of Tucson, Arizona. In this ideal setting I had found an initial peace of mind with a group of people that really focused on the life and teachings of Jesus. I spent the spring and summer there, but made a trip out to California to enroll at Azusa Pacific, a pre-seminary school. This Christian community at Barranada could have kept a really good thing going, but was becoming more mainstream, the implications of which I did not fully comprehend at that time. About the time I was leaving for Azusa Pacific, the foundation for a new church building, Grace Church, had been laid, and the walls were going up. I wondered at the fact that my assigned duties circumstantially had never allowed for my working on that project. This was to become more meaningful later in my life. At Azusa Pacific, an inter-faith Christian college that allowed for the attendance of all sects of Christians and Jews, I brought with me the experience of the Barranada commune where people had attempted to really live as Jesus taught, as brothers and sisters who had no energy for criticism, intolerance and hate directed at their fellow Man. The Barranada group had, in those days, simply avoided people who did have energy for

44 these emotions, including fellow Christians. “Judge not” was the commandment of Jesus that ruled these people and their charity. These people had, at that time, been real followers of Jesus. I remember at Azusa Pacific, an Alumni, Ron Turner, a friend of mine in those days, had been invited to give a sermon at the college. He rose to the challenge like the Old Testament prophets, castigating the student body for their fornicating lives, literally speaking. That bothered me. I was having trouble with the student body’s fornicating lives, figuratively speaking. Here were a group of Christians of every stripe, studying the Bible together, but the focus was very little on living the teaching of Jesus, the focus actually was very much on castigating each other, cutting each others throats and stabbing each other in the back, they were violent over matters of doctrine. These people were behaving like the people at war in Viet Nam, except as scribes, rather than soldiers. I was having at this time, a reoccurring nightmare of being humiliated by a condemning Christ figure, claiming he was Jesus, condemning me for things I had not even done. It was intended I would burn, regardless of how I lived my life, “For all have sinned and fallen short of the Glory of God.” This Christ had ice blue eyes that burned through me as I cowered naked with an involuntary erection. No matter what, this Christ imparted I was to be guilty, everyone was guilty, everybody, everything would burn, initially with passion, then with shame, and finally with hate. The Christ’s face was that of the leading student at a Bible study I attended, he had seemed like a really nice guy, and I held no animosity towards him at all. But then it always turned out it was not really Jesus in the dream after all, it was always the Apostle Paul. I ended up in these dreams not knowing where I was. During Thanksgiving break, I went to the Paiute Mountains, between Tehachapi and Bakersfield, near the old town of Caliente. I stayed in a small guesthouse near Twin Oaks, on an old school property where maternal my grandparents still lived. I needed to get away from Azusa Pacific to think things over. There was an old mining claim a bit further into the mountains near here that still belonged to our family, my great, great grandparents had established it I think, in the 19th century. Its location was remote, away from everyone and everything. I went hiking in that area for something to do. Walking along a path one morning, I passed through the site of a Paiute Indian village that had died out in my lifetime. I remembered that as a child there were still a few of these people living here, and I would sometimes visit with them in the company of my grandparents. ‘Indian Pete’ liked life in the penal work camps he was periodically sent to for driving drunk. He had friends there, and it was a good place to winter over. Pete timed his arrests and trips to the camp for these hard months. An old Paiute woman, Sophie, was a friend of my grandmother who fancied herself a missionary to these people. All of the Indians were kind to me, just a boy that knew them from about the age of 3 years to age 15 or so. But they had disappeared, the last of these Paiute villagers, one by one, either dying or moving to the city at Bakersfield. Now some of the tin roofs on the old adobes were already caved in. There were no longer any dogs or chickens, only the sound of the gentle morning breeze rustling the leaves. Walking further up the dirt track, past

45 this dead village, I came upon the village graveyard, the path wound its way along the graveyard edge. I remember it was a beautiful morning, peaceful, a lovely walk that was soothing to my troubled mind. My hike took me up to a fork in the dirt track, the left fork went to an old stone house, abandoned many years, not far away was a large rock, a place I had both seen my first Mountain Lion, and shot my first deer. The right fork went to our old family mining claim. Up there were the deep shafts cut into the rock, two ancient shacks we had called ‘cabins’, a spring and a well. I did not care to go up either fork, the memories were too close to what little had been good in my childhood, and I felt this was a place to which I could never really return. I turned back towards the old Indian village. It was not sad. I only wanted to preserve the memories unchanged. Later on that day, on my return down this path, I came upon the graveyard again. I stopped alongside where these Paiute people were buried, to take in the view of the abandoned village in the lovely landscape of the surrounding hills. These Indians had very much appreciated the natural beauty in their choice of a place to live! As I stood there, I noticed, not far away, perhaps twenty or thirty feet from me, a cross was lying on the ground, of ornately carved wood. I walked over to it, to get a closer look. The cross had fallen over from the spot where it marked a small grave, obviously that of a child. This cross had been meticulously hand carved, very painstakingly with great love, depicting flowers on a vine, perhaps honeysuckle. I picked the cross up and tried to push it back upright into the ground, a futile effort, the dirt was hardpan, and the base of the wooden cross, rotten. I let it lay back on the ground as I had found it, and walked on. It had been a beautiful day, the most relaxed time in my life in years, since before the military and Viet Nam. I had forgotten Azusa Pacific. I looked forward to a sound sleep that night. I sat bolt upright from my sleep in the pitch dark, the apparition still seemed visible, but fading, as I came to my senses, waking up from a conversation with a Paiute ghost. It was the buried child from my morning walk and brief foray into the graveyard. The worm eaten and mummified body speaking to me was nailed to the very same ornate cross I had tried to place upright, back into the ground. “Why won’t you look at me?” asked the child. “I can’t” I replied. “But I am no different than you” the mummy stated, “You need to look at me.” “Why do I have to” I wanted to know. “Because you are looking for the answer I have for you, the mummy stated, “but you won’t understand if you cannot look at me.” It was very hard to do, but I looked at this crucified child that was decayed and very dead. “Do you know who I am?” The mummy asked. I replied “I do not.” “Now I will tell you what you came to find out” the mummy stated. “What you see, is what your peoples beliefs have done to me. I am not only a child. I am your Christian life.”

46 Moving Forward At the semester break I transferred to the State school, Citrus College, next to Azusa Pacific. No longer a pre-seminarian, I began my studies in Psychology and finished out the academic year. Then I relocated to Montana. My military reserve duty, a monthly obligation stemming from my early active duty release, caused my transfer to a detached company of Green Berets, a Special Forces Group at Kalispell, where I was an E-5 Sergeant slotted as this short handed company’s Intelligence and Operations Non Commissioned Officer in Charge of that department, holding down an E-7 Sergeant First Class position. The people I worked with were first rate Special Forces, and I fit right in, studying their Operational Field Manuals, participating with them in field training in our surrounding wilderness areas, in general, keeping my soldiers training together and improving on it. I starved out of college, the Veterans Administration could not get my GI Bill checks to me within 3 months of enrolling. The local veteran’s representative that was supposed to process this paperwork nearly lived in a bar below his office during business hours, and after a diet of trout I caught myself, together with rice for weeks on end, and living in a metal shed with a dirt floor requiring no rent, I ran out of money, checked out of school, and went to live in the wilderness. The diet, at least, would be more diverse. Working in the sawmills, pulling raw lumber on the ‘Green Chain’, and the associated lifestyle of drinking, did not agree with me. I had been there, done that. I was having wild dreams. My paternal grandmother had died insane. She was from a long line that goes back to gypsy people in Europe who had what was known as "the gift." It was considered to be a curse in our family. I had a whole series of dreams after my return from Viet Nam during the period that I rode horseback and hiked throughout the Bob Marshall Wilderness, sometimes riding in on unshod Cayuse ponies belonging to Blackfeet Indians. One time I climbed a mountain from the south fork of the Flathead River in the Bob Marshall Wilderness across from Little Salmon Park. I was climbing a drainage called Damnation to the top of Pagoda Mountain. Damnation was well named because there'd been a blow down of timber in that drainage, so long ago that it had a false floor above the old timber, made from the mosses and accumulated debris of time. It was a very dark canyon, heavily timbered, and when you walked on that moss floor, you had to watch for numerous holes, where beneath your feet it looked like those Roman fortifications you see in the Spartacus movies- sharpened stakes on logs. Jumbles of those were underneath my feet, and I knew if I ever slipped and fell in, it would mean I’d be impaled. I was thinking about many aspects of my life as I hiked, I already felt old. My mind wandered to the past. Having been briefly a divinity student at the Azusa Pacific College majoring in Old and New Testament literature, a brief, abortive attempt at resolving my Viet Nam experience, I had left California after that academic year, selling my bicycle and my car, I didn't have enough gas money to get home. I had caught a freight train up the Pacific Coast, then hitchhiked east to get over into Blackfeet country and back up into the wilderness, pretty much at loose ends, sometimes hanging out with the Blackfeet, sometimes going to the mountains.

47

I was climbing by myself up this aptly named Damnation canyon to the peak above it called the Pagoda. I'd picked the most difficult route, climbed three quarters up the mountain and camped for the night. I saw a single elk 100 yards above me, and the elk was the power animal of a Blackfeet family I had met the year before, the Wells, they were Elk Clan people. I thought perhaps that was auspicious. I ascended the Pagoda in the morning. Over the past several years I had managed to get some college credits, not every attempt at school was abortive. I had met a really great man, Reginald ‘Reggie’ Dumontier, a Flathead Indian and Professor of Psychology. In his classes, I took every one of them I could, I studied Developmental Psychology and Social Psychology in depth. Maybe it was what was Indian in Reggie, he did not turn me off, his mind was open. And I badly wanted to understand the culture I had come from. I both despised it and yet I pursued all of the knowledge of it I could, I needed to know, to understand. In 1975 I had briefly re-entered the active Army service and was sent to refresher training at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. We were all ordered into line for flu shots, and then our barracks was turned into a makeshift hospital. I had heard, too late, that a United States Army Biological Weapons Laboratory was located here. It could be we were all used as guinea pigs. Everyone came down with double pneumonia. My health never fully recovered. Still shocked and sick from the injection received there, I was sent on to the US Army Missile School at Ft Bliss, Texas that I completed, Distinguished Honor Graduate. Also about this time I was having problems with my fine coordination, it was becoming hard to write and my hands tired easily. Perhaps that was the Agent Orange I had lived in several years before, it was used to keep our airfield at Vung Tau weed free, not only for defoiliating the jungle. Assigned to Germany, and on account of my college credits in Psychology, I had become a social worker in the field of Drug and Alcohol Rehabilitation at a Missile Battalion, screening and counseling soldiers that had the capability of starting World War III. From the top of Pagoda Mountain, with an incredible view, I considered the facts of my life. Beginning in Viet Nam, it seemed I had had two distinct personalities. My time in Germany reinforced this idea. Dom Tay reappeared. When I had began my assigned duties, I had quickly discovered that this job was not about rehabilitation, but was purely and simply about redneck politics in the military. Our alcoholic 1st Sergeant, who had his drivers license revoked for multiple drinking and driving offences, used the program I was supposed to run to persecute the soldiers who had used drugs, not rehabilitate them, and the drunks were protected as much as possible, from the consequences of their drunken actions. I was supposed to pretend I had a job, shuffle some papers, and go along with the paranoid vendettas of this man. I could not do it. Under the pressure of this circumstance, I began smoking dope again and Dom Tay emerged. I discovered that one of the soldiers in the rehabilitation program had been slated for an Undesirable Discharge, with multiple drug offences, but the 1st Sergeant had shredded that paperwork, and turned the guy into a snitch, a real wormtounge whose

48 any lie was believed, and used him to persecute soldiers he did not feel comfortable with. And unbeknownst to the 1st Sergeant, this snitch was poking his teenage daughter! Meanwhile, there were these ‘Cowboys’, they were hard core drinkers, terrorizing the barracks with obscene shouting, brawls, loud music and beer parties well past midnight at will, their abuse of alcohol was outrageous and detracted from the abilities of everyone who needed sleep to get their jobs done. And they knew the 1st Sergeant protected them. It was hell. I was not about to live there. I bought a used BMW car and initially began frequenting Frankfurt’s Alt Operen Platz, a park with a bombed out opera house, still not rebuilt from World War II. It was here I saw the 1st Sergeant’s snitch buying drugs. I wondered if he would use them for himself or if he would be planting them on somebody. Probably both. I also met a young German hippie here, who, after striking up a conversation for perhaps forty minutes, invited me to meet friends of his in Heidelberg. In Heidelberg I met Norbert Schroeber who introduced me to a new world. My double life was well underway. Norbert was a very intelligent man on top of everything that was happening in the ‘Scene’, the German counter-culture in Heidelberg. We became good friends. Now I had a place to stay at Norbert’s flat, it was away from the ‘Scene’ in the old city, but this was an easy walk for me. Out of the way in an old industrial housing area, my car was not associated with my visits to this new scene, which I always walked to, mixing with people from around the world, playing Chess and drinking with Gypsies under the ancient stone arches across the river from the broken battlements caused by Napoleon’s cannon. Here I met Kareem, a multilingual native French speaking Black African that showed me the ins and outs of this new world. Also Bojan Artac, a Slovenian with an incredible sense of adventure, and who brought great adventure into my life. Bojan made heroic efforts to come to Montana after I departed, but it in vain. Yugoslav counterculture people were not welcome in the USA. It was during this time I had tried to get help from the Army doctors for my deteriorating coordination and balance, but the one army neurologist I managed to see refused me treatment, because I did not properly follow the chain of command. But the chain of command posed a problem for me. I had a 1st Sergeant that would not sign off on a visit to this doctor. “I think your nervous problem stems from something else, West.” I got up from where I had been sitting looking at the view across the Continental Divide, towards the north east, the direction of Badger Canyon. Carefully picking my way down the trail, I meant to miss descending back into Damnation on the hike down from the Pagoda, rather I wanted Helen Creek trail. But I missed the fork, it was under a late snow pack. I walked down a game trail instead, following the shoulder of the mountain that jutted to the west. I had finally located a German Doctor at a free clinic in Heidelberg. A gay hippie from the scene that I did not trust, Ziggy, had told me he could set up an appointment. I took a chance and went to meet this doctor. It was after hours and after bringing me to the office, Ziggy had introduced me and promptly left. This doctor did not care about my symptoms, she was already very aware I had friends in this leftist counter-culture scene.

49 What this young woman doctor wanted, I think, was to recruit me for the East German Secret Police. She did not mention the STASI by name, but that was my impression. I did not care to be an agent for the Communist German Democratic Republic. I told her I just wanted to go home. Later on, I saw a soldier I recognized as someone I had seen at the American Base where I worked, lamely dressed and trying to fit in the scene, but without German friends. He accosted me in English. I answered “Ich verstainen nicht.” He became angry, stating emphatically in an aggravated voice “Somebody is talking BULLSHIT here!” I walked away. About two thirds of the way down the mountain shoulder, the terrain was forcing me back into the Damnation drainage. But I had managed to miss quite a bit of this horrible place, only a mile or two of the evil canyon would have to be traversed. I felt I would be able to make it back to the river before nightfall. I had shot two grouse on the hike down the mountain and tied them to my pack. I felt I was hot, perhaps pursued by both the American military and the GDR intelligence. Both might want me, the Americans because I was a security risk, the GDR for the same essential reason. But I did not give a damn for either of them. I made a rash and radical decision. I had expressed leftist sympathies ingratiating myself into the scene. It had convinced everyone. Now I needed to extract myself, this was not Viet Nam and I had not managed to stay invisible. Accountable spies at every level permeated this regimented society. I returned to my work at the American base at Butzbach, and in my barracks, originally built for the S.S., I placed several items of Communist literature in my personal locker prior to an inspection. Front and center was an English language copy of the Peking Review. At least I was being consistent in my deception. I watched my Commanding Officer’s eyes bulge when he looked into my locker. He said nothing. But then I made it a point to look him up in his office later in the day. Going off the ridge I had been hiking, and into the forest again, I saw and shot a third grouse. I tied it to my pack with the others. I did not bring up politics, patriotism, or a lack thereof on my part. I just laid out for the Commander what the 1st Sergeant had done with creating a snitch through my program and shredding paperwork initiating a mandatory Discharge, and pointed out this crime was on his watch. I also told him the only thing I cared to do about that was trade in my job for a General Discharge of my own, and leave the whole mess behind, and that was because I needed medical help the Army could not or would not provide. In thirty days time I was out of the Army. My out processing paperwork noted “he reads several magazines and publications, to include the Peking Review.” The paperwork further stated that although my conduct was acceptable, my “ideas and actions were on the borderline of radical.” This was April, 1976. My feeling was I had narrowly escaped jail. I camped on the river, where Damnation Creek flows into the South Fork of the Flathead in the Bob Marshall Wilderness. Tying the three grouse together and suspending them

50 from the branch of a Pine, I remembered the Biblical verse “Cursed is anything hanged from a tree.” One month later, the weekend of May 15th, 1976, I was sitting in jail, the Flathead County Jail at Kalispell, Montana. I had met an old friend when I returned home and went to work selling bags of marijuana for him, to make a few dollars. This was a High School friend that had also been to Viet Nam and who I had helped walk off his heroin habit a couple of years before, hiking in the wilderness. I later helped him to upgrade his discharge and get his veterans benefits under Jimmy Carter’s amnesty program for the Viet Nam Veterans. So George had kicked heroin, but we were both still smoking dope, a habit picked up in the war. I had been playing the bar game ‘thirteen aces’ at the West Glacier Bar and winning shots of alcohol repeatedly. After the bar had closed, I did not try to drive into Columbia Falls, where I was staying, I knew I was too drunk, instead I had pulled off the highway and passed out in my car. Waking up to lights and a man with a flashlight and glittering chest telling me to “step out of the car”, sitting up I said “let me put on my shoes.” Seeing with the flashlight that was exactly what I was doing, putting on and tying my shoes, this police officer started shining the light around in the car and noticed a corncob pipe on the dash. “Why don’t you hand me that pipe” were his next words. I reached for the pipe and handed it out the open window. Having fun now with his partner over the pipes strong aroma “Whew, how about that?”, he then stated “Why don’t you give me the stuff you smoke in it?” I reached behind the seat and grabbed a two gallon paper bag full of one ounce plastic baggies of marijuana and handed it out the window. That act saved me from a ten year sentence to the Montana State Prison at Deer Lodge. I had not yet been read my Miranda Rights. I got into my sleeping bag that night thinking I needed to leave this American society, because I could not function intelligently. I had the previous year become acquainted with some Blackfeet at an out of the way place, Badger Canyon, about three days walk from my camp, and I thought I might go stay over there. Sleeping that night beneath the three hanged grouse, I had a dream. In my dream I was standing, facing a house that rightfully should belong to me. Blocking the entry were three shadows, they looked like Nazgul from Tolkien’s ‘The Lord of the Rings.’ I killed them all. My house was really mine for the first time. Walking inside, it was dark, but I could see the soft glow of a lamp coming from a door towards the back. Inside was a young woman, working desperately to clean up a terrible kitchen mess, three imps who fled at my approach had been terrorizing her in her labors. The woman begged me, “Please sir, do not fire me, I have just taken on the job.” I said the her “Welcome, and you are safe here .” I woke up, it was daybreak. Packing up my belongings and shouldering my pack, I took the three hanged birds from the tree and walked the short distance to the river. I heaved these three birds, together, as far as I could out into the current, and calling them the “The Father, The Son and The Holy Ghost”, I watched them float away, out of my life. Then I turned and hiked towards the Badger Canyon.

51 At the house below the mountain abutting the south side of the Badger Canyon, the old lady, Agnes Wells, said to me “You are welcome to stay Ron, the Spirit told us you would be coming to live with us.” Alfred and Agnes Wells were Indian believers in Jesus, not Christianized Indians. They were medicine people. I discovered what that meant over a span of time exceeding the next twenty years. And after awhile, smoking dope was out of my life forever. It was early summer, 1977.

52 My Big Psychosis My view was of the prairie where it meets the foothills of the Rocky Mountain Front. When the dream came, all trace of western civilization was absent, this earth was unharmed by mankind. I was sitting on the ground, Indian style, facing the South. The wind was steady from the North West, sustained, yet not particularly strong, but with a gentle power, moving the native grasses in a continuous flutter that was perfect to behold. A small sagebrush, five or so feet in front of me, was alive with a supernatural energy that embodied the spirit voice of a nearly black Bison bull, standing, chewing its cud, only a few yards away to the East. For many hours, a time in which I did not become tired, bored or excited, but only knew a sense of well being and completion, the Bison instructed me in the nature of the Holy Woman, the Spirit of the Earth, and the powers of the Sage. Everything was taught in a very old dialect of Indian language that my spirit completely understood. When I woke up, I knew I had the power, the gift of knowledge was true. Now I only had to live my life in a certain way. No harm could come to me before my work was finished. If the anthropologists were ever to psychologically dissect the so-called ‘Vision Quest’, they could without a doubt arrive at the conclusion that the successful questing individual had experienced a severe episode of ‘psychosis.’ A medicine man that was schooled in the Anglo concept of psychology could easily describe a successful vision quest as the ‘Big Psychosis’ without experiencing any of the negative contexts of the term and without feeling compelled to prescribe anti-psychotic drugs. Au contraire. In the Medicine Mens’ world one prepares for the Big Psychosis as a matter of transformation to a more complete and evolved being. The only real qualitative differences between the Anglo psychosis and the Indians ‘Big Psychosis’ is the Indian expects it, is not afraid of it, plans to come out of it, and will spend the rest of their lives learning from it. Consequently, the embraced Indian memory of the event allows for a semi-psychotic vision or ability to see, ever thereafter. In other words, the event embraced rather than suppressed, allows for the utility of the right hemisphere of the brain in the waking state via an exercised subtle shift in consciousness, post Big Psychosis. So the successful quester can ‘dream state’ at will. And the Indian understands and recognizes this state for what it is and can differentiate between this state and a more ‘normal’ state. This is how the Medicine Men ‘see’ and are able to diagnose or divine, and come up with insightful answers and solutions to peoples problems. Effectively they have learned to read and heal peoples psyche, and the psyche takes care of the body. Typically the quester is instructed, sometimes for years prior to the event, in preparation. The quester is informed that the ‘evil ones’ (your ego, fears and everything in you that is ugly) will manifest first and you must remain steadfast against these things in order to accomplish arriving at the place of learning in your vision. For the true quester, actual psychosis is induced through thirst, hunger and privation and its attending chemical imbalances in the body. Via this artificially acquired near death experience, the ego breaks down and allows for what would have been previously abnormal traffic to occur in the brain. Barriers have fallen. Fear dies in your consciousness. Then the waking and dreaming states intermingle. You remember your training for this event and must remind

53 yourself that to follow the initial fantasies and move from your perch on the mountain precipice is lethal. These first fantasies are the false dreams. You sun and windburn in the day and freeze during the nights. But if you are lucky, if you are strong and persevere, you will see something bigger, and begin your journey on the road to knowledge. This is when the Sovereign I, the real self, your greater potential, manifests in the archetypal beings who instruct you in the ways of superior consciousness. This is your vision. Then you will be tested. That is your life that follows. My own fast was on the cliff of a mountain overlooking Badger Canyon just north of Heart Butte on the Blackfeet Indian Reservation in Montana, during the spring of 1978. My Big Psychosis lasted days, even weeks after I came off of the Mountain. I slipped in and out of an altered state as my learning circumstance demanded, and I finally came to settle down in a more ‘normal’ state after an incredible adventure (following story.) It was my old people, Alfred and Agnes Wells that set up my ‘Big Psychosis.’ Where I stayed with these old people, Badger Canyon and Heart Butte area were, up to the 1970’s, an isolated pocket of the old Indian world, far off the beaten track and had been accessible only by primitive dirt roads, old wagon roads, barely improved by the sparse grading of the trail. For much of the 20th century Heart Butte was literally cut off from the rest of the world due the primitive nature of access- winter with the roads drifted over with snow, and then high water making the fords these barely improved old wagon trails traversed impassable for stretches that lasted weeks on end. Long after the rest of the Blackfeet Indian world in Montana had been caught up by western civilization, largely due to this reservations proximity to Glacier Nation Park and the easements across the reservation of US Highway 2 and the Great Northern Railroad, Heart Butte had remained an off track and isolated hamlet largely untouched by the outside world. Here as a young man I discovered a world that was populated by people whose psyche had changed little since the days of their great Chief Three Suns, who had the difficult task of bringing his “Pagan” (the Baptist minister/Indian Agent of those days hated this man) band of Blackfeet into the captivity of the Whiteman. Settled into what became the village of Heart Butte, these people were luckier than many Indians, in some respect, not only were they camped out long term in close proximity to their ancient holy sites, the abode of their Heroes and Gods, they were also pretty much forgotten by Washington DC, and ignored by their Christianized fellow tribesmen that ran the Tribal Headquarters at Browning, Montana. So other than the few military veterans that domiciled in the village* and had seen the outside world in its larger context, here was a village population with a very cursory and out of context English language education, and little had changed socially for nearly a century. These people had remained Indians. The medicine men still pantomimed for Holy Hand game as the power animals they became in that ceremony, and in the other, related game, called stick game, the sorcerers (‘Witches’, as Floyd Heavy Runner describes them) practiced their open field combat with magic and spells as the game leaders attempted accurate divinations through the blocking spells protecting the ‘bones’ while power songs and hand drums made it all but impossible to hear during the big games at the stick game tournaments in Heart Butte’s little ‘Round Hall.’ In the surrounding area, there were a few truly wicked sorcerers who whiled away the years taking ‘shots’ at each other, entertaining themselves with the

54 powers they still knew from the generations of Indian magicians of the past. And it was through a circumstantial experience with this last, evil genius, that I first employed the power my ‘Big Psychosis’ had bestowed on me. *a couple of young white women from the outside once accosted by chance one of these Heart Butte veterans of the Korean war and asked him how to find the house where I stayed in this hamlet of 400 or so people. He told them with a straight face something like “Ron lives up on 103rd Street by the Civic Center.” When the girls burst out laughing, he smiled and gave them proper directions

55 Don’t Squeeze the Charming The old people, Alfred and Agnes, inadvertently caused a problem for me when they had stated their intention to leave me some land on the Little Badger- and one of the other potential heirs, one of my adopted brothers, took exception to this and began plotting to get me out of the picture. My brother Mickey was a ‘no good’ Indian, but a real Indian with admirable qualities none the less. He did everything the ‘Indian Way.’ Unbeknownst to me, Mickey went to one of these local old time sorcerers for a consultation on how to go about the business of getting this honky interloper, myself, out of the scene. I was back from my quest fast at this time, and staying with the extended family at a house in Heart Butte village. I had my ‘little rifle’, a 223 Remington, and on its stock, in brass tacks, I had put on my designs or symbols, after my fast. I could drill a coke can repeatedly at 100 yards with that rifle and those Indians knew it. I went to sleep one night and Mickey’s plan was revealed to me in my dream. Part of the dream revealed my bad brother looking for the symbols that gave me power, that he intended to take my rifle. Sneaking into the room where I slept and heading for the closet where I kept the gun, the plan was to shoot me with my own rifle and make it look like a suicide. Then my dream revealed to me how I would deal with the coming circumstance. I saw I would vanish with my ‘little rifle.’ I woke up and drank a cold cup of coffee that was beside my bed. The dream was clear, this was a soon to be implemented plan. It would happen on the second day. I waited throughout that day and after dark I sent the little rifle with one of my nephews over to some relatives house with instructions that it was to be secured by my sister in law, Carrie, a dependable woman. I slept well, comforted by the fact my dream had revealed to me what I had to do. The following morning my bad brother was acting differently than his lazy typical self. He organized, with a professional air, errands for everyone in the house except for myself. Mickey and his very businesslike machinations puzzled the old people, everyone was a bit surprised. Now, Mickey had to step out of view of my room’s door, briefly, while ushering out the others and returning inside to lock the door behind the last of the family having left the house. At the moment Mickey stepped out of my view, I sprang from my room and crossed the house, quickly, quietly, like a cat. As the door was opened at Mickey’s end of the house, I simultaneously opened the door at the other end of the house. As the door Mickey was at closed, I closed the other door, behind me, the door latches clicking shut at precisely the same moment, together, the sound of a single door closing. My bad brother never saw me leave, he had no idea I had left. I walked quickly away, I nearly turned my head for a glance over my shoulder but the voice in the dream was there to prevent a ‘gaze’ that might be intercepted and draw attention- “Don’t look back.” I only had moments to vanish from view. There was a dirt pile from an excavator just ahead of me, new housing was being built at that time, and striding less than a minute, I hopped over the dirt pile and lay down with my back resting on the mound, which concealed me from view. Moments after had I rested my head on a rock on that dirt pile, and heaved a sigh of relief, then it happened, the end of one dream, the one sleeping, and the beginning of another dream, this one waking. There was a sound like a pop and a terrible scream from far away, over the hill to the south of Heart Butte, beyond

56 the house I had just left. At that moment, it seemed all of the Heart Butte dogs jumped up as one, and barked in that direction, the same direction as the house I had just left. I stood and walked to my dependable sister-in-laws house not far away. As I walked, here came the Heart Butte dogs, together in a pack, squealing like pigs and biting at each other’s heels as they ran. As I approached the house of my sister in law, a small boy, Danny, was standing outside watching. His dog was beside him, completely normal, interested in a ground squirrel’s hole. Heart Butte looked deserted, no one else was out side, and all the windows had their curtains drawn. I visited with Danny for a few minutes and nearly went inside. But then I remembered.. and I turned and I waited. Around came the dogs again running in a formation something like a phalanx and by now making strange grunts, and obviously tired. In my mind I spoke to the dogs, or whatever was possessing them, a simple command, one word, “Out!” The pack broke up and the dogs dispersed, there was the sound of many small plaintive cries that diminished as the dogs went their several ways. Now, I went inside. I told my sister-in-law to send someone to check on my bad brother. Two young men were dispatched over to my bad brothers house and then soon returned with wide eyes. Another of my brothers, the young Chief Floyd, was sent for. After awhile I went back to my bad brothers house. He was no longer home. I asked Floyd where Mickey was and Floyd replied “I gave him ten dollars and told him to go get drunk.” Everyone was looking at me with wide eyes. It was quiet. I went to my room and it was turned upside down, all my belongings had been searched and left in a mess that had been produced by Mickey’s steadily increasing panic. Just a little while before, in my bad brothers mind, everything was planned perfectly and was coming off without a hitch. Mickey knew he had me just where he wanted me. But when Mickey made his move, I was not there, but had simply vanished. That was a shock. And as he soon discovered, I had vanished with the ‘little rifle.’ Now, in Mickey’s mind, I was in the house alone with him and I was armed. And Mickey did not know where in the house I was. He panicked. The rifle, it had to be there. It was not, his increasingly frantic search completely futile and now fear had gripped Mickey in his soul. I was nowhere to be seen from any vantage in the house, not from any window. I, and the little rifle, only moments before, had vanished, seemingly before his eyes. Now, in my bad brothers mind, I was stalking him. And, he believed, now it would be I who would be killing him. At that moment of realization, at that moment of his greatest fear, at that moment in Mickey’s imagination of my pulling the trigger and the ‘pop’ sound of the little rifle firing the fatal shot, that was the very same moment all the dogs had jumped up barking together, and my bad brothers sorcerer, who lived over the hill to the south of Heart Butte, picked that very moment to go insane. It was ‘Dream Time’, Mickey’s sorcerer and I were both acting out in dream time, and Mickey was the man in the middle. But Mickey’s sorcerer was not good enough. This sorcerer, rather what was left of him, was picked up that afternoon by an ambulance crew with a straightjacket and delivered to commitment for the insane. As another of my sisters-in-law put it, using the Indian description, “The snakes got him.” She seemed pleased. This sister-in-law, my bad brother’s wife, came in the house bragging that when a neighbor’s wife had called out to her “Better cut out the charming” she had replied “Don’t squeeze the charming” and was proud she could reply with something that cute.

57

A day or so later, my adoptive Blackfeet mother, Agnes, told me “Ron, you had better not be staying in Heart Butte. A lot of the people here are afraid of you.” So I was packing up to move north, to the Two Medicine River. While I was packing, I felt the clear presence of another old sorcerer, or perhaps he was just a fellow madman. I could ‘see’ him in close proximity. I moved to look out the window and sure enough, there he was, this old brujo who normally spent his days wandering the brush with his walking stick, talking to nearly anything except human beings, and as soon as I put my eyes on him through that window, he picked up his walking stick and sprinted like a young Olympian to get beyond my gaze, out of my sight. It was time to leave all right. I dropped what I had been packing and grabbed a yellow blanket and walked out of Heart Butte, north towards Badger. There was a softball game going on at the edge of the village and it came to a standstill as I walked by, everyone was staring at me. A car horn honked once. I popped open my yellow blanket over my head and brought it down over my shoulders and wrapped myself in a single motion as I kept walking. The softball game was frozen like a paused video. I walked out of sight and no one moved. Then, to all appearances, I had simply vanished. When an Indian friend, Bernie, later asked me how I had simply disappeared on the road north out of Heart Butte, and I told her, she was quiet for a moment, and then told me “When you manage to do something like that around Indian people, don’t ever let anybody know how you did it.” I will always remember Bernie’s advice. I did not return to Heart Butte for three years, and then, this first visit back was to say goodbye to Alfred, my adopted Blackfeet father and first teacher, as the old Indian exorcist lay on his deathbed. As I write this, I remember the old couple, Alfred and Agnes, had told me that their spirit had told informed them I would be arriving to stay with them before I had ever met a Blackfeet. Alfred died in the summer of 1981. The old lady retired from the healing practice, as they had always worked as a team. A retrospective note on this story would be that I am ever so grateful that my bad brother was a real Indian and in true Indian fashion consulted with a sorcerer to hatch a murder plot. This in itself was a fair means of making the event into a ‘medicine contest’ and allowed for me to respond with my own powers, however that might be. And it was a quite natural method for the ‘old’ Indians to proceed with a crime, everything had to be ‘covered’ by supernatural means. I met my bad brother again, as fortune would have it, the first time I ever took the leadership of a Stick Game. It was only natural that my bad brother, an experienced player of many years, would lead the opposing players on that occasion. A woman on the side opposing me, when she realized I would lead our team, said out loud “Oh, this will be easy.” I pointed to her team leader, my bad brother, and said “I’m not easy. Ask Mickey. He knows I am not easy.” Mickey gave me a look that told me he knew what I was referring to. We played all night and well into the morning. I never lost a game until it was time to go after 10AM. That woman left, stating as she departed, “He is a devil” (she was speaking of me.) My bad brother had not played since the first game of the night before when I had taken my first team leadership ever, and

58 skunked him. Mickey never won a stick. Between us, we understood that the gods had just made a final statement about our contest of 3 years before- on the day of the dogs. After, there was no animosity between us. We were two Indians that had had a contest. There was a clear winner. That was that.

59 The Chicken Feathers Shaking Tent After I left Heart Butte, I bounced around, off and on the Blackfeet reservation for a few years, and then landed in a house on the Two Medicine River, on the reservation again, below Lower Two Medicine Lake. It was right by the historic campsite of Rising Wolf (Hugh Monroe, a fascinating figure in Blackfeet History.) It was hard to find housing on the reservation but an acquaintance, the Rider, owned a house by the Glacier Park border which was just up on the side of Buffalo Mountain, not far away. This house had been abandoned for years, and was claimed by those local Blackfeet in the area that needed a party shelter. Basically what the Rider wanted from me was to take the house back and hold it. It was like a counter insurgency operation. I didn’t care, the Rider owned the property on paper and he said I could live there, and that was enough. I had a acquaintance, Peter, a bastard son of Jack Kerouac by a French Canadian girl from upper New England. He agreed to help me take and hold the house provided I would frequently give him a game of Chess. Done. We moved in, in January 1981, during a snap of –40 degree weather. We brought plenty of food, two woodstoves and a supply of firewood: and promptly became stormed in, snowbound. We had no running water. Baths in a metal washtub were very old by the time the ice was coming off the river. One late morning I built a fire on the river bank and then I jumped into the gently swirling pool, which was half covered with ice. The first leap was easy. However after I had submerged in the ice water, it was all I could do to make a u-turn and get out. I soaped up, standing on the bank. The second plunge, to rinse off, knowing now how cold it would be, seemed like one of the hardest acts I had had to perform in a very long time. After, standing by the fire while warming up, I saw my friend, Forrest Little Dog, walking down the gentle slope to the river. Forrest, in his four wheel drive, had broken through the last of the snowdrifts on the road out to the Two Medicine Lakes to check up on us, as we had not been seen for about six or more weeks. Forrest greeted me as I stood naked by the fire, except for a towel. “You’re crazy.” None of the locals knew we were in residence. But by the time the snow began to melt off in late February, it was obvious the house was both occupied and domiciled. Bosco, a particularly vicious Doberman Pincher, wore a roach like a Mohawk, with the hair standing on his back, to greet visitors. Inside the house were two very interesting people, an American French-Canadian that loved danger, and a veteran that just wanted to be left alone and did not otherwise give a damn. We played lots of Chess. It began with Indians with cases of beer and sleeping bags laying long, angry blasts of the horn from their pickup trucks they would not get out of because of the Doberman. We never acknowledged. The house stood silent, unresponding. Then one day the Doberman found a girlfriend and moved to town. Now it got serious. Not long after, some seriously pissed off Indians approached the front door, a few of them pretty big. But the ghost of Rising Wolf was on our side. One of the Indians kicked in the front door, and to greet them was not any person, but a copious amount of cayenne pepper was burning in a

60 pile… making a lot of smoke on a very hot woodstove, and after several breaths, the unwanted visitors alcohol slowed nerve synapses sent them reeling back outside. Now that was hardly fair, but the word was out. Strange, bad things were happening to the drunks that tried to come and take back the party house from the honkies. And I did not have to use the short double 12 gauge with magnum 00 Buckshot loads. Self defense, in those days, went up in increments in my book. Meanwhile, there were two very interesting crows in the valley. Peter initially pointed them out. Whenever there happened to be anyone in the valley within a half mile or so of the house, one crow would make a racket in the fir tree in the front yard, while the other crow would circle the visitors in the valley making a racket to draw our further attention. That was helpful and may have helped fend off further incidents by making the local partisans aware we were alerted to them. One late morning I was sleeping in and I was woken up by what was clearly the sound of a grouse drumming close to this same fir tree outside my window. Envisioning a fresh chicken breakfast, I stealthily retrieved a 410, and loaded birdshot. Sliding the window open, I looked for a grouse that was never there, and heard a cackle directly over my head. Looking up, I saw the crow perched on the eve looking back down at me. This ghost of Rising Wolf, pleased with his joke, let out a big laugh and flew off. Now, with the house recovered, my landlord the Rider’s cousin-in-law, Jim, showed up and without a bye-your-leave, started barging in unannounced with his entire entourage to use our house for his Shaking Tent lodges. Peter and I had put a lot of effort into not only capturing the house back, but also making it a decent place to live in. This new development did not set well with us. The Rider seemed sympathetic to our new circumstance but would do nothing, the Indian psychology of relationships sometimes prevents anything except to let a circumstance play itself out. To make the situation worse, Jim was racist and arrogant. On top of that, his Telescope Lodge- his ‘Shaking Tent’ ceremony, was fake. I had been to ‘Telescopes’ before and the old people had warned me about them. These present day Indian wannabee ceremonies, modern fakes of the authentic old time Spirit Lodges, were mostly used to shake down unsuspecting people, most typically other Indians who were bereft of their own culture. It is the Indian equivalent of the revival tent as portrayed by Steve Martin in ‘Leap of Faith.’ And Jim was as flamboyant a telescope man as Steve Martin was an evangelist in the movie. Jim’s reputation was so bad with the other medicine men that he had picked up the sobriquet ‘the Reverend Jim Jones’ of Jonestown (Guyana) fame. In Jim’s facsimile of the Shaking Tent or Spirit Lodge, generally a large room is required that can have tarps and boards nailed onto door and window frames, no problem, our house fit that description. The purpose of this is to make a room so pitch black that you cannot see your hand in front of your face. Then the light bulbs are removed from the fixtures so there cannot be an accidental light shed on what is happening. Then the shamman, sometimes with planted accomplices and/or pre recorded speeches in Indian language via hidden device that must be ‘translated’, puts on a show of spirits in the dark. The Reverend Jim Jones liked to have himself tied up like Houdini out of doors before the lights went out. The spirits freed him and brought him into the room. The windows in

61 the room had to be boarded up but only a tarp covered the room’s entry. After the spirits brought Jim into the house, he put on a real dog and pony show in the dark. The whole business was stink. This went on several times at our house. Peter and I studied Jim and his methods. Although he made a great show of locking the other doors and windows in the house, those windows and doors exterior to the boarded up and tarped shut room, before he was tied up out of doors and made his miraculous entry, somehow there was always left unlocked a particular window in my bedroom- the one closest to the head of my bed, this also was the one window that was not too high to access from the out of doors. About the fifth time Jim showed up, there was a set beaver trap under my bed, close to beneath that window. The chain attached to the trap was lag bolted to a stud in the wall. There was a bath towel covering the trap. While Jim was being tied up outside, I was going to slide the beaver trap out from under the bed to directly under the window. This time, when the spirits brought Jim in, they would be taking him no further than this window, and his screams would then bring the people to him. There was a bright full moon. Jim decided not to be tied up outside after all. Peter was there with plan B. Between Shaking Tent Lodges, Peter had darkened the room for himself and paced this room by the numbers, from where he typically sat on a small pillow on the floor with his back to the wall. He became expert at knowing where he was in relation to Jim in the dark. The furnishings were always cleared out for these events and the cloth covered willow framework with sleigh bells attached, from whence the Shaking Tent takes its name, was always built in the same corner of the room. That was Jim’s lair. On this occasion, Jim had one of his assistants solemnly explain that the spirits were transporting Jim to Manitoba, Canada, to do battle with a wicked sorcerer, and that a Clown Eagle Spirit would be in the room with us to give us a blow by blow accounting of the battle. He got the clown part right. Jim’s Eagle Spirit never stood a chance against Peter. Jim was tied up. The light bulbs were removed from the fixtures. There is a rising murmur of prayer for the safety of Jim, it has been explained Jim is not sure he will survive this battle (He didn’t.) There are more than thirty Indians in the room with us. No sooner than Jim was free of his bonds (which utilized a trick knot which caused his bindings to really seem like they miraculously fell away), and was up screaming in his falsetto Clown Eagle voice, then Peter met him with his little pillow clutched in his fist and with a full force blow to Jim’s face. Everybody heard the muffled Whump! simultaneous to the Clown Eagle going silent. And then it was REALLY SILENT for what seemed a long time. Jim was back from Manitoba now, and his voice sounded abnormal and curt when he called for the light bulbs. Now the lights were on. The Reverend Jim Jones, whose face had a puffy look, said nothing as he began bagging up his ceremonial accoutrements, preparing to depart. There was nothing he really could say, after all, this Reverend Jim Jones, by his own account, had been in Manitoba when Peter had punched the clown in the face. Jim left. Indians stood around, not saying a lot. One here, two there, they began to leave too. Buster Yellow Kidney, a Sun Priest, came and shook my hand on his way out. He said nothing, only nodded. Then Forrest Little Dog approached me to say: “Some people have been waiting for this to happen for a long time.”

62 I heard the story retold, a couple of hundred miles away at Fort Belknap, a few months later. By this time, according to this new folk version of the event, I had cut open a pillow in the dark and covered Jim, the Clown Eagle, in Chicken Feathers. If I had been the main player, and plan A had come off, Jim most certainly would have had a broken leg. It was Peter that got it right. This ‘chicken feathers shaking tent’ episode got the attention of Pat Kennedy, a medicine man whose lifelong dedication has been the preservation of the authentic ways of his people. Pat went out of his way to befriend me ever after, and closely tutored me in the Ghost religion of his people for the next ten years- until my life took a different direction. Pat and I remain close friends to this day. My adventures with Pat, in the next phase of my Indian life, were no less amazing. But before I moved over to Starr School, to study with Pat, I met a Norwegian.

63 A Reincarnated Blackfeet Discovers Her Roots (A Norwegian we named Bear Meat) If life can be an obviously transformed experience, the sweat was a common thread of that for many years, in many people’s lives. It shifts the balance in your psychology. But for some people the shift is devastating. This is the story of a lady we named ‘Bear Meat.’ It is also about a unique sweat experience. It was a sweat lodge on the wrong side of the law. Before I was clearly persona non grata in the ‘telescope’ community, on account of the Chicken Feathers Shaking Tent episode, I was asked to come down and go to a sweat. It would have been impolitic to under the circumstance to say, "No, I don't want to sweat with you." It was just one of those touchy human relationships. I had not yet broken off all close relationships with Indians that practiced the ‘Telescope’ rites. I guess I would call the modern telescope men the half-wit sorcerers of the Indian world, because they are not entirely devoid of culture; they can move energy- the problem is that they can move dark energy more than anything else. And these numerous fakes of the authentic Spirit Lodges of the old times have been basically responsible for the death of the real thing. Many Indians won’t go there anymore. At any rate, a well-known telescope man from the south of the reservation had just recently died. They were burying him within a day or so. So this really famous telescope man was waiting to be laid in his grave, and there's a telescope sweat going on at the north side that I've been invited to, but don't want to go to, and I'm trapped. I live near to the location of this particular sweat lodge, and the Indians that use it always stop and see if they can catch me to come over for a sweat. This time they caught me at home. So, I said, "Okay, I'll be there." At this time, there happens to be a White woman from Norway staying with me, who's been told by some famous psychic in the north of Germany, Johanna, that she's a reincarnated Blackfeet, so now she's here discovering her roots. God knows that her guardian angel was holding out hope for this naive little girl (who was probably 22-years-old), she was channeled through the real world to me, to my place on the Two Medicine. We remember her by her Indian Name, Bear Meat. I said to her, "Okay, you want to find out about Indians, so let's go find out." We got down to the sweat and she could not go in: fear stopped Bear Meat at the door. I was uncomfortable with the whole way that this thing was unfolding, but there was nothing that I could do, I had to go in. So I went in. What I now encountered shows you how degenerate the telescopes are, here in the modern Blackfoot culture, the men and women are smoking the pipe and sweating together; no different than the wannabe Indian White people. Change the color of the skin and you don't see any difference as far as ceremonial integrity. But I went in. There were a couple of women outside who were observing the moon taboo. We’re singing telescope songs, calling in their gossiping spirits, of all things. I hate it. So they're calling in their spirits, and an unheard of thing happens. The women on the outside are pounding on the sweat shouting "Open up, open up!" Interfering with a ceremony, breaking it. You never see this happen! I've never seen it happen before or since in twenty-five years. So the main man says, "Open it." The women outside are saying "Ron, you better get out here, your White woman's gone crazy." I said, "What?" "She's gone crazy, she's gone out of her mind and she's ran off into the woods." I said, "Excuse me guys." I didn't say what I was thinking, „I really didn't want to be here anyway.“ I step out of the sweat and here comes this girl, this little blond Norwegian thing, stumbling out of the woods, stumbling like a

64 drunk, her eyes are practically rolled back in her head, and she's drooling. I get a hold of her and I try to shake her into awareness, to focus on me and the fact that I was there talking to her. I was getting nowhere fast. The Indian women were all freaked out. The men have the sweat lodge door shut again and are going to town with their songs because they don't want to deal with it. What kind of medicine men are these? Bear Meat couldn't sit up in the seat of my truck, and I had to put her on the floorboard and drive her up to the house from the river bottom. I carried her inside, laid her down, and looked. I was confronted with somebody who was obviously experiencing something that needed to be dealt with right now. I'm sitting there for a moment and I'm thinking fast. And I remember the old man, Alfred, my first teacher who had died only a few months before. I had this medicine that was from him, and he was an Indian exorcist. I got it out, opened it up, put some on my hand, and I started working, rubbing the oily substance into her head, across her brow, down her nose, her cheekbones, her temples, and then cradling her head from behind, I started talking to her. And she started coming around. In a little while I had her sitting up. I made hot mint tea for her to drink. And then she told me her story. She said that when the singing began in the lodge--bear in mind the sorcerer who just died was a famous rival telescope man to these people-- she said she fainted but then became aware she was in the talons of a large eagle, and she could see my truck, the sweat lodge, the women outside the door, getting smaller and smaller as she was being taken higher and higher. That's all she remembered until she came to, where I was working on her. The conclusion of Pat Kennedy, a medicine man I had recently met and came to trust, was that the recently deceased telescope man was hanging around and angry at these local rivals (telescope men generally fought and tried to kill each other with native witchcraft, but mostly failed) and the angry dead medicine man wanted to take something with him, and this woman was the easy unprotected item that he could steal. There's nothing much more transpersonal than that. But that is not the intended use of the sweat lodge according to the old laws given by the ancestors. The sweat cannot be used to cause harm or for gossip and malicious practices without breaking these ancient laws. The really interesting part of this experience to me is actually about the oily medicine that disentangled the Norwegian from the eagle’s talons, and brought her back. My adopted Indian father, the old Indian exorcist Alfred Wells, who had already died, still was strong in the medicine.. the little bit that I had. This Norwegian lady didn't last long in Indian country. She had decided she was an Inca after her Blackfeet experiences. Anyway, when she left, I heard she headed for Peru. That was in late summer, 1981. The circumstance of Bear Meat leaving was the result of probably the best joke ever played on me by an Indian. I had Bear Meat staying in a tipi outside the house simply because she was too dangerous to keep inside. I will give you an example. A box of live 22 caliber ammunition had somehow fallen off of an end table and spilled. The young lady was cleaning up, nobody was watching, in fact I was engrossed totally in a game of Chess with Peter. So nobody noticed when Bear Meat swept up the live ammunition and emptied the contents of her dustpan into the Franklin stove, open like a fireplace, which was full of burning embers. All I remember is that Peter and I hit the floor when the rounds of ammunition started exploding. Bullets were bouncing off the walls and ceiling. We knew what it was, gunfire, we just did not know where it was coming from. Bear

65 Meat had just stood there and miraculously was not hit. Then she launched into me, furious about the live ammo on the floor, because in her thinking the ammunition had to be spent to be lying around like that. In fairness, I guess I should not expect Bear Meat would have known the difference between live and spent rounds, but then I got to thinking that next she would be putting a gas cylinder in the kitchen woodstove to keep the fire going. So I gave her a tipi to live in outside. But after this, the Indians were deadly afraid of her and what she might do. Obviously, in the Indian way of thinking, and word was out about the sweat and what had happened there, this woman was nearly, if not completely mad. And truthfully, I had a little sympathy for that point of view as well. But I was not giving up on this girl that easily, I just did not want to turn her out in what could be a very dangerous reservation. I felt responsible for her. So there was a conspiracy hatched by my Indian friends to get rid of her. One day the Ojibwa Sun Priest, Kenny Gopher who was a friend of mine, drove in unannounced. I was really glad to see him and honored he would go many miles out of his way to come and visit me. Coincidently I had half a dozen other visitors show up the same day and we were all just hanging out. Kenny told me “Pisu [Mountain Lion, my Cree name], I have brought Moose meat from Canada, make me some stew.” So I immediately busied myself in the kitchen and came out with the stew after a little while, and Kenny wolfed down all of two bites while already moving towards the door in what seemed like an incredible hurry, and stating “Come visit me at Rocky Boy”, he was out the door and roaring out the driveway.. while I was wondering what on earth was going on. Next thing that happens is this Norwegian woman is in my face accusing me of trying to kill her. Several Indians are leaving while nearly dying laughing and only Peter is there to tell me what is going on, what’s happening. The Norwegian is by this time demanding a ride to Helena to stay with friends she suddenly has remembered. I tell her no problem, and she has gone out to pack up in the tipi. And now, I can finally hear the story of what has happened while I was making the stew. My friend Kenny, a tall, imposing and sincere appearing Indian, has been inquiring after the Norwegians story while I was making the moose stew. When it came to the part where I had her living outside in the tipi, Kenny appeared sincerely horrified. And then deeply saddened. Now, Kenny informed her that I had greatly disappointed him and that she was actually in very real danger, that the story here, according to Kenny, was I had her living in my tipi outside to see if I could tempt the Grizzly Bears to take her as a sacrifice which would help me to gain great power. Then he looked at her with the deepest concern, as only the greatest of Indian actors could, and told her “Grizzly Bears love White women.” And that is why she will always be remembered in Indian Country as ‘Bear Meat.’

66 Brockett Pow Wow I traveled with Pat Kennedy on the Pow Wow road in the summer of 1982, to get to know him better. I had just met him that previous spring after the ‘Chicken Feather Shaking Tent’ episode, when he had asked to use my home to host his Giveaway Dance (Ghost Religion.) In the summertime, in those days, Pat was a Pow Wow singer and in fact was widely know in Indian Country as one of the great composers of traditional Indian songs. Pat was a complete teacher of all things truly Indian. His fame allowed him, as a singer, to travel with a very small core of supporting cast because he was able to pick up good singers at any Indian celebration or event that knew his widely used songs where ever there were Indians in the western states generally. Nearly always, there was a neophyte that wanted to learn and to sit with Pat was the ultimate experience. Pat would let nearly any young Indian sit down to learn to sing but they were always warned: “If you fuck up, the whole world is gonna know.” That was a reference to the fact that when Pat’s group sang, Indians surrounded his drum with tape recorders. Generally it was only the young men who had acquired more than a modicum of skill that dared to attempt singing with Pat. His drum group moniker was ‘The Starr School Singers.’ Such was Pat’s reputation that nobody dared to question him when the Whiteman Ron West was allowed to sit with the group, and learn from scratch to sing Pow Wow music that summer. Towards the beginning of August I was beginning to get the hang of drumming and singing the traditional music, Sneakup Dance, Slow War Dance, Grass Dance, Prairie Chicken Dance, Owl Dance, Round Dance.. it was incredible music, and it required more skill than I had ever imagined. It required a lot of me to separate out the drum time from the song cadence, which seemed unrelated, and to understand how they mesh. It was really tough for me to get them simultaneously correct. But I did it. It amazed me to see Pat switch his drumstick from one hand to the other, mid song, and not drop a beat. Now Pat had decided I was ready, and he kept me with the group for a traditional competition on the Skinni Pikuni (Blackfeet) Reserve at Brockett, Alberta, Canada. This would be different than the typical Pow Wow singing, because there was competition between the several drum groups to be judged by the elders in old law of the Indians. I did not really know at the time just what all that would entail. Friday evening the competition began. The several drums put out their best, if it was a War Dance, the group assigned to sing for that dance would strive for perfection, choosing technically difficult songs, and not a single beat could be off, which required that every one of the 6-10 singers at a given drum had to coordinate their strikes to a precision that not only required the distraction of having to get the vocal cadence right, but the beat of the drum had two elements; correct timing to the vocal and, in our case, eight drumsticks together were required to sound as though they were a single strike, one stick, every beat. For the Social Dance songs, whether Round Dance or Owl Dance, Pat chose the prettiest possible songs. None of them were easy for me. I sweat it through every song that first evening of the 3 day competition, but it all went right. I could visibly see every Indian at the drum relax when we finished our last song of the night. Nobody said anything.

67 Saturday afternoon, when the competition resumed, I was more confident. I was the only member of our group that did not have years of drumming/singing experience, everyone else I was sitting with at our drum was professional caliber at what we were doing. This was big competition in a special sense. Only a few drums, those deemed ultimately professional by Indian standards, dared to compete in the old style rules governing this contest. There was not a journeyman to be seen at the other drums, only pros, and it was obviously remarkable that Pat, arguably the best of the best, would have a neophyte sitting in for this event. Between songs that afternoon, I was picking the brains of the other Indians singing with us, trying to get a grasp of what the ‘old law’ of the Indians meant in relation to the rules governing this contest. Pat had only stated “It means that anything can happen.” Dean Plume, a Blood Indian, told me just a little more. Dean explained that it was not enough to be technically perfect drumming and singing. The old people judging would be watching to see what else went on.. there was a lot to watch out for, and comportment was a big part of it. A specific Dean told me about the comportment part was that the old people were also judging us on whether we broke any of the old laws of social behavior in ceremony. Suddenly I thought I understood the reason why this competition was much more serious in demeanor. The typical joking around of the singers was low key between songs. Pat never once poked his drumstick in one singers crotch, and then held it up under another singers nose. The afternoon singing competition was intense. The other drums sensed I was inexperienced and upped the ante with their most technically difficult work much earlier that would otherwise be the norm. If they could knock out Pat with a mistake on my part, and get us a point deduction, their chances of winning would markedly improve. I was holding my own, but just barely, and I knew I was in trouble. Just before supper break, we had to sing again. The preceding drums in the latest round of competition had just soundly challenged our drum and we had to really show our stuff, the last song before the break. Pat selected the most difficult of songs for me when he told our group “Sneakup Dance.” The dancers were ready. Our sticks struck the drum as one and became a single stick together in the incredible rapid staccato beat to start the song and the dancers to shake their bustles. Then the critical pause. Now the slow and deliberate pace of drumming that picks up slowly, starts slow war dance but then steadily increasing speed, quick pause, sharp strike, staccato again. After the four required mistake free renditions the song requires a perfect finish and I blew it, I overbeat a single stroke, coming down with a strike as my drumgroup has their sticks all pointed in unison towards the sky, the song was already finished. I was crushed. Pat just said “Well, Shit.” We broke up for supper. After the supper break, all of the pressure was off. We sang and drummed songs we all knew well and that I had no trouble with: we were really good but it did not matter- and that was what made it easy. I got through the evening session with out making a technical mistake.. and little did I know that I earned us all insurmountable points as a drum group in the competition, when what seemed to me an incredibly stupid event occurred. Between our song assignments, and when another drum had just begun an Owl Dance, an obviously drunk woman arrived at where we were sitting, standing just behind me, my

68 back was to her, and demanded a Dance. I had just blown it for our group in the competition and my just rewards now followed. Every drumstick was pointed at me. So I stood up and turned around, took the woman’s right hand with my left, palm to palm, with my right arm around her waist we were Owl Dancing in the center, alone together, before she even realized she was dancing with a honky. She started to break away, but I had had it with myself over the way the evening had gone already, and refused to be embarrassed again with her walking away, I hung on to her and told her she was going to finish the dance she had started and that I didn’t give a damn what she thought. She caved in initially and we were dancing but then the woman suddenly stated “There’s my husband!” and really pulled hard to get out of my embrace. I thought it was a ruse to stop dancing with a Whiteman and refused to let go, she kept pulling away, and now we were both doing a drunken reel all over the dance arena, and the drum that was playing made a mistake because one of its strikers broke down laughing at us, together with the entire crowd in attendance, with the exception of the woman’s husband who was indeed there after all. Finally, after what seemed eternity, the song was over and I let the woman go who really ran away fast, and I went to sit down at our drum. No sooner was I in my chair and there was a mad Indian standing beside me saying “Hey Honky, how would you like to fight?” Before anybody else could say anything I replied “I will be at the Stick Game after the dance.” I did not give a damn, still. I was not mad, I just didn’t give a damn. Then Dean Plume, who happened to be the man’s distant cousin, said to him “Why don’t you take a hike.” He left. Meanwhile, Al Potts, a Blackfeet Chief and one of our singers, had been off to grab a cheeseburger and coke during our turn between songs, and the wild dance was transpiring as he walked back to our drum. Watching this crazed Owl Dance between me and a drunk partner I had never before met, his head turned to take it all in as he reentered the arena, Al strode himself squarely into one of the pillars supporting the awning over the spectator seating, losing both cheeseburger and coke and nearly knocking himself out in the process- to the additional roar of mirth from the crowd. As promised, I went to the ongoing stick games after the evening dance session, and sat with one of my Skinni Pikuni relatives, Devalon Small Legs, and bought into the game. I could see the drunk woman’s husband, who did not appear to be drunk, standing off to one side seeming in deep conversation with another Indian I did not know. I do not know to this day why he did not follow up his challenge to me then and there, whether it was because he was warned not to, or what. But it never happened. However, while I was waiting to see how it would play out, a beautiful Blackfeet woman, her name was Jo Ann, came by and in front of everyone at the stick game said “Ron, go with me” and disappeared in the dark in the opposite direction. I was hiding the bones while playing the game. I could have dropped the bones right there and followed her and I would have been married into this tribe. But I didn’t. I did not want to be seen as a coward that had run away from a challenge. God, did that seem dumb after the fact. I regretted the missed opportunity for years. Sunday was the final day of the competition. We put out a flawless performance in the final session that afternoon. And then to my complete and total amazement, our group, the Starr School Singers, were announced as Champions of the competition. We were up, all of our singers, dancing the obligatory Victory Dance. What had happened was the

69 traditional rules governing the contest recognized events surrounding me that I was not even cognizant of the rules applying to. I had entertained the crowd, embarrassed a chief (Al) without malice, observed the law you cannot say no to a woman who asks you to Owl Dance, did not let the woman break the law by walking away from the dance she initiated, did not get mad, did not back down from a challenge, and whether or not I had run off with Jo Ann, that was just my choice. In short, I won more points than I lost with my drumming mistake. But I apologize to Jo Ann, after all of these years, there was a mistake I made, it just fell outside the rules.

70 The Stick Game “Considering the Stick Game, each time you pick up the Bones, you take your life in your hands.” Floyd Heavy Runner I had a Love/Hate relationship with many of the Indian Stick Game players, some loved that the fact I could play the game, and win, and some hated the fact that I did it as a Whiteman. Sort of like the rise of American Soccer chipping away at one of the last domains where Mexico has ruled over an American nation that has historically humiliated them in so many respects. To some of the Indians, it was the same feeling at Stick Game, my skill at the game just hurt them, what would the Whiteman take next, there was damn little left that he had not already grabbed. I have little sympathy for that point of view, and it misses the point as concerns me. This simply was a game that I loved. On the other hand, there were Indians that thoroughly enjoyed the fact that I would, time to time, take the ‘Point’, or leadership of a team, and destroy the opposition, game after game, throughout the course of a night. These Indians were the ones that did not get caught up in the Red/White politic, but were purely into the technical detail of the game, the game for the sake of the game, and admired my skill. Skill and winning was all that mattered. And that is the approach of the better Stick Game players. Stick Game, closely scrutinized, analyzed in its totality, could fascinate or disturb a lot of white people, for diverse reasons. Giving the anthropologists something to think over, Stick Game is identical in its mathematical principle and cultural application, to the values of the I Ching, the Bones values representing the old & young Yin & Yang, and the divination revealing the relationships of Man to the movement of energy in Nature. I realized these people are identical to the Taoists in their theory of the world -as it applies to this game- and the game is, culturally speaking, an elder brother of the oracles of Chinese Civilization. The Whiteman’s physical scientists could consider the games ability to shred their laws of mathematical probabilities, when a team goes on a winning streak, perhaps leaving their physicists stumped. The 900 toll number telephone psychics, and the new age channels, could give up their fraud and amateur efforts, respectively, in exchange for the real thing at Stick Game, and they would not stand a chance. And among many other natural phenomena they freak out over, the Evangelists can freak out over the Sorceries, or Witchcraft, associated with the game. Stick Game has replaced Inter-Tribal Warfare and Horse Stealing as the equivalent of the Olympics in the Western tribes of native North America. The game is everything in the Indian world that is not Western or White. It epitomizes the pre-western, aboriginal method of thought. This Stick Game chapter will seem perhaps a bit tedious to some in the first several pages.. but the intent here is not only to tell the stories but to actually teach the basics of this ancient aboriginal divination. A bit of perseverance in these first pages pays off well in subsequently following the stories of the game itself.

71 Stick Game takes its name from the sticks that are employed as a sort of chit- keeping, the tally of points earned or deducted. Other names for the game, in various forms and applications are; Bone Game (for the bits of bone used in the games required divinations); Hand Game (after the players hands hiding the bones); Feather Game (aka Holy Hand Game, for the requirement to interpret the divination by a special feather attached to a divining stick- a variation more typical of formal decision making in a religious context); or just Game. Most Stick Game is played in a common gambling and entertainment form. In this form, you will find the open field combat of the Medicine Warriors, the Witches and the Sorcerers. This is the form of the game that I loved. The mechanics of the game may seem simple. It is not a simple game. I knew the game well in two forms, Blackfeet style and, more importantly, Flathead style: Flathead style is the most common inter-tribal form used at most of the common, or ‘open’ gambling games, regardless of the games tribal location. So I will talk about the Flathead style, because if you visit a western states pow wow, and see this game in public, chances are that Flathead style is the game you would see being played. ‘Taking the Point’ is leading a side in a game. A ‘Point’ is making a divining choice. The ‘Pointer’, is the leader of your war party, and makes the guesses, leads the singing or designates a song leader, chooses your teams hiders, the ones that will conceal the ‘Bones’, in short, the Pointer is the chief of your team for that game. Traditionally this leader keeps the ‘Point’, so long as he or she continues to direct winning play of the game. If there is a loss, in any given game, more often than not, the leader, which had led a team to defeat, will surrender the ‘Point’ to another player for the next game. Usually the change of point follows some informal seniority order within the group making up that team. A typical game kit is 11 sticks, five each with identical designs but different colors and a ‘Kick’ stick that incorporates the design in both colors, and two sets of Bones: each set of Bones has one marked Bone, and one unmarked Bone. Each Bone set must generally follow these specifications: Each Bone must be easily concealable in a fist, and the marked Bone must be clearly marked and easily differentiated from the unmarked Bone. To begin a game, the two team leaders face off, each with one set of Bones from their respective game kits. Now the two leaders play for the ‘Kick’ stick. Each of them hides their bones in their fists, perhaps placing their hands behind their backs or under their shirt to conceal from the other which Bone went to which hand. But now they must reveal their respective fists clutching the Bones for the other to see, perhaps placing their fists on their knees, or holding them in front of their bodies, arms crossed. Now with gestures of a fist or head, they guess each other, each looking for the unmarked Bone of the other. If necessary, they will guess again and again, until one has guessed correctly and the other has missed with his guess. Then the game begins. Whoever wins the Kick, their team has the absolute advantage to start the game. The Kick winner’s game kit is used, their sticks and bones will be played. The other puts his Bones and sticks away. The Kick winner hands, or tosses to the other team, five of his sticks. Then he puts the Kick

72 stick, already won, away. Each team leader now, sometimes very ritualistically, arranges the five sticks per team on the ground between the teams, these ten sticks belong to the earth, and neither team is in real possession of them yet. The Kick winning team is already drumming and singing. They presently possess both sets of Bones. I have played in games with 200 players and singers, and 30 or 40 hand drums, back in the 1970’s, when Stick Game was still really big. The teams’ array face to face in long horizontal lines. There is probably about a ten foot ‘no mans land’ between them. At the richer tribes, I have seen as much as US$18,000 wrapped in a large scarf, or a shawl, lying on the ground between the teams, the collective wager for a single game. Often these games largely represented, in their makeup, the historical warfare between the differing tribes. Often times, the older songs employed in these games represented accounts of past victories against the foes they were facing. Now the Kick winning leader, perhaps standing up to better survey who is present and playing for him, decides who will hide the Bones for his team. He will take his time to choose, and then delivers the Bones to his hiders. By this time, the opposing team leader is perhaps looking deliberately disinterested in his opponents magical incantations, acted out in pantomime with the Bones. Fists clutching Bones, especially in the hands of the women, are sometimes doing something akin to Hawaiian Dance moves, as the singing and drumming team taunts him, daring him to guess. He can take his time, but he must make a choice. A game can last ten minutes. A game can last ten hours. You never know what to expect. The Point in this initial run of the game presents 4 possibilities, looking at the drumming and singing Indians facing him, the diviner, the Chief of the team that wants to win the Bones to his side, must first make an accurate determination of what he is faced with. He knows the mechanics, his Point must be either the ‘Outside’, the fists facing him in that choice would be the right hand of the hider facing him on his left and the left hand of the hider facing him to his right, the ‘Middle’, the fists of the arms between the hiders facing him, opposite of the previous, or, he must call open both the left fists or both the right fists of the hiders on the team presently singing. One guess, two hiders. He must find the unmarked Bone of each. He points his right forefinger to the ground directly to his front and nods affirmation, his guess is the Middle, and the hiders must open their hands and reveal the Bones. Both hiders suddenly bring their fists together, they have been caught, the singing stops, he has won the Bones. The Bones are thrown across the no-mans-land to the man that just made this first Point, now his Indians begin to sing, but only the Bones have been won, and with them the right to hide, the sticks have not moved from the ground. It is like winning the serve in Volleyball, there is no score on the exchange. Now the circumstance of play is reversed between the teams. Now the pointer who had won the Kick is faced with divining, his opposition is singing and taunting, the drums are loud, and in this incredible din he must be able to find his sight, be able to see the unmarked Bones through the concealment and bring them back. He makes his shot, extending his right arm, forefinger pointing directly off to his right, he has guessed both opposing players left hands when he adds the required affirmation to his

73 guess, in this case he simply shouts above the din, Hey!, the opposing hiders, both women, chirp “Ki –yi-yi-yi, and the entire singing team is instantly frenzied, fingers shaking to the beat at the guesser who has just missed both the hiders’ positions with his guess, the opened hands revealing his mistake for all to see, he has guessed the marked Bones, he reaches to the ground and picks up two sticks, throwing them across the nomans-land to the singing team, their hiders have ‘ducked’, bones and hands concealed from view as they prepare the bones positions, they are entitled to hide again, now the fists emerge back into to view, the singing team is animated now, singing loudly together, these women hiders are experts. The Pointer looks at the ground trying to block out the noise, and gather his concentration. Now the Pointer must decide if the women hiders have ‘stayed’, or if they have ‘run’ with the Bones, he has to guess them both again, and deciding both women have changed hands with the unmarked Bones, believing they have ‘run’ he makes the identical guess as before, again both women give the Ki-yi-yi-yi, bringing their team to its feet, now standing, dancing in place to drums, sing and play, they are on a roll, the women exhibit their open hands, neither unmarked Bone had been moved, they had both ‘stayed’, the Pointer had guessed the two marked Bones again. The pointer again picks up two sticks and throws them across to the singing team and then gestures to the singing team that he has passed the next guess to a woman sitting next to him, perhaps this woman can divine the women hiders. The hiders have ducked and now the fists come out again, inviting another mistaken point. Now this newly designated woman Pointer is the focus of the taunts, as she attempts to concentrate on making a good point. She closes her eyes and places her face in her hands, elbows on her knees sitting in a folding chair, she looks without physical sight for the bones and ‘sees’ the younger woman has run, she has switched the Bones positions in her hands, but she cannot ‘see’ the older woman’s Bones, her ‘sight’ is blocked, she can only guess. Eyes open and looking now, she attempts the physical sight scrutiny of the older hider. Nothing is revealed. Still she can only guess. Suddenly this woman makes up her mind and points to the ‘Middle’ and nods her affirmation that this is indeed her decision, the younger woman throws her bones across, busted, but the other woman hider again gives the Ki-yi-yi-yi opening her hands to reveal the mistake.* Now the woman pointer throws one stick across and give the set of Bones she has won back to her original team leader. The singing team is sitting again, all eyes are on their remaining hider, will she run?, will she stay?, the original pointer takes the single set of bones and ducks with them, it appears he will guess her one on one in the same style as is sometimes used to win the Kick stick. Now he comes out with his fists and holding his fists in the air, he shouts Hey! Notifying the hider he has decided.. but she will not show, she shakes her head in the negative, he must open his hands first, he put his hands back under a blanket on his lap, as though undecided, but this woman knows all the technical detail of the game, the obscure rules, she has called his bluff, his hands had concealed nothing, a trick, but she did not bite and he looks foolish now, and actually that was his intention for her, to make her look foolish and break her rhythm. His confidence is shaken. He gives the Bones, this set presently employed for the purpose of guessing, back to the woman that had won them, but she has seen his confidence shaken, and that pulls her confidence down too. But she makes the guess, holding her hands extended, palms up with a bone in each, and with her trademark nod in the affirmative, this is her guess, and the woman hider is chirping again Ki-yi-yiyi, and the singing team’s leader now reaches down and picks up a stick from the ground

74 in from of him, there are only four sticks left on the ground, some of his singers are now waving ‘bye-bye’ in their taunts at the opposition that cannot divine their woman hiding the Bones. Now many of the players on the guessing team, not having drummed or sang since winning the Kick, are looking glum or serious, being taken down from the get-go in a game is unlucky, embarrassing. Now the set of Bones with the guessing team is passed, guess by guess, to different players trying to stop the woman hider on the singing team and with each mistake another stick is picked up from the ground by the singing team, until all are gone. Now the guessing team has only the Kick stick to defend. The pointer pulls it out and stabs the Kick stick into the ground like a stake. He throws the bones, his own Bones that have failed him, onto the ground, and points his forefinger in the direction the Bones indicate the guess.. wrong again, the game is over. Finished. The winning team jumps on the bet, matched amounts of money, waiting in the no-mans-land. It may have lasted 15 minutes. * with the information provided up to this point, you now have all the necessary knowledge to determine on which side each hider is facing you, old or young, your left or your right, and in which hand each held the unmarked bone for this guess. Can you sort it out? The preceding description is a general picture of the game, as I have seen it played many times, and describes what happens when a team of journeyman players runs into a set of crack players. This has happened, much as described above, countless times. But it is the exception, not the rule. There is no typical game, games last 30 minutes, an hour, 2 hours, 10 hours (I hated those games.) It is a matter of not only skill, it is about collective will. I am not going to give up all of my Stick Game secrets, the old Medicine Ways shared with me, here. What point, example given, would there be in telling you that the white, very old wild dog shit, Coyote shit from the prairie, is good protection against a particular kind of Indian witch at Stick Game, when that same Indian witch, when not sitting opposite me at Stick Game, is my friend? I mostly won’t go there, the where’s, whys and how’s of that. Anyway, that sort of thing is truly dangerous, if you do not know how to read the context of the sorceries going on in a given game, something like that little piece of crap can, in a manner of speaking, explode in your face. But there is plenty I can, and will tell. Some of it perhaps useful to a player that might read this, some of it interesting to people who just want to know. I will reconstruct some of my own play in games here, intended as instructive/entertaining descriptions. I know that my presence as a Pointer bothered a lot of the Indians I faced in competition over the years. Floyd Heavy Runner’s daughter, Sarah, once made a somewhat hilarious observation in casual conversation that I can relate to this. I was enjoying lying in the prairie grass by a campfire at one of our outdoor summer campsites by the Badger Canyon, there were visiting Indians, everything was relaxed and cool. There is always joking going on, these are incredibly fun and self deprecating people who, when among themselves, make jokes about nearly everything having to do with life. Someone was telling what could be taken as a racist joke, a joke story about a ‘honky’, these stories did not bother me, I made my own jokes about my race, as the Blackfeet did theirs. When the

75 joke had been told, I noticed one of the visitors looking somewhat wide eyed at me, for a reaction. Sarah also noticed and chimed in, “Don’t worry about Ron, he doesn’t realize he’s not an Indian.” That drew even more laughs. Having Indians like Sarah, people who did not concern themselves with my race, on my Stick Game teams, and faced with racially conflicted Indian opposition on many occasions at the games, I believe gave me an advantage that very few may have ever known when playing the game. Add the fact that further, I had the most knowledgeable possible teachers and was a meticulous student of the game, and you sometimes met with a recipe for disaster as an Indian facing me in the game for the first time. No matter how good a player you were, not far into the game, fear could strike you. I had become a master of the obscure rules and technical detail. Also, I played the race card in subtle ways, to my psychological advantage, when faced with racially conflicted Indians. Stick Game is War, and short of cheating with the Bones, or getting angry (never get angry at Stick Game, a cardinal rule, if you get angry, you are really finished), you do whatever it takes to win. One time I was faced with a Pointer I knew did not like me, did not like Whites. He was typically one of the better game leaders in our region. By this time I was also known as a premier Pointer. He was confident he could beat me, it would be a Coup for him to beat the Whiteman, and he was playing a strong game. So I resorted to a very dirty tactic, for me it was time tested and true against the racist Medicine Men that play the game. I noticed he had a lot of confidence in one song in particular when his team was singing and I made myself learn that song, listening, on the spot. Having won the Bones back, I signaled to my singers to sit quiet and I took a drum and sang his song back to him, making no move to chose my hiders, but singing several stanzas, the first ones correctly, to show him I had his song, and the subsequent stanzas I deliberately fucked up, while looking right at him and saw an expression that made it appear he had herniated his rectum right there. And then, without missing a beat, I converted to one of our teams songs, which my singers immediately picked up, and handing the drum back to its owner, I delivered the Bones to my hiders, now my entire team has picked up the singing and we took all of his sticks, game over. Another time, a woman Pointer at Flathead, facing me for the first time, and having heard of my reputation, stated carelessly across the no-mans-land as we were preparing to play, “So I hear you are a ‘big time’ Bone handler.” With a straight face I fired right back “I will leave handling the ‘Big Bone’ to you”, an oblique reference to male anatomy. Coming from a Whiteman, that otherwise totally fair taunt killed her gaming ability, wrecked her psychology, before we ever played. An easy win for me. On another occasion, I was not leading the game, but was playing as a hider. Our team’s leader was Ed North Piegan, a Canadian Blackfeet who had married a Browning Indian that was a relative of mine, Wilma Wells. I was doing a good job winning sticks, and the other team was nearly defeated. Chosen again to hide, after Ed had won the Bones back, Ed smiled approval at me from his chair, and as he was leaning forward in my direction, tossing me the Bones to hide again, and in full hearing of hundreds of Indians, a woman

76 player, sitting close to Ed and pointing to me, shouted to the opposing team over the din of the drums, “This is your worst nightmare, look there, it is a Honky with the Bones.” Ed nearly fell out of his chair laughing, he knew my real value as a player. Every Pointer has to wait, at times, for his or her turn to take a games leadership. Sometimes your turn comes up sooner if you are sitting on a persistently losing side that changes Pointers often. But even in that situation a good Pointer may have to wait. Such was the case for me with the big Inter-Tribal games at the Browning Indian Days Celebrations in the 1980s’. I never had the seniority of the other good Blackfeet Pointers and most of them would turn out for these games. So I was, in a manner of speaking, quite a ways down the list at these events. During those summer celebrations when the Blackfeet hosts were winning, and the games did not often change Pointers (I was always a ‘home team’ player), most times I had no opportunity to point at all. But I always got to play because I also was a good hider, not only a Pointer. There were, however, two memorable occasions that I was able to lead Blackfeet teams against other tribes teams at these big events. On one of these occasions, there was a sort of inter-tribal team of All Stars, a select group of top players from several Canadian tribes that had made the trip together as a team, to take on the Browning Blackfeet at the Stick Games. The strategy of assembling this special team for the occasion had paid off. These Canadians, mostly Crees, had not lost a game since they had begun play, now it had been two days. The Blackfeet persistently took them on, again and again, Stick Game Indians at home just don’t give up. They can’t. These Crees could go home and brag that they had whipped their old enemies, the Blackfeet, but they would never be allowed to say they ran the Blackfeet out of their own games, that just would not happen. One of my Blackfeet ‘Blood Brothers’ from Brockett, Andrew Small Legs, had been playing on our side since the beginning of this fiasco for the Blackfeet home team, and now it was his turn to take the Point. But he exercised his right to give his turn away to the Blackfeet player of his choice, and he gave the game to me. Andrew told me, “I have seen what you can do. I know you can take these people down.” It was about 9 PM. I had my big game. The Pointer for this amalgam of Crees was about 35 years old, and a friend of mine, Lloyd Chippewa, like myself a Vietnam veteran, was his main assistant. They had picked up Lloyd, a Montana Chippewa/Cree, and a good player, for advice on the Indians they would encounter at these games. Lloyd had played against our Blackfeet, and me, many times. I had also played with Lloyd, in the past, when we had banded together against common foes, such as at the games on the Flathead Reservation and at Fort Hall, Idaho, against the ‘Snake’ (Shoshone) Indians. Lloyd and I had also played together at Wellpinit, Washington, in a sort of informal national finals Stick Game event. We knew each other’s game well. But nobody on the side opposing me, including Lloyd, was prepared for me to take this game’s point, it was a complete surprise. Up to that moment, I had only sat and watched these games. But now I was sitting beside my brother Andrew, ready to begin. And these particular Crees, Lloyd excepted, had never faced a Whiteman leading a Stick Game before. That was their problem. This was the Big Time, and I would play my most skilled game, there would be no room for mistakes.

77

Looking across and seeing Lloyd, I wanted to modify the game I was most fond of, my technique that Lloyd knew, but I repressed that urge. I did not dare, at that point, deviate from my game scheme. It was a tested means of play, I had learned it from very old people some years before, it was good, and I did not want to place myself in unfamiliar territory by adopting a different technique. My game was good enough to give even Lloyd, who grasped it, a least a bit of a difficult time and he was not the main Pointer for their side, Lloyd had had no chance to explain me to his Pointer, consequently, importantly, the main body of Indians I faced would not realize, initially, that I would employ a very old method of play, complete with arcane rules. In Stick Game, you have to play up, to the level of game your opposition brings you. And you might be surprised to discover Stick Game is diverse in strategy, much like Chess, and there are many techniques that can be employed. After four tries, the Crees won the Kick. They were singing, I put my kit away. Now I leaned back in my chair, close my eyes for 30 or 40 seconds and let my senses take in their drumming. I allow their drums into my head, and note any thoughts, visualizations or sensation the sound evokes to emerge, the ego is consciousness set aside, now I am in the disciplined meditative or waking dream state learned from fasting, a state of subconciousness I have learned to evoke at will. 30 seconds can seem like a long time in this state. I have found where I want to be, I see some things. I will play the north-south variation of my game. The will be no middle or outside signals in my points, only both their right hands or both of the hiders left. I am willing to give up a stick to do that. Now I sit forward, opening my eyes, and look towards the hider to the north, my left, but keep my eyes unfocused and looking past this player with a set of Bones. I am studying the player with my peripheral vision, looking for energy fields. There is something dark clinging to her right side, perhaps the unmarked bone is masked there by her concentration, she is visualizing the marked bone as being on her right and directing that thought towards me. I make my decision regarding her, but make no indication of it, and turn my unfocused gaze to the other player. I see the dark energy on his right side as well, perhaps the unmarked Bones are set up that way, imbued with a dark masking energy to ward off a guess, and my several misses, while playing for the Kick, reinforce the thought. Suddenly I send my left arm north, forefinger extended, guessing both players right hands and nod. I have caught them both, now we can sing. Andrew looks across at the other side with the slightest cagey smile, he knows these Crees are in for a tough time. Now I am surveying the Indians playing on my team, while standing with the four Bones in my hands, our people are singing and no one looks at me- it would be poor form while I am deciding who should hide. My people had been getting whipped around the clock up to now and I want hiders who have seen my play in the past, in games I have won for them, and have a confidence boost at my taking both sets of Bones with my first shot. But it cannot be Andrew, he is my 1st assistant in this game and hides with me either as a last resort if I get in trouble, or to make the kill, nearing the end of a game that goes our way.

78 Meanwhile Andrew does nothing- unless I need him to make a point against a hider that gives me trouble. I see a woman that is smiling and taunting, looking confident, and she seems familiar to me, I throw one set of Bones to her, the other set I give to a Browning woman that has played for me before. Their Pointer shoots and ‘kills’ my players, they both throw their Bones to the other side. Now I am using my ‘gaze’, my unfocused sight again, and I can see the dark energy on both their hiders, but it would require a shot from me to the Middle and I won’t go there. I pick up a stick and give it to Andrew, designating him to take this shot, but I also lean over to him and say just one word: “Middle.” Andrew takes the stick and acts as though he is in his own meditative state to divine the Bones, then suddenly points the stick to the ground and nods, the Middle, and both hider throw their Bones back across to us, Andrew hands me the Bones together with the stick, which I place back on the ground. Now we are singing and I return the Bones to the same women that were ‘killed’ on the last point against us. I want all my team to see my faith in my players. Both of my hiders are looking at me and I make a peculiar fist signal to them both, use the ‘War Club’, hit them, both nod understanding and turn to concentrate on hiding without giving up clues, straight faces, unfocused gaze, refusing to react to, or notice, any of the many distractions directed at them by the opposing team. The opposing Pointer is looking at me now, I had just stalled his runs and momentum in these games, and he is checking out this Whiteman that runs a team like a professional. Well, I am a pro, and I notice one of his better players from earlier that night, a woman, is besides herself, barely able, actually not very well able to contain her outrage at what they are confronted with. I take note of that, her rage likely will be useful. Lloyd is just taking it in from the other side, he does not want to lose, but he knows it would be futile to try and explain what they are up against during the actual game, it would only distract his Pointer. His best chance is just to sit back and hope his Cree team can cope. They couldn’t. It was a short game that lasted perhaps twenty minutes and their streak was over. Winning the Bones back only twice more, and winning only two sticks, other than the Kick, which they ultimately were unable to hang on to, my hiders had gained confidence over the obviously rattled Crees. The two Points that I gave up a stick each, winning only one set of Bones on those points, happened when the energy showed me their hiders were on the ‘Outside’ and ‘Middle.’ I could not let Andrew take all those shots without chancing giving away clues that I could ‘see’ through to the bones and/or was playing a game with an element of Taboo. The old ones that had taught me the north-south variation, forbid shots to the middle and outside: it was a ‘Medicine Rule.’ So shooting only north or south, but able to ‘see’ the energy, I was able to always pick up one set of Bones on the first shot. When there is only one set of Bones being hidden for the second shot, there is no middle or outside, there is only north-south. So when they went outside or middle, my trade off was only one stick for both sets of bones, not bad. My hiders didn’t have that problem. At the moment the game ended, a Blackfeet women from our team, who could speak their language, told them in Cree “It took a Whiteman to beat you.” Their leadership, including Lloyd, disappeared for a short while to confer about the next game. Normally they could have left with their winnings after a loss following a long string of

79 wins, not being a home team, but not under these circumstances. Now there was the matter of the Whiteman having defeated them, they could not leave without a victory over me. Now they were back in their chairs and ready to play again. I had suspected Lloyd would be my next Point opponent, that was a near given, but what I really wondered was whether they would bring out a different set of Bones. The Bones we had used in the previous game obviously had been ‘Doctored’, the ‘ward off’ energy associated with the unmarked Bones in that set had worked against my team until I sat down to take the lead, but now the power of those Bones had fled to me. I liked them. Lloyd was asking the Pointer of the previous game for a Bone set. It was the same set. I brought out my Bone set, Lloyd had his set of Bones and we both hid for the Kick guesses. I had won the game, so Lloyd had to guess me first, and he indicated his choice of my hands. I did not show any expression or open my hands, but I guessed Lloyd while deliberately trying miss. He showed his bones, I had missed, and I did not even show my Bones, but simply threw them back into my bag as though Lloyd had caught me. I wanted to play with their Bones. They began singing, unknowingly taking a ‘thrown’ Kick, and Lloyd was preparing his game set for the upcoming play, dividing the sticks between us. This would not be a north-south game on my part. Lloyd knew that game well and it would be too difficult for me. That was history, behind me, and besides the fact for this game. Anyway, I wanted to destroy this Cree team psychologically, devastate them right here, right now, while I had this advantage over their Bone sets. I only had to read the energy, which was clear to me, and I intended to take them down hard, as hard as I could. My first shot was the ‘Middle’ and it killed them both. I have the Bones and we are singing. Lloyd looked surprised at me, but only momentarily. Lloyd was a consummate professional, a seriously good player of the game, and would not easily lose his composure. He won the Bones back handily. But he had a problem he was as yet unaware of. His team could not hide from me, their Bones had become traitors. Again I ‘Killed’ both his hiders, the Bones came back over to my side. We won a stick, and then Lloyd had the Bones back. Now, a third time I shot them down double and Lloyd is looking at me with a strange look, like ‘How did you do that’, but it was nothing compared to the look of the Cree woman that had been outraged at this entire circumstance, since I had taken the lead, a game back. She clearly wanted to really kill somebody, probably me. Now my team’s hiders took the next several sticks. Lloyd wins the Bones back again, and now, one of his hiders is this angry woman, and it is the first opportunity of the night I have to guess her. But she has a surprise in for me, and it appears she is on to me. She brings out two scarves to cover the Bones in her fists and suddenly I could not ‘see’ the energy of the Bones in her hands, she had nullified that advantage. Now I upset her some more, with a hand signal, I waved her off, I would not be guessing both her teams players at a single shot, and turned my attention solely to the other hider and promptly ‘Killed’ him, retrieved that set of Bones, and only then turned to her, with my full attention. She is looking right at me, angry, determined, and unafraid. I can’t let this turn of event get under my skin, I am not going to change my game now, it is too late for that, so I decide it is just a guessing game at this point, on any given guess with her, it is 50-50. I missed, tossed over a stick, she ducked to rehide, too fast, when she brought out her scarves again

80 and looked up, it was right into my point, I had my arm extended already, just a pure guess, but she ran into it, and I had caught her. We had all of the Bones again, she had nearly thrown hers directly at me, not the cursory toss, and we could sing again now, and I took my time choosing hiders for my side, buying time to think over this new development. This woman appeared to be angry for reasons other than I had initially thought. Clearly, she saw something that nobody else on her side was seeing, appearing to be on to me, demonstrated by her scarves, she was obviously upset, but she had not totally lost her composure, she was not afraid of me, she believed she could take me on, and that is not the rattled confidence typical of a racist Indian being humiliated by a Whiteman in a game they never believed a Whiteman should play. At least not in my experience up to this time. I was puzzled. Now, I was not so sure my quiver held the arrow with her name on it. But I could not just roll over, I had to come up with a solution to this player, otherwise she might go on a tear with the Bones. Meanwhile, my players are winning sticks, and Lloyd’s game is in trouble anyway. But the game still could go either way. Many times it has happened that a team with a pointer of Lloyds caliber, and just one effective hider, such as this angry woman possibly could be, can come all the way back, from a single stick, to win. I had an idea, and Lloyd had won the bones back, but he was down to 3 sticks, including the Kick. I knew an obscure point gesture the angry woman might not know. The shot would have to be the ‘Outside’, everything would depend on luck, pure and simple. I did not even look for the ‘energy’ in the other hider, the player hiding other that this woman, the outcome of that hider, on this shot, would have to be incidental. I took up a stick, and grasping it between thumb and forefinger, precisely in its center, I held it, hand up, horizontal to the ground and nodded. She sat up sharply, neither showing the bones and ducking, or throwing them across. Now she looked at Lloyd with a ‘What does that mean?’ expression. Lloyd made to her the most common, one of several ‘Outside’ gestures, thumb and forefinger spread apart, and she was caught, it was a correct guess on my part. Very luckily, I won the Bones back from the other player as well. Now the angry woman had been, finally, at least momentarily shook up, and Lloyd had seen that. We took one stick, Lloyd won the Bones back but was now down to two sticks. However, Lloyd did not have confidence in the angry woman and did not return a set of Bones to her. I shot the outside again and won the Bones back and we again took one stick before Lloyd won the Bones back, now he had only the kick. Now Lloyd and the pointer from the previous game hid the Bones, their last ditch effort. Neither one of them believed I would come back a third time with an outside shot and they both placed the unmarked Bones in that position. It would not have mattered. I could ‘see’ the Bones and I shot the Outside shot again, a third time, and then we took the last stick with Lloyd’s next, and last guess. The game was over. Lloyd was stunned. It had been a fast game again. About 20 minutes. After a short break, the woman was back, with a ‘god only knows where she found him’ Indian, this old man she sat with, to take me on for my third game, looked like a photo of Geronimo. He was wearing a Grizzly canine necklace. And together they beat me.

81 Solidly. Andrew took the point for our side and we played them again.. in one of those collective contests of will that I hate, a game that dragged on all night. We lost again. On another day, Lloyd and I, as friends, discussed the first two games in particular. After we talked, I was laughing in retrospect at what had happened. What neither Lloyd or I had known at the time these games were actually being played, was that this woman had, earlier in the day before I played, noticed me and pointed me out to the other Crees from Canada. She had seen me play at Flathead, was convinced that somehow I had been schooled in the old ways, informing the others I could “really play the game.” Without exception, the group had dismissed her account as preposterous. Whitemen can’t do that. Perception of your player’s judgment is paramount, and she was not trusted with the Bones in the first game against me. And that is why she was so mad. A couple of years later, on a second memorable occasion I was to lead a Blackfeet team against another tribe, it was again against a group of Canadian Crees. It was towards the end of Indian Days in Browning, actually the last night of the Pow Wow and my Heart Butte family, the Wells, had been taking a beating. Towards daybreak, I took the lead and ‘thumbed’ my way to our first win. ‘Spud’ Wells one of my nephews, looked at me immediately following the victory and said “Do it again!” Using your thumbs to point is a reverse guess, and I resorted to this because none of the good pointers in our family, and these were several very good pointers, had made any headway against the team we faced. Everyone had been consistently deceived into the wrong guess. So I used my thumb from the beginning, and pointing with the thumb only means the opposite of the direction you have pointed. It was working. When I felt pulled to a direction with my guess, I pointed that way with my thumb and I was beginning to knock them down, ‘killing’ the Bones, the first consistent success we had seen that night. These were not easy games, and into this second game, already a hour long, I had to shit, and it was desperate. I thought maybe I might have to rupture my big intestine to keep sitting there much longer. But I could not leave, I was the only pointer present that had handled this opposition with any success, and my family could not afford me to take an absence at this moment. There is no ‘Time Out’ in stick game, the only recess is between games. I was trapped. Now, desperate to escape this trap, for the first and last time ever in all my years of playing this game, I resorted to a truly dirty trick to win. I wanted the game over as soon as possible, but I was not willing to lose, to make a run for the toilet. Choosing my moment, the next time their side had both sets of Bones, and when their hiders were ready, I used both my thumbs, my right hand thumb out and clear for all to see and pointed to my right, which by itself would mean both the opposite players right hands, but at the same moment, I also pointed with my left thumb, to the left, opposite direction, however with this thumb held closer into my body so that my players to my right could not see this part of my guess. Now, everyone but my own players to my right side have seen me make the real point, not both the hiders right hands, but the middle. When one of the opposing hiders properly expected a stick and to hide again, my players to my right, seeing my false guess intended only for them, became upset and the game stopped for a beginning argument. The entire opposition knew they were correct, my

82 players to my right had the perception I had made a different guess, however they were not correct, and I did not immediately correct things with my players, but for just a couple of moments let the dispute develop to a point that the entire opposing team was beginning to get angry as well. Only at that critical moment, before it got really out of hand, I corrected my players, tossed the stick across and everyone sat down to play again. But now the opposite team was upset collectively, I still had my players to my left that did not become involved with the arguing, they were not upset, they saw nothing wrong, only wondered what had happened, and using them, the game was over in only a few minutes, we won. I jumped up to run for the nearest toilet, the sun was up, and as I turned around, I saw the last portable toilet on the Pow Wow grounds had just been loaded onto a truck, and it was being driven away. My Stick Game stories would not be complete if I did not mention The Blackfeet Elder, Oral Historian and Grandmaster Stick Game player William Running Crane, aka ‚Goat’, who also schooled me in the Blackfeet Oral History account of the Treaty of 1895. Goat is one of the finest traditional Blackfeet Indians I have ever known. I could never do Goat full justice in these stories. But I will say here that Goat is without question the most amazing Stick Game player I had ever encountered. It would be easy for me to write off Goat’s incredible displays with the bones as that of a master magician, to all appearances pushing the bones into his ears and blowing them out of his mouth, if it were not for a single encounter I had where Goat insured I would never doubt his powers as real. I was in a very small game, facing Goat, one of those games that is just fun, only a few dollars riding on the game and a small handfull of players, four or five, on each side. I had often in the past seen Goat give a small pop or jerk with his hands when guessed, before opening his hands to reveal a miss and he would collect a stick. Now, in this little and otherwise meaningless game, Goat taught me about that little convulsive motion as the highest order of the game as it has ever been played, by drawing my attention to something I was doing that I might otherwise never have noticed or understood. Goat was guessing me, and I automatically slipped into the dream state learned from fasting, I had to play my best, but I could not block out his eyes penetration, they glittered even when I was not looking. For that fact, I was keenly aware in which hand I held the unmarked bone. There was no point to avoid looking at Goat, under the circumstance, when he guessed me. So I gazed directly at Goat waiting for the guess. Goat guessed, he pointed, and at that moment I felt a small jump in both my fists, and opening them, it was revealed to both Goat and myself.. Goat had missed, but actually not. The bones were the reverse position of how I had hid them, they had switched without my opening my hands. I was playing in Dream Time, in the awake world. Goat saw this, I was doing something more typical for him to do.. and he made me look at it. I won that game and Goat told me “I challenge you.” Goat wanted me to play him in a one on one Medicine Game, an old time power exhibition right then, right there, in the style of the old Blackfeet ceremonial rules, a game he knew I could play. I told Goat “I won’t, I’m afraid of you.” Goat replied to me “You’re not afraid of me.” But then he let it go. He was right, I was not afraid of him. I was actually afraid of how far that contest

83 would go in public, I did not then and don’t to this day know the extent of my own powers relating to the game. I knew, however, that Goat’s power was great. In retrospect, too late, I realized I was wrong to pass on the challenge. Only the real Medicine people in the crowd would have witnessed the actual sorceries, the phenomena, and a game that would be strictly entertainment at the highest level for their sake. The uninitiated would only have seen an especially entertaining game. It was a colossal missed opportunity on my part. But I made it up to Goat. Later, I bought a photo of a Mountain Goat, an old Billy Goat resting on a mountainside, from the nationally known wildlife photographer Tom McBride. I gave that photo to Goat as a gesture of my respect. One of Goat’s grandsons told me a year or two later that Goat would quietly invite visitors at his Heart Butte home into his bedroom: to see that very special photo of himself in its place on the wall. Later on, about 1990, I was stuck when I played Stick Game. I could not run with the bones anymore. So I forced myself, strictly as a matter of logic and not medicine, to run, not stay, until the other players sensed I had my edge again. It wasn’t true. I stopped playing.

84 Life in Blackfeet Country I remember the words of my Tibetan friend, Karma Tensem, when he first visited the United Stares: “Only the sky is the same.” My first winter in Indian Country was an eye opener. I had never known such real physical poverty, and what greeted me here was the sort of poverty that is a grinding poverty, a gnawing hunger that visits and revisits, month to month. In Blackfeet country, unemployment hovers around a staggering 70%. Some of the luckier Indians still live in the countryside on this particular reservation, and their proximity to the Bob Marshall and Great Bear Wilderness complex on the south side, together with the border of Glacier National Park on the north side, still makes it feasible to supplement the Indian diet with hunting and gathering. But in the winter time, the gathering is not availiable, and the hunting is tenuous at best, because much of the game migrates to more sheltered terrain, and taken together with the storms and snowdrifts, what hunting opportunities, such as there are in the winter, are limited. The more traditional Blackfeet families and clans continue to band together to survive through sharing during this period. Because of the Treaty obligations to the Indians, whereby the Whiteman solemnly promised to take care of the Indians forever in exchange for the surrender of the Indian lands and way of life, these Indians are never supposed to be cut off from state welfare, which is the nominal care given per the treaties today, but the sustenance provided, such as it is, is mean. In the winters, those several that I spent with these people, each season the food would begin to give out, usually beginning around the 20th of each month. On a few occasions, I witnessed entire villages exhausted of food. But these repeated events were just taken in stride by the Indian community. That first winter I was domiciled in the area of the Badger Canyon, and the village of Heart Butte, my patrons, the old couple Alfred and Agnes Wells, sometimes stayed with their grandson, the young chief Floyd Heavy Runner, on their family’s assigned land near the mouth of Badger Canyon, and at other times, they stayed in Heart Butte village with one of their sons. My income, in those days, was a small veterans disability pension, about $140 per month. I recall it was more than twice the money those eligible individual Indians would receive to survive, so I was well off. I typically put most of my funds into the family pool for sustenance purposes, but saved a little to help the old couple with their travel- to pursue their traditional healing practice. I was a bit like their ‘dog’, which should not be taken in the negative context of the Whiteman, the Indian ‘Dog’ in a traditional context was held in high esteem, a protective soldier of the camp and hard working beast of burden that enabled survival. These old people kept a small handful of cattle on their land, and that first winter I made a better deal for them from a local white rancher, when they bought a few bales of hay against the inevitable storms that would be coming. I also would walk behind the house near Badger Canyon to cut holes in the ice at the edge of a small lake, so those few cows could drink. And I drove for them, whether to shop for better food and clothing prices in Great Falls, or to take them to work their healing practice, sometimes into Canada to the Blackfeet bands of Indians domiciled there.

85 Our diet was terrible. Often, there was nothing more to eat than white flour and lard, the larger part of the government commodities provided, in addition to the pittance of cash income to the Indians, and on one of these trips that diet caught up with me. I was at Brockett, Alberta, Canada, probably it was in November, where we were visiting the Skinni Pikuni, an identical people speaking the same Blackfeet dialect as the Montana Blackfeet tribe. We were staying with a family that had taken me for a Blood Brother, the Small Legs. I was at my Brother Arthur’s house. Two of my other brothers, Jim and Andrew, were visiting there as well, but we did not see much of Nelson Sr, he was the Band Chief, and was kept pretty busy due to his office. I had come down with severe intestinal pain, unlike anything I had ever known, and was in bad shape. The old folks, Alfred and Agnes, did not work on physical ailments, but attended to matters of mental and spiritual health, basically changing peoples luck, so another old man was brought to attend to me. He conferred with the other Blackfeet present, those that had been with me for the past 12 or so hours of my agony, and then helped me to sit at the kitchen table. Strong black tea was brewed, lots of it. I had an impacted feces, my rectum was plugged, badly, from a straight diet of white flour fried in lard, a diet I was not accustomed to. The old man poured me cup after cup of hot tea and would not let me stop drinking it until I had to go out to the outdoor shithouse. I finally went, and the relief was incredible, better than having sex. Every time I stood to pull up my pants, thinking it was finally finished, I had to yank them down again, after six or seven large defecations, I wondered if it would ever end. When I came back inside, the old man kept making me drink the tea, all morning, until I was pretty much washed clean inside, he wanted everything out. I made trip after trip to the out of doors. After that visit, I instituted a change in the flour and lard diet at the house where I spent most of my time at Badger Canyon. I realized I could not change the fundamental diet, but what I could and did do, was invest in two gallons of Peanut Butter, the natural variety with oil separation, every 1st day of the month. The new Peanut Butter prelubricated, flour fried in lard diet, did not impact anybody the way I had been impacted, after that. Peanut Butter, for the balance of that winter, when there was food to eat, this Peanut Butter was my communion. I had Peanut Butter on every piece of flour & lard frybread that passed my lips, Peanut Butter was my new religious practice. The next month, December, was difficult, because the money that would otherwise go to food, was largely used up to buy gifts for the holiday season, and some of what food there was, was hoarded to provide for a Christmas Day feast. There were hungry days in the meantime. But this was nothing compared to what happened in January. The Rocky Mountain Front, where the Northern Plains meet the mountains, can be one of the harsher winter climates in North America, when winter decides a visit with vengeance is in order. It happened in January. The old couples, Alfred and Agnes, were staying with one of their sons in Heart Butte village. I was out at the Badger Canyon property with the young Chief Floyd Heavy Runner, his wife of that time, Bernie, two of Floyd’s younger brothers, ‘Smarty’ and Francis, Smarty’s wife, Doris, their children, Floyd’s kids Josh and Sarah, Floyd’s 1st cousins Jimmy and ‘Spud’, and a few others, probably about 15 of us in total. There were copious amounts of winter snows, and one day from nowhere, in

86 about 30 minutes time, gale force winds had descended on the houses, creating a ‘ground blizzard’ that made it life threatening to go outside, even ten feet from the door. This wind did not let up for nearly three weeks. Smarty Heavy Runner was the hero of that time, he strung a lifeline between the two houses, about twenty yards of rope, so it was possible to safely find our way and transverse between them and we could check up on each other. Smarty also made repeated and dangerous journeys into the aspen groves close by, to gather firewood. Nobody else dared to do that. Repeatedly, Smarty returned with an improvised sled made from an automobile hood which he had harnessed himself to, bringing loads of wood. But the storm became so bad that the young Chief Floyd ordered Smarty to stop the firewood forays. We made several communal beds to survive the subzero temperatures, getting up only at appointed times, to make a fire just long enough to eat, drink hot tea and go back into the beds, the combined body heat under the covers was helping to keep us alive. When the firewood gave out, we cut up old nylon radial tires with a hacksaw, to make the twice a day fire for hot tea to drink and have a bite to eat. Suddenly I understood the value of these discarded tires that were kept by the house. Then the food ran out. I remember several can of peas were set aside for the smaller children. I remember dividing up the last can of peas among those kids. For the next five days, nobody ate. We still made the brief mid-morning and evening fires, there were enough old tires, and we had the hot tea to drink twice a day. What impressed me most, was how the Blackfeet children put a brave face on their hunger, never crying, never complaining, just quietly stoic. Smarty Heavy Runner, up to the time he had been shot twice, crippling him for life, was the toughest, and probably the most dangerous and most fearless Indian I have ever known. He was a living legend of danger in Blackfeet country. I once heard a young Blackfeet wonder aloud in Smarty’s presence, which would be worse: to be shot or stabbed. Smarty did not hesitate. “I’ve been shot and stabbed” Smarty stated, “and stabbed is by far worse.” There is a story of Smarty as a young man in the 1970’s when he in lived in a second story apartment at the Yegen Hotel in downtown Browning. On a summer day, sitting on the window sill overlooking the sidewalk below, Smarty noticed an enemy approaching directly beneath him. Smarty put his beer down, and stating to the other people in the room “I will be right back”, he swung his legs out over the sill and dropped out of the window, landing directly on top of this unsuspecting guy who could only collapse under his nemesis who had indeed fallen on him directly out of the sky. Smarty was right back, his enemy lay devastated on the sidewalk below. One morning we got up, the blizzard had just begun to abate, but only a little, and we discovered Smarty had vanished with his weapons into the storm. Before noon he was back, covered in frozen blood, and dragging a small deer into the house. I had no idea, in those early days I spent with the Blackfeet; 1) how Smarty survived a hunting foray into the aspen groves behind the house, yes the storm was abating, but not by much, and was by no means finished, it was still a dangerously strong storm; 2) made a successful hunt in near blinding conditions; 3) found the strength to do it, not having eaten in nearly a week. But Smarty was the designated Hunter of the family, and took his responsibilities

87 seriously. He was also perhaps the best hunter I have ever known. I have a grown son that is a world class hunter, I am from a family of hunters, and I know what I am talking about. Smarty was just that good. Smarty also could play a very good game of Chess, I had played him on occasion, he made calculated, but clearly dangerous moves, and he approached Indian life and its adversities something like that. Did Smarty save our lives? No, but if the storm had not continued to abate about that time, he might have. That was the winter of 1977-78, before my ‘Big Psychosis.’ This winter had taught me how to go hungry, the Indian way, and prepared me for both my dream fast, and the Sundances that would follow. Jumping forward a few years, I recall it was during the winter of 1982-1983, I had returned the Riders house on the Two Medicine River to his family that previous spring, and was staying with Pat Kennedy’s clan at Starr School, north of Browning. By now I was deeply involved in traveling with Pat during the winter months, as Pat pursued supervising the ceremony of the very old ghost religion, Give Away Dance. Typically there is a mid-winter break from this activity, during the worst period of the winter storms, from about the 1st part of December to the beginning of February. This period of recess is timed to the disappearance of a particular star on the horizon, and its reemergence. I was living in Pat’s small 3 bedroom house with a sum total of 29 people. Even floor space had premium locations for sleeping, those areas that doors opening and closing did not allow the winter drafts to disturb your sleep, and people were not stepping across you coming and going in the night, whether to use the bathroom or whatever. Typical of the poorer Blackfeet, the village inhabitants that early December used up their tiny bit of monthly money, buying gifts for the holiday season to present to their loved ones. Starr School ran out of food early that month, as did the south side (the poverty section) of Browning, and much of Heart Butte. When this happens, the Indian villages become eerily quiet. There is no energy for the children to expend at play and generally the only people out are either fishing or hunting. The streets look deserted. On the edge of Starr School village, small planes would come and go from the pastureland, the Blackfeet Christian Chief Earl Old Person has no problems, these air taxis pick him up at his house and he flies to and fro from Washington DC at his whim, his failed 50 years leadership of the Montana Blackfeet evident in the poverty and starvation going on around him with little relief. Earl gives his peoples hunger a bit of lip service, but he has not personally gone hungry in many years. Most of his endeavors seem associated with failed attempts at industrial enterprises, like the sawmill at Browning, which had caught fire and never ran again, while his administrations have sold his reservations premium house logs to sawmills abroad, and his people live 29 individuals to the small house and worse. Nothing is accomplished for his people and one only wonders how many of those going hungry in his own village could be fed, were the cost of those wasted plane trips converted to food. I had gone from Pat’s house on a trip to Helena during this period, and riding along with me was a friend, Donald ‘Tiny Man’ Yellow Kidney. On our ride north, returning home, but before we had arrived back at the reservation border, we observed a large group of Mule Deer beside the road. I asked Tiny Man, “Do you have Treaty Rights?” Tiny Man

88 replied “Damn right I do.” I swung my Volkswagen microbus off of the road onto a snow dusted dirt track leading into a wheat field, braked and killed the engine. The Mule Deer stopped moving as they decided what to do, I had blocked the direction they were traveling. I had my ‘Little Rifle’ handy to the driver seat, and grabbing it up, I chambered a round. The deer were moving again, probably 2 dozen of them, but were slowed by the barbed wire fence that they now had to jump, to go in the new direction the herds leaders had chosen. A very large doe hesitated at the fence, and standing, leaning against the open door of the microbus, while using the bottom of the open window to rest my rifle through the portal, I shot her directly behind the ear from 75 yards. She collapsed just like someone had dropped a large sack of potatoes. I jumped back into the drivers seat, started my little van, pulled into the field alongside her and we had her loaded in the cargo area and were back on the road, the whole episode could not have lasted two minutes. Outside of Browning, in a safe reservation location, where you can be an Indian in possession of a deer out of season, we dressed the deer and cut it into quarters for distribution. We left one quarter with Tiny Man’s family, brought another quarter to a house where there was soon to be a ‘Black Tail’ (Mule Deer Dance, that was apropos) ceremony, where the meat would see a little wider community distribution, and dropped another quarter off to a large family related to Tiny Man that was needy. The final quarter I could have brought on out to Pat’s family at Starr School, but it was stolen while we were still in Browning and visiting at the other families houses. People were hungry. I drove out to Pat’s at Starr School without any of the Deer meat. I sat at the kitchen table with Pat and told him the story. He was philosophical about it all. While we were visiting, one of the neighbor children came to the house, the neighbors had a little bit of white flour to eat, but no lard to prepare it. Pat’s family had a little lard, but nothing to fry in it. Pat instructed one of his grown daughters to give up their last lard to the neighbor child. I had a little money. I drove back to Browning to buy our house some food. In the spring, I moved out to a ranch on Livermore Creek, north of Browning, off the road to Duck Lake. The Blackfeet rancher and Honorary Council member, John DeRoche, had offered me a lineshack, a one room cabin, to live in. I shot ground squirrels that had overrun the property, for the most part, to stay busy. By now I was really used to living with essentially nothing, keeping few belongings other than a vehicle and a bit of tattered clothing. After meeting my few obligations in the outside world, I divested myself of most of my improved income (my military service disability had been increased to 100%) sponsoring giveaway dance, feeding people, or now, with summer coming, I would become a pow wow Indian, traveling throughout Indian Country in the region to play the Stick Game. So I was not much use as a cowboy on the DeRoche ranch. I rode horseback along the fences a little and kicked stray horses, mostly, off of the ranch property. I only participated in a cattle roundup once, to return a strayed herd. While I was at the ranch, and without money, there was a stick game tournament in Browning. Old John DeRoche himself was a sponsor of the tournament, he knew and liked me from times we had played the game together, and he told me to come to town for the games. So I was there, observing but not playing. John felt sorry for me (I was not feeling sorry for myself), and offered to let me pick up the aluminum cans littering the

89 floor of the large area where the games were being held, I could turn them in to the recycling people for a bit of money. I told him I would collect the cans, for him, and that I did not need the money. I was given a box of large (50 gallon) plastic trash bags, the task looked a bit big, there were numerous ongoing games over a large area, but I went to work. Now one of the proudest moments of my life in Indian country occurred. I was a well know stick game player that had a reputation for being crazy. As a game leader, I had led my teams, on numerous occasions, to victory after victory, throughout the night. I was known as a stick game “Devil.” While building on that reputation as crazy, and a Devil, I had always been friendly with the Blackfeet that were ‘special’, the congenitally brain damaged, and when I played in the ‘open’ games and was a team leader, these ‘special’ people knew if they sat in, I would include them in the play, a chance to play they almost never would otherwise have. Stick game requires keen wits and there is inevitably money on the game, and few game leaders would risk their best players money by including these people in a game. But I did not care, these were my friends, and I liked giving them a shot at hiding the bones. Now these special people returned my favor. Here on a day I was not playing, I had no money, they saw me on hands and knees crawling through the litter of that vast event, retrieving aluminum cans, and the next thing I knew, I had a small brigade of these ‘special’ volunteers helping me. In less than twenty minutes the entire event was denuded of cans, the half dozen or so 50 gallon sacks, all full, were piled in a storage room next to the events concession sales, and I walked away from a surprised, rather make that an amazed John DeRoche, without so much as asking for an Indian Taco in return. Little events like that are helpful for building on a ‘crazed’ reputation. And there was more than a little extra protection for being widely known as ‘crazy’ in Indian Country. Another advantage of being known as crazy in Indian Country is Indian people eventually get over their suspicion of you. If you were me, and wanted an unveiled look at the inside of that world, this is invaluable. But I must close this story with a warning to any White that reads this and has the not-sobright idea that they can do what I have done: to pull it off, you first must know how to be crazy like an Indian. To be crazy like a Whiteman will, more likely than not, just get you killed. Somebody like Smarty Heavy Runner could fall on you directly out of the sky. To many Indians, most White people are already crazy in a particularly White way, which is nothing at all like the Stick Game Devil, Ron West, or the Indian ‘special ones.’ That is largely why you are not trusted there. Your people are dangerously crazy from the native perspective and it is considered really poor judgment to trust Whites in many instances. But there is a short amnesty granted to the Whites that are curious. You are most certainly welcome (and safe) to come spend your money at the pow-wows. And at these events, you may meet truly gracious Indians, Indians who are anxious for you to understand who Indian people are, and how they live: their view of the world. You might discover and make lifelong friends. I just happened to stay around Indian Country long enough, under a set of unique circumstances, to get a real idea of what Indian Country is all about. And it could happen to you. But not like it happened to me.

90 A Very Special Pipe Everywhere it is called Sundance. In Ojibwa it translates Medicine Lodge, the Blackfeet call it ‘Okan’ or the Corral, and in Cree country it is Rain Dance. But everywhere you go in Indian Country, it is mostly called Sundance. It points to a universal revelation, Hero or God, because it is widespread throughout many tribes in remarkably similar form. A long time ago Sundance was central event of the great summer celebration of the various Indian nations. The dispersed bands of a tribe regathered each summer season to meet, visit with relatives and friends, and generally celebrate. Feasts were hosted daily by the different chiefs, families, and clans or societies, and there were social dances.. horse racing was a large draw for the crowds and ‘power’ or ‘medicine’ gambling was going on around the day and night, non-stop, at the stick games. In the center of this great event was built the Sacred Lodge. Some have speculated that this ceremony is an early form of Christianity, but I will not pander to that. However the enlightened being that brought the Sundance to the people taught the people to sacrifice themselves on behalf of others, and the dancers experience great privations in this endeavor. In the pre-conquest days, all of the big summer celebration of life surrounding the great event of Sundance only added to the difficulty of the sacrifice made by the people who were fasting and dancing under the Sun. Who would make vows and then spend days without water or food- looking to a tree in the center, sunburning, agonizing with a thirst that makes the food aspect of the fast seem inconsequential? Getting up again and again to the sound of drums, no matter how it hurt, blocking out the pain, to look again at the tree and the sky, and keep time with the eagle bone whistle in lips so dry they might easily be bleeding. It is the people who love and care for their fellow Human Beings that make this sacrifice. You made a vow to fast and dance for the safe return of a loved one, or for the healing of a friend or relative. You would dance for the welfare of your family. You could dance for your children to become good citizens and a blessing to your people. It was, and is, a very holy event. I have Rain Danced at the Rocky Boy’s Ojibwa & Cree Reservation near Box Elder, Montana. The circumstance of my dancing began with the Ojibwa lead Rain Dance Maker for that year, Kenny Gopher, traveling to my then home at Two Medicine Lakes, on the Blackfeet Reservation, to give me a Sacred Pipe. This was no ordinary Pipe, but was pretty old. One of the old people had thought that this very pipe may have been carried in the long ago out in front of the tribe, when the gathered tribe traveled, and that only important pipes had done that. I was told it was an honor just to be allowed to see it. I know that Kenny had retrieved the pipe from other Indians that had been experienced difficulties while keeping it in their possession, but I never asked him why he gave this particular pipe to me. Perhaps it was because I was being mentored by several of the Ojibwa medicine men in the sacred ways and took these teachings seriously. After I had come into possession of this pipe, it was called for by the Rocky Boys medicine people. The pipe was to be one of the main four mens pipes used that year at

91 the Rocky Boys tribal Rain Dance. Kenny Gopher informed me ahead of time, and instructed that I was to attend the Rain Dance preliminaries beginning with a camp in the mountains and that I was to be a ‘Scout’, a role in this ceremony reserved to warriors in the old days, but now, in these modern times, that role is filled by Veterans. I packed up my tipi, a 16 foot Plains Ojibwa style, loaded up my camp gear and lodge poles, and set out for the Rocky Boys reservation at the appointed time. I was greeted by friends at Rocky Boy, and pitched my tipi in the mountain camp, above the plain where the Rain Dance Lodge would be built. The shelters, probably a dozen various tents and tipis in the small camp with only invited participants stretched out on a West to East line, with a great tipi belonging to the tribe, nearly 28 feet, at the West end: like a leader that would bring us to the plain below. It was in this great lodge that the Indian Priests sang and drummed holy songs into the night by the fire. We sweat in a special ceremony, a sweat that called for 44 splashes on the stones at a single go.. a back searing experience that I did not feel on account of my 300 pound Gros Ventres friend Matt Gone, who was so tall he had to bend down just sitting in the sweat lodge. When about 35 splashes into the 44 splashes of that round, I heard Matt quietly groan and he fell over on me... Matt thinking he was going to die of the heat, and me thinking I was going to die pinned under Matt with my face pushed into the mud. One afternoon, as several of us were napping in my tipi after lunch, we were suddenly shocked awake by the clear and loud voice of Kenny Gopher, he clearly called out “Pisu! (my Cree name, Mountain Lion) I will Huff and Puff and blow your tent down!” As quickly as I could, I jumped up and sprang out the door of my tipi, but Kenny was nowhere to be seen. I came back in, and with everyone sitting up and looking at me, I just shrugged. Nobody knew what to think of that. Along about midnight, however, there was a sudden great gust of wind that seemed to come from nowhere, it was sustained and growing by the minute. There were about five of us asleep in the little lodge but every one was awake now. My little tipi was creaking and bending. I grabbed the anchor rope that ties the poles together near the top of the lodge and is staked to the ground at the inside back of the tipi and shouted for the others to lay down along the bottom on the tipi’s edge along the side from which the wind was coming and to hang on to the canvass with all their might. The rope was trying to pull me up as the tipi wanted to lift and carry in the wind.. I could see the desperate looks of the others in the light of an electric lantern, as they struggled against the monumental force wanting to take them in the air as they clung to the canvass bottom of the circular tent. The wind was an unceasing roar. And then it passed. We had managed to keep on to my little lodge. We all got back in our beds. In the morning I stepped outside. There was not another tent standing in the camp. The great ceremonial tipi appeared to have been put away the evening before, after the late ceremonies, but before the great gust. There was only the matted grass circle and fire pit where it had stood, the poles neatly stacked. The rest of the camp was flattened tents and scattered debris. I stood off a small distance and took it in. The lone little tipi standing, a bit crooked now, but standing. I had been taught to pitch them tight. The scouts were detailed on a war party on this lovely summer day- the end of the mountain camp period- to stalk and slay the great aspen tree that would serve as the

92 Center Pole of the Rain Dance Lodge to be built on the plain. Now we were a work party and there were additional volunteers included to harvest the many additional trees and branches that would be required to build the great lodge. The camp moved from the mountains, down to the plain where the big ceremony would happen. The great work began. An Indian warrior/scout fired the single shot from a rifle, just as the largest aspen used in the construction, the center pole, toppled, cut down from the axes wielded by the other scouts. Now the aspen groves of the foothills came alive with Indians in pickup trucks. In a steady stream, revolving between the hills and the plain, loads of aspen branches were delivered to the site where the construction of the Sacred Lodge occur. The entire community of traditional Indian religion practitioners turned out to build the great lodge, and it happened in a day, from the great framework like the spokes of a wheel attached high on the center pole, out to the stadium-like shelter that would both shelter and screen the dancers from outside view, to the small woven fence that would stand between the dancers and the center pole where the alter for the Buffalo Skull was located, the place where the Priests presided, along with the pipes and the singers. In this area there was a place set aside near the entry (facing South) for the people to come in and witness the event. Everything was constructed with aspen. Now the scouts had a difficult assignment. The great lodge stood built but empty. Additional warriors, those who had danced before, were assigned to defend it. The scouts now became the enemies that would attempt to gain entry to the lodge before the people could use it. As the enemies, we had to wear aspen leaf wreaths, like Olympic laurel, trophies for the defenders.. if they could stop us. Now our scouts are howling like wolves from a distance, to announce our attack. The numbers of attackers and defenders looked pretty even to me as we approached the great lodge. We spread out to make our capture more difficult, the defenders stood still in semi-circular phalanx as we walked towards the entrance. Ours was the more difficult task, to attack, the entrance was not that large. Near simultaneously, as our scout group on a cue from our leader sprang forward, the defenders were equally quick and our groups met like American football players from scrimmage. A large Indian scout caused a hole in the defenders line and I sprang through thinking I would make the entry to the lodge, there were no defenders in front of me. No less than ten feet from the entrance I found myself slowly sitting up in the dirt, wreathless, bleeding from superficial abrasions encountered skidding across the ground when a body had met me full force and I discovered what it felt like to be hit by a NFL linebacker without pads. The great lodge had been defended. Now the Rain Dance could begin. I had turned the special pipe over to the Indian Priests, the Rain Dance Makers, on my arrival. Now I saw it again with the other three mens’ pipes of this ceremony, in the pipe rack by the Buffalo Skull alter. My job was now the night watchman of the great lodge, which entailed staying beside the alter after the evening dances, keeping the sacred fire alive, bringing smudge (burning Sweet Grass braids) to the dancers who do not leave the lodge at night, for the purpose of purification and prayers, keeping the drums dry from rain showers and fasting myself, no food or water, for the duration of the ceremony over the next few days. I was one of the Rain Dancers, considering all who participate in making the ceremony happen while fasting technically are, and I physically danced in

93 later years, but when you are physically dancing because of vows there are certain restrictions and you cannot learn nearly as much as I did this first time. One early morning about daybreak, the day after the dancers had gone into the lodge, a woman dancer (the Women are on the East side of the Lodge, the men dance on the West side, facing the East) stood up from behind the thatched fence and told me to bring her the burning Sweet Grass so she could purify herself. Without thinking, being across the alter from her, instead of walking around, I stepped across this small forbidden area to bring her the smudge, and immediately realized I had made a mistake. There is a traditional Indian law that you must confess your mistakes. When Kenny Gopher came into the lodge as the day became lighter, I stated, not loudly, but in a voice that could be heard throughout the great lodge, “I confess before the Center Pole that I have stepped into the sacred ground of this alter to bring a dancer the smudge. I made that mistake.” Kenny simply replied “Don’t do that, Lion.” Nothing else was said and that was the end of it. I continued my duties. On the last day of the Rain Dance, Kenny came by my tipi and presented me with a beautiful Pendleton blanket. I had slept for a few hours in the morning, following my night watchman shift, and now it was mid afternoon and time to go take in the finishing ceremony. A steel stock watering trough was brought into the great lodge and filled with bottles of water, cans of soft drinks, containers of juice, things that looked absolutely marvelous to me at that moment. The Rain Dance Makers gave the final prayers and the fast was over. Now they unwound the great lengths of colored cloth that had wrapped the center pole, allowing these beautiful streamers to move with the breeze from the top of this pole, and the refreshments were pouring freely. I did not drink right away, but helped hand these wonderful liquid things out to those who had suffered more than I had, the men and women who had physically danced. My friend Matt Gone then stated loudly for all to hear “the Lion has not had a drink for four days” and one of the Indian Priests gestured to me to drink. One swallow of Orange Juice, in that circumstance, can be a physically felt sensation rushing through your veins, down your limbs like a wave, as the body knows the first experience of hydration and nutrition in quite some time. Hunger had passed after two days. After that, the body only knows thirst. Now there was the gift giving, and visitors were told to get in line to receive gifts from the people of the Rocky Boy tribe. I stood dutifully in the line. I did not know the Indian handing out the blankets, but when it was my turn, the Whiteman, to receive a blanket, this Indian very deliberately stepped past me to continue giving the blankets, but only to Indians, not Whites. So there was a racist in the group just like could happen anywhere. I walked back into the great lodge and watched as the Rain Dance Makers dismantled the holy alter and put away the Buffalo skull. Only my pipe was left in the rack, occupying the place of the leader pipe. The other pipes had already found their keepers. I did not want to disturb what the medicine men were doing at that moment, so I waited. I noticed the racist Indian was now standing, not far away, also watching. All of the gifts had been given out. I had my gift, my Pendleton blanket from Kenny, so everything was OK. At that moment, with the racist Indian looking on, one of the Indian Priests noticed me standing there and took the this special pipe from the rack, properly dismantled it by

94 removing the willow stem from the stone bowl and handed it to me. The racist Indian’s face suddenly became that native expression of stone that states clearly ‘things are not all right’ or ‘I am in trouble.’ I took the pipe and walked to the tipi to put it in its bag. Twenty minutes or so later I was standing with Dan Buffalo and Kenny Gopher, looking in the direction of the great lodge, just emptied of people, when the center pole spontaneously burst into flames. After the conquest, the Sundancers were persecuted and the Sun Priests were jailed if they dared to practice this religion. This has to do with the law called the American Indian Religious Crimes Code passed by the Congress around 1868. This law was passed at the behest of the Indian Agents controlling the several tribes- the agents complained they were experiencing difficulty properly socializing the Indians into Christian ways on account of these ceremonies. Often, these agents were Christian ministers in addition to being duly appointed officials of the United States. So the Sundance religion was driven underground. After this, the large Indian summer celebrations, absent the Sundances, became the modern Pow Wow, a tourist attraction, and the Sun Priests practiced in secret for the next one hundred years. Sundance eventually became legal once more, but was never again a part of what became the ‘Pow Wow’ celebration, the summer event which had evolved into something altogether different than what it was. In the meantime, the place of the woman has been taken away in the Rain Dance at Rocky Boy, and elsewhere, through the process of Christianization and Catholic subversion of the ceremony itsself. Whereas in the old times the women had not only sung the ceremonial songs for the thirst dancers, equal to and alongside the men, but women had also run these sacred events as the overall authority, equal to any male lead Rain Dance Maker in the past. In modern times the women have been restricted and pushed out of these roles. Catholic priests nowadays use Native sacred incense, Sweet Grass, in the mass at chapels on reservations and Catholic priests have been dancing in the Rain Dance ceremony. There is no place for women in the Catholic priesthood and there is no longer a place for the ancient rites of the women priests in their own sacred native ceremonies. This seems to have happened across the spectrum of Indian nations. Before I left for Blackfeet country, to return home, I was invited to a sweat outside of Rocky Boy Agency, not far from the Rain Dance location. So with my brother, Dan Buffalo, I went to sweat. Now I was with a group of Indians that didn't know me all that well, other than Dan Buffalo. I had a chance to really get hot. That was what I was thinking, these guys really get it hot. Dan told me later “The damn fools thought they would be able to make you holler with the heat.” But I was OK, because I was used to a hot sweat in Blackfeet country. The guy that took over splashing the water on the red hot stones, determined to get to the Whiteman -that was an Indian named Clifford- he got it really scorching and then.. nothing happened. Dan told the doorman “Open it.” Clifford had passed out from the heat. Clifford went on to an exemplary career as a ‘Telescope’ man. Why am I not surprised. Why did Kenny give me that Pipe? Was it a prescient act, to educate his own people, because the racists at ceremony were breaking the old law of the Indians? The old people

95 will tell you that to be Indian has nothing to do with race, but is predicated on how you think, the terms in which you view the world. And to keep these items safely, to be able to hold on to the sacred without coming to, or causing harm, requires a highest form of ethics in your personal life. These old Indian laws of personal behavior preclude anger and any anger associated additudes, such as ridiculing people or hurting peoples feelings through expressions such as the hate embodied in Racism. I have tried to live that clean life. During the years that I kept this special pipe in Indian country, I never came to harm despite two attempts to kidnap me, a politically motivated assassination attempt while I was helping the traditional Chief Heavy Runner with a sacred lands motivated legal fight against the Blackfeet Tribal Council, and several other, revenge motivated, attempted murders. All I can say is, that while I possessed this pipe in Indian Country, everywhere I went that Indians flaunted these ancient laws, they self destructed around me, sometimes together with their ceremonies, like suicide bombers missing their targets. It was really something to see.

96 A Blind Date This is the story of a pair of magical shoes, not glass slippers, real Indians cannot afford items such as that- and their stories don’t go there. Rather these magical shoes were a pair of cheap canvass basketball shoes, bright red retro 1950’s Converse All Stars. And the White woman that wore them on her blind date with a medicine man. My brother, Dan Buffalo, was one of those Indians trapped between times and worlds. Raised fluent in Ojibwa and Cree language, Dan tried hard to make things happen, to be successful in both worlds, Indian and White. Mostly he was able to be successful as an Indian, and that is likely what killed his chances of making it as a Whiteman. Because Whitemen don’t have much of a sense of humor. They are too conflicted, uptight. To be a Whiteman, you have to give up being an Indian, you are no longer allowed to laugh. And Dan could not give up being an Indian. When Dan was a young man, in the late 1950’s, things were not that much different for the young people in Indian Country compared to the outside world. Anglo culture was encroaching on young Indians in those days, and Dan was attracted to Beatniks and Blues music. When Dan’s cousins from Rocky Boy would visit at his parents home in Great Falls, Dan would sometimes depart the house with the statement “See you later, DaddyO, I have a bone to pick with a chick.” Dan, with enough grease in his hair to stand a mohawk style up straight, but combed straight back, would then drive off in his 1938 Chevy sedan that was hand painted and barely ran, careful not to take the right hand corner too hard so the left front fender did not drag on the ground because of the broken spring and missing shock absorber. Radio on at full volume to be heard over the missing muffler, or perhaps at full volume only because he was a teenager, Dan’s explosive noises faded out of hearing, finally, and his parents would be muttering explicatives in Ojibwa language. I met Dan Buffalo in 1977 when I lived with the Wells at Badger Canyon, and Dan had become my brother when old Alfred and Agnes adopted me, they had previously also adopted Dan. Dan was a stick game player, and that was how he became the son of Alfred and Agnes, because these old people were also stick game players, and through this medium they had become friends with Dan and eventually took him in as their son. And it was Dan that first tutored me in the stick game, at Heart Butte, taking a close interest in me, Dan gave me opportunities to play as often as possible, giving me the bones to hide when he pointed games, teaching me to use a hand drum, giving me songs, the man was just generous to me from the beginning of our relationship. When I had began my training with Pat Kennedy in 1981, much to my surprise I discovered that Dan was one of Pat’s main supporting medicine men for this Ghost religion, a fact Dan had never mentioned to me during my years of acquaintance with Dan as my adopted brother via the Wells. Now I had discovered that Dan was versed in these sacred songs and ceremony as well, and my education accelerated. Pat was my primary teacher, it was Pat that had brought me into this religion, but Dan being my brother and a senior figure in this ceremony, opened his well of knowledge to me also.

97 A few years had gone by and I had become comfortable in ceremony and indicated to Dan I was curious about a Blackfeet ceremony called ‘Holy Smoke’ and Dan took me to a ceremonial bundle opening that lasted all night when the First Thunder happens in the spring. Again I was amazed that Dan knew all of the necessary songs for this ceremonial as well, the main medicine man here, George Kicking Woman, immediately upon seeing Dan enter the ceremonial site, had pressed him into a role as one of the singers. Dan sang throughout the night as his turn came around again and again. One day I asked Pat Kennedy about Dan and Indian music and Pat told me “He knows a lot.” This was the mid 1980’s and somewhere I had run across a recording of Indian sacred music from several different tribes in chorus, by a college group somewhere in Colorado, near Durango I think. Thinking to test Dan, I dropped by to visit one day and played the music for him sight unseen just to see his reaction. I was simply stunned. Dan calmly and correctly identified each and every song without hesitation but always with the same pointed note… example given, at the end of one the songs Dan simply stated “Hopi Butterfly Dance. In chorus.” Eventually I sorted out that across the spectrum of Indian Nations, Dan Buffalo was a grandmaster of native spiritual music. It was about this same time that the Anglo muscians Loggins and Messina had split and I had picked up a copy of Messina’s new solo work that seemed to me to be cutting edge blues/jazz fusion and I gave the tape to Dan. Dan listened to the first cut on the tape and had a look of real satisfaction and told me in Cree language (nearly all the Plains Ojibwa also speak Cree) “That is really Good (Me-wa-sin.)” I left the tape for him to enjoy. Back when I had first discovered Ghost religion and Dan’s presence there, I had asked Dan how one went about getting a Sacred Pipe. Dan’s reply had been “For Christ’s sake steal one.” I didn’t have to do that because not long after Kenny Gopher had given me ‘The Very Special Pipe’ and the question was resolved. Again, not long after, when asked by Kenny to attend a Cree Sundance and bring the pipe to Rocky Boy, I discovered Dan was there mentoring Sundancers. Just one more thing about himself he had neglected mentioning to me over the years. When the Ojibwa and Cree medicine men are not busy with the sacred aspect of ceremony, they will tell stories that are often risque and off color much to the merriment of everyone present. Every good medicine man has his own story of playing a joke on one of his peers and if that peer is present he has to take it in good humor and his only retaliation can be to tell his own story in turn. And the lengths, planning with premeditation and exacting detail, that these men will go to, to ‘get’ their friends and catch them looking incredibly foolish- making a story that will be good telling for years to come, and the patience with which they plan these pranks is amazing. There is a powerful underlying cultural motive for this humor and these pranks because there is a cardinal rule that hate and anger in the medicine men at ceremony is disasterous to everyone present. So the purpose of these pranks is to test the people you are working closely in ceremony with, and if you cannot take the pranks in good humor, it weeds you out.

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Grasping this idea, I had to come up with a prank of my own because I thought that by now I was the butt of every joke that had ever been pulled on a Whiteman, I had been tested like no one I had ever seen in Indian country. Example given, the story of how Bear Meat had left Indian country was good fun at my expense for years. It was pathetic. I never became angry, but I needed ammunition in the form of stories of my own. If you can sucessfully prank one of the great medicine men and make it a good one, the heat is off, because then the rest of the medicine men respect you, in fact you might say they are a little afraid of you and what you might do to them. By this time Dan was my target. Everywhere in Indian country that I had a significant experience or had met the right people I had subsequently discovered Dan Buffalo’s presence. To this day I do not know if it was Dan that had a hand in my discovering all of the really neat places and awesome people where I subsequently also discovered Dan in these new Indian worlds he had never told me about, but it was somehow suspicious. So now my target was selected and I set about planning my prank. The medicine man’s great prank (something they only do to each other and to those foolish enough to presume they can sit with these men) is governed by rules like everything else that they do. There cannot be malevolent intent. You can plan and employ accomplices to a point, but then you have to let go and see where it goes, what happens. You pray it does not backfire. You need tools- mental faculties, recognition of opportunities (a kind of timing) and luck. The Gods have humor too and so you depend on Wee Say Kay Cha, the Cree trickster, to help. If the trickster does not pity you, you know it is going to backfire. So you have to live right. Dan’s weakness was the fact that he was single. Raising two orphaned mixed race children by himself, these children were Indian and Black, and living in a housing project in Great Falls as urban Indians, Dan had real opportunities as an Indian and few breaks in the White world. His passion had been to play professional Ice Hockey as a younger man but his knees had betrayed him and now his skates were imaginary trophies on the wall, reminders that he had once tried to realize a dream in a sports world that is ruled by Whites. Here in the Great Falls, Montana, community called Parkdale, Dan was a craftsman, and made Indian Traditional Dance bustles from the feathers of road kill hawks, Porcupine hair head dresses and was a master beadworker as well. All of his attempts at socialization and work in the White world ultimatly failed because his indefatigueable Cree humor, and nearly all male Cree humor is prurient, fell flat with his employers. It never translated well. Using Cree humor as an inspiration to instantly make jokes in western languages is social suicide, such as the time Dan’s employer was a German immigrant and Dan coined an imaginary German word as a nickname for this fellow, “Wienerslipin”, when he discovered his erstwhile employer liked checking out the hookers on the streets of Great Falls. Dan was always getting fired. Self employed as an Indian was the only thing that worked. But he still like Blues/Jazz fusion music, because Dan was a real Indian, and that meant he was never racist. But he was single and

99 would have liked a bit of ‘Wienerslipin’ in his own life but only under the correct circumstance, no hookers. Genie was a uniquely Montana White woman which means that she was crazy by median standards, half Hippie and half real Cow Girl. Raised around Indians in Great Falls but never having met Dan, she presented a perfect opportunity for me. Single at the time and feeling like she needed an adventure at the end of the season managing a large kitchen for a Montana guest ranch, I proposed a blind date and adventure in Indian country, I would take her up to Great Falls to meet Dan and then we all would travel to the Stick Games at Wellpinit, Washington, over the Labor Day holiday weekend. Genie accepted my proposal on the spot. Arriving at Dan’s place in the Parkdale, this medicine man looked stunned when I brought Genie into the house and that was a good beginning. If you can imagine, picture a good looking but big woman that can be anything she wants to be on the spot and she had suddenly become Betty Boop. Dan could only panic in a uniquely Indian way and handing Genie a joke card that only said “We don’t mean to bug you but…” with a drawing of a Crab Louse on the card, he immediately vanished to compose himself, Dan was nearly scared to death. As soon as Dan had vanished from the room, Genie turned to me and bounced up and down on her tip toes, hands together at a point under her chin with sheer delight as she nodded her approval with seeming excruciating pleasure at the prospect. After awhile Dan had to return, the louse card not having driven Genie off, still looking frightened, but trying hard to be composed and Genie reduced his will to gelaten with small talk and Betty Boop giggles, expertly taking control of the situation. Dan, panicked as he was, surrendered his will entirely to a wild woman who had one side of her hair dyed pink in a broad band and was wearing red Converse All Stars. Now all I could do was to see what happened. After awhile it was getting late and Genie, this big, volumptous and beautiful woman with the giggles said in her Betty Boop voice “OH, I wonder where I will sleep tonight?” I suppresed an urge to laugh and with the straightest face you can imagine explained that the couch had been mine for years when I visited and as Dan collapsed into a look of utter disbelief, this was the clue he was really finished off, I gave Genie directions up the stairs directly into Dan’s bed. Taking the cue, Genie made her way up the stairs as Dan simply stood speechless and I stated to him “Go sleep in your own bed you dumb ass.” Without a word, Dan turned and climbed the stair after Genie. This was no Indian courtship. Dan was in completely over his head. Moments later I heard Dan drawing an imaginary line down the center of his bed explaining that he had the one side and Genie had the other. Betty Boop’s bird chirp voice replied “I hope you don’t mind but I don’t sleep with any clothes on at all.” These were two big people. I had not thought about Dan’s bed being directly over the couch I slept on, but the ceiling did not come down on me. In the morning Dan limped down the stair holding his reinjured hockey knee but as soon as he was down, the pain was forgotten. Picture the old Star Wars Jabba the Hut in glasses and braids wearing the expression of the cat that had just ate the canary. Dan was a happy man.

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Packing camp gear into Dan’s chevy pickup named the ‘Red Jet’, Genie and Dan, together with Dan’s Cree fluent black daughter ‘Migwams’ set out for Indian country, and our vehicles joined a caravan of Great Falls Indians, all Stick Game players, all of us heading for Washington State. Dan began this trip driving with his one arm across Genie’s shoulders, supremely satisfied at this very brief moment in life, he could have doubted his luck, but did not think to right away. But as the Stick Games at Wellpinit drew closer with the shrinking distance, Dan’s brow became furrowed. A big White woman with a bird song Betty Boop voice, pink hair and red high top canvass basketball shoes presented a spectacle that became frightening all over again in Dan’s mind as he considered the numerous medicine men he would face at the games and the fact of the Indian humor that telegraphs across Indian country, each time the story growing more sublimely ridiculous with the telling. Dan began to worry. Suddenly he believed he needed a plan. Stopping in Spokane, Washington State, the caravan fueled up before the last leg into Indian country and the coming games. Dan made a quick additional stop at a variety store buying what looked like a hundred blank cassette tapes and fifty batteries for his tape recorder that would record the Stick Game music of the many tribes at these games. Subsequently making the last leg of the journey to Wellpinit, our caravan found camp sites and we all proceeded setting up our tents and tipis. The games were already going strong, many tribes represented in teams playing beneath a large outdoor pavillion roof supported by stout timbers over a large area, fantastically clad Indians from New Mexico to British Columbia, Alberta, Saskatchwan, Manitoba, Washington, Idaho, Montana, Oregon, Utah, Indians of every tribal discription in their Stick Game finest dress and the incredible din of drums and shouting of the many simultaneous games of magical intertribal combats and sorceries. Our caravan dispersed into the crowd to evaluate the action and consider who to take on in the games. Having found a Blackfeet team run by Heavy Runner, I left our Great Falls Ojibwa and Cree group to its own devices and sat down to sing and play. I noticed, over the hours which had passed while playing that Genie, who seemed to be throughly enjoying herself, was recording the music with Dan’s equipment at one game or another. When she came to record us, I her asked how it was going. Genie told me that it was the most colorful and incredible event she had ever seen in her life and that she was having a fantastic time, but with a caveat- “That jerk Dan is ashamed of me, I can’t hang out with him, every time I come around his game he sends me off with fresh tapes to record somewhere else.” Genie, who is not in reality anything at all like Betty Boop, was pissed. This did not bode well for Dan. Only for the moment that she had made that statement to me, all of the Hippie in Genie had vanished. She was pure angry Montana Cow Girl, and that is one calculating, tough woman. It had become late and Genie left the games to sleep in her and Dan’s tent. Dan, noticing Genie’s absence and correctly assuming she had gone back to the tent to sleep, had a no longer original idea. Totally taken in by Genie’s ‘Betty Boop’ persona,

101 Dan had no idea whatsoever that this woman was not an airhead and that she had completely seen through his calculated plan to keep her at a distance so he could explain her away again and again to the numerous medicine men that were curious about the strange woman. But now, behind the walls of the tent in his imagination, the thought of Genie’s pink hair and red Converse All Star basketball shoes faded and other recent, more carnel memories emerged. Dan slipped away from the games. But he was soon back, too soon, and over the next several days transformed into one of the most haggard Indians I had ever seen, sleep deprived even by Stick Game standards, after that one brief foray back to camp, he was terrified to return to his tent for the duration of the games over the next several days. Having had the termity to crawl into his bed while Genie pretended to sleep and subsequently make a move to reconsumate the relationship, Genie had hit Dan with her elbow so hard in his ribs that she thought later that she might have broken some bones while stating “You son of a bitch, you think I’d give that to you now after you’ve shown the whole world that you are ashamed of me?” Genie and Migwams had in the meantime become fast friends and had a wonderful Pow Wow. I had stayed away from the situation entirely and only played the game with the Blackfeet. Relating the story to Pat Kennedy a week or two later, Pat was nearly brought to tears laughing, but the story was not yet finished. It was a great story, but the punchline had not been delivered yet. That would have to wait. Wee Say Kay Cha is patient. Over the next few years the story was seldom told at Ghost religion ceremony by the medicine men because Dan was usually present and the story was not yet ripe. But in Dan’s absence, the tale was fast becoming a favorite. In the meantime I noticed a new deference from the medicine men towards me. The jokes were more gentle, which was a great relief. I was no longer being crucified. About three years after the Blind Date, Wee Say Kay Cha had his way. Dan had missed the first Ghost dance of the fall and I was not present at the second. The stage was set for the other medicine men to finish the work. Dan came into the ceremonial location, arriving early, because he was to be the lead pipeman and leader of the sacred songs, the second most senior male position in that ceremony. Several of the other medicine men had arrived already and were sitting together on the floor engaged in casual conversation. Instead of greeting Dan as would be usual, the group went silent on his entry to the room. That got Dan’s attention, he gave the obligatory inquiring look and stated “Tig-wa” (What is it?) Pat Kennedy told Dan “Aus-tem” with a hand motion, fist to the floor beside him, the Cree imperative meaning to come sit down and join in what is being discussed. Pat, in all seriousness, then related a completely farcial story concerning the previous ceremony missed by Dan. “There was a White woman here looking for you. She brought a little boy in blond braids, about two years old.” Dan’s expression went from quizzical to concerned. Pat continued “She was kind of different.” Pat passed one hand along the

102 side of his head and pointed the other at his feet “Pink hair and red shoes.” Dan’s expression turned to stone. Pat then stated “She brought offerings and wanted you to pray for her little kid , the one in blond braids she called Danny.” Now another medicine man, Tyrone Gopher, entered the conversation. “What I think is, is that she is after you to establish paternity, so she can make a case for CHILD SUPPORT, you know that is a requirement to receive state welfare.” As Dan’s face crumpled into panic, Kenny LaPope, who was setting up the pipes for the coming ceremony, began to cry, giving the joke away, because crying is the only laugh allowed when you are handling that particular item. Every one else was rolling on the floor and howling as Dan was mock cussing at all of them, pretending to be mad. For the rest of his life, my brother Dan Buffalo only treated me with ultimate deference. Genie’s only regret from the adventure three years previous was Migwams, who had taken Genie’s big white hand in her two small black hands and asked “Would you be my mom?” Later, Genie had said to me that having to leave Migwams behind had “nearly broken my heart.” The Death of Dan Buffalo Dan Buffalo died of what I know was a uniquely Indian premeditated murder. The Reverend Jim Jones hated me more than any Indian alive, that I am aware of. His several attempts on my life only ceased when Dan Buffalo had told Jim that he was a dead man if anything happened to me. Several years later Jim Jones presented Dan with a pipe to ask him to lead ceremony, a seeming reconciliation. Dan accepted and for the four days that he was the lead pipeman, Jim Jones repeatedly throughout those four days had one of Dan’s relatives, a half wit, bring Dan large containers of Coke to drink, which Dan could not refuse according to ceremonial law. That same law also proscribed Dan from quitting ceremony before its conclusion. Dan, a diabetic, checked himself into the hospital after the ceremony and left that hospital in a hearse. Perhaps the historical Jesus HAD said „No greater love has a man than to lay down his life for a friend.“ Soon after, the Reverend Jim Jones dropped dead at the entrance to his own sweat lodge. He was dragged inside the sweat by his followers for the spirits to revive him, but of course it failed.

103 Four Blackfeet and a Few Whitemen (Shamen and Politicians) This is the story of four Blackfeet, two born into that tribe, and two naturalized- one Indian and one White. It is a story of the naturalized Blackfeet Elder, Pat Kennedy, a Chippewa-Cree that has risen to the challenge of fulfilling the Dreams handed down from his Prophets, it is the story of Earl Old Person who became Paramount Chief of his nation and failed, it is the story of the mystic warrior and Sun Priest Floyd Heavy Runner, Chief of the Crazy Dogs warrior society who has carried his peoples Oral History in a pure state through incredibly difficult times, and it is the story of Ron West, a Whiteman who had become a Blackfeet under the most unusual of circumstances. And it is the story of a few Whitemen. I first sweat with the young Chief Floyd Heavy Runner at the foot of the mountain where I eventually had my ‘Big Psychosis’ (Vision Quest.) This was in 1976. Floyd was the grandson of the healers Alfred and Agnes who adopted me the following year, and Floyd had been raised in the traditional way as a son by these old people. So in that sense we are brothers. Sometimes it is good to sweat just to get clean. That’s how it was when I sweat with Floyd at the Badger Canyon, there was no elaborate ceremony, not even a pipe involved, just Sweet Pine on the hot stones to purify the atmosphere in an already clean environment.. and what has to be some of the purest water in the world dipped out of the free flowing Badger River- from the snowfields of the Northern Rocky Mountains. So this was my first Sweat Lodge experience. It was really, very good. And Floyd, traditional Chief of the Crazy Dogs warrior society and Blackfeet Sun Priest, was wise to introduce me to the sweat with this simple and straightforward experience. Later on, when I began my relationship with one of my other teachers, Pat Kennedy (the Jesuit priests could not pronounce his family’s name during the period that the Indians were recorded for the census, so the Irish name that sounded somewhat similar was pronounced and given), Pat took me up a level and I learned to use a pipe in the sweat. But again, it was simple, straightforward and clean. Pat sweat on the Cut Bank River, north of the Badger River. The environment was identical, unspoiled nature and pure water from the springs and snowfields of the Northern Rocky Mountains. Neither of these men, Floyd or Pat, was ever tempted to ‘fake’ spirits and although they traveled different roads and were at times rivals, both were and are pure Indians, devoted to their culture. Floyd sometimes fought wars with the politic of our era, Pat did not. I stood shoulder to shoulder with Floyd in some of his battles, to preserve the very environment that allowed for these incredible, clean, sweats to occur, but with Pat, everything was limited to teaching and prayer. Both men were right to pursue the paths they did. They simply pursued different paths. One being right did not make the other wrong. Both taught me well. In the 29 years I have known Floyd and the 24 years I have known Pat, I have never seen either one of them abuse the sweat for personal or political gain. I have also never seen either one of these men represent the sweat as something it is not. Both of these men have consistently denounced the ‘telescope’ or ‘shaking tent’ and its sweat lodge variant, the ‘telescope sweat’ as wrong. They are pure Indians and both men have demonstrated

104 devotion to the survival of what is authentic and good in their culture. I have been indeed fortunate in the class of the teachers I have been blessed with. As I had mentioned, Floyd and Pat set out down different paths. I can narrate my political adventures with Floyd a little later on, but with the ultimate deference to Floyd, beyond my simple introductory sweat, I will for the most part not speak of the sacred matters in relation to this chief, because he has opted to keep these matters within the community that speaks the Blackfeet language. And these stories are not told in that context. We are not by the campfire in proximity to the gods and ancestors in their native land, excepting perhaps those Blackfeet that may read this. And that is appropriate. Pat, on the other hand, has allowed me to narrate my adventures in the sacred matters as they relate to him, however without going into certain ceremonial details, to prevent those details being counterfeited and abused. Only qualified priests, properly trained over many years, should run the ceremonies. But the beauty of what Pat will allow me to relate is this: Without divulging the specifics of ceremony that is uniquely Indian, and requires training that is unique to the Indian medicine community to be successful, I can divulge the principles behind these events so that seekers exterior to the native community, those able to find their own way, can know of the interactive phenomena of our inter-dimensional relationship to nature- in short, the Naaks, our relationship with the gods. The difference in approach between these two men may simply be that of circumstance. The Blackfeet culture of Floyd did not originally know the false version of the Shaking Tent. And Floyd has not as much found himself in a situation of having to circumvent that falsehood within his community. And consider this: the Oral History holds the Shaking Tent is the origin of the very old Blackfeet name for the Cree Indians- ‘Sinah’literally translated as ‘Liars’ (to be fair I must mention here that the name ‚sinah’ or liar also is reputed as given to the Cree tribe over a broken treaty agreement between the Blackfeet and Crees.) On the other hand, Pat has been in a situation of have to fight the lie of the Shaking Tent within his own culture, the Crees and their close relatives, the Plains Ojibwa, throughout his life. However, the Blackfeet sobriquet for the Crees, Liars, is not fair to the Cree people as an all-encompassing term. In many cases, the old people within the Cree and the Chippewa speaking Plains Ojibwa communities, were careful to instruct their young people not to go to the Shaking Tent- warning them away from that false ceremony. Compounding the difficulty with this, there were and are, true ‘seers’, both Cree and Ojibwa, as well as Blackfeet, that are able to do in fact what the false modern Shaking Tent ‘sham-men’ claim to be able to do- see things going on elsewherebut without the phony ceremony of bells and hoopla in the dark. These true seers, men such as John Good Runner, kept a small lamp on, if their Spirit Lodge ceremony was in the evening, so there could be no mistake about how the phenomena of the spirits presence was manifest. There was no physical manipulation of events to mimic spirits. But these were always rare people even in the best of times and the more recent take off on the old Shaking Tent, the so called ‘Telescope’, with its numerous ‘pop shamen’ such as the Reverend Jim Jones of the Chicken Feathers Shaking Tent fame, a man that went from Boarding School to Country Western singing in Bars, to Telescope man when Indian culture saw a renaissance, have badly injured the real Spirit Lodge men and women, who have either quit or decided not to pass this knowledge on because of the

105 proliferation of fakes. Yet a greater reason for the difference in approach of these two men relating to the outside world of the Whiteman may be that of the differing stories of their gods and prophets. The culture hero of Floyd’s Blackfeet people was a Whiteman of the most ancient times, Napi, who went to live in the west, after teaching the newly arrived Blackfeet how to survive in the land they had arrived in: this followed the Blackfeet migration to the foothills of the Northern Rocky Mountains from the south. (footnote here: Migration from the South is taken from the idea that Napi created the Blackfeet world from south to north) Napi may easily be represented in the bones of ‘Kennewick Man’ who has been discovered directly to the west of the historic Blackfeet homeland. There is more to Blackfeet Oral History than mere myth and legend in the Western Civilization sense of the terms. According to Napi, before he went away to live in the West, he would make his existence manifest again in this world when the Blackfeet lived in a degenerate state, a state remarkably similar to the circumstance of the Blackfeet reservation people of today. And as would be the attitude of Floyd, that is that, it is the end of the story. Floyd will circumspectly keep what makes him an authentic Indian to his own Blackfeet speaking people and they may survive into the future or not. On the other hand, the Whiteman plays a different role in the history of the Cree and Ojibwa peoples of Pat. Here the ancient stories state that after the present day Whiteman visits the North American Holocaust on Indian Peoples, and ultimately on himself, there will be Whitemen survivors that will join with the Indian survivors and go forward into a future remade world that is eventually pristine and once again beautiful. These future people will be largely Indian in their outlook on life. In Pat’s mind, we are on the cusp of that time and it is of paramount importance that the peoples of the future, Indian and White, know right from wrong, especially as relates to Indian culture and approach to ceremony. And so it is without conflict that I am able to bring the experience of Pat and his vision to the outside peoples, but not the experience and vision of Floyd. I have sweat in the original Blackfeet way, but I have sweat most often in the traditions of Pat and the Plains Ojibwa. The Native American religion of the celebration of the season of death, the Giveaway Dance, is a winter religion, and a Ghost religion, of which Pat is the High Priest of an entire region- encompassing several tribes. I've most often sweat with Pat in the context of that tradition. Without the negative connotation of ‘necromancy’ in the Christian context of the Anglo world, I would say that this ‘Ghost religion’ is most closely associated to my sweat experience. To a lesser extent I have sweat probably a few dozen times with the New Age Anglo people who are attempting to adopt traditions out of Indian culture and make it into a future for themselves. Pat sees these people and their attraction to the Indian religious ways as indicating the times of the prophets are upon us. I actually have a few students of my own, over a long term, in parts of the USA and Europe. According to Pat, I am the 22nd generation taught in his line of knowledge, and my students are the 23rd generation. Our relationship is discreet. So I sometimes instruct via email to Germany, as well as over the phone to a few places in the USA. The purpose of this is to lend aid and support and teach these people, in some small way taking what I have learned from Pat and respecting his mission to bring his vision out. And let me add here, that there is no more qualified person within the American

106 Indian world to allow for this than Pat, insofar as being of the original, authentic instructions from that culture. As far as credentials, I could not do better than to have Pat’s blessing. There may be a handful of Indians in the Northern plains of America who are Pat’s peer, but my best guess is there are few, or none, that supersede Pat. I would add to this that I see the marked difference of approach that Pat takes in relation to these ‘new’ people, as opposed to the leadership role that he takes with his own people from the Indian communities where Pat originated. The present story is in relation to Pat’s own Indian community. Pat’s mission to the Whites will be told a bit further on. My best native experience is within the authentic traditions as is represented initially by Floyd Heavy Runner in the Blackfeet way, and summer season, and then with Pat Kennedy in what we call the "Giveaway” tradition, which is the winter religion, an American Indian necromancy. Probably it bears saying something about the necromancy. But first a short reasoning behind these contrasting ceremonies. When you have the summer religion, which is epitomized in the Sun Dance, you are in celebration of the contemporary living people and life, and full blossom of the earth, and all of the inter-relationships that would be associated with or detailed according to that phenomena of this summer season. Other than to the truly distant in time ancestors who have given us these teachings and ceremony, the sacrifices made at this great national summer celebration are made on behalf of the living. Most typically you make your sacrifice for the living, to bring health. But with the marked change of the season, the leaves now turning yellow and falling from the trees, then we are in the season of the celebration of death. In this winter case, all of our inter-relationships are with the lineal ancestors, the ancestral beings who share the same space with us, but not the same time, but both summer and winter they are contemporary to our existence: the ancestors are alive in their time, we are alive in our time, and the future people are alive in their time, all sharing the same space. We and these ancestors are but a single dimension removed from one another. Generally speaking, in the summer season, the truly ancient ones, beyond the ancestors, are strictly communed with through the most experienced priests of the Sun Dance, so no mistake is made and the veil separating our world, between the ancestor time and our time, is carefully kept intact. This is necessary to prevent the accidental and imperfect crossing of our awareness from one existence to the other, which could negatively affect our minds and bodies. If that exchange might occur, especially in the summer season, it could easily be disastrous to the personality and/or fatal to the body. It is not just any Indian that can safely traverse time, beyond the ancestors, to the abode of the gods, and return safely. On the other hand, it could circumstantially happen to anybody. So here the focus of the Sun Priests is opening that window across and beyond the world of the ancestors, and our communion is not with that which has gone immediately before us.. but is a further dimension over than the ancestors.. in the all encompassing time of the abode of the gods- the home of the truly ancient ones. The promise of the Sun Priest in communion on our behalf is all about what will come in our immediate future. Its focus is the healing and blessings of this present life. Our present state is a period of time, which, caught in our physical existence, is an unstable state between the past and the future. The truly

107 ancient ones do not rule us from their abode, the abode of the gods, but so long as we can safely reach them, so long as Sun Priests remember how to properly traverse to that place, the gods will remember us in their dream, giving us blessings and a continued existence. Here is a story of making that traverse. There is a landless Chippewa Indian community called the Little Shell in the Helena, Montana area, and a Little Shell woman, Trinka, brought me four young men one day and said, "Ron, I need to find somebody to sweat these young men. Can you do it?" I said, "Well, I guess so." This was probably in the summer of 1979 and it would have been on Austin Road where Trinka had a little cabin. Trinka got these young guys together for me and we gathered some proper stones--I knew by then what you could and couldn't use. I didn't have a pipe, but it didn't matter. I was concerned about the heat and frightening or burning these young Indians, so I used a herb that grew right there locally that had an anesthetic quality and made a couple of gallons of sun tea. I put a gallon of that sun tea in the bucket used for dipping water on the hot stones and topped it off with creek water. In that way I was able to get the young men in the sweat and have it plenty hot, have a proper sweat, but without burning or frightening them. So I had these four young men in the sweat lodge and explained to them that this was about their ancestral way, to pray and to make a connection with the fact that you are native, that you are from this land, that you have a longtime association and a powerful connection: I kept it simple the way I had learned and first experienced it. It became nicely hot in there, we went four short hot rounds, the proper method, jumping in the creek after we had sweat, and I told them stories such as I knew about their people, their relationship to the land and how they had lived in this valley. At the end, I was telling these stories as we lay outside the sweat in the lush grass, it was a beautiful day, and I remember how in the sweat we could hear low rumbling, distant thunder. I thought that was a positive thing. While we had been lying outside between rounds, and after, we could see in a circle around us, off in the distance, several thunder storms, and we presumed that was what we had been hearing. So we finished with the sweat, I was done telling the stories, nothing remarkable, everything seemed very clean, and then we all went up to the cabin. Trinka, waiting at the cabin for us, informed us that she had been telling her guests.. that when a thunder cloud had lingered directly over our sweat lodge, and repeatedly peeled thunder during our ceremony, that the spirits were talking to us, that there was a real communication. So Trinka and the others saw the opposite of what we saw. Whereas we saw a clear beautiful blue sky overhead, with the thunderclouds in a circle in the distance and heard the thunderclaps far off, Trinka and her friends saw clear sky all around us, with a single thunder cloud over the sweat that repeatedly and loudly boomed. So the simple and clean ceremony placed myself, together with the four young men, in the abode of the gods. We stepped from our world, the Creator’s dream, being dreamed, into the abode of the gods, the mirror of our existence, and stepped back out again with that ceremony. Above all, to accomplish this, this sweat was unpretentious, without false expectations, very clean. This is so much better than the complex, ritualistically detailed and ego driven events, I won’t call them real ceremony, run by men that are inclined to crush the feelings of the innocents that break the tiniest rule or make the smallest mistake. Reaching the abode of the gods is not at all about these abusive, anal retentive so called medicine men and their

108 complicated beliefs, complicated lives. That is something else altogether and completely different from what is real in a positive sense. To gather attention to your self-importance and hurt peoples feeling in that process, is not about being Indian in the old ways. And it definitely is not about how to sweat. The gods do not honor these persons with a safe traverse to their abode, rather they will only be annoyed, and if the gods did notice these people they would reward them with a visit of the proverbial Trickster, the coyote, to bite them on their anal retentive asses, and you would notice the effect of this invisible bite in the behaviors of these fools, as easily witnessed in their argumentive miseries. The Indigenous Peoples of this world, from their point of view, have kept our very existence as a world intact. As these cultures are put to death with the relentless onslaught of Western Civilization, our world concurrently grows in its state of decay, social and natural. When the indigenous ceremony is finally finished off and our existence is forgotten in the abode of the gods, the gods will cease to see us in their dreams.. and our dimension of time, and the world we live in, will cease to exist. This is why the ancestors struggle to return in our children’s bodies, it is the impetus of the native prophecy directed to the Whiteman: “We shall return in your children’s children.” So despite all of the out and out fakes- the sham-men, the wicked sorcerers, the fools both Red and White who think they have it, but don’t, all those who abuse the notion of indigenous intelligence and approach to our natural state, yes, despite all of these people, the effort to learn these indigenous methods is worthwhile, because the knowledge is there for the taking and because IF there is a future for our world, through the return of the ghosts of the native peoples and the world view of these peoples in ourselves, that is how a future could happen. And that is taught about in the winter. The winter season is about the communion with the dead and their resurrection. The Giveaway Dance ceremony that Pat instructed me in, and that I made myself fully availiable to for ten years, is not about safely transversing the time of the ancestors to the Abode of the Gods, but rather is directly communing with the ancestors, safely, in a season conducive to that purpose. But it is not perfectly safe. The ceremony is set up to open a window in time, and within the exterior boundaries of that ceremonial location, there are a few simple ceremonial rules, the anthropologists would call them taboos, to prevent the accidental or unintended traverse, either direction, to and from the time of the ancestors. Our present, in the old Indian world view, would be our existence is an unstable state, our mortal being, between what went before and what will come. The world we live in is contemporary to both. And, so as long as we have the ceremony and understanding, the knowledge that can open the window to the ancestors, to their time and teaching, and, very importantly, to their healing powers- whatever we might have lost in our contemporary world can still be accessed through that window, insofar as healing abilities, the power to accomplish temporal regeneration and to sustain the health of the community through the Dream. I have seen all of the focus of the anthropologists on the Sun religion, on the summer. And somehow they believe that the ghost religion died out with Wovoka 100 years ago and that that phenomena is gone, but this is not true.

109 The so called Ghost Dance proper, that of Wovoka, was simply a takeoff, an out-take of something that was very old before Wovoka, the antecedent to his ceremony, and that antecedent has continued in the old context and traditional form beyond Wovoka. This pre and post Wovoka ghost ceremony has been deeply buried, nearly completely hidden from the outside view and the White people had never been able to find it. This fact is largely because of the severe social strictures in the Anglo culture against what the Whites describe as necromancy, trafficking with the dead, which is forbidden in the Old Testament, specifically I think, in Deuteronomy. Also, there is the absolute paranoia in the Anglo-Christian culture surrounding the idea of necromancy and both the Catholic and Evangelical abhorrence for that practice was expressed in the proselytizing of the tribes. Also, the entire Indian world of North America became aware of how Big Foot’s band of Sioux was murdered because of the Evangelical generated paranoias surrounding Ghost Dance. So the Indians in their interactions with the White people just never went there, for a long time they did not share this ceremony. And Ghost religion is the one religion and philosophy that had continued to flourish even through the worst repressions of the Native American peoples, because it was something that was so abhorrent to the Anglos, the Natives sensed that it would never do to expose this practice, and never did the two meet. And this is the religion that was in the hands of a high priest, Pat, who is absolutely an authority, when he knocked on my door on the Two Medicine River on the Blackfeet Reservation and stated: "I like where your house is, can I use it for my ceremony.” The amazing ceremony of the Ghost religion variant called Give Away Dance opened like a flower around me, and I was at this ceremony for the next ten winters and nothing was held back. When Pat held the first Giveaway Dance at my house at the end of March, 1981, we would perform ceremony for most of the night, and then towards daybreak the ceremony would be nearly shut down for the day and people would go home, but at least one of the higher priests, a senior medicine man, had to stay with all of the ceremonial accoutrements. Basically the entire house was integrated into the ceremony through a process that lasted for 4 to 5 days. One of those days I particularly remember, Pat and I were spending time together at the house alone, and I asked him the question: Is anybody learning this to take it into the future? I don't want to say that his answer was disingenuous, I want to say that his answer was brilliant. He just said “No.” I was amazed, because what I saw, and what had prompted my question, was the sight of old people running the ceremony and a lot of middle-aged and older people attending, with just a few younger people present and holding back, they stayed on the periphery, uninvolved. This picture to me as a social scientist, the thing that jumped out at me was.. that this is the end: when this generation is gone, Ghost religion is finished. I naively told Pat, "I'll give you a year of my time to learn about this." Pat just said, "Alright." So he accepted me, right there, and we'd just met within the week. I'd heard of Pat because of my association with the traditional families on the reservation and I strongly suspected Pat had heard of me over the ‘Chicken Feathers Shaking Tent’ episode. My suspicion was validated later, it turns out that was why he had knocked on my door one early spring morning. Pat wanted to meet the Whitemen that had shut down Jim Jones telescope lodge.

110 It turned out Pat’s answer "no", that no one was taking this variant of Ghost religion, the Giveaway Dance, into the future, was not precisely true. There were people who were learning it, but not to Pat’s satisfaction. And there I was for the next ten years, not just one year. Let's put it this way, the following winter I put in 44 nights of this ceremony spread across the region of the northern plains, Canada and the United States with Pat, sitting right beside him. Cree tribes in Canada, a Chippewa/Cree tribe in Montana, the Blackfeet tribe, I traveled with Pat and he was called to a wide geographic region to preside over that ceremony, to an extent that amazed me. And Pat used me ingeniously. The first time that Pat had me lead a song in ceremony for people to dance, I got started with the song properly, I managed the middle of the song, but I couldn't remember how to find my way out of the song. So, I just continued the song until Pat and several other old medicine men, realizing my dilemma, were rolling on the floor laughing as the people, sweating, were becoming exhausted with that particular dance. I somewhat desperately assessed the situation while singing and decided that the only way out was to break the song off without properly ending it, and that is what I did. But after, when Pat gathered his composure and had gotten past his tears from laughing at me, and how that song had gone, Pat looked at the young men present who had not drummed and sang and said to them: "Can any of you do that?" None of them could say yes. He then told them, "This guy”, without saying ‘Whiteman’, but pointing to me, "just beat you." The next time you saw those young men at the ceremony they could drum and sing those songs. Pat used me that way for the next ten years and he continually and steadily promoted me within the ceremony and my responsibilities and ability to attend to things right up to the point that I could do nearly anything. But this was predicated on the fact that I was better than any other student he had, not in qualitative abilities, such as prayer in Indian language, I was not very good at that, but because I was able to manifest phenomena according to the old ideas, which shocked the heck out of me by the way, and a whole lot of Indians. Especially the first time, when after the long prayers required by this ceremonies pipe directions, my pipe (the one I was using from the ceremony) did not need lit, a voice came into my mind and said „Draw it“ and I pulled air through the stem and it was alive, smoking. The Indian designated to light the pipes was lighting the one next to me and he almost jumped over the Indian he was lighting the pipe for when it happened. Then the medicine men that sit in a formation representing one of the constellations all were talking in sign language about what they had just seen, my pipe alive without the match. Pat told me relating to what had happened „Sometimes things just go really well.“ I believe, if my memory serves me correctly, that Leroy Little Bear and his wife, Amethyst First Rider, were the sponsors of that particular Give Away Dance, they would have been sitting just behind me as I prayed and smoked facing the four lead singers. I met Leroy and Amethyst again, under amazingly different circumstances, some twenty years after. A bit on that later. Most importantly perhaps, relating to my instructional time with Pat at Give Away Dance, I was able to explain back to Pat my grasp of what I saw happening, my deepest understandings of the experience within that ceremony and what it was teaching me. Pat would sometimes ask, during a break in proceedings, "Well, Ron, what do you think?" And I would explain to him what I saw, whether for instance it was the ability to discern between glass as a mirror or a window by shifting ones focus, and relate that as an

111 analogy to the interactions of the people and the ghosts, and what I'd have to call the relics, which were part of the accoutrements of that ceremony very realistically representing the dead people in the most Catholic sense of the saints. What I saw experienced as several phenomena, or my perceptions of the phenomena associated with this event, was in Pat’s estimation greatest: it was greater than any of his other students. Here is a story related to this while living in Pat’s community. I was still learning nearly full time with Pat, at Starr School, north of Browning, Montana, this was the middle 1980’s. On a particular occasion, it was in mid summer, some Indian people traveled to see Pat from far away, beyond Manitoba, based on Pat Kennedy's reputation and his abilities as a healer. I was at Pat's house when they arrived. Pat often had me at his kitchen table as a visitor, really like family, we enjoyed each other’s company. Now these people came in and approached Pat with a particular kind of gift of cloth and gestures and demeanor, which immediately freeze Pat, he only watches, not moving or speaking. When you see this particular sort of event happen, it's okay to just shut up, watch and listen. These people had a spokesman, the one holding the cloth and some other items, and he explained a very personal, tragic circumstance of this visiting family. Nobody in their region was capable of helping them, it was very unique circumstances. Pat patiently listened to the man speak throughout the plea for help. Then Pat stated: "It's a shame that you came all this way because it's the summer time, and I'm just a Pow Wow Indian. I do my work with the power in the winter. I can't help you." And these people were just devastated, because Pat with his reputation was their one hope but they didn't have that one critical piece of information, Pat only worked with the medicine in the winter. They seemed tragically broken at that point. However, one of the visitors knew enough about Indian ways that he was able to say something to Pat, something that really got Pat's attention, and then Pat relented and said, "Alright, I'll find out if I can help you. There's no point in wasting your time to come here." Pat then told me, "Ron, go fix the sweat." So I went, it was about a mile from the house down to the sweat lodge on the creek bottom. I got the wood together, emptied out the cold, used rocks from the pit in the sweat lodge, inspected and replaced those stones that needed replacing, assembled the pyre and heated them. And then they showed, Pat and the visitors, probably about six in the evening, the stones were hot and we sweat. Now Pat did something that I had never had seen him do before; he used his winter songs in a summer sweat, which according to everything he'd taught me up to that point.. well, that was something that you just did not do. So, right away, the songs caught my attention. The men from the visiting family were participating; the women stayed outside per the old Indian law. Women have their own lodge and medicine, the two do not mix. Other than that one really big exception to the rule, the Ghost religion songs in a summer lodge, it seemed an unremarkable sweat. It was one of those straightforward sweats where you pray, you sing. Very simple, very clean. And when were done, it was just drawing dusk, a beautiful mid-summer Montana night, I recall it was the Independence holiday weekend, July 1986. Pat told his visitors, and I heard this with my own ears, "Stay here tonight at Starr School. If the answer is yes, that I can help you, there will be a real snow storm." What are the chances of that? Okay!

112

The next morning, there was a foot of snow covering the Rocky Mountain foothills all the way out to Browning. The Marias Pass across the mountains was a traffic mess. The backcountry Rangers in the Glacier National Park were rescuing hikers and backpackers left and right. The Sun pass through the park was closed down and the meteorologist’s described it as a “freak” and “surprise” snowstorm. They never saw it coming. Now, about the necromancy. It directly relates to this previous story in using the winter songs in the summer. The rule against this is to protect people from manifesting the ancestors, or the dead, in our current reality because the normal or typical mindset, even in Indian country, is not equipped to deal with that. So this rule is to protect the people, as a matter of fact all of the taboos are intended to protect the people. The Indian priests, conversely, and this is often much misunderstood by the layman, can break the taboos if they are properly equipped and trained, and the circumstance is correct. Pat had done so, and brought it off famously. But what follows is my own tale of the sorcerer’s apprentice, with the broom, the bucket, and the mop, this had occurred a couple of years before. I knew the winter songs by this time and I had made a promise to somebody to give them a horse. It was a sacred kind of event, I mean, it was just so important to carry that off, to make it happen. This horse was a beautiful black filly, one of those wild mustangs that run the Browning range free. It seems that some Blackfeet have more horses than cows, it's a cultural thing, some Blackfeet would rather have horses, be Indian and starve, than to have cows, be like Whitemen and eat. Obviously, there is a certain amount of perverse pride in this attitude. I had gotten this horse through ceremony and I was transferring ownership to an acquaintance, Murphy Fox. Murphy, when I was visiting Helena, had made the out loud fanciful wish to me that he would “love to own a black Blackfeet horse with black feet.” Well, I had one and I told him “Done. You have your horse. Just come pick it up.” What Murphy did not realize when he made that fanciful wish out loud was that the leaves were not yet fully returned to the trees, he spoke the wish to an apprenticed Ghost religion priest, and because I owned exactly the item that fit the request.. I had to give it to him. So I was up at Buster Yellow Kidney's and by now the trees were leafing out, Buster’s son Merle and I rounded this horse up and now we were having a helluva time; everything was going wrong trying to get this particular horse, that was as wild as wild can be, into the trailer Murphy had brought; she was just not going to go in that trailer. There was a point when we almost had her in when she collapsed on the ramp. By now she's had a Valium injection (Murphy), she's been choked down several times with a lariat (us Indians), is just super traumatized, she's as big as she can be in her belly with a foal, and I was just so concerned that this thing had to go right. And it was not going right. So I began very quietly singing to myself, under my breath in the summer time, the most powerful song I knew from my ceremonial experience, a Ghost calling song, and asking for help to get through this, to get the horse in the hauler and the trauma over with. And it worked, suddenly this horse, at that very moment I was singing the request, just decided to do the right thing, she stood up and walked up the ramp though that was the most normal thing for a wild horse to do, and the problem was solved. But I had broken

113 the law with a winter song in summer, so I dutifully and properly reported back to Pat explaining to him what I had done. He looked at me and said, "Alright, now something's going to happen. I'm giving you some sweet grass and I want you to keep it with you. You're going to see something." He was very concerned for me, I could tell. Later that summer, Pat's oldest daughter, Connie, died of cirrhosis in Great Falls. Her last words to her family were "I'll see you at Crow." Crow Fair was her favorite Pow Wow where she'd danced and taken trophies in her younger life, had gotten married there, and her children were half Crow. Crow Fair was towards the end of August. Pat said that we all had to go to Crow Fair, Connie’s wish, so when the time came, we all packed up and went to that pow wow and set up our camp. At that time I was still playing around with Pow Wow singing and sat at the Star School drum with Pat and his gang, we were in the drumming-singing contest for the dancers. As I was sitting there, between songs, things were slow, it was hot, and I looked up and standing twenty feet away from me looking right at me was a friend, a close friend, a friend I had seen laid in his grave six years before. I looked down and said, "What is this?" I couldn't look at him because he was looking at me. Okay, so Pat told me that something was going to happen. It came Starr School’s turn, and we sang, and while we were singing I looked up and there he was, my friend was watching the dancers, so I was able to really closely look, was this Clifford? Right down to the homemade repair on the bridge of his glasses. No question about it. So the songs over, I'm looking at the drum again, saying quietly to myself "What Now?": thinking to myself, okay how is this going to resolve? I had to repress the strongest urge to go over and shake Clifford’s hand and say, "How are you? How's everything?" I got through that and thought okay, just let go of this, don't freak out, whatever happens, happens, I'm just going to pay attention, I'm here to drum and sing: and next time I looked up, Clifford was gone, vanished. Later that same day, there was Connie. It was during supper break. Pat and Grace, Connie’s parents, were sitting on the bottom corner of the bleacher, and there was Connie, in full dance regalia, young, beautiful, appearing to be in the prime of her life, and standing behind her parents. And Connie had told us, "I'll see you at Crow." When I told Pat, after, what I'd observed, He only said, "So now you know." And by the time the fall season came around and the leaves began dropping from the trees, I had finally quit seeing dead people.

Pat Kennedy & Earl Old Person Pat Kennedy was born in central Montana, near the Missouri River by the town of Loma, in the fall of 1925 into a band of Chippewa speaking people in the diverse group called Plains Ojibwa.

114 At this time of the early post frontier years there were still many remnant bands or extended families of Indians scattered across the Northern Plains that had no clearly recognized tribal affiliation or home, basically the shattered remains of Indian nations. The group Pat was born into was still, at this late date, trying to follow their bands sacred nomadic journey, hunting and gathering, that looped in a circle from the Plains of Central Montana, Southwest to the Three Forks of the Missouri River, camping there, West across the mountains via the vicinity of Anaconda to the area of Hamilton, another extended camp, then North past Missoula and through the present day Flathead Indian Reservation, staying to visit with these people and perhaps leaving their name as evidenced in the Salish family named ‘Chippewa’, on to the Kalispell area, then Eureka, both campsites, north into Eastern British Columbia and coming across the Rocky Mountains near Lake Louise, they camped again at Rocky Mountain House with their Chippewa relatives near Sun Child, Alberta. Embarking again, they would move on across Alberta to Saskatchewan, camping sometimes at Saskatoon, at other times in the vicinity of Regina and finally back into the Central Plains of Montana, the journey typically lasting two years. Pat was born into in this now dispersed group of Indians, related to the Rocky Boy’s Band, speaking the Chippewa language until he was ten years old. At this time, about 1935, Pat was forcefully taken from this group and placed in a Catholic boarding school at Fort Shaw, near Great Falls, where he spent all of two days before he was badly beaten with an iron fire poker by a nun for speaking his language to a relative he recognized there, an Indian boy about nine years of age, Mike Gopher. Mike was also beaten, so badly, he had a broken arm. The boys ran away together from the boarding school that same night. Walking in the waters edge to erase their tracks, these two Indian Boys age nine and ten, one of them with a broken arm, followed the Sun River upstream, away from the civilization and police at Great Falls. Moving at night and hiding by day in Choke Cherry thickets, when they reached the Rocky Mountain Front they turned away from the river and walked north. After several weeks, having only eaten berries and starving, a Blackfeet horseman south of Heart Butte, Montana, near Birch Creek, found the boys. Brought into the village by this Indian, the boys told their story to one of the Blackfeet who could speak their language and they were taken in and hidden from the Indian police, living with the Blackfeet for nearly a year. Learning the Blackfeet language during this period, the boys were eventually smuggled to a secret Sundance being held near Rocky Boy Agency and handed over to their Chippewa tribal kinsmen. Pat, now separated from Mike Gopher who had found close relatives, was smuggled from this Sundance into Canada to relatives from the same Clan as his, in a Cree tribe in Saskatchewan. Here Pat lived in the bush, hidden away from the Whiteman for the next 12 or so years. During this period Pat became proficient in the Cree language where he spent his winters caring for three blind brothers, Pat’s ‘uncles’, he was their eyes. These three brothers had bought alcohol from a Whiteman several years before and became permanently blinded due to the drinks methanol content. Now they only could serve their people as Indians at ceremony, and that was what they did for the rest of their lives. So

115 Pat cared for these men and learned ceremony until he was a young man. After World War II, Pat returned to Montana and landed a job working on the tracks of the Great Northern Rail Road where he found himself learning English and back in the country of the people who had befriended him as a child, the Blackfeet. Here he met and eventually married a Blackfeet woman, Grace Arrow Top Knot. Grace was a daughter of a Kainah (Many Chiefs) Blackfeet from Canada that had married into the Amskapi Pikuni branch of the Blackfeet Confederacy in Montana. She was from Starr School, northwest of Browning, and had not been south to Heart Butte as a young woman until she married Pat. Now Pat had wanted to renew his acquaintance with the Indians that had rescued him as a boy. Grace, while she was still alive related to me a story that when she was young she was shy, and did not speak much. Pat liked to play the stick game and he also liked to visit Heart Butte. One time the two converged, Pat was in Heart Butte visiting with Grace along, and there was stick game also being played there. So they went to check out the game. Pat sat down to play, his Blackfeet language was rusty after so many years, but Grace understood everything that was being said by the opposing players. Presuming Grace was a Cree that did not understand Blackfeet language, the other players would openly talk about what they thought Pat might do the next time he hid the bones at this stick game. Grace would then lean over and whisper in Pat’s ear what they were saying, translated into English. When these Blackfeet women who were careless with their discussions of how the game was going discovered Grace understood their dialect, they were really embarrassed. It had cost them some games. Pat was an Indian of his time. He was not a saint. Alcohol was becoming legal for Indians, and Pat had discovered a drinking friend in a young Blackfeet, Earl Old Person. They would sometimes go to Great Falls to binge drink. This was during segregation days, and it was really segregated, Pat related a story of this period when he and Earl had tried to get into a Blacks only bar and it erupted into a fight. The Blacks did not want the Indians in their place. They were thrown out. Apparently this particular dive had only dim blue lights coming up a stair to a darkened entrance and you could not see the Black guys fists coming at you until it was too late. It became a game for awhile, to see if they could fight their way into this particular bar. Both Pat and Earl were punched stupid, down the stairs, several times. Finally they gave up. Then one day when they were broke and hung over, down at the tracks, Pat told Earl “We are really dumb. We have wives and kids now and they must hate us, leaving them home and hungry, while we are off being stupid drunks.” Pat continued “I want to go home and work with the medicine bundle. You have the Whiteman’s education, why don’t you come home, sober up, and run for the Tribal Council” And that was what they did. It was 1953. About this time Pat’s fellow runaway Mike Gopher, fell to his death in a shaft at the Anaconda Copper mine where he had worked, at Butte, Montana. Pat and Earl were a very different sort of Indian, and aside from the fact that their friendship had began as drunks, they did subsequently explore their world in very different terms. This was inevitable. Earl was the product of the boarding school legacy, something that Pat was not. And Earl went on to secure the legacy of the Christian Chief

116 White Calf, while Pat was much more an Indian in line with the Pagan Chief Three Suns, only Pat did not recognize this in himself early on. This is because Pat did not possess the awareness of the Whiteman’s political knowledge and lifestyle, this was a world he had never seen and had no concept of. Contrary to Pat, Earl, through his Anglo educational experience, would be successful in adapting to the political world thrust upon the Indians by the Whiteman. In fact Earl would demonstrate a natural gift for this world. Pat and Earl formed the most unlikely community partnership in Indian Country for the next thirty years. But what Earl was able to do, taking advantage of Pat in a way that Pat had no concept of, was to subordinate friendship for the sake of political gain. This would be a normal course for someone with Earl’s educational background, it simply reflects the values of the culture that instituted the boarding school experience. And for thirty years Pat was blind to this. My first hearing of Pat Kennedy was in the pejorative sense from the southern Blackfeet descended from the band of Three Suns, mostly located south of Badger River in the area of Heart Butte. This was guilt by association, there was a simmering century old dispute, between the Amskapi Pikuni (southern Blackfeet) Chief Three Suns, and the Blackfeet Confederacy Paramount Chief White Calf, over White Calf’s conversion to Christianity and the subsequent suffering and discrimination the so called “Pagan” band of Three Suns experienced at the hand of the United States: the conquerors who favored the followers of the Christian White Calf. Pat was aligned with White Calf’s lineal successor, Earl Old Person, when I first met and began my relationship with the Blackfeet. And Earl, although nominally recognized as the Blackfeet Confederacy Paramount Chief, was not liked in more traditional circles in the south, especially in his role as Chairman of the Tribal Council. In those days Pat was Earl’s Medicine Man. But I had only heard about Pat and Earl, I did not yet personally know these men at that time. The truly knowledgeable traditional Blackfeet have always disputed Earl’s chieftaincy. In the 1880’s, White Calf the Elder, who was indeed the supreme chief of the Blackfeet Confederacy, converted to Christianity as an example to his people. In his mind, White Calf was leading his people to the inevitable, a future down the Whiteman’s road. It was about survival, the old Blackfeet gods were to be acknowledged no more. When White Calf the Elder died, his son, Jim White Calf, stepped into his father’s role as Blackfeet Paramount Chief. This is where the lineal dispute begins. Old Jim’s Chieftaincy, taken from his father, would have to be confirmed by the confederated chiefs in their traditional roles as keepers of the greater Blackfeet nation. But this was not possible at the time. The Blackfeet were prisoners on their respective reservations in the USA and Canada, and the old pre-Whiteman governmental method of these people was actively being suppressed. However the Christianized Blackfeet of the first boarding school generations, at least the ones that kept these new ways, acknowledged the new chief. The Blackfeet that did not accept the lessons of the boarding schools, but were also schooled in authentic Blackfeet history, which they embraced, did not. This generally

117 followed a continuing pattern of the original dispute between White Calf and Three Suns. Perhaps demonstrating more cultural integrity among his followers and recognizing that under the circumstance of the time certain things were not properly possible, Three Suns chieftaincy is presently vacant. In the 1970’s, when Jim White Calf died, the ancient Paramount Chief’s bundle passed in its physical form to his son, Jim White Calf Junior, a friend of mine in his elderly years. Jim Jr did not want the Blackfeet Paramount Chieftaincy because Jim knew, and stated to me, that he was not qualified. Instead of claiming this old office, he passed it to the longtime Blackfeet Tribal Business Council Chairman, Earl Old Person. But this office had again moved forward without the required approval of the assembled chiefs of the Blackfeet Confederacy. So Earl became the nominal chief of his people, at least as recognized by the Christianized Blackfeet, and by the Whiteman politicians at the Montana State government and in Washington, DC. Earl speaks his language, and he assumed his new chiefs duties seriously from his own, and his Christianized peoples, point of view. But never once in my twenty years of observing this man, including his numerous speeches and prayers in the Blackfeet language, did I ever hear him call on the Blackfeet ancient ones, his own people’s gods, by name. Any reference to the Holy was strictly limited to the generic term ‘Apissistutuki’, our creator. This is the strictly limited term that has been co-opted by the Christians from the Blackfeet language, the same generic term for god used by the Indian speaking Catholic priest that prays before his Skinni Pikuni congregation at Brockett, Alberta, and extremely rudely, this same priest forces this alien belief into the lives of every Indian at the Brockett pow wow, when he brings that bastardization of the Blackfeet language into the dance arena, for a Sunday Morning Mass. Earl Old Person was never a real Indian. After he had contributed to the extinction of his own culture on the Cut Bank River, persuading the last of the Medicine Men in that area to give up the Blackfeet gods for the Whiteman’s religion, Earl had to depend on Pat, a man he never would dare press to become a Christian, for traditional knowledge concerning his own Blackfeet people. By the 1960’s, Pat was again proficient in the Blackfeet language and Pat had what Earl never had. Ceremony. So what is Earl’s legacy? In the 1950’s, Earl was instrumental in pursuing the elder White Calf’s policy of convincing his people to put away their traditional bundles in his home community along the Cut Bank River. Brilliant men, such as old Philip Many Hides, no longer had any reason to pass forward their knowledge. I once saw Philip give a detailed speech in the old sign language, translated into English by Cecile Rider. Both are now dead, along with the sign language in Blackfeet Country. Earl gave lip service to these things but never seriously pursued any working avenue to keep this knowledge alive. Every Blackfeet Indian is a poorer person because of this man’s leadership. And not just because of culture. The two years I lived full time in Starr School, one winter in Pat’s house, and another winter, two doors away as Pat’s neighbor, I grilled Earl at every opportunity concerning his leadership. Earl was a frequent visitor at Pat’s. But he came

118 around less and less, as I had pointed out to Earl the things I thought were not too cool with his administration. Like the fact that the Blackfeet were selling off their 300 year old timber base from the area of the Hudson Divide, premium house logs that kept home and properly processed, would both employ his people and provide them sturdy housing. But no, under Earl’s leadership, this timber base has been sold abroad cheap and bought back as expensive processed lumber and used to build boxes called houses that begin falling apart within five years while extended families like Pat’s lived 28 persons to a small three bedroom house because the tribal housing budget has always been inadequate to construct enough homes. Meanwhile there are homes made of those same logs in the Browning area, built by Indians, that are still standing and lived in after 100 years. For the price of each of the new ‘box’ houses that fall apart, by means of a tribal non profit corporation, the Blackfeet could have easily had ten of the 100 year log houses, and spent the budget to construct these 100 year homes in their own community. But now it is too late. The timber base is gone, sold, the resource raped. Hudson Divide is a clear-cut. Also in 1985, at Pat’s kitchen table, I personally informed Earl that the tribe needed to jump on AIDS education right now, because there would be an heterosexual epidemic in Indian country on account of the sexual habits of many of the young people. For many years there had been the custom of the ‚49’ (Since 1949, when the young WWII veterans had hit the Pow Wow road in large numbers) where at Pow Wows many of the young unmarried people would gather at drums in the brush surrounding the camp after the evening dance. The young dancers, singers and spectators would meet and socialize and many were there to hopefully engage in impromptu sexual trysts. Throw into this mix the fact that some of the beautiful young Indian women, due to the poverty of the reservation had intermittent careers as prostitutes in the surrounding big cities such as Calgary, Salt Lake City and Seattle, and the elements for an AIDS epidemic in Indian Country were both present and highly probable. I explained this in detail to Earl. Nothing meaningful was done for years. My understanding today is that the Indian Health Service has looked at AIDS in the Indian tribes as perhaps similar to the heterosexuality of AIDS in Africa. Another legacy of Earl’s leadership is the fact that for years the Blackfeet Tribal Police constituted the crime family that controlled the illicit drug trade on the reservation… until it became so pervasive and violent a problem that the Blackfeet Tribal Police had to be disbanded and federalized Bureau of Indian Affairs police were brought in to replace them. Pat is no dummy, he was present for these conversations and he began to see things differently. And Earl stopped coming by to visit when I was around. Without ever explicitly saying so, I worked for years to split Pat’s relationship with Earl, and for underlying reasons that might surprise people. Similar to my bad brother Mickey, of ‘Don’t Squeeze the Charming’ fame, Earl needed his Indian sorcerer, but in this case a real Medicine Man, Pat, to cover the crime of his failed leadership in his own community. Earl knew that with a ceremonial leader of Pat’s stature and knowledge allied to himself as a friend, his own people would be less likely to question both Earl’s Chieftaincy and

119 his role as Chairman and any actions he would take in those capacities. It worked for thirty years, until Pat opened his eyes. I had loosened the relationship, but it was not really severed psychologically. But if you are schooled in a certain traditional way you know some things, like a Medicine Man cannot be seriously hurt unless he is making a big mistake. One day Pat slipped on ice and fell in a parking lot at the hospital in Kalispell, Montana. I received a phone call informing me of that fact and immediately went to visit him. I entered the room where Pat was lying with his leg in traction, he had broken it. I looked at him and he was looking at me, and I simply stated to Pat “This is what happened because you would not give up on Earl.” Pat replied with two words. He could have said ‘Go to Hell.’ Instead, Pat stated to me “You’re right.” Not long after, Earl began losing his grip on the Blackfeet tribe. And Chief Mountain, the very mountain that represents Earl’s Paramount Chieftaincy, had literally collapsed about this time, broken, half of it fell into rubble. These days Earl is a nobody councilman, no longer chairman, he is elected out of his district from habit, and for the first time in fifty years there is a new generation of Blackfeet leaders in Council, Blackfeet that are no longer necessarily controlled and manipulated by Earl and his corrupt political minions, running the tribe. Let’s hope it is not too late for these Indians. In the meanwhile, there was a powerful signal from the spirit that the old rift between Three Suns and White Calf had begun to be overcome. Perhaps it was centered on me, I don’t know, but it seems the clue is there. Floyd Heavy Runner is the Medicine Man representing the legacy of Three Suns, he is the man of the Amskapi Pikuni, their Oral Historian and master of the Blackfeet language and Ceremony. Floyd can speak the ancient Blackfeet, the 500 year old, pre-Whiteman dialect. And Pat was for years his rival in Indian Country, the Medicine Man that protected Earl and the legacy of White Calf (that was the perception of these true Amskapi Pikuni from the south of the Badger River in the 1970’s.) Both these rival men were my teachers, simultaneously, in profoundly different ways and I had the same role in both of their lives, I was also their teacher in respect to learning to interpret the Whiteman’s world. Both of these men learned to trust me to tell them the truth about the Western Civilization that has been their enemy and I spent years detailing the Western world in metaphor to them both. And both of them are profoundly intelligent men. My student relationship with Pat was all about the Ceremony, how to run it properly, the ins and outs of the medicine ways, what you can do, and what you don’t do. Throughout those years, Pat, a naturally curious man, picked my brains about the Whiteman’s world. My relationship with Floyd was circumstantially different. Floyd, Chief of the Crazy Dogs warrior society, had a chit he could, and did, cash in on me. Floyd badly needed intelligence about the Whiteman, and a skilled warrior and scout that innately understood the chinks in the Whiteman’s armor, when Chevron proposed to develop oil and gas in the headwaters lands of the Badger River. This development threatened this river that is so sacred, the Blackfeet don’t even call it by its real name. And it is was here, on this sacred Badger River that is not a Badger where I had come to fast, and because of this

120 man Floyd’s grandparents I received my Dream. I could not say no when Floyd asked me to go to war against Chevron and the United States to stop this new assault on the Blackfeet culture and people. Would I have joined Floyd’s armed warriors to defend this place? The entire reason behind my involvement was to prevent just such an event. And that was both Floyd’s and my own point of view. The war could not involve weapons. We had to fight it with our minds. Before Pat had broken his leg I had become allied with Floyd on this new front and Pat had given me a choice. I could pursue my training as a Ghost religion priest (already ten years invested), or I could become involved in the political battles with Floyd. I detected Earl using the influence of his friendship with Pat to split me away from Heavy Runner and Pat did not understand, did not have the critical information, that there was actually no choice for me. So I had gone with Floyd. Pat was upset over my choice, but regretted his ultimatum and our friendship survived. I have worked with Pat in the ensuing years, as detailed further along in my story, but I did not return to my Ghost priest training. Not long after this, both Floyd and Pat landed in the same hospital, at the same time, with the same rare infection at the base of the spine, and required the same surgery. Both were very ill, Pat nearly died. These were the only two Indians, the only two people in Montana so affected, to my knowledge at that time. I shuttled between floors of the hospital at Great Falls, Montana, visiting both. Floyd was recovering faster and he came in his wheelchair to visit Pat. Adversaries for years, these two would become friends. There is no concept of coincidence in the old Indian world. Pat had, in his near death experience, made one of those trips to the ancestors and had seen his own relatives, where they had instructed him in his future work: and the ancestors denied him his rest at that time, but sent Pat back to us among the living. Floyd did not ever say to me whether he journeyed on this occasion, but Pat was initially quiet as well, these are a profound sort of journey, not lightly spoken of. I cannot imagine under the circumstance that Floyd would not have dreamed too. The gods brought these men together. There is no such concept as coincidence in the old Indian world. There is only the dream, whether awake or asleep. A Political Adventure with Floyd Heavy Runner As cover for my new role with Floyd I became for several years Floyd’s officially designated English Language Advocate, appointed by Floyd in his capacity as Chief of the Crazy Dogs Warrior Society. In short, I became Floyd’s spokesman and liaison to the United States and the Whiteman’s world generally. But this was only a cover to gain me access, to open doors at the agencies of the United States government. My real job, as a former United States Army Sergeant of Intelligence and Operations (Special Forces, USA Reserve) was to gain information, steal it if I had to, to discover whatever it was that the USA was concealing in the Bush Senior administration, concerning its dealings with the oil companies that wanted to open the Rocky Mountain Front to petroleum exploration.

121 But just a few stories here, these next several years are really the subject of a book in its own right, but also a story I don’t care to pen. So I present the salient facts here in short. When the United States Forest Service first decided to meet with the leadership of the Crazy Dogs Society about Chevron drilling in their sacred lands, Floyd was not prepared. Typical of these arrogant bureaucrats, they simply announced a meeting with us and expected that we would attend. They were supposedly going to explain the ‘scoping’ process to us, and how they would go about drilling with ‘mitigations’, as though they could develop oil and gas where you could see and hear it from your place of fasting and know the land was wounded, the area surrounding the Dream sites punctured, as if that would not be a problem. What a bunch of self centered, self important, blind bastards. The night before the meeting, I was driving Floyd around the reservation, together with several of his lieutenants. We had no idea how to confront these people, yet. The gods took care of that. Sometimes Indians just go with the flow of whatever event presents itself, especially when they don’t know what to do. And that is what happened with us. As luck would have it, we encountered one of Floyd’s cousins, Virgil, and he needed a ride somewhere fast. He had argued with his stepfather who had been harassing him, and Virgil had smashed the mans lips into his teeth, he had hit him that hard. Now he wanted to put some space between himself and the place of that event. We gave him a ride to another cousins house and then headed from the country into Browning. Meanwhile, we started drinking the six pack of beer Virgil had left in my car. By the time we arrived in Browning, the die was cast. Yes, we had a meeting with the officials of the United States in the morning, but now we were just a carload of Indians drinking, driving around and adding to our numbers. The Indian police were looking for my car, they were looking for Virgil with an assault warrant. We pulled into the Town Pump gas and grocery in Browning to buy more beer and the police followed Floyd into the store. As Floyd stood at the checkout counter, the officer told Floyd “Virgil, you are under arrest.” The woman employee serving Floyd loudly stated “SAAKS!” in utter ridicule (Saaks = short, i.e. you missed), and Floyd said “Virgil?.., who is Virgil?” Now the officer was shook up, not over the false arrest, but because he looked stupid, that is what counts in Indian Country. Now this officer joins another officer outside, standing by my car to discuss which Indian might be Virgil. I rolled down my window, letting them see it was a Whiteman, and stated “What’s your problem.” These were tribal police with no jurisdiction over me, and I had let them know that fact. That screwed their job up more. I was determined not to give them access to any of the Indians in my car, which I stated to them was also not under their jurisdiction, just get the FBI or Sheriff to find out if anyone in my car was Virgil: inviting them to look even more stupid. They gave up and left. Floyd got back in, we had our supply of beer and we drank all night, finally sleeping on a floor in a Browning home about daybreak, for a few hours, and then jumped up at the last possible moment to go and meet the United States. We came single file into the conference room at the community college, stinking, with that dead alcohol breath you encounter in the winos that hit you up for a dollar, long hair dirty and unbrushed, bodies unwashed in yesterday’s clothes, and in a perfect vile and cynical mood. Suddenly these United States officials were huddled together at one end of

122 the long conference table, absolutely cowed, completely freaked out. They were suddenly very afraid of the Crazy Dogs, who did indeed appear to be dangerous. This was a very important first meeting. Nothing the United States came to do was accomplished, these officials only wanted to flee, but what Floyd’s party accomplished was completely intimidating these people. A very important first step. Several years passed that were mostly engaged in delaying actions, repeatedly forcing more work by the USA, making them take more and new looks at the drilling proposal in relation to Blackfeet culture, before granting permits to the oil companies to drill. Twice new studies were forced, requiring the Forest Service to hire outside anthropological experts, making them jump through every possible legal hoop. In the meanwhile, it was decided to attack Chevron indirectly by actually attacking an European company, Petrofina, which through its USA subsidiary American Petrofina also had a drilling proposal, but further north of the Badger, on the south fork of the Two Medicine River. This decision was arrived at because of the existence in Europe of the Association for Endangered Peoples, a United Nations Non-Governmental Organization. This organization provided a platform from which to attack Petrofina as proposing to violate the traditional Blackfeet’s Human Rights: in short, the Blackfeet survival as a culture. It worked.. with activists rolling 55 gallon oil drums up the Petrofina Headquarters stairs (Austria), and demonstrations in Belgium, Germany, Denmark, etc, picketing Petrofina gas pumps, and eventually Petrofina withdrew its application to drill. Chevron then got cold feet and followed suit. And subsequently, the parent company of American Petrofina, Petrofina SA, Belgium, divested itself of control over its American subsidiary. Both had left, probably because of the following story. Based on my volunteer work for Heavy Runner I was proposed as the private investigator, more or less on a grant, to look into the dealings of George Bush Sr and United States Senator Conrad Burns friends in the Oil and Gas industry and their proposed development of Blackfeet sacred lands on the Rocky Mountain Front of Montana. This would be under the cover of my role as the Spokesman for Heavy Runner. Because of my military service disabilities I was hesitant to take the job on. But a deal was struck with Heavy Runner’s attorney on the case, Mark Mueller of Austin, Texas, and I was hired. I was no ordinary private investigator. I had no training whatsoever in that civilian field. I was not licensed. But there is a seldom used legal loophole where I could as an employee of an officer of the court (an attorney) work investigations on cases specific to that lawyer’s offices. My educational background was largely Social and Developmental Psychology, and all my forensics training was experiential, innately come by, beginning with Dom Tay, and subsequently a stint as Sergeant of Intelligence and Operations in the United States Army’s Special Forces Reserve. In my military experience, when the system served its purpose, fine, when it did not, you had to become creative. And Green Beret’s utilized both stealth and psychological operations. I had been there, seen that. Now consider that by this time, I had been largely living with the Blackfeet Indians for the past 15 years, especially those that speak their language. My personal psychology had

123 become further altered by the fact of that experience and I had become intensely loyal to these people. Heavy Runner knew this. Heavy Runner’s attorney was located in Texas, and there could be no direct supervision, so I was granted permission to establish a ‘field office’ for this law firm in my home and further granted autonomous authority in the Mueller Law Office name to pursue this investigative work on Heavy Runner’s behalf. My attitudes were impervious to bureaucratic inertia and expectations, my language skills were always sharp like a knife, and most valuably, other than to look out for my few friends like Heavy Runner and my employer, I did not give a damn about appearances sake, was no respecter of persons, and my attitude was “Well, let’s get to the bottom of this.” There was a strong sense that the fix was in on the oil and gas exploration proposals, the Indians were getting screwed AGAIN, per the long standing United States corporate policy of Manifest Destiny, everything I uncovered in the initial phase investigation pointed to that. What was needed, however, was the smoking gun. Stealth I requested, via normal channels and the Freedom of Information Act, the opportunity to examine the Lewis and Clark National Forest records relating to the proposed exploratory drilling in Blackfeet Sacred lands. The forest supervisor himself, Dale Gorman, issued a letter to me inviting me to come to his headquarters and examine records that would be made availiable. But I was under no illusion that I would be made privy to the information I really needed. The letter authorizing access to records however, was a critical tool to get my foot into the door, the door I wanted opened. I took the letter and stayed with Indian relatives in Great Falls, Montana, a few blocks from the Lewis and Clark National Forest headquarters. Staking out the building out over the Christmas/New Year holiday, I noticed there was only a skeleton staff present at the headquarters. Very observant and choosing my moment carefully, on the first day of business after Christmas, together with a Chippewa friend, John Well Off Man, I presented my letter authorizing a records examination to the very sick and hung over woman opening the office that early morning, just as she had come to work. Other staff would be trickling in as the morning hours passed, things had to happen fast. In a matter of a few minutes, I was in an room full of filing cabinets and a copy machine. We had been escorted into that room by the very hung over woman who had cursorily stated “everything should be in here.” She then had promptly left, probably to throw up. With John standing as a lookout, I immediately, as fast as I possibly could, began looking for two sets of files on the exploration in particular, communications with Washington DC and the Forest Geologist. Both were located within a span of 15 minutes. Not one, but several smoking guns were located. I was making copies, 2 of each document, one out in view and the other concealed on my person, when John gave a signal and the door to the room opened and another, very unfriendly, but also very sick and hung over employee demanded to know our business and what I was copying. The letter, produced again with a short statement we had been properly admitted, was partly helpful, but now this woman who was not hung over to the state of vomiting wanted to see what I was taking out of the office. I produced the first smoking gun I had come across, also vocally describing a few of the documents I had found indicating, without a doubt, that the Lewis and Clark National Forest personnel were aware senior Forest Service officials in Washington DC were lying

124 to Congress in Congressional hearings, both House and Senate, about the very issues I was researching, and simultaneous to this, as though inadvertently, I let slip into view one of those pocket recorders generally used to make business notes. This woman went even more pale than her already pale and hung over appearance should have allowed, if that was possible, and taking the original documents and the copies I had made and left out in view, she left the room in a flash, stating: “I will be coming right back, I have to make a call.” Well, we were not waiting around for that, I had the copies I had managed to make and conceal, and the knowledge of the copies I could not get, and this woman never even noticed our following her directly out of this room, turning and making for an exit, John and I disappeared out of doors in a moments time. PsyOps Now I had the ‘lying to Congress about following the law and respecting Indians rights’ smoking gun- in the form of copied documentation, other smoking guns had to be developed from the knowledge of only having seen documents. There was to be a meeting of the Board of Directors of the corporate lobby that promoted oil and gas development on the Rocky Mountain Front, and this was the very same lobby that wanted these Blackfeet sacred lands explored for development in particular. Cy Jamison, the sometimes George Bush Senior’s United States Department of Interior official in the stripe of present Interior boss Gayle Norton, both oil and gas development personalities of the Evangelical American Whiteman sort, was to meet with this lobbies Board and was to deliver a subsequent speech to the Boards guests- at a dinner after the meeting. I decided to walk in on that dinner, uninvited, unannounced, and that is exactly what I did. The whole room became silent, my picture had been in the newspapers several times relating to my work against the oil and gas development for Heavy Runner, and Cy Jamison, from his speakers podium, couragesly, correctly, attempted to break the ice by offering me dinner, which I politely declined. I already had what I had come for, and there she was, resplendent in blushing cheeks and corsage, the lovely on the surface Lewis and Clark National Forest Geologist wearing her ‘I am a United States government official in bed with the oil and gas lobby’ badge that in actuality stated “Ex Officio Member of the Board.” My next letter to the forest supervisor was replied to with a short and dry admission, Forest Supervisor Dale Gorman’s reply letter merely explained that the Forest Geologist Oil & Gas Lobby Board of Directors membership reflected the policy that agency employees are encouraged to participate in civic activities. Civic activities?? Right. That is what Tokyo Rose was all about. Something more than unethical. But the Geologist’s presence kindly validated the emerging picture. Leads were pursued, more work was accomplished. Counting Coup Now I had good information and a report to prepare. The oil and gas industry had penetrated the Forest Service and employees of the United States were working for them directly. There was a cabal of people in this first Bush Administration, on George Herbert Walker Bush’s watch, that were entrusted to bring off the exploration for industry despite

125 the laws that might block development, especially those laws that might afford protection to the Indians that needed these lands unblemished to pursue their religion. Many problems were surfacing about this time in the Forest Service leadership and finally there had been a change at the top, a forced change. Dale Robertson, criminally implicated, was forced out of his leadership position and replaced by a more ethical man, the new Forest Service Chief Thomas. But the oil and gas moles in the Forest Service continued to serve the oil and gas people, the Bush and Senator Burns friends, these people charged with following the law simply covered up their lawbreaking and kept the new Forest Service chief out of the loop. The new chief had plenty to do that would keep him busy elsewhere, nationwide, and this cabal of friends to the friends of Bush and Burns in the Forest Service had continued its operations beyond the term of this elder Bush, well into the term of Clinton. This cabal extended so far as the office of the Forest Service Inspector General in Washington DC which did not act on a feed of damning documents, and did not notify the new Forest Service Chief Thomas. The entire picture was subsequently developed in my report. There were several possible approaches to utilize the report. One was to go public with it. Another was to enter it into evidence in a lawsuit. Both were problematic. Public release might not catch on with the media as a big deal. Lawsuits are lengthy, cumbersome, and expensive (this was a pro bono case to begin with) and evidence is subject to challenge in the courts, where lawyers are pros at the art of obfuscating. Another method that would not work would be to try getting the report up the channels to Chief Thomas, the Forest Service Inspector General had already quashed essentially the same information. This information had also been provided to the FBI and the agent I met with had plead no jurisdiction. The method I finally settled on was placing the report directly in the hands of The United States Forest Service Chief Thomas. Accomplishing that, was a work of art. There was to be an Administrative Law Hearing regarding some petty or trumped up charges, probably the result of a bureaucratic vendetta, brought against the supervisor of the Helena National Forest who had, at worst, been guilty of poor judgment on the very small matter of accepting the gift of a new briefcase (compare this to the gifts given by the Forest employees, subverting the law on the inside, to help the oil and gas friends of Bush and Burns!) The new Chief Thomas was in the unenviable position of being subpoenaed as a witness and was attending the hearing at Great Falls, Montana. There was a veritable phalanx of federal security in the courthouse for this event, there had been rumors that the warriors of the Blackfeet soldier-chief, Heavy Runner, were restless. Heavy Runner had in fact sent only one of his soldiers, a mercenary, not a Crazy Dog, to be present for this proceeding. This soldier was invisible because he came unarmed, the imported federal security did not recognize him and he did not look like an Indian. It was me. During a break in the legal proceedings, before the new Forest Service Chief Thomas had opportunity to testify and leave, I tracked the new Chief of the Forest Service to his location in the Federal Building and found him in a conference room together with no less that 12 security agents, there was over twenty people were present and blocking access to him, including an Asian-American attorney I suspected was from the Washington DC office of the Forest Service Inspector General.

126 I waited outside the room until Chief Thomas was looking in my direction and then I waved a hand above the crowd and called out, “Mr Thomas, may I meet you?” Chief Thomas replied from across the room “Of course” and the sea of security miraculously parted. I walked over to where Thomas had risen to greet me with hand outstretched, and instead of shaking hands, I slapped a bound copy of my report on the table in front of Thomas with the curt statement “This is documentation of crimes that are ongoing, right here in the Lewis and Clark National Forest that your Inspector General has not acted on, why don’t you have one of your more trusted aides have look at it and report back to you.” Everybody in the room looked stunned, especially Thomas. I then said “Have a nice day” and walked out of the room. A short while later, the hearing was preparing to reconvene, and I sat and continued to watch. The administrative judge was late. The Asian American attorney I suspect was from the office of the Inspector General then entered and stared at me, long and hard, I noticed, but I was relaxed and deliberately paid no attention- initially. Then the administrative judge entered and promptly alluded to my delivery of the report to Thomas in remarks that were a direct threat to jail anyone who attempted to influence the present proceeding. I almost laughed out loud. Now, giving the Forest Service Chief a report on wrongdoing in the Lewis and Clark National Forest was construed to improperly influence a Disciplinary Hearing on an unrelated matter in the Helena National Forest, a total farce of a threat, if they could have arrested me they would have done just that and would not have bothered with the verbiage. Now the Asian American attorney, my intuitive guess as the source of disinformation to the judge about my interaction with Thomas, is giving me his hardest look as though I should be afraid of what the judge had stated and I was looking right back, without fear, and pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose with my middle finger I employed my ‘stick game’ gaze, inscrutable, as good as any Oriental. The attorney broke off his stare, brought it again, broke it off again and became more and more discomfited, finally giving up the game and directing his attention back to the hearing. PsyOps. Beat your enemy at every opportunity with the technique. If you possess power and hold the upper hand in your enemies mind, he will always make mistakes to your advantage. The game was over. I had won. I left. The Enemies Fall Over the course of the following months it was interesting to see the Lewis and Clark Forest Supervisor Dale Gorman take retirement, having just passed up an opportunity to retire earlier in a government ‘buyout’ program of career employees. His stated intention to ‘stay the course’ suddenly reversed, he simply disappeared from sight. Dale was replaced by the “reforms” supervisor, Gloria Flora. She had difficulty in that crooked and poisoned environment and did not last, leaving the service under unjust circumstances not long after. The Forest Service Northern Region One office at Missoula, Montana, where the main conspiracy was determined by me to have been hatched, was directed to be shut down by Chief Thomas from Washington DC and its operations were to be moved to Denver, where they would fall under “closer supervision.” It required the joined forces of both United States Senators from Montana, Conrad Burns and Max Baucus, more typically political arch enemies, to prevent that move by Chief Thomas and preserve those jobs and related infrastructure for the benefit of the local economy. The press was

127 never provided my report. I knew I had made powerful enemies and my strategy was that my enemies would have to give something up to come after me: the revelation to the public of what had actually occurred.

Aftermath The Blackfeet Sacred Lands, the Headwaters of the Badger and Two Medicine Rivers on the Rocky Mountain Front, were not subjected to exploration for oil and gas. The laws protecting the Indians rights were reexamined and a cultural district established. During Senator Burns re-election run it became apparent that he calculatedly plays the race card to keep the really fringe vote, for instance those peoples that would otherwise vote for Cretans like Lyndon LaRoche or David Duke. While campaigning at a rally, a White Trash Montana farmer with reporters present, loudly stated to Senator Burns: “Conrad, how can you stand to live back in DC with all of those Niggers?” Senator Burns reply was “It’s one hell of a challenge.” He likely feels the same about living with Indians in Montana. The plum in the aftermath of this pudding is the likelihood it was Senator Burns that had had my Social Security Record sequestered for months in Baltimore, Maryland, close to the Senator’s Capital offices at Washington, DC, while these records were minutely examined for any irregularities. Senator Burns probably wanted to know how I had kicked his oil and gas lobbies’ ass, as the paid employee of an attorney, all the while collecting Social Security. Could I be jailed? No. I had researched the law before I took on the job. I have a serious neurological disorder and I was concerned that if I became employed and then lost my Social Security because I went to work and subsequently lost my job due to health reasons, I would be injured in the interim of the lengthy and cumbersome reapplication process for Social Security. But I had discovered that if I were paid no more than $499 per month work salary, I could continue as a disabled person to receive these benefits. So my arrangement with Floyd’s attorney, my employer Mark Mueller, was that I was put on a straight salary of $499 per month, plus expenses. I was paid for the days I could work, and I was paid none the less for those periods I could do no work at all. My health would not be an issue. And it was legal. The only irregularity discovered in the close examination of my Social Security file was the discovery by the Social Security Administration that I was underpaid in my amount of benefits received. I was actually paid more with the $499 per month as Heavy Runners investigator than I had earned as a soldier, relating to my Social Security credits. Retroactive pay was forthcoming. Almost certainly it was Senator Burns insistence that I be investigated for a crime of Social Security fraud: only resulting in my being awarded back pay and a larger future check. Senator Burns was noted in the press about this time to have said he “could not believe” the Social Security Laws as implemented, met the intention of the Social Security Act of Congress. So the outcome did not suit him. That suited me just fine.

128 A Chance Encounter There was a just introduction between Conrad Burns and Ron West that foretold the outcome of the preceding story, cosmically arranged by Floyd Heavy Runner and his Blackfeet gods. I have no other explanation. This event occurred about the time I accepted the job Heavy Runner had asked me to take on. I was at the Black Angus Restaurant in Helena, Montana, having dinner with some friends at the invitation of India Supera, President of the Feathered Pipe Foundation and a close friend of Pat Kennedy. Montana had a brand new Senator, a Missouri native that had immigrated to Montana, Conrad Burns, and he was making his presence felt via the press. The Republican Senator was putting the environmental community on notice there was a ‘new Sheriff in town’ with his remarks. One of the comments Senator Burn’s had made was intended to undermine the public perception of the environmentalist’s patriotism, his political enemies, by referring to them in the press as “Pink.” This inference of leftist sympathies did not bother me, you can belong to the left and be a good American, but I could see as a Veteran that it was a mean spirited remark. While waiting for our dessert after dinner, the subject of our new Senator Burns remark came up and I noticed a gentleman at the table next to us signal everyone at his table to be silent so he could hear our discussion. I thought he was just curious. India redirected the conversation to me: “Ron, you were in Vietnam, what do think of Senator Burns calling environmentalists ‘Pink.’” My reply was “It just goes to show that Missouri still raises the finest Jackasses west of the Mississippi.” Our waiter with the desserts just being served almost dropped his tray. A few weeks later, when I walked into one of Senator Burns Montana offices, I saw his portrait for the first time. It was the man at the table next to us. I had told him he was a jackass then and he looked like a jackass as a result of my work for Heavy Runner. A Few Whitemen United States Senator Conrad Burns of Montana draws a lot of votes from Whites living on Indian reservations in Montana, especially the Flathead Reservation that has more Whites than Indians. Typically these Burns voters are right of center people of the evangelical stripe. Frustrated with the Indians protection of the reservation on environmental issues taken together with the Indians control over hunting and fishing on these pristine lands, these Whites have been persistently stymied in their attempts to exploit the tribe’s resources. Consequently, in 1998, Conrad Burns sponsored proposed legislation in the United States Senate that would strip Tribal Courts of civil jurisdiction over non Indians living on Indian Reservations in the USA, a direct slap at Indian sovereignty, to please these constituents. Slade Gorton, Burns co-sponsor of the legislation, was coming up for re-election and was turned out of office because of the money Washington State Indian tribes poured into his opponent’s campaign. Burns probably reflected on and drew a lesson from that, but what he should really pay attention to is his own peoples so called ‘Good Book.’ The Bible states “The child inherits the sins of the father.” Conrad Burns constituent’s sin is their forefather’s greed for Indian land. Earl Old Person calls himself a Crazy Dog. On that one ceremonial day per year that Floyd Heavy Runner and myself are enemies, at the Ceremonial Stick Game between the

129 Crazy Dogs and the Blackfeet Veterans Society, I played for the Veterans. I was never a Crazy Dog, I only worked for their Chief Heavy Runner, and only then because he is a good man and had the right of it all on his side, and because I have an eternal debt to his grandparents, the deceased Alfred and Agnes Wells. So Earl would be there as well, he became interested in this game about the time he began subverting Heavy Runner’s own chieftaincy, and I would see him facing me there. Never once did Earl publicly lift a finger to support our efforts to protect the Badger River. On the contrary, Earl only worked to undermine Floyd’s chieftaincy and our endeavors, denying to the press Floyd’s legitimate Chief status. At this time it was politically expedient to Earl to keep a grasp on Blackfeet power over the issues of drilling in Sacred Lands, Earl was willing to subvert his own chiefs but forgot he had signed a letter of acknowledgement concerning Floyd’s chieftaincy and traditional leadership role. So Earl’s lie was refuted in the press. Earl was, and is, an enemy of his people. Earl Old Person is a Blackfeet tribal member, but culturally speaking, Earl is an Evangelical American Whiteman in an improperly handed down Blackfeet Chiefs Bonnet. What Earl shares in common with Cy Jamison, James Watt, Conrad Burns, both George Bush’, Gail Norton, John Ashcroft, Ralph Reed, Jerry Falwell, Pat Robertson, etcetera ad naseum, is the evangelical Christian cult belief that our Native American religious beliefs are in fact Devil Worship. So the oil and gas explorations serve two agendas. One of those agendas is to serve these evil men’s idea of god: in pursuing the extinction of the original ancient Blackfeet ways. The old gods are forbidden in their minds. And continuing the destruction of Blackfeet communion with the ancient gods appears to be more important to them than following the laws of the United States. As I write these words in 2004, the administration of George Bush the Younger, an acknowledged evangelical Christian, has been exploring the possibility of using oil and gas development, again, to effectively destroy the Blackfeet culture and the Badger River environment. Earl likely will do nothing to stop it. My Friendship with Floyd Heavy Runner Floyd Heavy Runner is one of several remarkable Indians I have known, and is a man that has demonstrated a unique and high intelligence over most of the approaching 29 years that I have been associated with him. Do I see Floyd as some romantically high standing hero of the Indian world? Absolutely not. He is a human being with faults. He can screw up like anybody else, even badly, but what impresses me about Floyd most is his keen intelligence and remarkable good judgment when it really counted to him: in the defense of his culture and people. Floyd’s weakest point from my point of view has historically been his tendency to “use” Whites that have befriended him over the years. But having said that, it is not that simple. Nothing about Floyd is simple except his honest desire to be left alone to live a simple Indian life. White people and Anglo culture have messed that desire up for Floyd throughout the entire course of his life. It makes him angry. And when Floyd is really truly angry, when he reaches those points, he is a very cunning and dangerous foe.

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And it is for that fact, that the complex and alien Anglo world has always pushed the borders of his simple Indian world and given Floyd little peace that has determined Floyd’s complicated relationships with individual Whites. Floyd has never overcome the fact that as a real Indian, he has to consider, he really has no choice but consider as a matter of survival, that Whites, because of the nature of the Whiteman’s world that spawns them, simply cannot be trusted on the whole. Consequently, because of this Indian reality, when truly well meaning Whites from the outside of his world have assisted Floyd in his highly worthy endeavors to preserve his world and become too personally close to him, for the most part Floyd initiates some action that drives them away. I could see it, but I never let it bother me that much. Without Floyd, I never would have known what it meant to be a Blackfeet in many important ways. What made my relationship with Floyd different from the other Whites was my ability to learn to see in the terms of the world Floyd lives in. If it were not for that fact, I don’t necessarily think that the adoption of myself by Floyd’s grandparents would have stood the test of time in Floyd’s mind, anybody can make a mistake. My challenge was to prove over the long haul that the old people had not made a mistake when they had taken me in. Here is the circumstance that had produced the young War Chief of the Blackfeet I had met as a young Vietnam veteran. When I was in Vietnam, Floyd was a war resistor. This had nothing and everything to do with personal courage. Floyd has demonstrated plenty of personal courage in the nearly three decades I have known him, both physical and mental, and also before our acquaintance, when Floyd stood up to the United States and corrupt Indian judges and Tribal Councils on Indian issues as a young man: in a period of conflicts that sent young Indians to jail, even to their deaths, in the early and middle 1970’s. Floyd’s bone that he picked with the United States over refusing Vietnam War service was based on his father’s return home from World War II. Floyd’s father, Tommy Heavy Runner, was a decorated veteran of the European theatre. Many Blackfeet of Floyd’s father’s generation served with distinction in that war. But unlike World War I, when the many Indian volunteers had served with such distinction that their entire generation was rewarded with United States citizenship giving them hope for a brighter future, the World War II Indian veterans were not all volunteers. Contemporary Blackfeet Oral History holds that the United States sent an emissary to Chief White Calf, Jim White Calf Senior, the son of the Chief White Calf of 1895, to have him sign over to the United States the right to conscript young Blackfeet men into the armed forces. This younger White Calf signed, another violation of the old Blackfeet law in the tradition of White Calf’s father: again it was in the absence of his assembled chiefs. And this time the Indians reward for their service was.. essentially nothing. Survivors were merely provided a return to the plains ghetto they called home, the poverty of their reservation. Indian religion was still illegal. Their White and collaborating Indian administrators continued to steal from them. Enforced social policies continued to destroy their language and culture. White Calf’s legacy had sold the Blackfeet out again. The earlier promise from the citizenship granted

131 after World War I was absolutely empty, in reality a nothing gift, another factually meaningless gesture from the Whiteman. Already some Indians were questioning why they should volunteer to fight for the Whiteman this time around. Wars should not be fought on behalf of ungrateful people. Yet when he is not being persecuted for insisting on living the truth of what it means to be an Indian, Floyd teaches the loyalty promises made to the USA by his ancestor, the Heavy Runner subjected to an unprovoked murder on the Marias, should be honored, but as a matter between peers, a voluntary friendship. Not by underhanded signatures made from the devious deals in the legacy of the turncoat White Calf. Faithful Blackfeet allies are free men, not prisoners held hostage to becoming Whites in their outlook on life. Floyd Heavy Runner is the fourth generation offspring of the Heavy Runner (actually Mountain Lion, from the lions low crouch and movement when attacking it’s prey) who had signed a formal paper of perpetual peace and friendship with the United States only to be shot dead by Joe Cobell (in the company of Joe Kipp) at the massacre of his village for crimes committed by Indians from another band. Who this Heavy Runner was, remains alive in Floyd. The agreements made then are still sacred, given a circumstance of freedom for the Amskapi Pikuni. The USA only need keep its side of the friendship. Floyd was raised as a son by his grandparents in the old ways that recognized gifted children merited special knowledge. He was taught the old formal ceremonial dialect of the Blackfeet language with its attending stories of the Blackfeet Nation’s Oral History, all about the Gods, Ceremony, Government and the tribe’s relationships with the other Indian nations… and the Blackfeet experiences at the hand of the Whiteman. During this period of Floyd’s childhood, a time that the Blackfeet language was first beginning to noticeably die out, Floyd stood out as a child at play that “was just always shouting about in Blackfeet.” Growing older as a talented artist highly schooled in the authentic history of his people, together with all of the necessary knowledge of the ancient Blackfeet technologies, Floyd was commissioned by the King of Thailand to produce a large historical diorama about the Blackfeet Nation for Thailand’s National Museum. Caught up in the politics’ of activism surrounding Indian rights as a young man, Floyd took on just about anybody that stood in the way of securing his right to live as an Indian, and his many fights were not only aimed at the Whiteman’s rule of his world, but also collaborating Indians which included Blackfeet Tribal Judge John Yellow Kidney who jailed Floyd for refusing to put his children in Blackfeet Tribal Schools that did not teach, or teach in, the Blackfeet language. It took a United States Federal Judge to free Floyd, who steadfastly refused to bow to Blackfeet Tribal Court, from Judge Yellow Kidney’s jail: by means of a Writ of Habeas Corpus. Not long before I had met Floyd, he was at Stick Game during an Indian celebration at Browning, Montana, when he saw an unusual procession approaching the games.. ceremonially dressed Indians with blankets leading a horse. These traditional Indians,

132 people who could appreciate Floyd’s talents and commitment to his people, having ritually approached the proper remaining old chiefs and elder statesmen of the tribe, were in procession searching out their new War Chief of the Crazy Dogs Society. It was to be Floyd. When I moved to the Badger Canyon in 1977 to stay with Floyd’s grandparents, Floyd was an art teacher at the now closed ‘Free School’ at Browning. Raised as gifted, Floyd was now teaching the gifted. We enjoyed each others company from the beginning, both of us had much to learn about the others world. The old people, Floyd’s maternal grandparents Alfred and Agnes Wells, had taken me in, but I was not an Indian, not yet. Floyd saw in me the opportunity to study the mind of his involuntary enemy, the Whiteman, I could see that in short order, but rather than be offended, I was openly willing to oblige him, I was angry at the Whiteman myself. So rather than taking a defensive posture with Floyd, in regards to my race, I set out to teach him everything that I knew about the Whiteman’s world, especially as relates to Whiteman’s thought, beliefs and motivations. It was an opportunity for me to review my own experiences in the culture that had alienated me. It was not long before Floyd realized he had met a Whiteman that was actually telling him the truth. Soon he was relating to me comparisons in his world, how it was really different. So we taught each other. Over time, we became real friends and I was becoming a White Indian. Floyd could see this, the real litmus test likely was Floyd seeing my ability to understand and employ the sorceries at stick game. And the fact I could suffer as an Indian, I knew their poverty in the intimate sense. I had lived that life. In 1985, I was taking one of my periodic breaks from Indian country, staying at Helena, Montana, something I did to get a perspective from time to time. Floyd called. Something was going on having to do with oil companies in the Badger River country and Floyd wanted me to keep an eye on things for him. I did some preliminary checking and sure enough, there was to be an Environmental Assessment in the works by the Forest Service on behalf of Chevron USA and American Petrofina. This was bad news for the Indians. It was in 1988 I found Floyd an attorney, Mark Mueller of Austin, Texas, and our fight with the United States, Chevron and Petrofina, became proactive in 1989. Through the almost war that followed, which I have previously described a little of my part, Floyd and I had a very interesting balancing act going on in our approach to this fight with the Forest Service and the oil companies. We had actually fought that war with ‘medicine’ behind the scenes, in the old Indian way. Each year at the Heart Butte Indian Days celebration, not far from the Badger, there is a ritual Stick Game in the ancient Blackfeet style between the Veterans and the Crazy Dogs, both are present day Blackfeet Warrior societies, one modern, and one very old. The Veterans had been invited to replace the Antelopes in this game, when that society had become practically extinct. The tradition of this annual game stems from the earliest Blackfeet times. I suspect I may have been the first, perhaps the only Whiteman ever to

133 play in this game, perhaps excepting Rising Wolf himself from over a century ago. I played with the Veterans, which is my right. My ritual enemy on this one day a year was the Crazy Dogs Chief Floyd Heavy Runner. When the Veterans won, Floyd would, for the following year, defer to my strategies in our wars with the Whiteman over the oil and gas explorations, until we played again. When the Crazy Dogs won, I deferred to Floyd’s strategies. We never talked about it. We just did it. Consider, that to think and see like an Indian, you must know things, real information from the spirit. What will circumstance reveal to you? Anything can be found out. In the old Indian world, there is no concept of coincidence. Both Floyd’s and my own other given name is Thomas, meaning ‘Twin.’ Heavy Runner is the Mountain Lion and that is the name the Crees independently gave me as a White Indian that lived in Blackfeet country. If you can see what it is I am saying, then you know a little something, what it means to think and see like an Indian. We were like supernatural twins that went to war. When the enemy expected one, they met and did not recognize the other. And so it went like that.

134 Strawberry Pat had a medicine man friend over in the Flathead tribe and their main ceremony is the Blue Jay dance. When he was visiting at my house one day, I told Pat about a Stellar Jay coming into my pigeon coop to steal food. Pat was immediately interested, his eyes lighted up. “Is he a young one, can you catch me a young one?” Pat wanted to know. I told Pat I thought so. Over the next several days I kept warning the Jay “I’m going to catch you and give you to Pat!” The Jay paid no attention. So one morning I took a fish landing net out to the coop and cornered the Jay. Next thing he was in the net and then a cage. I called Pat and let him know. Pat waited several weeks to come pick the Jay up (Medicine men are careful, they don’t want something dying on their hands.) The Jay was eating well, he especially liked earthworms. Finally Pat came and collected the bird, after I had left for Germany on business. So the Jay lived initially in a cage at Pat’s house while they got to know each other. He named the Jay ‘Strawberry’ for his favorite new treat. Eventually the Jay was trusted outside the cage and would steal from the plates at mealtimes. One day it was overlooked that a window was opened while the Jay was out of his cage and he went out the window. But Strawberry was back in the window just at supper time! So Strawberry was ready to be a Medicine Man that was Pat’s plan for the bird. When it came time of year for Blue Jay ceremony over at Flathead country, Pat arrived and made a great stir when he introduced Strawberry to the Flathead Medicine Men. The bird was a Chief, the Boss Medicine Man, a High Priest, whatever you want to call it. Strawberry learned to mimic the drumbeats to the sacred songs, and if a medicine man was praying over a bowl of berries for the ceremony, the bird could help himself from his perch on the rim of the bowl. The Flathead medicine men wanted to keep Strawberry, but Pat would not let the bird go. So a deal was struck: that Pat had to bring the bird to ceremony each Blue Jay dance season. It worked out that way for a couple of years. Strawberry was a traveling medicine man and visited ceremonies in Flathead, Ojibwa, Cree and Blackfeet country. Strawberry became a master of ceremonial drumbeat. But as the way of the world will have things, Pat’s main medicine man friend at the Blue Jay Dance ceremony had passed away, and so Pat set Strawberry free back at my house, and I was not home at the time. One morning I was up and outside doing chores, when, from a fir tree in my yard, not twenty feet away, I heard the perfect cadence of a Giveaway Dance; a ceremonial song was being tapped out. As the hair stood on the back of my neck, I tried to look out of the corner of my eye to see what on earth was happening. The bird finished off the song perfectly, right to the staccato ending, and made my skin crawl. Then I saw it was a Jay, and he laughed at me and flew off. I went into the house and had a long, quiet cup of coffee at the kitchen table, where I could see the tree through a window. A couple of days or so later, it was early spring, I noticed a large gathering of Jays in a Cottonwood tree not far from the house. The tree had buds, but was not yet leafed out. I sat on a stump and only watched. There were well over 100 Jays in that tree. Every

135 Stellar Jay for miles around must have been present. One Jay was apparently telling a story, anyway he was the only person speaking for the most part. Every now and this Jay would pause and the rest of the these Jay people would briefly make a collective racket. Then Strawberry was speaking again and next thing, there it was, he was tapping out a recognizable ceremonial beat for the rest of the birds. I would not be surprised if, twenty-five years hence, some naturalist notes the peculiar ‘drumming’ of the Stellar Jays in Glacier National Park. The old time Indians would know better.

136 Pat’s Purpose Pat, following his near death experience, after his journey to the ancestor land and his return, took a new direction. Pat was always a good medicine man, I worked, sitting beside him, for over ten years in ceremony. I brought to Pat a Whiteman, ‘Cowboy’ Bob Benda, who was suffering from food allergies, and Pat put Bob on the road to healing on the spot. If Bob ate one cookie from a batch of 36, with a single egg in the recipe, he would be fetal with cramps and flu like symptoms for three or four days. Corn and its byproducts, caused the same effect in Bob. Testing for allergies had shown Bob was allergic to nearly thirty common food substances. His frame, which should have been carrying 200 pounds, was nearing 100 when I brought Bob to Pat. Bob’s eyes were already sinking in his skull, he was skin stretched over bone, in fact, Bob was nearing death. I brought Bob into the Give Away Dance, a Ghost Religion ceremony. I had been trying to get Bob there for a year, but he was not willing until he was nearly dead and the Whiteman’s medicine had failed. I had told Pat about Bob already. Pat looked at Bob and said, “So you can’t handle corn or eggs. Eat this.” And Pat handed Bob a bowl of corn soup together with a hard boiled egg. Bob took the corn and egg, and sat down to eat. He later told me he had decided on the spot he might as well die right there and then. And so Bob ate it all. The historical Jesus, the healer, had said “You will know them by their fruits.” Pat is a healer. After Bob had eaten the corn and egg, he called me to his side. “Ron, something really interesting is happening. Every time I start to cramp, it backs off and relaxes more each time.” Bob was already better than when I had brought him, already food poisoned, an hour before. Within a year, Bob was back to 180 pounds and still gaining. Bob went on to recover his health and a productive life. This was around 1983. All Pat had done, was to pray over the food he gave to Bob. Pat is looking at healing in the bigger picture these days. He wants to heal Peoples that is correct, put entire Peoples on the path to healing. This is the cumulative result of an entire life of learning in the Indian way, acknowledging the stories of Oral History, listening to and remembering his elders’ teachings throughout his life, and finally acting in the correct Indian way on his own dream journeys. In 1984 I had brought Pat to the Feathered Pipe Ranch west of Helena, Montana, to a Brandt Secunda ‘Huichol Indian Dance of the Deer’ workshop. Pat immediately recognized this was authentic ceremony that he was able to make sense of, and Pat and I built a Sweat Lodge to pray with these people. None of them were Indian by birth or blood. Now an international bridge building labor had commenced, in the sense of peoples to peoples. Pat included the Feathered Pipe Ranch in his traveling itinerary as a Medicine Man. For the next twenty years Pat kept a Sweat Lodge at this location to teach, heal and worked to promote peace between the races. I worked with Pat at the Feathered Pipe Ranch in the early years of this new endeavor: until he felt established and was comfortable in the competent assistance of his new student helpers from the Anglo world.

137

Again, Pat amazed me.. now with his insight and ability to adapt to a new environment and circumstance. Here Pat discovered a social circumstance that demanded the Indian ways conform to a different world outlook. Here the women expected to sweat, no differently than the men. Traditional women in Indian Country, those schooled in the old ways, do not use the Sweat Lodge because it is redundant. I was taught that in the time of the ancients, the world was out of balance because of the difference between the sexes. When a woman put her bare feet on the ground, she was in direct communion with her power because the earth is a female entity. But a man was cut off from his power, he had no communion with the sky. Also the woman had a natural cycle, in sync with the earth’s sister, the moon, and a man did not. Man was at a disadvantage, living as he does on the earth. To correct this imbalance, woman gave man a pipe cut from her body, the stone pipe cut from the earth, now this pipe could, on the wings of the burning sacred herbs, carry a man’s communion with his creator. With the pipe, the woman gave man the sweat lodge to purify himself and observe the seasons because he has no natural cycle. The consequence of these gifts is that man’s ceremony originated with the woman and cannot proceed without her acknowledgement. Consequently, example given, without the Holy Woman, the Sundance cannot be held. She is the red side of the Buffalo skull, the earth. The blue side, the sky, belongs to man. But it was never necessary for women to sweat, it was meant for the men, it was a gift to men, made for men. Women had a separate medicine, their own sacred ways, where men did not typically trespass. I had once made up a joke story (that is more truth than joke) for Pat about why Indian women use the sweat lodge in modern times. It was because some urban Indian women had become acquainted with the liberation movement. Not being intimately familiar with their own culture, these Indian women became convinced they were being discriminated against because only men used the sweat lodge. When they visited their reservation, these women confronted the men over this and the men were stricken speechless. The women left convinced they had made their point. After, alone together, the men discussed what had just happened. The conclusion was that the women had forgotten about giving the men the sweat and why. But none of the men had the guts to tell the women, the men were saying to each other: “Why should I have to tell them, you can do it.” So now women sweat. Pat did not typically sweat with women when he worked in Indian Country, he was always highly conservative with the old ways concerning his own people, but he was confronted with a new circumstance, now having emerged to teach in the Anglo world. Pat saw that opposed to balanced, this world was split and inclusiveness was the only real road to healing for these people. I was there in the beginning and worked together with Pat to sort the new circumstance out. Initially, although we kept a straight face throughout these experiences because you cannot hurt people’s feelings, some crazy things happened. Women were piling into Pat’s sweat wearing bikini underwear and bra and it was all you could do to keep your mind on the sacred (Pat once asked me after just such an experience “Well Ron, did your Holy Pole survive? ) So I discussed the situation with Pat and now I was giving pre sweat instructive talks on Pat’s behalf about

138 appropriate dress for the sweat. I came right out and stated that women and men sweating together required modest dress because your mind needs to be on the mother earth and the mystery of creation, undistracted by either curves or bulge. Twenty years later at these initial encounters have evolved to where Pat has trained women leading sweat lodges for women only and the men are sweating again by themselves. So how does this fit the idea that the sweat was just for men? Prior to the Jesuits, these ‘Birds of Death’, and the introduction of western chauvinism to the culture, Indian ceremony originated with the woman. Pat’s desire was to lift the dark veil that Catholicism had cast over the culture and reinstate the woman to her proper role in ceremony. This is an important point that Pat and Floyd were in complete agreement with. It is Floyd’s observation that the Jesuits utterly destroyed the women’s feminine earth derived medicine societies in the Blackfeet tribe. The sweat is a man’s cycle, a gift of the seasons from the woman, and his lunar calendar. But because it originated with the woman, it cannot be denied to her. Nor should it. Culture is not and never has been static. Peoples that cannot change to meet the demands of the time become extinct. And dreams have always brought change in the Indian world. What I had experienced with Pat is but one example of a phenomena that has been independently occurring between Indians and Anglos across North America and now includes Europe. The Indian prophets had said this day would come. I was privileged to witness our bit of that prophecy in its inception at the Feathered Pipe Ranch near Helena, Montana. Thanks to Pat who recognized the possibilities when presented the opportunity, we are able to be a small part of that day the old ones had spoken of in the long ago. It is not only us, it is all people who care and endeavor to live right, wherever they might be, that are a part of the spontaneous spark that will see the new Native American world foreseen so long ago. We are all native now. In 1997, I showed Pat a place not far from the Feathered Pipe Ranch, on the aptly named ‘Priest Pass’, and he chose it as the location for his Summer healing camp, and brought his medicine men, all aboriginal priests of Indian religion, to bring the prophecies of the Indian world out to the other nations of peoples, that is, nations in the sense of race and humankind. I attended Pat’s camp again, this time on the Rocky Mountain Front, in the summer of 2004, just a few weeks prior to my penning this paragraph. At this camp, each day an ancient Indian ceremony, ceremonies previously kept secret and pure, some never seen by any living Whitemen not at these camps, were set up and performed for all peoples of the world, regardless of race. The ‘Jump Dance’, a ghost dance variant that comes down from Wovoka, was something to see. This was special. That was on the first day. On the second day there were two ceremonies. Brant Secunda was asked to set up his Dance of the Deer by the medicine men. All of the Indians joined in. After this, we had the Horse Dance. This is a special Sundance related ceremony celebrating our interrelationship with Gods creation. Around the miniature Sun Lodge, the people with the Eagle Bone whistles, circling the lodge on the outside and facing outward, away from the lodge, danced with the horses and their riders, which circled them, and an even greater circle of the camps spectators surrounded that. Taken with the lodge in the center, it was

139 four circles. Pat had that ceremonial’s Crier (ceremonial announcer) call me out of the spectators as an Elder for this ritual. After years of war against the Whites on behalf of this culture, Pat had brought me back into the public ceremony. He gave me back my life. When we went into the Lodge to smoke and pray, this years newborn children were presented inside, Indian and White, these babies were given their sacred names and passed in the circle, each of us greeting them into this world. On the third day, I missed all of the ceremony, I was, together with other volunteers, painting a sacred tipi with a dream design for Pat as a gift. We painted the abode of the gods, a place you can only enter from the far side of the Morning Star. But it is a place accessible to anyone who is pure, and follows the dream. On the fourth day of the camp, we performed the ‘Clown Dance’, becoming the Ancient Ones, there will continue to be a world, so long as these first ancestors remember us in their dreams. As the ancients, as contrary dancers, we hunted with the bow and arrow for the offerings sprinkled throughout the camp. As an old medicine man closed this ceremony for the dancers with a pipe, sitting on the ground he looked down and picked up a 3,000 year old Besant Point. There is empirical evidence in the Indian world too. This ceremony was good. The gods had answered with exactly the appropriate gift from the ancient ones. This is the phenomenon of nature intersecting with ceremony for the real Indian. There is no concept of coincidence in nature’s ritual. This sharing of ceremony is the vision of Pat, from the instructions he had received in his journey to the ancestors, where he had met his relatives and was ordered to return to us. Pat’s journey demanded that this sharing come to life, that Indian ceremony open up to the world. This sharing meets the handed down teachings of the Native Prophets. Pat’s purpose behind this is to renew ceremony in the lives of people, to teach those who would know, the real knowledge of how to live in a certain way that precludes fear… the prerequisite to the respect between all of Peoples and Nations that will know a real peace.

140 Retrospective (Epilogue) Fate had conspired with my childhood to send me on this wild adventure. I was the second mistake of an ill fated union that had resulted from the euphoria at the end of World War II when my father had returned from nearly four years serving in the Pacific and met my mother at a USO club in Southern California. My father had continued on a career in the United States Navy that had begun in 1941 and retired as a Chief Petty Officer in 1961. He had marveled in his later years that he was the first male West in our line in quite some time that had lived to be fifty years of age and did not die of gunshot wounds. My father’s family oral history is that we are Irish/Chippewa Metis extraction (perhaps light skinned Creole) later mixed with Dane and Ukraine/Czech (Ottoman Turk.) This West line had a history of being superb soldiers for the United States except that when there were no wars or military opportunities, then there was a tendency to be badmen in the sense of cattle rustlers and highway robbers. Raised in the country after my Grandfather’s death, my father was sent to reform school for livestock rustling as a teenager supporting his mother and young sisters during the Great Depression, and subsequently had entered the military. My mother’s family roots lacks it’s own sense of sainthood in an altogether different way. My maternal line were people of unreconstructed Confederate blood that had migrated to California following the Civil War. With a great uncle named ‘Forrest’ after Confederate cavalry commander and Klu Klux Klan founder Nathan Bedford Forrest and recalling my maternal grandmother singing me a White southern slave auction nursery rhyme, these former slave owners and ‘Big White House’ southerners who were cultured and literate (not only having been racist bigots) produced numerous doctors, lawyers and school teachers amoung the several thousands of my cousins derived from that line. I can only presume my father somehow convinced my mother’s family that his dark complection derived from some (imagined) Greek ancestry when he had married into this patrician clan of Southern California. My parent’s divorce was inevitable even though this was a period when divorce was social suicide for a young woman from my mother’s class of people. Discovering my father could be very useful at the large family gatherings of that era, one time he had been impressed to butcher a whole pig to be roasted outdoors at an old southern style picnic on one of the family (my great aunt Alice’s) California estates in the vicinity of Turlock. A practical joker, my father, together with the husband of my great aunt, placed the pig’s head in a toilet with the snout positioned to greet with a wet kiss the unsuspecting private parts of the unlucky lady who did not look before lifting the lid and sitting to do her business. My great uncle in law was secure in this patrician family’s position and stature, my father was not. And that was the end of the marriage. I was about three years of age. A resented child, I spent many of my young years locked in a small mostly Victorian family library while an intensive effort was made to “Rub the wild blood out” of me. This idea of my mother eventually failed. My only real friends during these times were the

141 Ridpath Library of Universal Literature, the Complete Works of George Eliot, books by Nathanial Hawthorne and Washington Irving, James Fenimore Cooper’s Leather Stocking Tales, and in retrospect, especially Hervey Allen’s ‘The City in the Dawn.’ I had begun this classic about a White captive who became an Indian in the early American frontier days towards the end of fourth grade and having made the mistake of bringing the book to school, it was confiscated by the mean spinster that passed for my teacher and who believed I had no business reading such material at my age. I was intended to be satisfied with her curriculum that totally bored me. But I had my revenge. After a visit to my father’s home in the countryside, I was summarily presented to the class and ordered to tell my city dwelling comrades about this very different sort of life. My evil spinster teacher became petrified, frozen speechless as I addressed the class, telling them the most memorable event of my recent visit… “My Dad asked me to help him with a pig. We tied the pig up and then my Dad took his jack knife and cut out the pig’s balls and the pig hollered really loudly. Then my Dad told me to throw the pig’s balls to the chickens, that the chickens would eat the pig’s balls and I did that and the chickens did eat the pig’s balls.” I never gave another class presentation at that school. The confiscation of Hervey Allen’s work put me on a strike against school that lasted to my 18th birthday and my voluntarily leaving high school shortly before graduation on the day it became my legal decision, a promise I made to myself over the theft of that book as an elementary school child. When fifth grade began, I had already quit making any pretense of being interested in any subject or assignment that I did not like. Consequently sent to the school psychologist I simply stared at him with folded arms and refused to interact… until one day I came to my appointment and he had a Chess game set up and was ready to play… and he had got to me. I loved coming to the appointments after that. Looking up the records of those visits many years later under the then new Freedom of Information Act, this good man had neatly assessed the cause of my rebellion and noted that my solid weighted score placing me in the 98th percentile of abstract verbal thought was remarkable. However, none of his work had made an impression on the people that would have had to change to make my life any different as a child. Possessed of a remarkably patient stubborness, I secured another copy of The City in the Dawn and finished reading that work in the seventh grade. By this time I had become troublesome to my mother and stepfather to the point they were happy to see me leave, because no amount of beatings, whether with a switch, strap, stick or fists, together with being placed under house arrest in the family library, stopped my running off into the San Gabriel mountains to play instead of going to school. I had become a master forger of notes to the schools excusing my absences as well. Finally I began to be allowed to spend real time with my father who by this time was retired from the Navy and living in Montana, not far west of the Blackfeet Indian Reservation. During the summer of my twelveth year, I was given a rifle and a pony, and the wild country to the south of Glacier National Park was my new playground. Here I discovered the values of a very different world and community, growing up around and playing with the children of Indians- Assiniboinne, Cree, Ojibwa, and Blackfeet, I discovered my fathers world and home were not that much different from the

142 homes and additudes of the Indians. Because we were not wealthy, sometimes circumstances dictated a bit of a different view of life. Honor bound to be honest within this community, you were perfectly able and freely allowed to lie to a stranger that arrived in your midst: such as the White rancher looking for his strayed cattle that were divided amoung several family freezers in the neighborhood. Walking over to see who had arrived in our driveway at what was the old MacDonald homestead outside Coram, Montana, I saw my Dad with his back turned to the visitor and a ‘save my life’ look on his face as he called out to me “Ronnie, when was the last time you saw those stray cows?” I answered back “About ten days ago, they kept breaking the fence to get into our pasture, so I ran them off nearly to Desert Mountain” and with this lie sent the stranger off on a wild cow chase beginning several airmiles distance in a thick, nearly roadless grizzly bear infested forest. Two of those cows were in fact in our larder against the coming winter, their hides with the identity brands buried in the corral by the barn which had then seen the horses kept in until all trace of the evidence burial had been obliterated. The rest of the cattle had been picked off by fellow neighborhood partisans. The rancher never saw his cattle and we never saw the rancher again. Following this schizophrenic upbringing, as a just turned twenty year old, I had been in Vietnam for nearly a year. Only 1 ¼ years before, my father had a visit from our local one eyed Sheriff’s deputy forewarning that he would have to be picking me up over a summerlong party with the neighborhood teens and my indiscreet relationship with a sixteen year old woman whose parents influence made the affair impossible to overlook. Sheriff’s deputy Joe Donahue had to drive his own car on patrol because only having one eye, he could not see the trains coming around the curve at the unmarked crossings on our backcountry forest roads. The County had decided he might be less likely to get hit by these trains in the future if he had to drive his own car. They were not buying squad cars for him anymore. Joe had pretended to chase us down all summer but in reality he was one of us, more likely to be parked by himself in the forest with his own bottle of booze than to be chasing us minor’s in possession of alcohol with any real intent. That summer, which should have seen my graduation, I was partying with all my pals and we seemed to have lost track of time and discretion. So Joe visited his friend, my Dad, and told him “Ronnie had better leave the country until things cool down.” On his way to leave, stepping under the electric fence, the wire became caught between his holstered pistol and ass cheek. The charge was an electric pulse and in perfect tandum with the deputy trying to grab the wire free of his ass, the shock made him jump and let go again and again in what looked like a repeat western gunfighter draw that could not find the pistol. A few months later, broke and homeless in Seattle, I had walked into the Army recruiting office at Third and Union Street and held up my hands as though in surrender to the sergeant at the desk who looked genuinely amazed to hear me simply state “It’s my time to go.” Following a couple of robberies, some grand theft auto and pool hustling, the White Montana kid I was travelling with, Dusty from Livingston, was in jail and I was out in the cold. Not long before Dusty had told me “Ron, you are too decent to be my

143 partner. You need to find your own way and I am letting you go.” It was October 3rd, 1969. Now, in 1971, I was in Vung Tau, Vietnam, riding in a three wheeled taxi called a Lambretta. It was a Saturday, we had the day off, and several of us were heading to the beach. A GI named DeLong from Michigan had given me a tiny blue pill before we had left the Army airfield and I did not believe from looking at the size of the pill, it was called a microdot, that it could do anything to me. Now DeLong, a heavyset man, still looked like DeLong but also he reminded me of Porky Pig and I was starting to laugh. Dropped off at the cliff above the beach, I recall the long stair we negotiated to the surf below kept moving, the stair was undulating the entire descent. When we reached the bottom we found ourselves immersed in a sea of Vietnamese people, it turned out to be a Vietnamese national holiday, and becoming paranoid, the six of us panicked and forgetting the stair, we began climbing the cliff to escape. By now the rock face we were clawing our way up was in a constant state of melting before our eyes, and every now and then I had to find a perch and control a nearly irresistable urge to laugh at the idea that I was climbing melting rocks that did not slip and drop me the couple of hundred feet or so that I would or should surely fall because the rocks were not solid but kept melting. Somehow I knew that if I laughed too hard while climbing I would fall. But I did not fall and that made me want to laugh really hard because the entire event had become preposterous. Nobody fell. Now we had arrived on a large ledge most of the way up, perhaps seventyfive yards across, with a barbed wire fence on the precipice edge to keep some cows pastured on the ledge from going over. I was the first through the fence, a country boy, I knew how to go through barbed wire probably as well as any Viet Cong sapper. But then everyone was frozen by the sonorous voice of a soldier named Johnston, he was a city boy from Atlanta- “I will not walk amoungst the cows.” He actually used the word “amoungst.” Looking over my shoulder I saw the others, frozen, standing and staring at Johnston and I took off walking by myself ‘amoungst the cows’ (these also seemed to be melting) and shortly the others followed and suddenly there was a soldier, it was Johnston, sprinting past me for the far side of the pasture and the last bit of cliff we would have to negotiate to the road where we could flag a taxi back to the airfield. Back at the airfield watching fifty or so other LSD ingested soldiers using the C-123 cargo plane with the collapsed nose gear as a giant see-saw, I sensed again that somehow things could never be real for me. I did not now believe in anything at face value and thought I never would again. It’s small wonder that after the war I disappeared into Indian Country. By now I believed White people were totally crazy. Having discovered this, at least I had somewhere to go. However with the loss of the Indian languages as a widely spoken social and cultural phenomena, a great tragedy, this world I knew in the intervening years hardly seems to exist anymore. But thanks to these medicine men I did know, I can live again in my own

144 society but with new eyes. So I am back thanks to my long friendship with, and generous sharing by these incredible men, and at last I am able to return here in a positive sense.

145 Three White’s That Didn’t Get It In ceremony there are rules and boundaries, lines are drawn… especially when you can joke and in some cases, what you can joke about. There was the time that my relative and friend Butch (Heavy Runner) Arrow Top Knot was one of the ‘Riflemen’ that shoots into the air from the four directions to announce to the ancestors that their feast and dance has commenced- and he came in from performing that duty and joked that he had “shot that horse” standing by the house. The medicine men had a talk with Butch about that, and in the morning the horse was lying out there dead. It was not a bullet that had killed the horse, but the joke. These ceremonies emit power, and you have to be careful of what you say and especially when you say it. One thing you don’t joke about is the food. That some of the younger generation Indians who are more or less christianized would joke around calling a certain traditional dish special to the ancestors ‘Spook Soup’ and have been sharply corrected by the medicine men belonging to the Give Away Dance (Ghost) ceremony, would be a case in point. But when a Whiteman brings his redneck humor into ceremony, without having had the courtesy to spend enough time to know the ins and outs of the ancient native world these events encompass, things can go wrong in a bigger way. Such was the case the time a new visiting White brought to Give Away Dance a large bowl of “Rocky Mountain Oysters” for the sacred feast. None of the medicine men would touch that dish and there was food in ceremony that went unprayed for, an unheard of event, perhaps for the first time in the many thousands of years of this religion. Some of the Indian kids, my own son Mike amoung them, heard the work ‘oysters’, looked at them, they sort of looked like very large oysters, and decided to give them a try. Mike then stated “Dad, these don’t taste like oysters” and I replied “They are sheep balls” and suddenly there was a line of kids filing out of the room, each with a large testicular object dangling by it’s severed stringlike tissues and these unholy objects found their way out of ceremony via a back door where the starving Indian dogs will eat anything. Years later, the then spouse of the offending party tried to tell me that were indeed large oysters that you can buy in a jar, but it doesn’t matter now… that joke sent several medicine men to their graves over the ensuing years knowing that there was food in ceremony that could not be prayed for. And that it had happened to them. Another Anglo, one who had been instrumental in Pat receiving a prestigious humanitarian award, the Temple Award from the Institute of Noetic Sciences, has an ego that panics him. Driving Pat to receive his award, this student did not get it, that Pat needed to ‚see’ (Medicine Man Dream State) his way through this journey: instead this student suffered one of his ego panic attacks and commandeered the journey, not listening, taking his Whiteman mentality with a helpless Pat in tow, and drove down what he thought would be the fastest, most direct route. By refusing to, or being unable to recognize Pat’s need to take the journey as directed by the Spirit, Pat’s spiritual equilibrium was knocked silly for the duration of the trip. Pat, at the time in a wheel chair still recooperating from back surgery, was, not surprizingly, injured on the drive when his

146 ego panicked student driver had to suddenly slam the brakes sending Pat crashing foward in his chair. Pat was hurt, and if you are a Medicine Man, you know what that means. It would not be good for anybody, but it really is extra injurious for a medicine man. When I and several students of Pat met Pat at the awards site, a conference center in Palm Springs, and Pat related this to us, and it ruined things for us as well. Mr Panic Ego, someone we all should have been able to trust and relax around, had to be insulated from Pat for the duration of our stay, that was the consensus, and I ended up being the asshole over having to arrange cover for that. Either myself or one of Pat’s senior students stayed with Pat at all times. Subsequently, my experience and that of some of Pat’s students, the ceremony and especially Pat himself, were not what could have been. Pat did not dump this fellow, he merely laughed a little (actually very painfully) about it all after the fact and I named this guy ‚Saint Peter’ behind his back. Pat continued to work with St Peter and help him as best he could in the ensuing years. Pat is remarkable for his patience and forbearance. The medicine men do not get rid of their students that make mistakes, they continue working with them hoping they will get it right. Genuine efforts to learn must be recognized. It is a lesson we all have to draw on. It’s essential. So Saint Peter is still one of us, part of Pat’s circle. This is because Pat believes St Peter is a actually a truly good and well meaning guy: when he is not ego panicked. But it is up to St Peter to demonstrate he has overcome this problem, and has become genuinely useful, over the long term. The third, once upon a time would be student of Pat, is a bigger story. Concurrent to our stay for this awards ceremony, over several days at the large conference center, Pat had me wheeling him around, the naturally investigative Pat wanted to see everything, and we discovered that Brooke Medicine Eagle was running a Ghost Dance workshop at this conference. This fact piqued both our interest. A few years previous, having mutual acquaintences with Brooke, I had brought her to Pat’s own Ghost Religion ceremony in Blackfeet country. My thinking was that Brooke, much castigated in Indian Country for years over her ‚Medicine Ways’, should have an opportunity to engage in a real relationship with a ceremonial leader of stature, in short, an opportunity to get it right. Two events had convinced me to do this, despite Brooke’s considerable reputation as a fraud in Indian Country, and her unquestionable breaking of the old Indian law by the manner (not the fact) in which she sells her ‚native’ knowledge. I had attended one of Brooke’s workshops out of pure curiousity in the early 1980’s, and it was great fun. Sheryl from Boston, if she reads this these many years later, will remember that Brooke had a bunch of her workshopee’s dressed like White kids playing Indians in dyed turkey feathers. Playing a game called ‚Coup’, and because I knew those woods like the back of my hand, Brooke had me blindfolded, put a large bounty on my head and a super bonus on Sheryl’s panties as my guide, and set us free in the forest in a

147 snowstorm at night with lots of these new age Indians in turkey feathers hunting us to count their coups. I guided Sheryl, using her eyes, blindfolded in a snowstorm at night through that forest to safety, we reached our goal while intensively hunted and Sheryl’s panties NEVER came off during that workshop. But that was about it. I did not see any deep instruction or even a propensity for knowledge from Brooke in a genuinely Aboriginal sense. But then something happened. When I had returned to my Blackfeet home of that following summer, a tipi in the forest along the Two Medicine River, very close to the Glacier Park border and the ‚Buffalo Ghost’ pishkun, I had a dream. Brooke appeared to me in White Buckskins and was in the very moment of giving me chaste kiss on my cheek when I woke, and a white Bat was on my face and lifted off spiraling up and out the smoke flaps of the tipi. I thought that was interesting. Brooke had been handing out bits of cloth to people, the one I had, it was given to me second hand, was made into a little bag with a draw string and filled with Sage. Brooke had stated this cloth material had been kept with one of the two Cheyenne Indian Holiest of Holies, the Sacred Buffalo Hat. Brooke’s own story was that she was a spiritual daughter of the old Cheyenne woman, Josie, who had kept the Hat. Was Brooke actually giving out Hat relics? Maybe that is what the ‚Buffalo Ghost’ had revealed to me. But a Bat? This appeared to be dangerous, but the signal was mixed. The actual Bat I woke up to on my face that was White did not bite me, rather I had experienced a kiss from it’s tongue on my cheekbone more like the aroma of Honey Suckle. It did not frighten me at all. I would not have believed in the authenticity of Brooke, based on the workshop, but now I was not so sure. So I decided to test Brooks claim. She had made that easy for me, giving away these purported relics, one of them having found it’s way to me. I only had to wait for the right opportunity to test it. That chance came the following summer when I was at Rocky Boys Indian Days playing Stick Game. There was a team being led by Cheyenne women. I made my bet and was singing, not playing. Sitting in the second row, behind the leaders on our side, I took my time and checked the Cheyenne women out, they were the real thing, these were Medicine Women, holy people. During one of the breaks between games, I showed up just as play was about to resume. The reputed Hat relic was tucked inside my shirt, just to see what, if anything, would happen. The Cheyenne game leader jerked her head up, startled. She turned to her first assistant, another Cheyenne woman, and stated emphatically „That smell!“ All of the Cheyenne women immediately got up and left, and so did I, taking the now proved to be a real Hat relic away from the game right then. I took this little cloth bag with draw strings about 100 yards out onto the surrounding prairie and tied it to some native bunch grass near some Buffalo sage, I had no business being in possession of it from that moment. I returned from that act, and after a little while the women were back and the games proceeded as though nothing had happened. But now I knew. When the Buffalo Hat is upset, it makes a distinctive aroma, said to be horrible, that only the women can smell. And only Cheyenne medicine women would react to that smell the way these women had. Now I really had something to think about. What did this all mean in relation to Brooke, my dream and the White Bat? Who was the Hat angry with? Brooke, befriended by a former Hat Keeper as a young girl and who had

148 taken that fact, romanticized it, and run with it around the entire planet in the course of her life? She obviously had not been trained in the old laws and ways to the extent that requires years of sweat equity with the elder teachers, through the course of adult life. What had the Hat Keeper seen in this girl? What was her purpose to give Brooke the sacred clothes that had attended the Hat? Had Brooke stolen them? Was the Hat angry at my using the power sorcery of Indian divination, Stick Game, to gain information? Was the Hat angry at the Cheyenne people over their persistent critisim and condemnation and discrediting of Brooke, rather than trying to work with her, bring her back into their people, this very Brooke that actually possibly is a beloved daughter of a Hat Keeper now moved over to ancestor time? I wanted to know more. So when the opportunity presented, after a few more years, I brought Brooke to Pat, at his ceremony. And then Brooke danced, at genuine Ghost Religion, and ate the grease that is the ancestor’s communion, Brooke can never escape having been there, done that. But what she appears to have done was to take the ceremony and run. Driving Brooke back to Helena after the ceremony, she actually bent over in the seat of my vehicle and stated „I see it, I know what I have to do.“ She came back to Pat for another ceremony, lost her tipi, it was not secured well to the back of her motor home, became upset over that and vanished. It was not wise of Brooke, leaving the tipi unsecured in a country where some desperate people are apt to steal anything to eat, but then the whole concept of stealing is just a bit different in Indian Country. There was the time a Whiteman had proudly showed off his large tipi to some Indians who got vertigo when they stepped inside to discover they were on the third floor of a framwork extending from the earth, complete with stairs to the underground levels. This Whiteman returned one day not long after, only to discover his unnatural framework protruding from the earth, naked under the sky, tipi cover gone and a black feather tied to a stick stuck in the ground was the only clue. Brooke’s ostentatious full size motor home obviously convinced some poor Blackfeet that she could easily spare the lesser of her two houses. I did not see Brooke again in Indian Country. But now, some years later again, at a conference center in Palm Springs, Brooke was on the agenda announcing her „Ghost Dance“ workshop. Would Brooke expect that she could eat the grease with these real priests of Ghost Religion and not see them again? That is not thinking like an Indian. Brooke cancelled her „Ghost Dance“ and substituted something else when she discovered we were there. Now the whole world can know why. But there is more. I don’t care if Brooke is a thief of ceremony and the Indian peoples reputation for medicine. But there is this: Napi stole fire from the gods, and we all learn from Napi, but Napi has a lot of bad luck. Napi teaches us about everything that we shouldn’t do because Napi lives dangerously, and consequently Napi is always in trouble. Napi is alive only because he is Napi. If Brooke is going to steal on a par with Napi, she had better come back and learn something, it is never too late to at least try and get things right. Brooke has had her chances, I personally had delivered a great one to her. But because Brooke

149 cannot think like an Indian, because she does not know the mind of Napi, then having eaten the grease prepared by the Ghost priests and running off on her own to run the Ghost Dance is, in the long run, begging for something I would rather not be there to see.

150 Modern Indian Society „Oh man, Ron, the way those nuns beat us....“ Pat Kennedy to the author, at Pat’s summer camp on the Rocky Mountain Front, July 2004. There is no such thing as an Indian in the generic sense. There are a few tribes where the aboriginal language is still fairly widely spoken, several tribes that the language is surviving but is endangered, and some tribes have lost their language altogether. In a scientific sense, language defines culture, and to be really, truly Indian, to think in aboriginal terms, it is very difficult to imagine that you could be, for instance a Blackfeet, and not speak your language. Much more true is the idea that person would be Blackfeet American, like an Irish American or Japanese American, an American of Blackfeet descent, culturally speaking. It is possible to see the world in aboriginal terms in English or other western languages, but it would not be easy or likely for most. The problem is context. My observation, having been in Blackfeet country for twenty-five years, and most of that time associated with those Blackfeet that still speak their language, is that 80% or more of the English speaking only Blackfeet were raised out of context of their real culture. Blackfeet blood at birth, hanging out at a few Pow-wows, even growing up dancing on the pow-wow road and being raised in Browning, does not necessarily create a Blackfeet Indian. Likewise, celebrating Saint Patrick and drinking Guinness does not an Irishman make. It would be generous to think that 20% of today’s enrolled tribal members are real Indians in the old sense. That the 80% who are not Indian actually think they are Indian, is a tragedy that reinforces the idea of the ongoing Human Rights abuse perpetrated on these peoples through the continued forced Anglo-centric education in Indian Country. The Whiteman teaches the Indians what the Whiteman wants the Indians to think. And this is what the Blackfeet learn in the Browning schools. Regardless of whether the teachers skin color is White or Red. The Whiteman’s Social Science is fully aware these people are no longer aboriginal by definition. Language largely defines culture. But nobody has taught this to the English speaking Blackfeet in these public schools. They only learn what the Whiteman intends for them to know. Red Whitemen are teaching Indians in schools on reservations, in English, in the classroom setting of Western Civilization that they are Indians. It simply is not true, culturally speaking. So some things have not changed since the Blackfeet first came under the control of the United States. The Indians continue to be lied to. Ten years ago I could still follow conversational Blackfeet, but my toungue was never able to shape the pronunciation. If you wrongly pronounce Blackfeet, in the smallest way, it will more often than not change the intended meaning and sound silly, even dangerous. So I never spoke. But one of the unquestionable masters of Blackfeet language and Oral History, Floyd Heavy Runner, was my friend and explained the language to me for many years. So I am not afraid to go into what is generally a forbidden area of discussion in the Indian world. Whether real Indians speak their language.

151

Speaking of who or what is an Indian is problematic these days because of language. My experience was, that to be truly Indian, in no uncertain terms, has almost everything to do with the primary language you speak. I do have empathy for the people that have lost their language and still identify as Indian, but there needs to be some explanation of why their priorities are messed up.. why aren't these people largely proactively learning their language rather than playing into a set of circumstances that lets the native languages, and the community of thought and behaviors associated with those languages, continue to die. One big reason for the continued death of native languages is the mandatory western education in Indian country today, the public schools, are not equipped to teach Indian languages, languages which are not predicated on the same ideas as western languages. Teaching Blackfeet in a western school setting is nowhere near as simple as teaching Spanish or German. Not even close. Definitions of what constitutes an Indian are a major part of that problem. An Indian language definition of what an Indian is cannot be found in an English dictionary. This Indian language definition would be the non western terms in which you see and interact in this world. In short, how it is about you live your life in relation to aboriginal ideas. If you are not recognizable as able to interact in these terms, which are largely unknown to western educators, you are not a complete Human Being in the old aboriginal concept. You are not really an Indian in the old sense of what that meant. This is because in the native language, that is where it has not yet been christianized, people are holographic expressions of manifest nature, they are already are everything they need to be, there is only a journey of discovery through observation in the natural world. Here, there is no concept of coincidence, there is no concept of seperation, i.e. the temporal and sacred, and there is no clear boundary between dream and reality. In this world, the native speaker’s focus is allowing for personal space, self restraint, and non interference. These are the boundaries that are emphasized. And it is impossible to ask the typical western educator to teach something they have no concept of. This would include western educators that racially identify as Indian, but are not native language proficient. Those who don't have their thinking shaped by native language see themselves as Indian by birthright in Anglo or western terms, conceived of in degrees of blood. This perception is without validity, it falls far short of the original Indian concept, that is, if it is the aboriginal concept that gives the definition of what it means to be native. Because to be Indian is to see the world you live in, in a certain way. This has little to do with whether or not you are full blood, half breed or non native blood, if the definition of Indian stems from the language of the original peoples inhabiting the Americas. Native membership (in the old sense) was never predicated on race, but on perceptions, especially how the community perceived you. If you think like an Indian, a Human Being, one of ‘The People’, then your actions in the community enabled you to be recognized as such. Many, perhaps most of today's Indians, would be unrecognizable as Human from this old perspective.

152 Those who speak the native language fluently are more apt to approach life with great care according to laws built into the language (the stories.) Life itself is lived as an observational meditation in concert with nature in many respects. There are things these people are at great pains not to do. Ever. This is the approach that created the wise old people, the ones that can bring ceremony meaningfully to the people. Those who do not speak Indian are much more likely to live their life carelessly from the original Indian perspective. Theirs’ is a dangerous road that damages the entire Indian nation. The result associated with this is tragedy. Oftentimes these people are too dangerous to bring into ceremony. Many of them do not know how to be quiet and listen. Frequently they cannot seem to learn the old ways in an authentic sense. Largely they do not evolve through the course of their lives as would be expected of the old way Indian. This is because Indian Languages formed the development of the mind and shaped the perceptions of the native world. Unlike the western world, where deeper insights into truly useful knowledge are the provence of higher education, and acquiring social skills and learning the basic education are stepping stones for those privileged with opportunities for higher education, the Indian language world provided every child equally a language integrated opportunity for higher education, beginning at birth. First, in the Indian World, the child learned to see his/her surroundings in terms of the animate. Suckling at mother’s breast, the child sees the effect, hears and feels, the movement of the breeze in the aspen groves and the language sounds associated with that natural phenomena. Already the child is learning, but not about single objects, rather that life and being alive already is an integrated whole, that all things are inter-related. Aboriginal language has already laid the foundation for an advanced understanding of physics, but not in the western abstract. From the first understanding of speech, the native language child knows already that they are a part of everything that is, that in some sense they embody everything that is. Already this child has a foundation laid that will be atypical of nearly all of the children in Anglo society. And it is only after this first great lesson of inclusiveness that they learn to differentiate. But these next lessons will differ from the Anglo concept as well. Now the stories begin. Again in nature, the stories of Coyote, Magpie and King Fisher, with their sounds integrated into songs (Cree King Fisher song “Kay-kay, Kay-kay, Kanawa Bum), everything that is, in the natural world, is taught in stories that do not differentiate people from animals. The differentiation is in the personalities of nature of which people are an integral part. And because of those personalities, and the stories associated with them, the child is learning the difference between foolish and sound behaviors as well as risks, and how to handle risk. It is all about personal responsibility in the context of nature, with all of nature taught as a single sacred, humanity integrated social concept. Now the native language child learned to play. And the child’s play was predicated on these stories. By the time this sort of child is ten years of age, he or she already knows how to become a Chief, Medicine Man or Holy Woman. It is all about how you live your

153 life and personal responsibility. At this age, a mere ten years, nearly every child in Indian speaking society could, in a by far greater sense than White children ever knew at the same age, be depended upon to perform responsibly as citizens of their respective nations. Already these native children were prepared to attend the native language equivalent of higher education, the so called (by the anthropologists) age grade societies. Now, they would be observed by their communities in their personal evolution, with a premium put on an intelligent balance between audacity and self restraint. Having lived right, and advancing through these societies and serving these communities, generally by the age of 45 or 50 years (the truly gifted might arrive at this status sooner) these native language citizens might have earned the right to speak in council as leaders of their respective families, clans, societies, and nations. But with the advent of the missionaries and the destruction of the language, a different Indian emerged. When the Native American populace became prisoner on their respective reservations, they were subjected to enforced Anglo educations and a super tragedy ensued. The early western educators of the American Indian were the missionaries. Other than the basic rudiments of reading and writing, the focus was not on the practical well being of the Indian children in their charge, but their so called ‘spiritual’ well being. The rank superstition the Christian missionaries held concerning native beliefs systems, demanded that the language and associated stories of Native America be crushed in the children. And those languages were destroyed in brutal fashion, through actual physical torture, the figurative rape (and oftentimes literal rape) inclusive of systematic murder, of several generations of native speaking children in government run or approved boarding schools. How could this happen? Christian ideologues were most concerned with advancing Christianity in native peoples. These Evangelicals, whether Catholic or Protestant, were not primarily concerned with matters of science and education, rather rank cult superstition is what they taught, and tolerance of the language, ideas and lifestyles of other cultures was not in their curriculum. Either you knew Christ or you burned. Having known the burn of smallpox and measles, now the Indian children were subjected to this new and unnatural disease of spirit, a dark ages cult belief in man’s dominion over the earth, the conquest and control of nature, and the burn of shame in who you would now will become, a thing born in Sin, in a world that will be destroyed because of wickedness. And all Indian thoughts, philosophies and languages were suddenly wicked. Imagine being 9 years old, not speaking a word of English, suddenly being picked up by the police without notice and delivered to a prison full of Indian children where you are beaten with an iron fire poker the first day you are there, for daring to speak in Indian: the only language you know. As a child, you have been born again in Evil. Because you are not allowed to speak, except in the terms and new language of this apocalyptic event visited upon you, you discover a new life birthed through a violence that came upon you from nowhere, and you could be trapped in this Dantean Hell for years. Your physical

154 torture, absolutely brutal beatings, even to death, only stops with the rote memorization of Bible verse and complete capitulation to the idea that your former life was shit. In the original native sense, the survivors amoung these Indian children were drowned as functional Human Beings in this evil. The strongest amoung them died, those who were most Indian, beaten to death. Association with the original language and stories became so traumatic for the survivors, the Indian children that broke, that these individuals never passed the language to their children. Indian languages, and the knowledge of what it actually meant to be an Indian, in countless cases, died across the Americas. But you could still be Indian in a sort of lying way. You look Indian. The civilization that physically beat the Indianess out of you still identifies you as Indian, because of the new lie of Race. So now, a generation later, you think that you are Indian, but you struggle to know what that means. You know it means you were conquered. You know it means your civilization was destroyed. You know it means your ancestors spoke, and maybe a handful of your tribesmen speak, a different language. You might believe that because you are able to dress like your ancestors and dance at a pow-wow, you are traditional. But inside you know this is not really true. And it makes you angry. Now your babies sit in front of a television and learn in English what an inanimate object is. The lie grows. Unemployable, you sit and play Cribbage and Black Jack, endlessly, surviving on welfare and government commodities, your children grow up emulating the behaviors they see on the TV, become criminals and either die or go to prison. “Indian Love”, the beatings that were introduced to your community by the boarding school returnees, the primary lesson learned there, pass on to generation after generation. Whether because you are broke and drunk, or consequently just socially stupid, real ceremony is no longer a part of your life. But ceremony, the ritual observation of and interaction in natural phenomena, is what Indian life really is. But these beaten Indians cannot know it. But there are the Indians that were not destroyed as Human Beings. In bits and pieces, in a handful here or there, there is a spark of life, the language, the stories, and a more real idea, a greater original understanding of what it means to be Indian, survives. And that idea, that there are still Indians, has rubbed off on some of these otherwise culturally deprived in the community. But there are still huge problems. Now, the third generation children of the boarding school Indians want to come home, figuratively; to become Indian in reality. But they do not speak Indian. And for that fact, they cannot easily come home. English language thought and associated Christian culture precludes this homecoming, more often than not. Because the Indian child, these days, receives a western education with both little and inferior knowledge about what it really means to be an Indian from substandard schools that are not equipped to teach language in an aboriginal context. To be westernized, to speak English only, and understand ceremony in the aboriginal Indian sense is not impossible, but is a difficult path. The first circumstance necessary for the non native speaking Indian to become real, is the ability to realize that non-western knowledge, in this case pre-western Indian knowledge,

155 is not superstitious evil, hocus pocus, or a beliefs system that is foolish and stupid. This is more easily overcome in the present day Indian Country than it is in the Anglo community, because the time of this pre-western knowledge is still close, even functional in some people. Some of the Medicine people can still heal. Some of the ceremony can still demonstrate an ability to manifest phenomena in nature. There is nothing like seeing is believing. Those culturally deprived Indians that have distanced themselves from the fundamentals of Evangelical Christianity and have had a look in the window at their ancestral native world, can see there is something to it. That is the first essential step to their return to being Indian. But if they stop there and simply imitate ceremony, they are only half way home and stuck. Real ceremony requires the manifestation of natural phenomena in concert with the act of ceremony itself. Whether Buffalo Calling had brought the Buffalo, or Weather Making had brought the weather, these were the empirical proof in the old Indian way of ceremony. But knowing it can be made to happen, and knowing how to make it happen, is not the same thing. Imitating ceremony, copying it from how it was seen or remembered, often doesn’t work, is not necessarily real. It can be seen as empty and hollow, a ‘nothing’ event. Because the necessary concept to manifest the phenomena is oftentimes not present in the ritualizing individuals. This is the missing language. The native understanding of nature, and an observed cause and effect relationship that is not limited in the sense of Newtonian physics, but is a much wider idea, is built into the language through the stories. Place, time, ritual and manifest natural phenomena, learned from what the stories teach about observations in nature, all will intersect for the real Indian. But a copied ceremony from the past, absent the authentically trained Medicine people, only serves to reinforce a self-stereotype of what it means to be Indian, among people who only think they are Indian. They look Indian and have Indian ancestry, but reality is they are not complete Indians in the old sense of what that meant. I am not saying this is true in every case, but my own observation is that it is true for most of the Indians I had met that were not proficient in Indian language. This would especially include the many non native speaking tribal members that actually seem to believe they are “traditional.” A necessary circumstance to bring real ceremony, absent the language, into your life is the idea that meaningful life is an observational meditation interacting with nature. The idea that the most powerful prayer you can know is how you live your life in respect to all other life. But in English, this idea is nearly impossible to separate out from monotheistic influences because of socially permeated cultural associations and strictures attending western languages generally. The typical English language associated ideas of prayer and meditation instantly invoke separation, the sacred distanced from the temporal, and nature, seen largely in terms of economics, is centered in the temporal. How can that split be mended in a language, English, whose culture generally forbids that they mix? English language civilization acts out the idea of man taking dominion over the earth, nature is subjective and separate, not integral and sacred.

156 However it does happen, the English language split can be bridged, but it is rare. A balanced, respectful personality with good observational skills and a strong education in, or a natural gift for, the natural and social sciences, together with possessing a highly conceived knowledge of non-western or pre-western thought that precludes rank superstition of the evangelical stripe, can learn natural ceremony of a high order, and manifest natural phenomena in the original native sense. But what are the chances of that in a community with a boarding school legacy, in a prairie ghetto that knows largely crime, poverty, sub standard education and little opportunity. Consider it is rare already in the educated Anglo world. Can it be made easier? A working model in the wider Indian community has not yet been demonstrated. The answer, for Indian peoples, THE ANSWER is, can only be, properly taught native language. The lessons, laws and relationships built into native language will reduce crime. Self esteem discovered through native language will reduce poverty. Native language is the door of opportunity, not necessarily into the Whiteman’s world, but into the sense of self and lost opportunity rediscovered. Native language can transform Indian country. The present western educational model has shown it cannot. Around 1920, the Mohawk language was nearly dead. Today, nearly all Mohawks speak their language. So there is a precedent to becoming Indian in community again through language. But to accomplish this, there must be a motivation to learn the language. It seems someone must tell the ‘almost’ Indians, the Indians who do not speak their language, that they are short, they have missed the mark. They are not really Indian in the old sense. They are truly pitiful Indians at best. I have that on the most solid authority. When I sat and listened and watched old Mary Ground ceremonially paint the Indians that came to her for Black Tail Dance, I paid close attention. Each Indian was asked their name by Mary, quietly, in Blackfeet. All those that could not respond in Blackfeet, which was most of the people under 40 years of age in the early 1980’s, and a fair number older than that, these Indians were admonished by Mary in English: “It is a pitiful Indian that cannot speak their language” as she painted them with obvious love none the less. In the early reservation days the Browning Blackfeet, socially speaking, were roughly split into three groups. The “Pagan” Blackfeet, the Christian Blackfeet and the Halfbreeds. The Pagan followers of Three Suns were largely centered south of Browning towards Heart Butte. These people were discriminated against by the United States for the entire following century when the USA eventually placed all of the tribes resources and power in the hands of the largely Christian Blackfeet community at Browning. These ‘favored’ Christian Blackfeet were taught that they were culturally superior to their aboriginal brethren, and eventually the growing class of mixed bloods springing from these people came to see themselves as racially superior as well. The whiter you were, the more educational opportunities you received, and the doors into power were opened for you. This legacy is largely on account of the United States policy of that time favoring Evangelical Christians as the Indian Agents overseeing the reservations. It was

157 purposeful, forced assimilation into “Christian” society. Those Indians that voluntarily gave up their ways to become like the Whites were rewarded. That is historical fact. And this was the beginning of the erosion of the Blackfeet language. Blackfeet who still spoke their language, but growing up in these Christianized families, stopped thinking in terms of praying ‘through’ the Stones, the Trees. They were taught that this was Devil Worship, not to go there. Already, still speaking a language that was aboriginal in origin, these people were ceasing to think in aboriginal terms. But progress in assimilation was not satisfactory to the United States. In the case of Three Suns people to the south of Browning, aboriginal language continued to be a vehicle for perpetrating aboriginal thought and belief. And this was true for groups in other tribes as well. So the Boarding Schools were instituted. In short, several generations of Indian children were slave labored, beaten, and in many cases raped into christianity, even murdered. Half of the Indian children did not survive. I know of a case of an Indian child having his mouth washed out with soap for daring to speak Blackfeet, but the child did not speak English and thought he was supposed to eat the soap, which was a fatal poison, lye, with his intestinal tract slowly dissolved, it must have been a horrible death. Indian culture was sent by this treatment of its children on an accelerated road to destruction. This Boarding School event was fortified by the American Indian Religious Crime Code, law making it a crime to initiate or attend aboriginal ceremony. This policy worked in some cases and in other cases it did not. It is just all about human character. The weaker among these children cracked and let go of being Indian. In the stronger, it just bred their personal resentment. These mentally stronger among them likely were mostly beaten to death, but some survived to come home and went back to being Indians, and used Blackfeet coined phrases such as still existed and I heard in the south of Blackfeet country during my times there.. admonishing little children that “The Whiteman will make you into stew” if they strayed from their parents gaze. This idea would originally stem from the alien Christian communion (reinforced by the legacy of the cannibal ‘Liver Eater’ Johnson, a mountain man terrorist of Indians) and the subsequent fact that the Boarding School generations were forcefully taken from their families, or kidnapped into these schools if found alone, out and about on their own. Half of them never lived to return. Most of the survivors had been “Broken” into Christians, in the sense you would ‘break’ a horse, and ceased to be Indians. Now, they only looked like Indians. Still, this was not enough. There were never enough boarding schools for all of the Indian children, and the reservations had many small countryside schools where the more remote communities could send their children. The problem for the Whiteman with this was these Indian communities still continued to survive as real Indian peoples because of the nature of their social organization in these remote areas. Indian language and ways were not dying off fast enough. The answer to this Whiteman dilemma, for the Blackfeet, became a social disaster.

158 The Blackfeet Reservation’s country side ‘allotted lands’ had been initially assigned to individuals that wanted to be in proximity to each other. Now, a generation later, there were extended families and Clan affiliated communities in this countryside as a result. The language and culture continued to survive through these original traditional Indian community oriented relationships. From the Whiteman point of view, this had to be broken up. So the small country schools were shut down, and it was made against the law not to put your children into the remaining schools at Browning and many Blackfeet were forced to abandon their life and land in the countryside and move into town to put their children into school. The consequence was threefold. It created a crime ridden ghetto on the Southside of Browning and it caused many land related self sufficiency skills in these people to be lost. It also destroyed the social fabric of Blackfeet society that kept the clan relationships together and violence in check. The resultant social cost is staggering. High alcoholism and death rates attend this policy, crime is rampant, social values degraded, inroads have been made by gangs, and, murder, Blackfeet fratricide, almost unknown before, is now common. The economic cost is no less burdensome. The cost of maintaining subsidized urban housing, taken together with the Busing and buildings maintenance budgets associated with this failed social experiment, the price of attempting to police this unnecessary ghetto created on the high plains of Indian country, all self cycle into draining away resources that might otherwise lift these same people from their grinding poverty. However forced out of their family, band and clan relationships, taken out of the observational nature based context of the Blackfeet language form, and forced into a large regimented English language only school setting, the desired result of the Whiteman was accomplished. Blackfeet language, and consequently Indian ways, had finally begun to die out. And it is from this new pool of talent, this ghetto, that we are now finally gifted with the Racist Red Indians, and also the educated Indians that turned their backs on their own people. And neither of these distinctly modern mutant social species is truly Indian, they are not aboriginal, though of aboriginal descent, they are not Human Beings in the sense of the ancient Blackfeet ways, rather they both are variants of the new Blackfeet Americans. And not only the Blackfeet. This is the case with nearly all of today’s tribes. Let’s look at the Racist Red Indians first. These Indians make up a part of the Indians today that identify themselves as ‘Traditional Indians.’ Nothing could be further from the truth, and the pity of it is they do not even realize this themselves. They are racist because they are angry at the Whiteman. Well, who could blame them? Just review the preceding pages. This is inter-generational anger, well justified. But justified anger will not make these people into Indians. Wearing ‘FBI’ (Full Blood Indian) baseball caps while singing at a Pow Wow drum, they believe they are traditional Indians. It’s not true. I have personally outdone thousands of these Red wannabee Indians with the sweat equity time I have invested, given to their own elders and I did not see these people there, over the span of 2 ½ decades. Where

159 were they? Busy impressing people with their Indianess at pow-wows. Pow-wows are not even one hundred years old. The pow-wow as we know it today, is a modern invention in Indian Country. Dance contests for money. Fancy Dance. Indian Tacos. Catholic Mass in the Arena on Sunday Morning. You think this is Indian? It’s simply not true. These people need to sober up, go home and learn their language. And then look at becoming part of real ceremony. In that case you might see someone with a Red skin become an Indian. This is what AIM needs to do. Yes, the American Indian Movement was justified as a political movement. But now it is time to evolve. Are these people, having won the right to be Indians, now going to throw the hard won opportunity away by continuing to be angry? Many AIM members see themselves as Warriors, but they do not have the whole idea of what this term implies, many of these people did not have access to the traditional teachings of their ancestors. Warriors are not soldiers and they are not mercenaries. Warriors, in native tradition, knew violence only as a self defense on behalf of their people and protection of their territories, and in a more limited sense as a right of passage in daring, in sometimes solo encounters with rival tribes. But these latter were more like inter-tribal Olympic events and less like wars in the Anglo sense. These events were steps in a learning process and personal evolution. That process, ideally, leads to a humility and wisdom that secures the future of Indian peoples. This process of a journey in life, of which being a fighter is only a part, was intended over the long term to prepare fair and balanced leaders. Fair and balanced leaders, by definition, cannot be angry. And this is the core reason that these descendants of the Boarding School Indians did not, could not, seek out their elders. Anger. Anger cannot learn from the winds that are spirit. Anger cannot pray through the trees. If you are angry and you think you are at Sundance, you are only fooling yourself, the gods will not see you in their dreams. Instead, your anger is reflected back and it hits you. These thoughts, from an angry person, do not go through, the gods do not look at them. And in the old ways, if the gods do not see you, there is a diagnosis. The Medicine Men would determine you have lost your shadow. In the old Indian scheme of things, that meant you were no longer a complete Human Being. Another way the truly authentic Medicine Men have described these lost Indian people among themselves is to consider they are domesticated creatures, like cattle, in the same terms as they see the Whitemen in the most general sense.. as separated from reality, devoid of the understanding of the spirit forms called ‘Naaks’, the real communications and the real dreams that come from living in a proper context with nature are alive in these people no more. And we are, nowadays, living in a world that is nearly without shadow or the undomesticated spirit that sees the real relationship of Man to Nature through the living ceremony. What can be done about that? The answer can only be had from looking inside. Looking inside, in the Indian sense, means finding home. Go home and be Indian. Learn your language. Bring your elders a Pipe and ask what can be done about your anger. Learn to be an Indian. Discover what it means to know of the Naaks.

160 If you cannot do this, it means in the final sense that victory belongs to the Evangelical Whiteman. Now, let’s have a look at the other Blackfeet American, the collaborators, the educated Indian that took his lessons from the Whiteman’s world and turned on his own people. These are the ‘Christianized’ Indians that accepted their reward for turning their backs on their culture. When did I ever see these people at ceremony? They were not there either. Since early captivity times, there has always been a privileged class of Indian, beginning with the first collaborators, the Indians that worked with the United States to subjugate their own peoples. And these people were favored with superior opportunities. Ultimately, these were the Indians that were entrusted with the wealth and power of the new, non traditional Tribal Governments imposed on the tribes by Washington, DC. These people became a new Royal class of Indian that looked down on their Indian brothers that had kept the old ways as ‘Uncle Tom Toms.’ Seeing themselves as superior in every respect, they had no respect whatsoever for the people whose lives they were to dictate for many decades. In the case of the Blackfeet at Browning, one of these Half-breeds that saw himself as racially and culturally superior to his Blackfeet relatives, Joe Brown, cynically held the first election for a Tribal Council under the newly imposed council system at a curious time. Nearly all of the majority tribal members that would have opposed this new government imposed by the United States (and Joe Browns implementing it) were literally out of the country. Sundance was legal in Canada, and the Montana Blackfeet relatives, the Blood Indians, held this event just across the border. All of Montana’s real Blackfeet Indians were there. So this was the moment that Joe Brown held this new and foreign election for a government to replace the traditional Chiefs with the Whiteman invented Tribal Council. Under the rules mandated by the United States for this election, it required only 1/3 of the tribal membership participate. This would be the Christian Blackfeet that did not Sundance, they would be home to vote. Joe Brown, president of the election board set up to oversee this election, certified himself as the first ever elected Blackfeet Tribal Council Chairman in 1936. If Joe Brown, who supervised the ballot count, was honest when he elected himself the first modern Blackfeet leader, then 16.65 percent + 1 ballot of the tribal membership was all that was required to institute the Blackfeet Nation as we know it today. But it is not likely at all that Joe Brown was honest. This corrupt inception of the present day Blackfeet Tribal Council persisted for at least fifty years. In the middle 1980’s I was with Pat Kennedy at the Pow-wow at Montana State University, Bozeman, Montana. Earl Old Person, Blackfeet Tribal Chairman, was the Master of Ceremonies. During a break in the proceedings he came over to our Drum, the Starr School Singers, to visit. Mickey Pablo, the Flathead Indian Tribal Chairman also came over. I had once heard Mickey state that his father had told him all he would ever need to know about tribal politics could be learned from Earl Old Person. I was sitting at the drum together with Pat Kennedy when Mickey and Earl began joking about stuffing ballot boxes, tribal elections were coming. The joking abruptly ceased when I picked up our microphone, and held it up towards them as though I would turn it on.

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These Christianized Blackfeet see themselves as a superior Indian. They were indeed a new Royal class of Indian under the protection and patronage of this new Blackfeet form of government. For decades the election process was rigged, this did not matter to the United States, these were the people they wanted in power. Tribal wealth became the personal treasury of these people. One of the plums tossed to the new class of Royals that were not actually on the Tribal Council was to be appointed to the Blackfeet Tribal Credit Program. A partial audit was done internally for the credit committee, apparently to ‘get the goods’ on a single member. It smacked of vendetta. The terms of the audit, to a private outside contractor, was that only a certain one member of the credit committee’s accounts were to be reviewed. Also it was stipulated the result was to be provided to the committee only, per the statement of the auditor at the beginning of his written findings: “It is understood that this report is solely for your information and is not to be referred to or distributed for any purpose to anyone that is not a member of the committee of the Blackfeet Credit Program.” A copy of the report was given to me. This report demonstrated the tribal credit committee members loan themselves, their relatives, their “significant others”, and their friends, monies meant for their Blackfeet peoples, and that these loans among themselves are unrestricted, unsecured, and many times are delinquent or defaulted on when new loans are made to themselves, their lovers, families, and friends. Even though the audit zeros in on a singe credit committee member’s accounts, it implicated other credit officers that had signed off on these criminal acts. The audit states as much with the closing remarks: “Had we performed additional procedures or had we conducted an audit of the financial statements in accordance with generally accepted auditing standards, matters might have come to our attention that would have been reported to you.” The entire program is corrupt. Many loans are unrecorded, these loans add up to tens of thousands of dollars for single individuals, and I have heard first hand, countless times over the years, from Blackfeet living on the poverty side of the reservation that they were unable to secure fifty dollars emergency money from tribal credit because they had no collateral. The hard documentation of this corruption was provided to the United States Attorney for Montana and nothing was ever done. Only when the Indians interests directly conflict with the purposes of the officials of the United States, or the USA’s friends in corporate industry, is the United States there to make certain business comes off as it thinks it should. The Blackfeet Nation is intended to starve, to live in perpetual poverty, well into the 21st Century. Amazingly, soundly governed Indian Nations continue to be perceived as a threat by the bully USA, and the cycles of poverty instituted for these peoples by purportedly the greatest nation on earth, must endure.

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And it is from this Christianized class of Indian Royals, especially the mixed bloods that were taught to see themselves as both culturally and racially superior to their undeserving ‘Uncle Tom Tom’ relatives, a Royal Class created in the several diverse tribes, that the United States Bureau of Indian Affairs draws its talent pool of employees. Small wonder that somewhere upwards of an estimated one hundred billion dollars is unrecorded, and unaccounted for, to this day, from the treasury that should have served to support these starving peoples. Relating to the several Indians suing the Department of the Interior over these missing monies in the Federal Court of Judge Royce Lamberth, this is one very salient point that will not come up because neither side will dare open the door to the judge: the fact that the billions of dollars at stake were stolen by the BIA employees in concert with the Tribal Councils and employees of the tribal administrations. During my years working the investigative case concerning the Blackfeet tribe and looking into Human and Civil Rights abuses by the tribal council, I was familiar with the very issues represented in the lead plaintiff Eloise Cobell. I have first hand knowledge of Blackfeet poverty, and the United States dealings with that tribe, and it is clear to me the marriage between the USA’s Indian Affairs office and the Tribal Councils is incestuous, relating to and driven by control of tribal monies by these Royal criminal cabals. The history of document shredding relating to these missing monies in contempt of Judge Lamberth’s orders over these past several years should have been red flag enough. I am amazed that the Judge has not ordered a criminal investigation under the circumstance. And has anyone noticed the largely remarkable public silence of the several tribal administrations relating to the records destruction? It is not only the political problem at Interior, that no one wants this to break open on their watch, just try to keep a lid on it until another administration is in place and let them deal with it: The other question is, the follow-up question, is what was the tribal administrations role in the missing monies? The social history is succinct. Indian Agents in the Department of War in the 19th Century were corrupt administrators charged with creating the original bureaucracy to administer tribes on location. Utilizing for the most part Missionized mixed blood or ‘Christianized’ Indians as assistants who were completely subservient to these administrative heads, the Indian Agents, appointed to their locations by the then so called Great White Father, corruption and embezzlement learned from example became habit within certain privileged Indian families. These Christianized Indian mixed bloods were both favored with tribal administrative positions by the United States and taught to see themselves as superior to their darker, native speaking relatives with whom they no longer shared traditional customs and religion. But now they were responsible to care for these hapless Indians they despised, their ‘heathen’ Blackfeet speaking cousins. When the Department of Interior took over from the Department of War, these same mixed bloods largely moved over to the new Indian Affairs office at Interior, and in tandem with the new Royals in the tribal administrations, the Tribal Councils created by the Indian Reorganization Act of 1934, they refined the theft of their own people’s wealth to an art.

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Today it is an entitlement, this theft that has sustained certain families or Cabals within the tribes and the Bureau of Indian Affairs for generations. That’s right, an entitlement. Because the idea unchristianized Indians were unworthy was taught, instilled and sustained by the USA for generations in the new Indian Royalty created in the families that have historically controlled the tribes affairs: this has become a part of tribal culture. The devil in the argument before the court is that neither side will dare tell the truth. But the truth is, it is the old criminal cabal at the tribal local administrative level that is winning. The tribal councils long time partner in crime, Interior, will never be able to admit that it fostered the environment for its own new Royal employees at Indian Affairs to steal the wealth of the Native Nations in tandem with the new Royals that have historically controlled the tribal councils and shared the stolen wealth. The ultimate irony is the cynical genius in the suit brought by Cobell- and her own past relationship and closeness to the Royals in her own Blackfeet tribe bears investigation. This is a tribe that has one of the worst Human Rights records in all the Americas when it comes to theft and lack of accountability of tribal wealth while keeping its own people forcibly locked in the deepest poverty.. despite this tribes considerable resources. If Cobell, who bears the family name of the army scout Cobell that riding together with Joe Kipp, lifted his rifle and shot Chief Heavy Runner dead at the 1870 massacre of the Blackfeet on the Marias River, were to win this case relating to not only tribes accounts, but especially individual tribal member accounts and there is restitution or payout, then one (among several) of the most corrupt administrative organizations ever to exist in the western hemisphere will stand to be monetarily reinvigorated for many years, in this case the prime example given: the Blackfeet Tribal Headquarters/Bureau of Indian Affairs administrative complex at Browning Montana. Now the missing billions will be in a position to be stolen twice. Shouldn’t the head of Interior really be asking the plaintiff Cobell “Et tu Brute?” It is the only sensible question that could come before the court. Perhaps Cobell’s former position as a finance officer of the Blackfeet tribe is a circumstance of heat that was a little too close for comfort and is what caused Chief Earl Old Person to get cold feet and disappear from this suit. Earl in fact vanished from view in this case precisely at the time he was due to give a sworn deposition and produce documents. Cobell wanted him out and asked for his removal, Interior wanted him in and fought his removal. Earl remained missing for months. What could be the real reason why? Earl wants Interior to keep jurisdiction over the monies. If the Department of Interior had to give up the trust fund to an independent trustee, then chances are much greater that any historic and present ongoing systematic thefts of these monies would come to light. These many billions of missing dollars will never be found. The most frustrated Federal Judge in North America, Royce Lamberth, presiding for years over the case trying to account for these monies, should offer an amnesty to BIA employees, just so the Indian

164 Nations and the American People can understand the money has vanished, that the United States created Indian Royal Class has stolen and spent it, these monies can never be recovered. And then the United States Interior Secretary Gail Norton can quit lying to Judge Lamberth about the disposition of the plundered Indians treasury. Then Judge Lamberth could quit repeatedly holding successive Department of Interior heads in contempt of court for failing to provide a lawful accounting that in fact cannot exist. Subsequently the Congress could let Norton’s Bureau of Indian Affairs finish the job of shredding the incriminating documents. The truth would be too terrible to behold. And at least one nonsensical fight will have ended. Unlike the angry AIM, people who can become Indian again, these Royals can never see home. They dare not look inside and go home. They have murdered by theft, through poverty, starvation and opportunity lost, entire generations of their own Peoples. They can never be Indians again.

165 Penucquem Speaks Name Your Sons Barabbas, The Lecture, Penucquem PhD., Presenter I have often wondered what it would be like to hear one of the old medicine men give an analytical speech concerning his honest observations of the Whiteman and the Whiteman’s world, as if a tribe had a Department of Anthropology equivilent to Columbia University and Margaret Meade. Meet Penucquem, who does what a Whiteman cannot: That is, Penucquem describes Whiteman behaviors without social stricture. Penucquem is unafraid of looking at the Christian Civilization’s hypocrisies, the things the Whiteman dare not look at in himself. The result is perhaps dangerously offensive. Somehow that seems appropriate to me in today’s American culture that places a premium on entertainment for shock value. But the point of Penucquem’s observations is not so much shock for entertainment value, although Penucquem may accomplish that for some readers, rather the purpose of Penucquem is to cause a look at foolish behaviors the Whiteman might otherwise never see in himself and suggest change. Penucquem’s view of his Anglo contemporaries in the academic world is a little simplistic. He sees the White scholars as all being ‘Renaissance men’ in the sense that they know a lot of information, but not very much valuable or useful information. Why is it so difficult for these people to see what is really important? This is what Penucquem most often wonders about. Beyond this, Penucquem has little sympathy for people who lie to themselves about their motives; the evangelical American Whiteman. These people who placate their fears with institutionalized lies, rather than facing those fears and knowing the reality of the source of those fears, are especially ‘savaged’ (I like the pun) by Penucquem. Penucquem would see Pat Robertson and Ralph Reed as biological father and son Chimpanzees who do not possess the awareness to comprehend the organic facts of natural relationships, in short, these men would deny sexual activity can result in paternity. Well, why not? It is about as valid an idea as is their idea of Creationism. So what if the Evangelical Whiteman discovers what Indians have known since the beginning of time.. that all life is intelligent. True to form the evangelical Whiteman deceives himself about the truth of that phenomena.. and subjects it to his fantasy six days of literal creation. No metaphors allowed here! So his creationism conforms to his idea that his god is better than anyone else’s god. But Indians know better. Indians know everything is created from the same dream. The gods dream us. That is why all life is intelligent, the same. The Penucquem lecture has its beginnings in my first winter at Starr School, when a neighbor, Tiny Man Yellow Kidney, asked me to intervene with a Jehovah’s Witness that would not leave him alone. As Tiny Man had explained to me „I don’t have the knowledge to refute this guy and he won’t give up.“ I was politely waiting on this man at Tiny Man’s house with my Bible College background, when the missionary arrived with his teenage son. After about an hour or two of theological discussions, this missionary man was leaving and made the emphatic and sincere seeming remark that he was „Going

166 off to kill himself“ and with me walking after him saying „No, don’t do that, just because you were lied to by freaked out people.“ He was REALLY freaked out. After this, I made the missionaries and evangelicals in Indian Country my prey, I hunted them with historical facts, Biblical contradictions, theological logic bombs and worse. Their tactics were unfair. So I lowered myself to unfair tactics too. Sometimes I was bored. It was something to do. Sometimes it appeared to really hurt these people, but the old folk wisdom „Truth Hurts“ has its place too. But Penucquem is much more than just me stalking Evangelicals in Indian Country. Penucquem is also a composite character of several Indians I have known whose honest observations concerning Christianity are well worth bringing out in this book. Some of these people had no use for Christians at all, others wondered how the Whiteman could get their own holy teacher, Jesus, ideas so wrong. Others, observing evangelical Whiteman behaviors, just said “I don’t get it.” All have contributed to Penucquem. And so the stories that follow concerning Indian interactions with Christian civilization, excepting the elements of satirical (but rooted in fact) history of the Whiteman’s church and the elements of western social psychology, which I have provided, these stories of modern Evangelical Whiteman behaviors as experienced by Indians, and the stories of Napi’s Lunch and the Indian guide Happy, are either true, rooted in contemporary Indian folk wisdom or are my own, or my take on the actual thinking of Indians I have known: their honest observations concerning the Whiteman. Penucquem, being only concerned with the “subjective study of the Whiteman” perhaps is more likely to be accurate in his observations than the anthropologists that study Indian peoples, these many failed anthropologists who lie to themselves in the sense that they believe they are objective. At least Penucquem does not deceive himself in that regard. Penucquem is a ruthless anti evangelical satire. But this is written for Indians too- those Indians perhaps interested in knowing the foibles in the history of the Christian Church. So Penucquem debunks the myths of Evangelical Christianity with elements of historical fact. Relating to this last, Penucquem backs up his theological assertions with solid references. His presentation is naked and ruthlessly honest. Consider that Penucquem’s investigations could turn up scholarship demonstrating Jesus name was hijacked by a Greek pagan based beliefs system that survives today in certain mainstream Evangelical Christian sects as demonstrated in the solid research by scholars of the Jesus Seminar: “Words borrowed from.. the Greek scriptures are often put on the lips of Jesus.”… “For [the Apostle] Paul, the Christ was to be understood as a dying/rising lord, symbolized in baptism (buried with him, raised with him), of the type he knew from the Hellenistic [Greek] mystery religions. In Paul’s theological scheme, Jesus the man played no essential role.” Penucquem calls his lecture “Name your Sons Barabbas.” This is to suggest Indians can escape the Evangelical Christian’s crucifixion of Indian beliefs. It could just as easily have been called “Indians Rescue Jesus From the Christians.”

167 Penucquem’s Lecture Anthropomorphic: ‘The Whiteman’s idea that anything which is not Male, White, Anglo, Christian and Evangelical is lesser than himself as the only valid expression of reality.’ Also see ‘Whitewash & White lie.’ From Penucquem’s ‘A Little Indian Dictionary.’ ‘Name Your Sons Barabbas, the Lecture’, Penucquem PhD., Badger River Indian University, Department of Anthropology, visiting scholar emeritus, and leading expert on the subjective study of the Whiteman Penucquem begins: “Ladies, Gentlemen, welcome to today’s presentation.. “There was a Whiteman that hired an Indian guide to take him through the Rocky Mountains. This Whiteman was from New York City and he had taken the train as far as the Rocky Mountain Front, but that was as far as the tracks went, in those days. He had a stereotypical idea of Indians, he did not bring food for the journey beyond that point, the Indian guide he would hire would also hunt for him, that was the Whiteman’s thinking. It would be about five days journey to where the Whiteman would pick up his peoples settlements again, and he could go on from there without his guide. Most of the Indian guides the Whiteman approached did not like the fact that the Whiteman was not prepared for the journey, and he was having a hard time finding anyone to guide his trip. But he approached one of our special people, one of the Indians we always look out for, because hanging out with one of these ‘special’ ones, we know that anything can happen. But the Whiteman did not know he had hired one of these ‘special’ people. Sort of like the Whiteman saying, ‘All Chinamen look alike’, he could not tell the difference between a sane Indian and this savant idiot. So the Whiteman hired his Indian guide, Happy, and they set out together to cross the mountains without any food. And without weapons or blankets. The Whiteman did not mind, he had read nearly all of the dime novels about the western tribes and he was confident that his Indian guide, Happy, could bring him through anything. Meanwhile, what he did not realize, was what it meant to Happy to be an Indian. Happy was used to privation. He had more often than not slept out of doors with only his light jacket to keep warm, and was no stranger to going for a week at a time without a proper meal. This was the early reservation days. The second day into the trek, the Whiteman was already becoming faint from hunger, Happy had not yet fashioned a bow and arrow, and the Whiteman began to worry. But Happy jovially reassured him about every concern expressed, Happy would make the bow and arrow, Happy would hunt, they would eat, they would have nice tanned hides for blankets so it would not be as cold that night, but in the meanwhile, they just kept walking, the Whiteman had to keep up, because Happy never stopped walking, and the Whiteman did not know where he was. Towards the end of the third day, the Whiteman was both desperate and beginning to get an inkling that Happy did not discern between wishful thinking and reality. He desperately wished Happy would make the bow and hunt, but reality was setting in however, and reality was, Happy did not know how. Happy only knew how to go hungry and keep walking and be Happy. On the morning of the fourth day, the Whiteman began to cry when the perfectly happy Happy got up and started walking. He had no choice but to get up and follow. But now Happy was a little bit hungry himself. So Happy watched

168 as he walked that day. Towards dusk, Happy suddenly grabbed up a stone and threw it into a tree, knocking a large Blue Grouse from its perch. Pouncing very quickly, Happy had the big wild chicken by its neck. He was beaming. Happy then stated, “I have a chicken for my dinner.” The Whiteman had other plans for the chicken. First he tried reason, he suggested Happy should share, but no, Happy could reason too, this was Happy’s chicken, the forest was full of chickens and the Whiteman could get his own. The Whiteman knew he was too weak to take the chicken from Happy, so he resorted to guile. He knew from the dime novels that these people were big on dreams. He made a proposal to Happy. Tonight they would dream for the chicken. The most powerful dream would win. By now, the Whiteman had finally, truly realized that Happy was a simpleton. He would have no trouble making up the winning dream. And Happy accepted the challenge. They went to sleep. In the morning, the Whiteman sat up and announced his dream. He had gone back to New York City. Arriving at the Gentlemen’s Club for dinner, there was a raffle for a Blue Grouse from the Rocky Mountains and he had won. The Mayor himself drew the winning ticket from the hat. The large wild chicken was served with pate’, salad and croutons. He magnanimously saved 1/2 the chicken to bring back to his Indian friend Happy. Looking at Happy, who suddenly, for the first time, was not looking happy, but was briefly showing genuine remorse, the Whiteman asked “What did you dream?” Happy said “When I saw you leave in your dream, I followed, to see what you would do. When you arrived at the Gentleman’s Club, I tried to go in for dinner too, but they stopped me at the door. “No Indians allowed.” So I returned here, to eat the chicken, but I forgot to save you some.” The Whiteman carved his initials on a rock near that dream place: “J.S. Died Here July 14 1884.” Happy had kept walking. You can see from this story that the Whiteman easily gets himself into real trouble. In today’s lecture we will have a hard look at why. Let’s begin with a look at how ‘Christian Civilization’ has factually and historically murdered its way to the top of the food chain by putting its enemies to the sword. We, as Indian peoples, have irrefutable evidence of that. Now ‘enemies’ is used here in the broadest social sense of the word, as is the term murder. ‘Character assassination of a political enemy’ is an idea that shows the Whiteman societies true colors through the use of language. That idea alone shows to what extent his cultures mores are permeated with the notion that to kill our fellow Human’s idea is acceptable. Now when you can gather all of a society on one side of the table, a society that has developed the firepower that the Whiteman society has, and you collectively consider that another society’s ideas are inferior, it becomes acceptable to kill that society. That is ‘How the West was Won.’ Go rent the movie if need be. Duncan Standing Rock, a Ojibwa from Rocky Boy’s Indian Reservation, heir to Rocky Boy’s chieftaincy has stated to me, “Before the missionaries came, we were really Christian in our attitudes and the way we lived. It was only after that time that we became selfish as people.” Now that was an interesting remark.

169 What Duncan was getting at, is how our Indian peoples practiced charity as a priority of life. Our people literally lived the teaching of the ‘Good Samaritan.’ They cared for the unfortunate, the orphans and the dispossessed of family as a matter of tribal law. The more wealthy you became, the greater your responsibility to care for those in need. And you did not, you could not acquire wealth exceeding the limits of practical life. That all went out the window with the arrival of Christian Civilization and its attending philosophies of ‘Caveat Emptor’ and ‘Laissez-Faire’, which taken together, and riding the steed of ‘Manifest Destiny’, were responsible for untold numbers of dead Indian people. Subsequent to this, the White people aspired for the conquered Indian peoples to become ‘civilized’, and in order for that to happen, the Indians would be required to adopt White ways and be instilled with White values, the ideas that led to the behaviors that destroyed our Indian civilization. This event has left a lot of our people scratching their heads and wondering what anything they have experienced at the Whiteman’s hands has to do with the Christian principle of ‘Charity.’ Well, there is likely to be an Whiteman or two taking this in [there is a sprinkling of Whites in the lecture hall, together with a handful of Half Breeds], and considering that, I will try and explain what has happened in terms we all can understand. A long time ago, across the Great Water, there were an incredibly aggressive people called the Romans. These were real Whitemen. They treated their surrounding tribes very much like the Americans have treated Indian peoples, conquor and assilimate. You can still see the effect of this history in the ‘Romance’ languages. Well, in those long ago times there was a Tribal Council in a land called Palestine, that Tribal Council was called the Sanhedrin, the Tribal Council Chairman was Caiaphas, and they had a powerless traditional chief named Herod. As is typical, the real power was in the Indian Agent, Pontius Pilate. There was a group very much like AIM stirring up trouble for the Roman conquerors of that tribe, in those days. Everything was uptight. Then it happened that there was a visionary from the common people, he was someone like the old time Indian Peace Shield priests, his name was Jesus, and he started making sense with the things he was saying. This Jesus fellow really upset the Tribal Council, especially because he taught common sense about things like the proper use of tribal funds, for instance taking care of the poor people. So the Tribal Council decided to get rid of him. They got the Indian Agent’s permission and took care of it. They killed him. But it was too late to get rid of Jesus ideas. But his ideas did not work for these Roman White people in power. So they had to find a way around these ideas. As luck would have it, there was a really angry man, a small and twisted man, he was an assimilated tribesman. His name was Paul. He had the Whiteman’s membership card, and his first language was Greek, so you can see he was culturally a Whiteman, with Roman citizenship. But like angry people everywhere, he could not see straight. And a lot of people didn’t like Paul, especially the brothers of Jesus. Paul was, like many angry, unstable people, obsessive/compulsive. After he had killed lots of Jesus friends while trying to impress the Tribal Council, but it didn’t get him anywhere, he started to feel bad. Paul felt sorry for himself. Paul suffered the ‘Snakes’,

170 he was very unstable, and in his ongoing psychosis he saw some things, he saw the Angel of Light. He had the idea to visit with Jesus brothers and switch sides, but they wanted nothing to do with him, imagine that. So Paul headed off, back to his own people, the Greeks, and told them he knew all about their ‘Unknown God’ but Paul really he didn’t know anything except his psychosis. He claimed to be the expert about what he could not know, what nobody could know, the unknown. So Paul taught all about these things he knew nothing about and so you can see that it could easily happen that an obsessed man, Paul was actually a Madman, could imagine all sorts of things about Jesus, whom he was never taught by, had never met or knew personally, and call Jesus the Unknown God of the Greeks. So Paul imagined up all sorts of things about the Jesus who never had taught him, and Paul then wrote these fantasies down. Now it happened that a little later on, the Great White Father of that civilization, his name was Emperor Constantine, decided to control the ideas that Jesus had actually taught. So Constantine set up these political appointments and called them Bishops. They were sort of like Cultural Negotiators or Republican Party Bosses. They decided (at a meeting called the council of Nicaea, in a way that absolutely had to please this Great White Father) what was to be put into the ‘Roman Emperor Constantine’s Official Book about Jesus Ideas’ (Whiteman, Blackbook.) That included a little bit by Jesus (edited by the Bishops to please the Emperor, that was their job) stated over and over again, to make it look like the little bit by Jesus was whole lot, and to that little bit they added a bunch of stuff by the certain madman Paul. And when it was pointed out that Paul’s big contribution to the book oftentimes contradicted Jesus little contribution to the book, Constantine made it clear by example, that unpleasant things, such as only an Emperor could order to happen, would happen, to anyone who had the audacity to ever point that out again. And then Constantine decreed the study of Paul, because only Paul really needed to be studied. That way people would not pay too much mind to the little contribution by Jesus, this was the information which made Constantine uncomfortable. After this, this Constantine put the whole business under the ‘Ministry of Information about Jesus Ideas’, and he named the boss of that new department the Pope. The Pope’s job was to make sure that nobody pointed out the contradictions between Jesus and Paul, especially the Arian people who listened to Jesus and ignored Paul. The Pope ordered these Arians slaughtered the Cheyenne were slaughtered at Sand Creek by the Christian Minister Colonel Chivington. Since then, nobody has much dared point out those contradictions. So there are no contradictions in the Whiteman’s Blackbook (Bible) and consequently, are no contradictions between the Christian belief of the American Whiteman and the way he has treated the Indians. At least that is the Whiteman’s view. But the real Jesus, the healer, was a good guy and he likely would have had nothing to do with this whole political mess, except to ignore it, or go against it all. Jesus was a lot like our old way Indians. Obviously Jesus was a great Medicine Man. And like our old way

171 Indians, Jesus welcomed anyone whose intentions were good, regardless of Race, and he had actually taught his students in secret so the great medicine ways would not be abused. And when you consider that, remember that Paul never met Jesus and was never able to get close to any of these original followers of Jesus except for possibly Peter, and Peter was the one who always made mistakes and could never get anything right. And it was the Ministry of Information about Jesus Ideas which put the words in Jesus mouth stating that this guy who always screwed up and that Jesus was always chewing out, Peter, was the founder of Constantine’s church. The real Jesus, when he addressed his people, gave speeches like the old Chiefs did, he used parables and figures of speech, so every one in his tribe, those that had their folk traditions and tribal knowledge, would understand what he was saying. Now Jesus’ tribe of people are not really much different than people anywhere, they have lots of good common people, some good people in the higher class, and plenty of snobs and arrogant power brokers to run the show. It is important to remember that the Sanhedrin, their tribal council, was a puppet government controlled by the Romans, complete with an Indian Agent, Pilate, to keep an eye on things. The Hebrew tribesmen were not the ones who killed off Jesus and his ideas. But these Roman puppets, the Sanhedrin, did have one idea that was not only theirs, but it is an idea of arrogant people everywhere in the world, and this bad idea is that their god is the only real god and that everybody else’s god is a false god. Now how could anybody know that? Jesus did not seem to think that was such a great idea.. at least when you consider what he taught and how he lived his life. Jesus was tolerant. He helped out a Roman soldier. He was good to, and had kind things to say about the Half Breeds (Samaritans.) He told his tribesmen not to judge people, not to throw stones. But for all of his efforts, the bad idea has prevailed much to the harm not only of Jesus tribesmen, but people everywhere. Paul had taken this really bad idea and run with it to new lengths with his imagined up great authority on the Greek’s Unknown God, which by definition could not be known, and his imaginations of Jesus, a man whom he knew nothing about and was never close to. And because of Constantine adopting this fellow Roman’s ideas, Paul fooled everybody in a large part of the world into thinking they were Jesus tribesmen (New Jews) and had them follow the intolerant my god is better than your god idea, and from there the intolerance of that bad idea has spread worldwide. Today’s followers of Paul throw lot’s of stones, just like Paul did to the real followers of Jesus when he was attempting to ingratiate himself with the Sanhedrin, the tribal council of his time. So whose example is the religious right following when they stone the woman that does not want a pregnancy? Is it Paul’s class of people and example, the stoners of Jesus followers, the same people who were prepared to stone the adulterous woman, or can they find some twisted logic to claim it is Jesus example they are following: the same Jesus who clearly impressed them not to throw the stones?

172 The point to consider is whether or not the so called Catholic and Evangelical Christian people largely follow the examples of Jesus. They throw a lot of stones, the modus of Paul, the modus Jesus had preached against, so, largely they do not. Our Indian peoples everywhere recognized Jesus as the same enlightened being that they already knew as the Morning Star that had taught them. That was easy. Jesus spoke of the Creator, his father, as an unfathomable mystery in precisely the terms that we as Indians know our Creation- as described in our term ‘The Great Mystery.’ Also Jesus’ social values were the same as the values of our Indian peoples, tolerance, generosity and kindness, and the only people who could not see it were the conquoring Whites. But it makes sense, what Jesus actually taught, and as Indians, we all know what the Evangelical Whiteman never has, we understand that you don’t have to be nature trashing bigots and destroyers of other peoples cultures and beliefs to be believers in Jesus. Holding sway and dominion over the earth indeed can be a euphemism for rape and pillage in the name of god and economic development, but it is not a necessary belief. This is demonstrated by Jesus teachings of tolerance and of discreet prayer and fasting in the isolation of nature which have precisely met the Indian model. Paul’s teaching on prayer as organizing chaos in public with phony languages, gibberish that falsely represent the real languages of the Pentecost (because Paul could not present reality to his students) and Paul’s intolerance for others methods, goes in the opposite direction of every fact we know about Jesus teachings and Jesus’ true students, these same followers of Jesus which Paul had complained about refusing to have anything to do with him. Paul penned the phrases “the Devil masquerades as the Angel of Light” and “Satan is the Father of all lies.” Did Paul give himself away here? After all, Paul did meet the “Angel of Light on the road to Damascus.” Is this the ‘Devil’s Masquerade’ Paul speaks of? Who did Paul meet on the Road to Damascus? It is more than just open to question. The facts are empirical. After Jesus and Judas were no longer with them, the surviving associates of Jesus met and anointed another, Barnabas, not Paul, to fill the vacancy in what was now the circle of twelve, no longer thirteen. And Paul’s narcissistic imaginations of a relationship with Jesus have historically betrayed the real Jesus. Except possibly for Peter, who had always made mistakes, the one that could never get things right, persistently frustrating Jesus, making Jesus angry, the other personally anointed followers of Jesus, to a man, refused to meet with Paul. Some brave Whiteman scholars/researchers that have no Constantine (or Evangelical masters) to crucify them, have the following to say about Paul.. in the book by Robert W. Funk, Roy W. Hoover and the Jesus Seminar. The Five Gospels: The Search for the Authentic Words of Jesus. New York: MacMillan Publishing Company, 1993. “For Paul, the Christ was to be understood as a dying/rising lord, symbolized in baptism (buried with him, raised with him), of the type he knew from the hellenistic [Greek] mystery religions. In Paul’s theological scheme, Jesus the man played no essential role.”

173 This is because Paul never knew the historic Jesus and did not have any real first hand information about what it was Jesus actually taught. Paul’s imagined Christ has nothing to do with the real Jesus. What else do these brave men have to say as put forward in The Five Gospels: The Search for the Authentic Words of Jesus. “Eighty-two percent of the words ascribed to Jesus in the gospels were not actually spoken by him, according to the Jesus Seminar.” Page 5 “The church appears to smother the historical Jesus by superimposing this heavenly figure on him in the creed: Jesus is displaced by the Christ, as the so-called Apostle’s Creed makes evident.” Page 7 “The first step is to understand the diminished role the Gospel of John plays in the search for the Jesus of history. The two pictures painted by John and the synoptic [Matthew, Mark, Luke] gospels cannot both be historically accurate.” Page 10 “The Fellows of the Seminar were unable to find a single saying [in John] they could with certainty trace back to the historical Jesus.” Page 10 “The words attributed to Jesus in the Fourth Gospel.. ..are the creation of the evangelist for the most part..” Page 10 “Words borrowed from the fund of common lore or the Greek scriptures are often put on the lips of Jesus.” Page 22 “The evangelists frequently attribute their own statements to Jesus.” Page 23 “We know that the evangelists not infrequently ascribed Christian words to Jesus-they made him talk like a Christian, when, in fact, he was only the precursor of the movement that was to take him as its cultic hero.” Page 29 “Jesus rarely makes pronouncements or speaks about himself in the first person. Jesus makes no claim to be the Anointed, the messiah.” Page 32 “Jesus taught that the last will be first and the first will be last. He admonished his followers to be servants of everyone. He urged humility as the cardinal virtue by both word and example. Given these terms, it is difficult to imagine Jesus making claims for himself-I am the son of God, I am the expected One, the Anointed-unless, of course, he thought that nothing he said applied to himself.” Page 33 So now we can see that the Historical Jesus and the Evangelical Paul’s ‘Christ’ are not the same thing. Paul’s Evangelical Christians are not followers of Jesus teachings, they stole Jesus name for their imaginary cult hero and worship his murder through ritual cannibalism, calling this borrowed and then perverted Greek pagan rite ‘communion.’

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Do you suppose Jesus actually taught his followers to eat him, to drink his blood after he died? That makes no sense at all, to be cursed, held responsible for his murder, an evil pagan sorcery of power acquisition. The enlightened one certainly never said to do that. But this is easily the idea of madman that imagines a Romanized Greek unknown god. And consider the Historical Jesus’ sacred name, Morning Star, Paul’s Evangelicals changed it to Lucifer, the Roman translation of Morning Star, and now they have declared the Morning Star evil. So now the Morning Star that is the enlightened one to peoples around the world, our Morning Star, is considered to be evil by these perverted followers of a Romanized and reinvented Greek Pagan god. What sort of people did Jesus associate with in his personal life other than his disciples, what sort of people did he have over for dinner? Why would Jesus friends and associates be called thieves and worse by Paul’s evangelical followers, the authors of the Whiteman’s Black Book? Why would they call Jesus’ Mary a whore? And what of Jesus’ title of “Rabbi.” To be called “Rabbi” at the time of Jesus by his tribesmen, you would have had to be married with children. So how has Paul through his minions, disposed of Jesus wife for history’s sake? Paul was a small and ugly man devolved upon by a Greek culture that accepted homosexuality openly, but his Pharisee class did not. That Paul was severely conflicted in his relations with women cannot be denied. Now reduced to ‘Glorified Ribs’ (recall that Eve was constructed from Adam’s rib) in the service of man as babymaking machines, women cannot be allowed by the evangelicals to be highly educated and aware Human Beings that explore their world and even their own sexuality on their own terms. So Jesus likely wife, Mary Magdalene, the woman he kissed passionately (Nag Hamadi Coptic texts) is reduced by Paul’s and Constantine’s bishops/authors to a whore. And woman, blamed for the fall of the Evangelical American Whiteman from his god’s grace with the ugly myth that she picked the forbidden fruit and caused all evil, must be punished with with a culturally pervasive, abhorrent and violent masculinized gender driven discrimination. Subsequently, throughout Christian Civilization, the women which are the property of the evangelicals, whether Catholic or Protestant, and are taken by their husbands or men at large in a servitude of institutional rape that is masked for appearances sake as “Pro- Life.” And never allowing for women to heal, the evangelicals insist even a rape child of a young girl/woman known through a stranger’s violence must be borne and kept in a punishing sense, reducing woman to an even worse slavery in the torture room that her mind is reduced to. No matter a woman’s poverty, whether physical or emotional, she must bear and keep these children. Women, to the followers of Paul, must never be free. Compare this to our old Indian ways… Women, equal to men, could leave the abuse of disrespectful or ungrateful men without shame or remorse. Young couples that voluntarily showed self restraint in the production of children were the subject of praise from the leadership in the community and men who abused women were shunned, finding themselves without friend, family or home. In an

175 Indian divorce, the woman kept the home and necessary property to raise her younger children, a man took his weapons, clothing and his Buffalo Runner horse from the herd. When parents fought, children possessed the right to find other lodgings of their choice to feel safe and homes were opened to them. When a man brought disrespect upon women in our nations, and recall that women are the keepers of our nations and it was women who established our relationships with all that is holy, women could and did require that matters were brought into line, ensuring our demeanors as Peoples were kept in a clean state. Our women could be chiefs, even warriors. And without the women’s consent and participation, our most sacred ceremonies could not be held. Compare this to the evangelical woman. Under Paul’s instruction she is only to be obedient to her man, she must yeild her mind and her body completely to his will. Her glory, her hair, is a shame to be uncovered in the place of evangelical ceremony, only a man may uncover his hair in the presence of the evangelical god. Because these people shun association with peoples who do not believe as they do, these women are sequestered in a culture of fear knowing little of surrounding reality and their children are ill prepared to meet the realities of the other peoples they in fact share this world with. These are the people that drive their children into the darkest side of Paul’s christ, because they are not allowed to think for themselves, and because they know no other road to rebellion, having been sheltered from all reality, these children devolve to Goth, falling to Paul’s devil, they even become satanic. To truly live, to be free, you cannot know this fear as your bed partner with all of its histrionics and paranoid fantasies such as the Evangelical Christian Whiteman instills in his women and children, these paranoias of Paul, Paul’s fears, his antipathy to women. The authentic enlightened one, whether in the Native American form of the Morning Star, whether the Jesus of the Jews (not the ‘New Jews’ of Paul, these Luciferian Liars), or for that matter, the Buddha (with whom the tolerant historical, or human Jesus, “Jesus the Man” would have got on famously with), this authentic enlightened one did not ever teach everything has to die before there can be life. And we should not cannibalize the enlightened one to be cursed with his death and a lying promise of a future life, just look at the Whiteman’s lies to us for 500 years. We must be allowed to live and live now. On account of this, it continues to be appropriate for us to tell our small Indian children not to wander far from the house onto the prairie or into the forest, “Because the Whiteman will make you into stew.” We are not the ones who kill and eat the enlightened one, the one who loved the little children, we don’t know these behaviors and additudes towards life, that is something only the Evangelical Whiteman does. And we did not change the meaning of the enlightened one’s name, declaring it evil, making the Morning Star the subject of stories of fear and loathing, another thing the Evangelical has done. Focus on fear and everything dies. Do that and you can only pretend that there will be a life. Focus on living and you are gifted with a life now. Beyond this life, it is all a great mystery, the same mystery we refer to as Creation, the same mystery referred to by Jesus

176 as his “Mysterious Father.” And there is nothing to be done about this mystery except to understand it is a mystery. It is what it is. Our Great Mystery is not an evangelical fear mongering cannilbalistic Greek pagan cult that locks people into catastrophic darkness. We as Indian peoples, are an open minded people whose traditional leadership is gifted, intelligent, and knowing life as an exquisite mystery that precludes fear. Through our approach we have the ability to unlock so much more knowledge, introspective and innate information about us as humanity, more so than the Whiteman ever could, except through his demeaned terms of fantasy and legend. These things we Indian Peoples know are the gifts of enlightenment, the gift of the great mystery, the gifts employed by Jesus and likewise our medicine men. The Christians call it witchcraft and put these gifts to death along with our people who utilize them. Is this the tolerance of the Historical Jesus? No. It is the madness of Paul. A better name for the Blackbook of the Whiteman would be the ‘Book of the Fruit of the Knowledge of Good and of Evil.” A better name for typical evangelicals encountered by the Indians would be ‘Saulists’, or ‘The Stoners of all Peoples who have the Audacity to see in Straightforward Terms, Inclusive of Christians’, or the SPASTICs, acknowledging their real teacher is not Jesus, but Paul. So how do we see this play out in Indian country? A Gros Ventres Indian, Matt, related to me an event that had occurred, concerning a meeting with his brother. They had not visited for a long time. In our typical Indian fashion, they set off on a drive around the reservation back roads, to reminisce. Matt told his brother of how his life had dramatically changed, he was no longer trapped in the aimless existence of reservation life that requires one to abandon home to work, or live among ones own people, jobless and despairing. Matt had discovered the Sundance and the Sweat Lodge, was learning to pray, and had never felt better in his entire life. There was hope and light. As Matt related his story, his brother was very quiet. When Matt finished, nothing was said for a long time. Finally Matt’s brother said “I really pity you, because you are going to go to Hell.” Matt’s brother had fallen prey to the evangelicals that keep a presence on our reservations. Matt was devastated. The visit abruptly ended, he drove his brother home and dropped him off. In the end, he chose the Sweat and Sundance over his evangelical brother, a follower of Paul, and consistent with Jesus teaching “Leave the dead to bury their dead”, Matt stayed the course with his Indian ways. There was nothing could be done to change the circumstance between Matt and his brother in Gros Ventres country, but a friend of Matt’s, Ron, had heard the story and was bothered by it. Ultimately, that story inspired Ron to undo some of the evangelicals’ dirty work closer to his Blackfeet home. Another of Ron’s friends, Pat Kennedy, was a medicine man there, so Pat’s family was a prime target of the evangelicals. Pat’s wife, Grace, was prevailed upon by the local preacher to bring their grandkids to Sunday school. She was conflicted about it, but felt compelled to be a good citizen and neighbor, tolerant of others views, and brought the kids to the same Sunday school in the Starr School Indian village where this minister was preaching against our Indian religion as Devil worship. Everyone knew what was going on except for the kids. These little kids came home sad. Jesus had been nailed to the cross. Ron decided “Well, that is nearly enough of that.” Little kids like and trust Ron, and during the intervening week, at every

177 discreet opportunity, Ron carefully instructed the smaller and more innocent children to make a Bible verse chant in unison, not to tell anyone, it was to be special for the preacher at the next Sunday School. And on the next Sunday, the children chanted together for the preacher: “The Bible says you will know the truth from the mouths of babes, you son of a bitch.” From that day on, the kids only went to Indian ceremony. Consider this true story of an early Blackfeet encounter with the Evangelical Whiteman, as told to me by our Oral Historian, Floyd Heavy Runner. „When the pre-Christian Blackfeet first met the “Birds of Death” (the historic Indian name for priests of the Catholic cult that were accompanied by measles and small pox everywhere they went) near the Rocky Mountain Front, outside the present day Fairfield, Montana, our people were treated to a hand (sign) language telling of their story of Jesus. As the story progressed, our peope wondered: Could this be the story of our god Poia (Scarface?) The Blackfeet paid close attention. When it came time in the Jesuits’ narration to tell of the murder of this enlightened Jesus being, and how they ever after ate Jesus body, and drank Jesus blood, our Blackfeet people were so horrified that they seized these three priests, and throwing them from the nearest cliff, we left, horribly grossed out, deeply disturbed by what had just been narrated to us.” In our relations with the Evangelical Whiteman, bearing this story in mind, the bottom line to consider as concerns his deviant, nature devoid ego, is his fear based obsession with the post mortem journey and his subsequent fascination with all things dead. This kind of Whiteman does not have to understand why anything is alive, or the relationships of living things, one to another, because all is already explained for him in his Blackbook of the god of fear.. and that is why, in the Evangelical Whiteman’s mind, everything is either already dead, or is going to be dead anyway. Everything must die first, before there can be life. That is an oxymoron, and we all know an oxymoron cannot be. So something has to give, and in the case of the Evangelical Whiteman’s culture, what gives is life. In fact, life gives completely out. Does the Evangelical Whiteman pray through the life he takes? Only when he ritually devours the enlightened being, his weekly communion, the Whiteman’s habit of repeatedly cannibalizing Jesus. Consequently, the Evangelical Whiteman, who eats his own murdered god, could care less about a life other than his own, self centered temporal life. The Evangelical Whiteman’s civilization could care less about a culture other than its own. This brand of Whiteman is so calloused to life and taking life, he even invents machines to kill and slaughter, impersonally, whether for his wars he makes, or the creatures he eats. So the Evangelical Whiteman consumes and defecates everything in his path, and builds brilliantly constructed weapons of mass destruction, for the mass destruction of life, whether for people, animals, or nature in general. One only has to look at what happened to Indian cultures at this sort of Whiteman’s hand and consider the fate of the natural balance and inter relationships of life these Indians had enjoyed, to demonstrate this point. Here is but little difference to the Fear God’s prophet (Whiteman, Blackbook) walking past a town where the children teased this old

178 man about his bald head, and this same Fear God’s prophet cursing these little children, calling two she bears from the forest to maul 42 of them; and this same Whiteman’s so called ‘Great White Father’ referring to our Indian Peoples as his “children” and cursing us with 4.2 million deaths, just because our Indians were in the way of ‘progress.’ What is it the Whiteman is so obsessed about progressing to? The complete “Dominion over the Earth” (Whiteman, Blackbook, first part) and this Whiteman’s subsequent Armageddon war to kill everything off (Whiteman, Blackbook, last part.) Everything must be dead, even the enlightened being, eaten for good measure, then, and only then, will the Evangelical mythology finally allow for the Evangelical Whiteman to live. So this particular Whiteman does not believe he is alive at present, as empirically demonstrated by his own behaviors and beliefs. Therefore by his own definition, the Evangelical Whiteman is a dead thing. In this case, the Blackfeet cannot be held accountable for tossing the Jesuits from a cliff, these three things that were already dead. Yet, the nominally dead Evangelical Whiteman resents any threat of being killed off, other than by his own deeds, taking any threats very personally, and the Evangelical Whiteman does not, as an individual, seem to want to be sent on to where the Evangelical Whiteman beliefs system professes he needs to go- into the arms of his Fear God. This conflicted and complex cult deserves as much study as possible, so that we all might better understand why we all are going to die at the Evangelical Whiteman’s hand, if possible, before we are all finally dead.” So let’s have a look now at the Whiteman’s social and cultural perceptions. Freudian psychology will never really fit our ideas, our ideas about dreams and dreaming are qualitively different and that is appropriate. But in relation to the Whiteman, did Freud get it right? Probably not, but at least Freud broke away from the dark ages Church superstition of condemnation and fire and was able to do so because of the phenomena of the Renaissance. As Indians, we know that culture is not static and there are indications that the historic split in Western Civilization between the Renaissance and the Church can compel change in the culture of the Whiteman as well. Historically Paul’s Church has established and defined itself in the Whiteman’s world by pandering to superstition and fear controlling the lives of the Whiteman’s so called uneducated masses. The contrast between the Renaissance and the Church has never been more stark than it is today. As I speak, the Department Head of the Roman Emperor Constantine’s Ministry of Information About Jesus Ideas, the Pope, is bemoaning the empty cathedrals of Western Europe, where Renaissance Man has his beginnings and long set history: as contrasted with the strength of the Whiteman’s church in the undeveloped and under-educated world where he has conquered entire peoples and subsequently destroyed their knowledge and cultures, supplanting these cultures with this church superstition of fear and loathing. It may be that Freud, a Renaissance Man, actually believed himself correct within the limited scope and context of the culture and time he lived in, he was obviously a

179 courageous man, but his ideas strike me as regressing to something closer to the culture of the Whiteman’s chimp relatives, his anthropological ideas that study these so called ‘primates’ with emphasis on observing sex and dominance. So this was the mistake of the Renaissance Man, when abandoning the Church, he threw out the baby with the bathwater. Instead of being the magnificent learning tool of the Great Mystery it is, the Dream is relegated from control by church superstition to the Whiteman’s unconscious urges of the Id and his subjective studies of his wild relatives. Why didn’t the Whiteman see the dream for what we know it is, a tool of the Great Mystery that points us to the unlocking of knowledge? It is staring them in the face. Their greatest mind, Einstein, was revealed his greatest knowledge through a dream. But not seeing this, the Whiteman instead locks the dream up and goes to look at the Chimp people to wonder about his own life. The Whiteman Anthropologists made a great mistake when they embraced the idea of themselves as a member family of the Great Apes based solely on science of DNA with out considering a possible consequence: That the less intelligent among them would incorporate this idea subconsciously and go forward as the stereotypical monkey. With all of their caricatures of behavior as ridiculous idiot animals, this appears to be what has happened to the Whiteman politician. Let’s examine this misapprehension more closely in light of those few Whitemen scientists that have struggled to get a handle, a bit more of an honest look, on the behaviors of their culture. Paraphrasing Aldous Huxley’s idea that freedom is conditioned on fortunate circumstance whereby when a person has organic genius, a circumstance or opportunity to utilize that genius and the requisite wealth and class to realize its greatest potential (Point, Counter Point), subsequently, according to this idea of Renaissance Man, freedom serves as a rather solid framework to pursue whatever gymnastics one may please. Well, Jane Goodall could have written that about Bonabos. Substitute the primate and the gym, and juxtapose the driver of the Porsche 911 squealing rubber in the mountain roads of Monte Carlo to the rising male chimp that is smart in his troop alliances and blessed with good health and physic, and there is but little difference between the Porsche rubber shrieks of the dominant male Whiteman to the dominant male chimp’s shrieks while he is racing through the forest canopy. But is the Whiteman fated to this perception and lifestyle? Freud could not see it any other way, however, Jung brought the western world to our portal, but he could not open it. Having discovered synchronicity, evidence of the Naaks, our knowledge of the process in mystery, Jung was, in the end, unable to sever himself from Catholicism and honestly face the fear and loathing, the blindness engendered in peoples by Paul. So Jung missed us, our reality. But Huxley, a genuinely fearless man, could have been a Chimp studying Humans. Huxley should get the most credit of these three giants of western psychology for his honest and insightful critical analysis. The point here, Huxley’s point is, that western culture is so self/ego focused and driven that even its scientists are walled in psychologically and limited by the Whiteman cultures ego oriented obsession with

180 subjective analysis, physical technology and the games and wealth it presents, which in western culture has to be considered in light of the 98% of DNA the Whiteman sees himself as sharing with the chimpanzees. After all, the Whiteman has no real problem, collectively, with his governments spending for that bigger, better stick to crunch the skulls of his fellow primates via the purported value of self defense. Remember that 1960’s Purina Dog Chow jingle? “My dog is better than your dog because he has Purina Chow?” Well, considering the great school of Freudian thinkers came up with the term ‘Penis Envy’, it is no great reach to change the jingle to ‘My missile is bigger than your missile because we have Freedom Fries’.. Seriously, could it be that if the Whiteman were not fixated on the ideas surrounding the economic theory of ‘Sustained Growth’ (which is precisely the principle of cancer, and in relation to western civilization it appears to be a spreading cancer of planetary scaleconsidering our worlds ecological health due to this horrible misapprehension of reality), and viewed nature more as a revelation based learning tool, such as our pre-western aboriginal peoples around the planet do, could it be that, indeed, the Whitemen are actually Human Beings endowed with spiritual intelligence, and that intelligence could be applied to learning in the alternative sense to his destructive behaviours? Yes, perhaps, but presently juxtaposed to our nearly extinct hunting and gathering aboriginals of the world, the Whiteman is ‘anti-civilization.’ If indeed, the Whiteman according to his social science defines himself by his behaviors, the Great White Father and his associates should be scrutinized closely and the possibility considered whether or not they are merely acting out highly typical Great Ape psychology by bashing the ‘bad ape’ Saddam, and pursuing that line, whether making the grab for Saddam’s bananas, the oil fields of Iraq, is primarily ape motivation. Now if The Great White Father were to listen to this, I would point out to him that apes fantasize and given that his Whiteman’s science has established his race is genetically Great Apes, he should consider learning to sort out the good ape fantasies from the bad. Peoples who cannot learn from their behaviors and honestly analyze their motivations will not, cannot evolve. So, the Whiteman should consider that, among other things, apes masturbate and perhaps there are some amoung these people that will recall masturbating in a West Texas country boy circle jerk to see who could shoot first, because what, if anything, really sets these Whitemen apart from the rest of us- except acting out on their incredibly stupid ideas? The Great White Father could further consider that Apes sometimes are homosexual, in short, apes share nearly every characteristic of the Whiteman except they lack too much brain matter for their own good. But let’s look at the brains part. If the Whiteman had bigger brains and was really capable of being intelligently concerned with his nations welfare, he would realize, as all Whitemen should realize, the biggest ape, the most dominant ape, ultimately will be challenged. That is the nature of Great Ape social psychology. For the Whiteman great

181 ape, there is only a temporal and limited security in controlling a troop of apes, and a single troop of apes that attempts to dominate the entire habitat is doomed to lose, because eventually that will cause enough of the rest of the ape troops to band together to overthrow the tyrants. What the American foreign policy has lacked, not only under Bush, but especially under Bush, is restraint. That lack of restraint is a Whiteman characteristic. And this American Evangelical ape is a hoarder of bananas, which is oil in the present case of the Whiteman Great Ape genus, Homo Sapiens, and a real problem here is the lack of diversity of diet. Simply put, America controls more banana groves than is socially healthy in relation to the rest of humanity. America cannot be, will not be safe in this world as a superpower. Because the Whiteman ape of the USA is not innately any smarter than any of the rest of the apes of his Homo Sapien genus, and while all of his leaderships attention is focused on controlling the world’s banana groves and repressing the homosexual apes at home that disturb and jostle his own latent but natural tendencies, the dispossessed apes of his world will naturally give their attention to dethroning the dominant apes and making their own banana grab. There is no escaping that. This great banana grab is happening all over the world. So the Whiteman culture not only defines itself, it also creates its reality. That is commonly called a self-fulfilling prophecy. Here the Renaissance man still has not freed his culture from the paranoid fantasies compelling control learned from the Apostle Paul, and the USA’s destiny is controlled by a church deluded fool of the evangelical stripe. So The Great White Father panders to the world the idea an Israeli withdrawal from Gaza is a “Good thing”, all the while having the evangelical clergy of America over for breakfast to plan implementing Armageddon, by in reality supporting fundementalist Judiasm’s starring role as ‘Chucky’ in the ongoing ‘Amnityville Horror’ visitations: in the remake of that movie by the Palestinian people. The Huxley title inspiring this event would be “Eyeless in Gaza.” Because Gaza is all the Jewish fundementalists, together with the American evangelical christian fundementalists intend for a Palestinian state, the Palestinian Indian reservation. And while all the sheep of America blindly stare at Gaza, the West Bank is to become Judea and Israeli hegemony over the Temple Mount in Jerusalem will deliver the Whiteman his Black Book’s Armageddon. But it goes deeper than that. We know that in the natural order of things, the Whiteman and his democracy are an experiment of nature and like many of nature’s experiments, it may be just another failed one. Unless the Renaissance, the Natural Man, and the Whiteman’s Secular Humanism make some adjustment in the Whiteman’s thinking, and can effectively employ the Whiteman’s recent discovery of Reason to expand on looking at things in new ways, Western Civilization is the future Anasazi of the World. This Renaissance Man needs to meet the religious right with the same energy and audacity that The Great White Father of our time employs while hijacking the American ship of state. Whiteman ideologues are commanding change, a rewrite, in American History as I stand before you. The very why of the ‘God’ on the coins themselves are subject to lies in the

182 Whiteman’s media. Renaissance Man saw this God in terms of a metaphor. Benjamin Franklin was everything epitomized in the ‘Natural Man’ and the Renaissance, he resolutely guided the American Independence movement, single-handedly swung the American Revolution to the colonists favor with his endeavors at the Royal Court in France, was considered the greatest scientist of the Age in Western Europe and was nearly everything possibly good a Secular Humanist could be. Franklin was definitely not a god fearing Christian. In fact Franklin was a Deist, nothing more. James Mason, James Madison, Alexander Hamilton, all of these men were men of audacity, and none lived their lives as though they feared god in the evangelical sense. Many of them were Masons, excommunicated by simple association, consider that. But America also represents the emptied jails and asylums of Europe, especially the penal colony of Georgia, the land of the Whitemen called ‚Crackers.’ Considering these madmen and criminals, taken together with the exiled religious fanatics of Europe would be stirred together with hybrid vigor, it should be expected that the result of that mix, the Evangelical American, would become a collective criminally insane personality. The USA is not, and never was, a country founded on a religious right idea of a Christian god. If that were true, there would be no provision for separation of church and state as laid down by the American founders. Renaissance Man! Call the religious right the liars they are! The Hero of the Religious Right, Andrew Jackson, practically slept with the devil- the pirate and murderer Jean Lafitte- to get Lafitte’s men to participate in the battle against the British at New Orleans. The reincarnated Andrew Jackson, Ronald Reagan, had the same sort of relationship with Saddam Hussein in his proxy war with the Ayatollahs. The litany is endless. America is both good and evil and the religious right is the large ‘part one’ of that evil- as is the cowardice and failure of the present day Renaissance Man in Whiteman academia to EFFECTIVELY stand up and be heard. They have not stood up against these lies. And they will have to pay for that, we all will. A society governed by social lies, spurred by a fictional history for political gain, cannot, by definition, be healthy. Believing in your own lies is like believing you don’t have to watch the road while you drive! Look out for the Great White Father! If there is to be a working secular democracy, that secular democracy has no place for sectarian subject or display in the education of its children. A culture that allows for fundamental lies to be taught to its children cannot stand. Ah! Fundamental lies! Fundamentalists! Now we have made an important connection! These fundamentalists cannot escape truth, they even speak it in relation to themselves without realizing it. Their great guru of capitalism, Ayn Rand, wrote a story, Atlas Shrugged, a brilliant idea of the Whiteman withdrawing his best minds from western civilization so it would collapse. They thought that this would be the end of socialism.

183 But Rand’s idea is as much true in relation to capitalism and these fundamentalists, the greed and blindness of their idea of sustained development, the idea that has resulted in the great world wide banana grab, with the Man in the Yellow Hat, the corporate war and oil industry and the pet monkey, George, our present Great White Father, leading the so called free world. “Uh-oh. George was in trouble.” And The Great White Father’s destiny IS disaster. What is the Whiteman to do? The answers are there, the Whiteman must only look at a different idea and get a contrast. Buddhism teaches the individual not to practice external meditation. Our American Indians have similar prohibitions to the same effect- against bad sorcery such as killing and cannibalizing. What is external meditation, what is sorcery? It is the application of the will to cause and effect. If we all strictly practiced a comprehensive prohibition of cause and effect, we would cease to exist as corporeal beings because we are omnivores and the resulting fast would be fatal. But to allow cause and effect to collectively run wild, as has the Whiteman’s belief in killing and cannibalizing his natural environment through sustained development, is to pursue war and create the atom bomb. And so everything dies, the Whiteman can only hope there is a heaven. The Taoist civilization of the Far East and its companion Buddhist civilization, like that of our American Indians, recognized this danger. And these three civilizations had found the ‘Middle Way.’ Buddhism is there for the Whiteman, there are temples in his every city. He only need learn the ‘Middle Way’: that extremes of behavior are unhealthy. But contrary to the Middle Way, Evangelical Whitemen have yet to struggle free of the foolish notion of taking dominion over the Earth. That is why their principle of ‘Temperance’ is failed. And where goes the Evangelical Whiteman, so goes the World. This Whiteman that lives in denial, is no different than the habitual screwup, Peter, who denied the enlightened Jesus, afraid of the truth of himself, the truth of what he was witnessing. Driven by fear, that is what the Whiteman knows and that is what the Whiteman needs to deal with… Fear. Fear does not see beyond itsself. Let’s have a bit of a further look at the consequences of these paranoias instilled in the Whiteman relating to the Apostle Paul’s delusions, and how these paranoid behaviors impact the world we live in. The gravest consequence of encountering the Evangelical American Whiteman, in our view, stems from his embrace of the false collective fantasy that his “Unknown God of the Greeks”, is the only real god, this god of the paranoid fantasies of Apostle Paul. We all know this is not the god of Jesus, Jesus did not call himself the “Unknown God of the Greeks”, and Jesus never behaved in the manner of Paul or taught anything remotely like Paul’s fantasies, this was rather the lie of the “Devil Masquerading as the Angel of Light”… “The Father of all Lies”, the lies of Paul’s subconscious state, manifest in the psychotic being Paul met on the road to Damascus. This being Paul met, his true inner self, the self Paul had experienced while wrestling with his case of the ‘Snakes’, became the god of the Evangelical American Whiteman.

184 This is ‘Paul the Stone Throwers’ god. The god of a deranged man. And finally, through Paul, the god of deranged men. Paul circumstantially chose this god for the Whiteman because Paul was afraid of the Great Mystery of which Jesus taught, and Paul desperately needed something to believe in, something that did not approach the truth of the Great Mystery, but rather a belief that would co-opt a rational determination of his own behavior for what it was: Paranoid Schizophrenia. Recall that Paul, a man of Jewish ancestry who was actually an assimilated GrecoRoman, could not kill enough of Jesus followers to suit himself and was frustrated. Now, all of the people who had been truly taught by Jesus in the Great Mystery, those that Paul had not already killed, were deep underground, in hiding. And Paul had never even met Jesus, Paul had no first hand idea of what Jesus had taught. Fear drove the Greek speaking Roman citizen Paul. Rome was all about control. Paul was all about controlling Jesus ideas. The fact that this Roman Citizen, this Greek Paul could not, in the end, control Jesus ideas, drove Paul mad. Consequently, Paul spent the rest of his life in a mad fantasy teaching about a Jesus he had never learned from or even met, and the Great Mystery Jesus taught about, in Paul’s mind, became the ”Unknown God of the Greeks.” In the end, Paul could only claim authenticity through Peter, the one student of Jesus that could himself never get anything right. And if he did meet Peter, it was not until near the end of their lives in Rome. Would, could Jesus ever trust Peter? No. The facts are there. Peter’s denial of Jesus was only equaled by Judas betrayal of Jesus. Only the Roman Emperor Constantine’s ‘Ministry of Information about Jesus Ideas’ could have put the words in Jesus mouth founding its authority on Peter and subsequently Rome, thus attempting socially legitimizing the psychotic ideas of Paul. Remember, these are the same people that, at the Council of Nicaea, decided what would make up the official record about Jesus- for a Roman Emperor who was all about, really only about, control. And this is the same book of ideas that was in the hands of those same people who went on to slaughter indigenous peoples, murdering entire cultures worldwide. And they began with murdering the cultures of the followers of Jesus who did not accept this new book that incorporated Paul’s lies about Jesus. These Roman/Greek Cult Christians, initially, had a problem with the following idea: Arius and subsequent Arians had taught that Christ grew, changed, matured in his understanding of the divine plan according to the Scriptures, and therefore could not be part of the unchanging God. He was not God the Son; rather, He was simply given the title Son of God as an honor. (V.L. Walter- from Elwell’s Evangelical Dictionary) Rejecting this idea, these Roman Cult Evangelicals dehumanized Jesus. They promulgate perversions of Jesus teachings worldwide. In the Assemblies of God, visiting teachers are welcomed to preach that the Christian culture’s cousin, Islam, is Devil Worship. What does that have to do with the historical tolerant Jesus? A good question for The Great

185 White Father as he wages his war on terror. Force escalates violence, extremism begets extremism. Throwing stones, you will reap as you sow. Another group of Jesus followers that were murdered, exterminated by these Roman/Greek Cult followers of Paul were the Gnostics: Gnosticism is really a form of mystical existentialism. It begins with the premise that we are actually asleep, that our consciousness is cloaked with a shadow, which we must elucidate in order to win freedom. It is the quest for the secrets of the universe, which can be found coded in myth and symbols. Gnostics claimed to have secret knowledge about God, humanity, and the Universe and was one of three main belief systems in first century Christianity.. (Alexandra Wellington- ‘The Path of Knowledge’) What were those three main groups that claimed knowledge of Jesus teaching? The Roman Emperor Constantine’s and Paul’s Evangelical Cult group, then Arius’s groupthey were murdered, exterminated by Constantine’s and Paul’s group, and finally the Gnostic Christians, also murdered, exterminated by Constantine’s and Paul’s group. Our Indian people can relate to the extinction of the Arians and Gnostics as our own experience. The Arians and Gnostics were murdered and our Indian peoples are being murdered, both brought to extinction, for the same sorts of beliefs, and at the hand of the same people and for the identical reason.. for refusing to embrace the Great Lie of Constantine’s and Paul’s church. The lie that Jesus is the Unknown God of the Greeks. It was Constantine’s Bishop who ordered the Great Library at Alexandria burned, totally destroyed, to prevent any other record of Jesus life and teachings, teachings contradicting the Apostle Paul’s lies, from continuing to be availiable from that location. It was the single greatest loss of knowledge in the history of Western Civilization, the Whiteman’s greatest loss, the great book burning at Alexandria that the Evangelicals imitate to this day, and with that destruction of the greater record of Jesus life, taken together with the ascendance of the liar Paul, the Dark Age of the Whiteman was ushered in. This Whiteman’s Dark Age is like the old Indian joke about life on the reservation: ‘When the next depression comes, the Indians will be the last to know.’ But it is actually much worse than that. Because the Whiteman Dark Age refers not only to the victory of Paul’s Great Lie, and a thousand plus years of subsequent catastrophic ignorance, violence and death, not only that, but this Dark Age also refers to the subsequent poverty of the Whiteman’s soul. How do we see this peculiarly White poverty in today’s world? Thoreau dismissed a “trout found in the milk pail” as the “thoughtless age of boyhood.” But what about “pushing a lit firecracker up a Bullfrogs ass” (Joe Dirt) or two cats having their tails tied together and suspended from a clothes line, to laugh at the ensuing spectacle of the cats killing each other? When is an Evangelical American Whiteman grown up? When he is old enough to drag a ‘nigger’ to death, chained behind his pickup truck? (21st Century Texas) Is he grown up when he can impose homosexual orgies on the prisoners at Abu Ghraib, and pose laughing in photos of that very act? The Great Lie prevents the Whiteman from mature and responsible development because it allows for the Whiteman to teach his children, and he does at his Assemblies of God Church, that

186 Muslims are the Children of Satan. So how then, could Muslims be more deserving of rights than niggers, bullfrogs and cats? It is fine to torture these fiends of Satan, in the Evangelical view, Muslims are not Human Beings, they are merely abstracts of evil. And the abuse at Abu Ghraib, in the inner recesses of the mind of The Great White Father, likely is the mere acts of ‘the thoughtless age of boyhood.’ Embarrassing, yes, a bother, yes, but truthfully a big deal? Probably not. Certainly not, had Abu Ghraib not become public. Involuntary Homosexual orgies as slave exhibitions for entertainment value, are essentially Roman, culturally speaking. So went the world of Constantine, and so goes the world of the American Evangelical Cult followers of the Greco Roman Paul. Consider The Great White Father’s heated denials, what the human behaviorists know concerning the evangelical Whiteman, their culture of lies, their red faces, the behaviorists know the these sort of people are likely to masturbate away their insecurities, but only momentarily, no sooner than having ejaculated, their fears swarm them again. Indeed they do live in Hell, as befitting Paul and Satan’s minions that they are. Consider the Evangelical American Whiteman’s history worldwide. The list seems endless. Just a few of the Abu Ghraibs that these American Evangelicals are responsible for, or were in bed with are represented in; Noriega. Somoza. Ferdinand Marcos. Agustino Pinochet. The Argentine Junta. The Salvadoran Junta. The Shah of Iran. Saddam Hussein. And so forth, ad infintum. Now the Shah and Saddam are very interesting indeed. When Richard Nixon picked on John Lennon with the Immigration Service for his antiwar music, Lennon penned the song ‘Instant Karma’ for Nixon and we all know what happened to him. By history’s standards, ‘Instant Karma’ has slapped America right in the face again, considering the Evangelical American Whiteman’s past support for the Shah of Iran and the immediate aftermath of that act. Suddenly there is the old familiar name calling, but now it is the Americans that are the ‘Great Satan’ according to the Ayatollah Khomeini. Imagine that. Remember that largely ignored teaching of Jesus that you ‘will reap what you sow?’ After having allowed for the American Puppet, the Shah and his secret police to torture or assassinate a generation of Iranians that did not think the Shah should have his tongue up Uncle Sam’s ass over the wealth and power associated with the American control of Iranian oil, the Evangelical American Whiteman seemed sincerely discomfited by the Ayatollah now naming these American followers of Paul ‘the Great Satan.’ Well, Jesus had said you will “reap what you sow.” Next, the Evangelical American Whiteman found a friend, Saddam, to terrorize the Ayatollahs. Saddam did a remarkable job of doing just that. But when you have an unreliable and sadistic friend, he is likely going to hurt you too. So, Saddam made a ‘bad’ banana grab, for the oil fields of Kuwait. Now that really hurt the Evangelical American Whiteman and suddenly Saddam was not his friend after all. So he put Saddam down, but could not help making a retaliatory banana grab, for the oil fields of Iraq. Now the

187 radicalized ayatollahs in the next door Iran found a friend in a cleric, Muqtada al Sadr, with lots of followers in ‘Al Sadr City’ and they have joined in the banana grab fray, hurting the Americans even further, while only trying to get Al Sadr’s peoples own bananas back. “You will reap as you sow.” How many Abu Ghraib events have occurred in the Evangelical American Whiteman’s sphere of influence? Entire generations of American Indian children, male and female, were enslaved, tortured, raped and murdered at the boarding schools, sponsored by these same evangelical people, Catholic and Protestant, going back more than 100 years. How can we, as Indian people, believe Abu Ghraib is an isolated incidence of a rogue few? It is the ‘White Trash’ American Patriot that does these things, the historically habitual Colonel Chivingtons of the Whiteman’s world. This is the element that the Whiteman’s voice of reason, the secular humanists, these followers of Jesus that do not live the lie of Paul are faced with, and they don’t stand a chance if they cannot adopt new methods of survival in the face of this onslaught. As things stand, because of control by Evangelical American Whitemen, these good Whitemen will die alongside us and along with everyone and everything else. They should pay attention. This escalating Whiteman orgy of violence is convulsing our world as I stand before you. The Islamist fundamentalists behead a young American that only wanted to work, to have a job, in retaliation for Abu Ghraib. Tit for tat, The Great White Father promises the perpetrators will be brought to “Justice.” Cycling over and over, this is the only behavior from the Evangelical American Whiteman that we, as Indians, have ever known as well. It is all about the lies they teach their children. By contrast, our more traditional Indian children do not put firecrackers up a Bullfrogs ass. We have not become that sort of trash. Not yet. But, in the end, it seems everyone must bake their bread from the crop that this evil reaps. It is the world becoming the Whiteman’s Armageddon. Everyone, everything, must die. This is on account of Paul’s Great Lie. There was an Age of Reason in the world of Islam once upon a time, a not so far away time, before the more recent radicalization of Islam, the Fundamentalist Islam that is the natural reactionary event the modern Muslim world has experienced at the hand of fundamentalist Judaism and fundamentalist Christianity. Between these three brothers, the half brothers Judaism and Islam, and their adoptive brother Christendom, there were equal elements of moderation and of reason that allowed for the three of them, Jew, Muslim, and Christian, to share Jerusalem in peace for several hundred years. Consider the Old City’s subnames, its historic subdivisions. The Jewish Quarter. The Christian Quarter. The Arab Quarter. Left alone by fundamentalism of any stripe, that tolerant city might still stand. The problem is that none of the fundamentalists accept the idea of a metaphor. This intolerance for flexibility of belief and refusing to accept other people’s perceptions, goes back to ‘my god is better than your god.’ This is the origin of the lie. And the birth of hate. Now, fundamentalist Jews, fundamentalist Muslims and fundamentalist Christians, who all share the same god and the same intolerance, murder one another over who has it right. Historically, among these three, everybody has provoked and murdered everybody, at one time or another. The only mystery here, is why

188 they cannot see the stupidity of it all. The Great Lie of fundamentalism is blinding, it blinds them all. Reasonable men must come to the centers of power in this world. If there is to be a world. The men of reason in the civilization of Islam need to make their people understand that the Evangelical American Whiteman has his own version of martyrdom and Jihad.. but it is not that of the individual, rather it is that of the collective whole. When the Evangelical American Whiteman dons his suicide vest, the resulting radioactive explosions will eradicate the centers of Islam from the face of the earth. The Jews will be mere collateral damage in that event, ‘friendly fire’ casualties, if you will. And the Whiteman’s world will fall. Think about it. Armageddon is the collective belief of the Evangelical American Whiteman, and the social psychologists and social anthropologists know that it is the collective belief of a culture that defines and creates that cultures reality. So, what is to be done? Though it is not likely the present institutions of America will yield easily to reason, there are seeds that can be planted and watered, memories of once upon a time ideas that the Americans might subconsciously remember. Those ideas are still represented in the Two Dollar bill, sitting there, largely unused, mostly forgotten. But not yet recalled from circulation. First consider the front side of the bill. Here is Thomas Jefferson, his vision of an American agragarian utopia largely forgotten, nearly dead. But let us dwell on the backside of the bill. Duncan Standing Rock, whose hobby has been the study of the Whiteman’s relationship to Indians, has pointed out this two dollar scene to me many times in his stories of our Indian Peoples history. What can an Indian see in this painting by John Trumbull, the drafting of the Declaration of Independence that a Whiteman does not? It is the Ghost of Tekanawita guiding the hand of the Whiteman to embrace our Indian vision, The Great Law of Peace. Twenty-one Iroquois Chiefs are present at this drafting, they were invited at the suggestion of Benjamin Franklin, and these Chiefs addressed these American Founders, instructing the founders in their pursuit of the Great Law of Peace. And not one Indian is portrayed in the painting. This was Trumbull’s great historical mistake. Because it allowed subsequent generations of the Whiteman to forget that the American Nation, the United States of America, was crafted on ideas that were a gift to the Whiteman from our own Indian Peoples. Tekanawita was a manifestation of the Enlightened One and was also of virgin birth, the same as Jesus, another manifestation of the Enlightened One. But we understand that virgin birth is a metaphor for the appearance of a unique man, one that you see once in an Age, a man with greater than merely superb intelligence, a man also possessed of compassion and wisdom, a man of great teaching ability through oratory. A man unspoiled by the baggage of history. In fact Tekanawita and Jesus are the same manifestation of nature, the same archetypical gift of the Great Mystery to Mankind. But

189 we, as Indian Peoples, are not Roman by nature. We did not murder Tekanawita’s ideas or the metaphor that embodies them. And neither did the Whiteman that founded America, the Natural Man, Renaissance Man. So, how was it that the confederated chiefs of the Six Nations gave the guidance, the law brought by Tekanawita, that shaped the founding of America? The Whiteman that founded the United States is not the same Whiteman that we know today. It was not the Evangelical American Whiteman that invited us to be present and give guidance at the founding of United States of America. It was the Natural Man of Rousseau that embraced Tekanawita, embodied in Benjamin Franklin, and subsequently the men Franklin influenced- James Wilson, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, among others.. and they addressed these Iroquois Chiefs as their equals, “Brothers”, not as the perverted ‘Red Children of the Great White Father’: at the drafting of the American Declaration of Independence. A few years previous, another Iroquois Chief, Chief Canssatego, of these five nations that now had become six, had told the Americans at a meeting in Albany: “Our wise forefathers established Union and Amity between the Five Nations. This has made us formidable; this has given us great Weight and Authority with our neighboring Nations. We are a powerful Confederacy; and by your observing the same methods, our wise forefathers have taken, you will acquire such Strength and power.” Benjamin Franklin’s observations, delivered with more than a touch of irony in his reference to ‘Ignorant Savages’ when addressing his fellow Americans concerning these remarks of Canssatego, were: “It would be a strange thing...if Six Nations of ignorant savages should be capable of forming such a union and be able to execute it in such a manner that it has subsisted ages and appears indissoluble, and yet that a like union should be impractical for ten or a dozen English colonies, to whom it is more necessary and must be more advantageous, and who cannot be supposed to want an equal understanding of their interest.” Franklin was undoubtedly a great man, perhaps the greatest of Whitemen. Franklin recognized a good idea and he was intimately familiar with the Great Law of Peace. Franklin had spent some years in contact and association with the Iroquois, and Franklin wanted this great law as the founding stone for the future United States of America. And it did not stop there. Through Franklin, a man idolized in his lifetime in Western Europe, the idea of this great law spread, and eventually became the model for Liberte, Egalite, and Fraternite.. which went on to establish another, perhaps wiser and greater democracy.. the Republic of France. Does this Natural Man still exist in America? If he does, then we, as Indian Peoples, must seek him out, awaken him, gently remind him of the Great Law of Peace, tell him it is time to remember us, our law, and his promise to keep that peace. Together with this Whiteman whom we once knew, together with him and the inspirations of Tekanawita and the historical Jesus, perhaps there is some hope of reclaiming the temple of our existence from those brazen, shameless perverters of history and our lives- the

190 Evangelical American Whitemen, these hijackers of Jesus name and murderers of his ideas, these ‘SPASTICs’, Paul, and his Throwers of Stones. What changes could be made? First there must be change in the thinking of the American Whiteman, we Indians know that thought shapes reality. The Whiteman could begin to reshape his reality by relegating the Star Spangled Banner as the anthem of his armed forces only and making ‘America the Beautiful’ his National Anthem. Relevant to this, the Stars and Stripes should become his battle flag only.. and the Pine Tree flag, the American flag that represents the Whiteman adopting our Indian peoples Great Law of Peace at his nations inception, must again fly widely, peace must represent the Whiteman’s nearly every institution, he must put his nation onto the pursuit of peace. Here is a Pledge of Allegiance that could be helpful to him as well. I pledge allegiance To the ideals Of the founders of this nation. And to the peace For which they stand, One nation of tolerance With liberty and justice for all. The Whiteman shouldn’t dare use the word ‘God’ in this pledge, because the Evangelical American Whiteman would claim that was a reference to his god, the god that is better than anyone else’s god. We all have seen already where that can go. Rather it is the compassion, the tolerance of the Great Law of Peace, which must find its way back into the Whiteman’s thinking. Suggest to the Whiteman that he practice an experiment predicated on the teaching of his Jesus: “As you sow, so shall you reap.” Try and let industrialized war pay for itself. Allow for local small agragarian economies, the idea of Jefferson, and separately put the entire tax burden of industrialized war on the corporations and communities that support themselves in that endeavor. And provide the opportunity for all who would opt out of the corporate war economy to be realized. This could be accomplished by criteria establishing economic zones that are not physical or geographic zones, but philosophical zones. Let the treasure of the war footed economy, through its associated industries, solely bear the burden of those wars, the war materials corporations and their employees, the related service industries and their employees, let this community, right down to the soccer moms that drive these urban tanks called SUVs, machines which call for those wars via the petro dollar, bear this burden. And limit the cost of their welfare state, the war economy associated with the careers that become the unemployed, to these people. Meanwhile, create a generation of 50+ mpg vehicles fueled by alternative and/or domestic fuel sources only- that are privileged to use alternative, tax free peace economy fuel stations. Associated with that, give the small artesian, the cottage industry, and the farm to market community a tax free environment, a free trade zone within their

191 neighborhood. This economy should not tax the property of the poor, this small house and plot, untaxed, is less burden than the cost to support the foreclosed and dispossessed with its associated crimes for survival and subsequent social traumas. Let these peace communities, within this war free ideal of compassion, provide for their own services solely. Then see which of these, the war economy or the peace economy, i.e. the military industrial complex or the Community of Man, flourishes. In America, if you look at the example of the Amish, and give like opportunity to the greater dispossessed populace, I think we know the answer already. Let those of us who would, keep the promise of peace. When the Whiteman founders of America adopted the Great Law of Peace, as evidenced by the underlying thoughts expressed in the Declaration of Independence, the Articles of Confederation, the Constitution of the United States and the Bill of Rights, as evidenced by the twenty-one Iroquois chiefs present at the Declarations drafting (These Chiefs were lodged on the second floor of the Pennsylvania Statehouse at the time of this great work), and as evidenced by Benjamin Franklin’s writings, and the records of others, there was no way they could know that the greed of the Evangelical American Whiteman, with his utter disregard for the lives and happiness and rights of others, would create a perverted copy of these ideas for the sake of evil- in the founding of the subsequent oil industry and its associated war materials economy of corporate America. Like Worm tongue whispering in the ear of the Regent of Gondor, the Evangelical American corporate lobbyist has putrefied the soul of his Republic, his eloquent and pervasive lies tied to political gifts of money twisting the souls of otherwise once honorable men, Senator Spector, Senator Hatch, and especially Senator Campbell- who was once upon a time the Night Horse, once upon a time an Indian. These men sit and they associate with the racist liar, the anti-Indian, and the epitome of the Evangelical American Whiteman: Senator Burns. The aptly named Senator Burns, this reincarnated and vomited from Hell Evangelical Minister Colonel Chivington: who had once upon a time massacred Senator Ben Nighthorse Campbell’s Cheyenne people at Sand Creek. Caveat Emptor. I will now close today’s lecture with a story of the proverbial trickster, our Napi. If you can understand this story, then you will have a good idea of how to see where human nature has gone wrong in the Whiteman. Because this is the Indian story of the Evangelical Whiteman, the Whitemen we have met in Andrew Jackson, Colonel Chivington and Senator Burns. It is about the Evangelical Whiteman that rules America today. It is about a man that does not learn from his mistakes. It is about a man that does not put two and two together concerning the consequences of his actions. It is about a man that does not understand his relationship to essential functions in nature necessary to his survival. It is about a man that does not listen. It is about a man that is so suspicious of people’s motives that he lies to himself about others good intentions. It is a story about how not to live your life. And perhaps most of all, it is a story about recycling old and failed ideas. The name of this story is ‚Napi’s Lunch.’ The story goes like this..

192 “Napi had been to a great feast with his brothers. He returned to his camp very full of food and tired. Napi curled up to sleep by his fire, and you know where a dog’s nose is when he curls up to sleep! Spuurrpp! Napi farted and it woke him up, his eyes were watering. Napi said aloud “Well that was really rude” and curled back to sleep. Spuurrpp! Napi’s head popped up again, irritated, Napi shouted at his rectum „Penucquem, if you won’t let me sleep, I am going to teach you a lesson!” Napi curled up again. Spuurrpp! That really did it. Jumping up, Napi grabbed up Tail, out of harms way, and sat on his campfire to get even with Penucquem. “Yii! Yii!” Napi really took off, like only a hurt dog does, and this started him on his travels. Napi moved for a long time, he was thinking of how Penucquem had bit him really hard when he had tried to punish him, he didn’t understand how his asshole could do that to him while pushed down on the fire. It was Penucquem that should have cried out and ran away. So Napi kept moving and thinking, he was traveling a long time in a big circle. Napi walked and thought about it for so long that finally the large scab fell off of his rectum and still walking in a circle, he came across the scab and said “What do you know! Dry Meat!” Napi was getting hungry again about this time and he was happy to have found the dryed meat some Indian had lost. The Mag Pies shouted out to him “Napi! Don’t eat that! It fell off of your rectum!” Napi shouted back to the Mag Pies “You’re not fooling me, you just want this dry meat for yourselves!” And then very delicately because there was not much of it, and with a lot of savor because he was hungry, but very deliberately, so the Magpies would envy him while watching, nip by nip, Napi ate his lunch.” Penucquem then stated: „Hun Neow Wah Nee Moo Oosss“ and “Thank you” ******** “Two Medicine Men, both teachers, visited the big city and took in a service at the cathedral. Returning home, they took their Indian students on a journey of ‘Discovery.’ First, they killed the nicest kid in the group and told the rest it was their fault for being born. But now, if they would eat the nice kid and drink his blood, calling it communion, they would not be held responsible for anything, ever. And this confered upon them the right to tell other people how to live their lives- what they can and cannot do” From ‘Penucquem’s Journal.’

193 Ni-na-wa-ki Ninawaki were the pre-christian matriarchal chiefs from the propertied Woman-warrior class. These were the great threat, and the reason the women societies were destroyed. The degenerate state of the Indian „Traditional“ world can be attributed directly to a ‚Catch 22’ the real Statesmen, Elders, Chiefs and Medicine Men found themselves in with the return of the Boarding School generations... the old Indian law that states you cannot hurt your people. Imagine if these Boarding School generations had returned to their tribes only to be told that they were no longer recognizable as Human Beings. In fact most of these returnees were not recognizable as Human Beings, and they have done incalcuable injury to their respective nations themselves in violation of this ancient law. In the old days they would have been banished en mass exactly as the Skinni (Skinni= poor in the sense of who or what they had become as people) Pikuni had been. But now these laws could not be applied and the real Indians had to become invisible in this shipwreck of humanity to survive or they and their families would be singled out for persecution and exterminated, because that was exactly the purpose of the Boarding Schools, the extermination of Indian thought. And consider the pain of having to, in far too many cases, reject your own returned children and grandchildren. At any rate, it could not be done. The result has been the slow extinction process of Indian thinking anyway. The utimate irony of this fact is that were the so called ‚Chiefs’ of modern times the real thing, people such as Ben Night Horse Cambell and Earl Old Person, it would be their responsibility to give the pronouncement of banishment at the direction of their many lesser chiefs to the very sort of people that they themselves have become. It must be noted that in today’s Blackfeet world the realities between the unchristianized Blackfeet speaking people and those Blackfeet that are Christians continue to be starkly different. Christianized Blackfeet that still speak a dialect that was Indian in origin, do not have the now secret language of the Indian priests of aboriginal ceremony. In the dialect spoken by the christianized Blackfeet, all reference to what was holy in the old times seems to have vanished. In this bastardized tongue, the great meaning of „Naaks“, the idea of all life and creation as a process in mystery, is gone. Now there are newly christianized terms, such as ‚Appissistutuki’, equivilent to our father god, essentially our christian creator, in the old ideas place. The Naaks is acknowledged no more. This christian world is seen by the old Indian Priests as an environment of infectious, poisonous glue. Many Indians that were once humans from the old perspective, even great medicine men amoung them, having become entangled there, were never a part of real ceremony again. Modern tribal politics and the christian world that creates and drives this poisoned environment continues to kill these people in the sense of what it had meant to live in a clean reality, and a clean reality is in large part what it meant to be an Indian. The new christian god took total advantage of the Indian idea that a man’s power derives from the sky... and the woman’s earth derived female lodges were totally suppressed by the missionaries. In 1924, these Indians having heard they were citizens and thinking they had rights, the Indian Agent at Fort Belknap arrived on the scene of an open Sundance

194 with police escort and all of the sacred Indian religious bundles present were taken and burned, with the Sundancers, women and men, forced to watch. Then the Indians were all told that they would be jailed if they dared practice this religion again. This was the method until Indian religion was no longer criminal. After, the Protestant evangelicals were contained to preaching Indian religion is Devil worship at their missions on the reservation. The Catholic method, after Sundance became legal again, was changed away from this overt violence and instead they joined the ceremony to teach about the Father Creator and continue the supression of women and the female aspect by subversion from the inside. Were the female aspect still surviving and strong, we would not see the rampant abuse of women in today’s Indian Country. Indian men were in fact guests on this planet that is a sacred woman, and to harm a woman was to harm everything that is holy. And centuries of Occult pedophelia only given lip service in the catholic church now that the extent of its practice by the priests has become revealed, is tantamount to a jailhouse conversion... in respect to a lifestyle so dark that I could not imagine these further horrors visited upon the children of these sacred women. That the Christians actually believe their’s is the better model is nearly mind numbing to me, but then I could have been like that too. Children most often become what it is that they see. Christian people lie to themselves, whether it is the conservatives that want to save your soul or the liberals that want to save the world. Indian thought emprically proves this. All thought is power. The oxymoron conservative christians seek life through pursuing death, their dark collective will is bent on, and they will see, Armageddon. The liberal christians believe that science will save and feed the hungry even as science through technology is consuming life sustaining nature at a pace far exceeding natures ability to regenerate. In the meantime these liberals don’t seem to actually grasp the implication of the dying millions planetwide, rather embracing this delusional saved by science future. Without a radical, far-reaching and almost immediate change, nearly everyone, perhaps alltogether everyone, is going to die. Christian conservative collective will taken together with christian liberal collective denial is a Tao of Death that simply states we are failed as a species. The Indians always understood that everything has it’s season in the sun and then it is over. It will be no different for western civilization. The christians, whether the conservative war mongers or liberal technologists, can’t seem to kill everything off fast enough to get themselves to a place where they seem to believe they will live forever, whether the conservative fantasy heaven or the liberal delusional saved by science future. It is the western applied science that is killing all of us. Here we have a masculinized objective driven culture dominating the feminine, the christian idea, versus the now dominated self-subjective Indian idea of balance that respects the feminine future life in nature. Only one of these ideas makes any sense at all. Wouldn’t it be nice if christian civilization could give up being physically mega-rich, give back to nature, and afford everyone a decent life now? A culture of Rockets, Planes and SUVs can never get there. The price exacted on nature is too high. The English Language reflects the tension in a civilization whose culture is not compatible with its pretensions; The split between the idea of the ‚objective’ thought and the other idea of: What is your ,objective?’ You cannot have it both ways.

195 End Notes Pat had hinted at my writing a book for many years. Finally in winter/spring of 2004, when Pat had visited at my home the southwest (I had moved from my home just west of the Blackfeet reservation in 2001) I told Pat I was doing it, that I had started writing. In July 2004, I visited Pat at his camp in Montana and I had asked him if he was still certain that this was something he wanted me to do. I asked him „are you sure.“ Pat waved his hand in a wide arc and stated „I want the whole world to know.“ Grace Arrow Top Knot, Pat Kennedy’s wife of over 40 years until her death, epitomized the Blackfeet proverb ‚The grandmothers carry the switch.’ Grace permitted no serious nonsense in her children and grandchildren, and did not hesitate to have misbehaving younger family members jailed if need be. An Indian from the Skinni Pikuni, I do not recall his name, once related to me that as a child he was such a terrorizing kid that refused to listen his grandmother grabbed him without warning and stretching him to his tiptoes while grasping his ear, she shoved her buckskin stitching needle through his outstretched ear to get his attention. This Indian credited his grandmothers act with setting him on the path that led to an intelligent life. Grace was never that mean, but the example makes the point. Grace’s only really great failing was her reluctance to speak her language, the boarding school legacy, that has resulted in the Kennedy family’s children speaking only english. Pat would sometimes speak to Grace in Blackfeet, Grace always answered in English in the presence of her children. Grace could and did speak Blackfeet to her mother and uncles, but speaking it to her children was too traumatic. Consequently, the Kennedy children with the exception of Pat Jr and son-in-law Fred Noon, were never instructed in the deeper understanding and mysteries of ceremony. Having said that, it cannot be understated how important Grace’s logistical support was through the course of 40+ years in a role enabling Pat’s mission as a Spiritual Leader, Healer and Inter-Tribal Statesman promoting the old laws and preserving the old traditions and language in diverse Indian Peoples over a large part of North America. Grace was critical to what Pat had become and what he was able to accomplish. Pat remarried after the customary year of mourning for Grace; following her death. Pat’s second wife, Lorna McMurray, was as essential to securing Pat’s legacy as Grace had been essential in maintaining Pat’s logistics and ability to build his legacy. Meeting the Anglo legal concept of Common Law Marriage, Pat had, through the direction of his Spirit, remarried a White: Common Law is no different than marriage in the old Indian way. You fall in love, you move in together, you are married. But the real testament to this is Lorna became Pat’s ‚Sits Beside Him Wife’, both at his Drum and in Ceremony in Indian Country. This is significant in a big respect, it is a statement of Pat’s against Racism in the Indian world. Both Pat and Lorna struggled initially with cultural differences and expectations, but the testament to the validity of Pat’s second marriage is that it worked for years, Pat and Lorna were genuine partners, and the relationship sustained to Pat’s passing. No one should question this. After this second marriage of Pat, Lorna, who can write music, began the awesome task of compiling Pat’s composition of Indian Music, a legacy of fifty years that had been recorded in Indian Country by the

196 countless other Indians surrounding Pat’s drum with recorders when he would sing at the many tribes celebrations. Pat Kennedy composed songs popular in Indian Country outnumber by far those of any other Indian composer. This is a legacy of Pat’s that is properly Lorna’s work: Pat passed his medicine knowledge on to his students. The legacy of Pat’s music catalog was entrusted to wife, Lorna. Pat’s summer camp is an event he clearly stated he wanted continued after his passing. Whether that will happen will in large part depend on whether his students can work together without the power of Pat’s personality present in its human form. Some of the more linear thinkers might wonder how the ‚Jump Dance’ varaition of Ghost religion could be held in Summer at Pat’s camp without the weather chaos or manifestation of the dead that were my experiences with Pat. I will simply state that there are simple precautions that are taken by the Indian Priests to prevent these problems occuring that are properly a part of the ceremony. These Ghost Dances concerning the ancestors, Give Away Dance and Jump Dance, do not refer to Ghosts in an Anglo sense at all, and Give Away Dance particularly would more properly be called Sacred Giving Angel Dance, relating to a servant of the Creation, a sacred spirit that is very holy, an aborginal Angel who sometimes take a form indistinguishable from any human and mingles with the sincere people, those who dedicate their lives to living right in the old aboriginal sense of clean reality. This clean reality does not know the psychological baggage of the modern people, and this is especially true of the independent aboriginal priests called Ghost Midiwiwins, these are the people that work most closely with this Angel. Relating to the terms of Ghost religion, Ghost Dance, etc, there is at times lot of confusion because these primitive English terms are very simple and loosely employed words surrounding concepts that are complex. The sometimes event called Ghost Dance or Clown Dance incorporated into Sundance is about the most distant ancients, it is not about the lineal ancestors, the Ghost religion called „Sacred Giving Angel Dance“ is about the lineal ancestors with an independent and seperate Ghost Midiwiwin that sometimes joins this ceremony to help lost souls find their place and peace, and the Jump Dance stemming from the teachings of Wovoka is related to the Ghost Midiwiwin that is a bridge between these two Ghost ceremonies, yet the Ghost Midiwiwin is altogether it’s own ancient phenomena, and: Wovoka was taken into the Native American Church independently as a completely seperate social and religious figure, a cultural event that is altogether unrelated to these above. My statement that Pat and I had worked together in the years after my leaving the Give Away Dance priesthood bears further explanation. I did not care to return to Give Away Dance ceremony itsself, because there is a rule ‚Don’t look back’, and there is much more to consider than this one ancient ceremony that is in its proper context only in Indian country. Anything I would go foward expressing having to do with Pat’s teaching me would be a new lineage. Pat saw me as 22nd generation of his line of Ghost Mediwiwin but I also represented a split or new branch in a tree growing into the future.

197 That is not that unusual. Pat could name the generations past where changes in ceremony took place, historical markers in the evolution of the knowledge he passed to me. He saw me as one of those markers. Everybody that came into Pat’s teaching resulting from my bringing Pat to the Feathered Pipe Ranch in 1984, Pat saw as 23rd generation in his line, but also as 1st generation in a change of ceremony. What this new branch will evolve into, if anything, remains to be seen. Pat and I agreed that the Give Away Dance is not the form that will come out on account of our work, that ceremony will stay behind in the old way Indian Community, its fate or future remains there. But the knowledge I and others had learned may go forward in the new line, if the new line survives. The new ceremony in this line is at the moment invisible. But the new line has the legitimate tools of the pipe, the sweat and the dream to bring visibility to the new ceremony, but with a caveat. Pat’s greatest concern for this is that the laws of the supernatural governing these tools, as I had learned over many years -especially as concerns the dream- are not misapprehended by these people of the 23rd generation. There are a great many dangers in that. The greatest of these dangers are: Anger, Ego, Spiritual Materialism and the consequential spiritual blindness and false dreams leading to hollow and meaningless or dead ceremony. There is no garrantee of authenticity in the 23rd generation and it is in fact highly unlikely to survive in any meaningful way outside the context of the old Indian world this knowledge came from without the real ego free cooperation of Pat’s anglo students into the future. Pat presented this new line with more than a hefty challenge. I don’t know what the realistic chances of the new line surviving are in any authentic sense. Probably not very good. If the larger effort seen in the 23rd generation fails, in short, if the 23rd generation cannot learn how to see into a healthy future and initiate letting go of the behaviors and psychology of western civilization, the 23rd generation is ended, stillborn. Our thinking was that this is an opportunity for the more ecologically minded to learn to see in a different sense, in a native view of the world. It is possible that our years working together to bring out this knowledge just isn’t going to work. Not every vision is fulfilled. Pat would depend on me to state this. Pat had no patience at all for patently mistaken practices in his Indian peoples, and he told me that it was my place to stand up and be heard over whether things were proceeding correctly with his teachings in the outside world. When your medicine man has said ‚I don’t know anything’, it can be taken to mean ‚I don’t know what to expect.’ Nobody knows what is going to happen. But we all can start out on the right foot by becoming less mean. That would be the first step toward authenticity in the 23rd generation. Mike Willing was given the men’s leadership of the 23rd generation by Pat before Pat had passed away. Pat was not allowed under the old Indian law to name a woman and there has not been a qualified woman step up with the support of the women’s side as of this writing. I had wanted to write something on the medicine women, but no man is qualified to do this. Their world of phenomena is so different that in some tribes, such as the Atsina, they even speak their own dialect of the native language, different than that of the men. What I can say is that the women dealt less with the phenomena as I know it from the medicine men’s side of things, but had the real power to work healing with the roots and herbs

198 from nature. The pre-christian matriarchal chiefs and women from the propertied Woman-warrior class- the ‘Manly Hearted Woman’- is a poor translation that reflects the inadequacy of English to reflect what I will call ‘third gender’ (there is no real gender neutral in Blackfeet language.) Primary feminine gender comes first (underlies archetypal nature and all of earthly creation), except for some of the sky gods are perhaps primary male gender, and then nearly everything we encounter is third gender after that- which is varying degrees of androgyny. Manly Hearted Woman, sakwo-ma-oi-aki-kwan, is perhaps ‘stands out’ on ‘the ground’ or ‘prairie’ (assertive ‘stands out’, primary female gender authority in ‘prairie’ but a masculinized woman form- aki-kwan is literally woman-man or can mean not either one.) These woman chiefs, ni-na-wa-ki (lesser: nina-ki) are the greatest human authority in the old native world. Men more often work with the spirit, healing the body working the dream, reaching through the mind to the soul. The women have the greater power to heal the body through the plants, they hold a far superior power to the men when utilizing the medicines physically produced by the earth. It fits the cosmology, women belong to the earth, the feminine, man is from the sky. Their powers reflect this division respectively. Neil Egan became Pat’s main assistant at the Feathered Pipe Ranch when I withdrew and Pat went foward there on his own. Later on, when I left my Give Away Priest training, I passed my place next to Pat in the ceremonial sense to Neil as well, at a sweat with Pat, Neil and myself at the Feathered Pipe Ranch, a learning center dedicated to bridging cultures and learning in the alternative sense- as opposed to destructive behaviors. Pat Kennedy first told me the story of what became ‚Napi’s Lunch’ in the early 1980’s. It is actually a popular Cree Indian story starring their culture hero ‚Wee-sah-kay-cha, that I have heard from different sources several times over the years. My rendition is not a particularly faithful translation from the Cree language and I have adapted it to Weesah-kay-cha’s equivilent Blackfeet character: Napi. But it is close enough as I have written it: for the larger Anglo audience that it is about, but was never intended to hear it. The name ‚Penucquem’ (Pa-nuck-kwee-um) is from the formal old Blackfeet language and is the Proper Name of the Blackfeet character Napi’s rectum, from the Blackfeet Napi Stories, when Napi engages in debate with his own butt. In the proper context of the Napi stories, Napi would do well to listen to Penucquem. Credit goes to Thomas Big Spring of the Blackfeet tribe for telling me the original joke that evolved into Penucquem’s story of ‚Happy’, the Indian guide, about 1981. Amoung several Indians, Pat figures largely in the tales of Penucquem, but only in the sense of his once stating to me his opinion „Christians are the meanest people on earth.“ Pat himself was nearly always courteous to all people, Christians inclusive. Many Medicine Men personally hate Christians, Pat did not, at least in the sense of individuals. Pat always looked to promote what is kind and good in all people. Having said that, there were two personages in particular that Pat had no use for and little patience with. Evangelical clergy, whether Catholic or Protestant, and the numerous phony Medicine Men in Indian Country.

199

‚Barabbas’ was the name of the revolutionary who was freed by Pontius Pilate and escaped crucifixtion at the time Jesus was executed. The kids I trained to sing the profane Bible verse to the evangelical preacher never in fact got the opportunity. Grace Kennedy got wind of the planned prank and prevented the actual event occuring. But she never after dared let the kids return to church. Every time Grace tried to get angry with me over what I had attempted to do, she could not, no matter how hard she tried, because when she would approach me about it Grace invariably started to laugh against her will and would have to give up telling me off. My fellow Vietnam Veteran and friend I faced at Stick Game, Lloyd Chippewa, died of Agent Orange related cancer several years ago. William Running Crane Senior, aka ‚Goat’, a Grandmaster Stick Game Player, after I had asked him, told me: „The most important source of power is to live clean.“ Playing against Goat and with a small ‚pop’ the bones having changed places in my unopened fists, all my memories of being a Whiteman wanted to rationalize away that fact and I have had a very long look at the event in my thinking. I considered the time we thought a Grizzly Bear was going to stick his head out of the brush a mere four feet away from me and I had pulled a revolver from my pocket so fast that the friend standing to my right and rear –in a perfect place of observation- told me „You pulled your pistol so fast that I couldn’t see you do it.“ I recall pulling that pistol, it was slow motion in my mind, actually visualizing through my fingers my thumb cocking the hammer as I was drawing the weapon, the entire move in a small fraction of a second, but seen visually, slowly in my mind as though I were watching myself do the act from an out of body experience, like a dream. But I had not switched the bones manually, as I had pulled the pistol. The two events do not compare. I know for a fact that I had not confused which bone was in which hand before the bones had reversed themselves at the moment of Goat’s point. I had to accept that in the old Indian world of experience, typically invisible to the Whiteman, things just happen differently. I was there, I experienced it many times, the dream that accurately explained Mickey’s evil plan and showed me an escape that was seemingly attended by supernatural events, the pipe lighting itsself in ceremony, the summer snowstorm predicted by Pat in the sweat lodge, etcetera, there is no other explanation. If this is psychosis, then all of the authentic medicine men I have known collectively are psychotics together in a functional psychotic world that is unique to civilization that is not western. Grandmaster Stick Game players and noteworthy wins; ‚Goat’, too many great victories to mention; Floyd Heavy Runner, led the Blackfeet to sixteen consecutive victories at the Browning Indian Days, summer of 1976; Pat Kennedy, led the Crow Nation to victory over the Cheyenne nation in a ceremonial game, date unknown, taking over for the Crow when the Cheyenne had the Crow in serious trouble, as related to me by the Cheyenne Herman Bear Comes Out (on a related note, I believe Pat was the only non Crow Indian

200 ever to be given a permanent seat at the Crow National Drum); myself, overturned the Cree winning streak for the Blackfeet, at Browning Indian Days, summer of 1982. The Brockett Pow Wow had tragic consequences. The drunken woman who I had danced with killed her husband within the week, stabbed him to death, because he had so terrorized her over her dance with the Whiteman. Dean Plume was also dead in a month, beaten to death over this stabbing. This is purely the consequence of inter-generational anger in Indians at the Whiteman, and both sides need to deal with the issue, peace needs to be made. Of the many attempts made on my life in Blackfeet country over the years, one might wonder why I had never gone to the FBI that held jurisdiction concerning me as a person without (legal) Blackfeet membership, to report these attempted murders. There were two very good reasons I did not report, but only one of them counts. The first reason I did not report these events is that I oftentimes lived in areas of Indian country that the FBI was absolutely seen as the ‚Enemy’ and they did not typically tread in those venues. To be associated with reporting to those people under any circumstance would be unhealthy for me if I wished to remain welcome. That is the Whiteman reasoning and is the reason that does not count. The real reason I did not report is because I was authentically living as an Indian and we had little use for those FBI people in day to day life. They are perceived more as bother than help. And a part of day to day life in the Indian country I frequented is the idea that you pay attention: because at any given moment you could be killed. I both paid attention and was lucky as well. The one time I did visit with the FBI was to report the criminal activity of the Forest Service on behalf of the Oil and Gas Industry to open the Badger River to development. I met with the FBI Agent in his office located at Bozeman, Montana in the winter of 19911992. After reviewing unrefutable documentation of Forest Service officials testifying to Congress that all laws were being followed to protect Indian rights even as the Forest Service was breaking those laws egregiously.. and that testimony had been faxed to the lawbreakers by an accomplice (these people did not miss a step pursuing their crimes, they were kept abreast of everything at all levels) at Forest Service Headquarters in Wahington DC the very day it was given.. this FBI agent pulled out a wallet card that listed the things he could investigate, and lying to Congress while in the very act of breaking the laws that were the subject of the testimony concerning the rights of Native Americans, was not specifically listed. He just said „Sorry“ and showed me the door. Had the situation been reversed, and it were Indians ripping off Whitemen, I am certain it would have been the opposite reaction, with lots of concern demonstrated and the case investigated. There appears to be a cult belief in Federal Law enforcement that the USA bears no responsibility whatsoever for the 1970’s US government seige of the Indians at Wounded Knee that was only in part related to two FBI agents deaths. My observation is that justice is served in the mentality of the rank and file of the FBI by never lifting a finger on the side of the activist Indians, regardless of the circumstance of law, in these Indian’s stressed relationships with the United States, its agencies and the USA created and controlled corrupt tribal governments. This additude self-demonstrates in a crime that

201 this agent saw stark evidence concerning, indicating his grasp of the situation to me, he used the factually comic wallet card pretext of no jusisdiction to ignore that very crime. Surreal as it might seem, the FBI also has been known to hire the Native American ‚Seers’ in attempts to solve crimes, a backhanded admission of validity given to a culture that they otherwise more often suppress and pressure to conform to the dominant society. More often than not they hired the phony telescope men however, and their efforts must have come to naught. I met Leroy Little Bear and Amethyst First Rider again (from the Give Away Dance where the pipe lit without the match), in Albuquerque, as I was nearing completion on the first draft of this book. In the intervening years since I had worked with Pat at Give Away Dance, Leroy, a Harvard Professor Emritus, initiated together with the late David Bohm, a dialogue between the traditional Indian culture’s bright minds and the scientists of the Western World. This was through the Fetzer Institute in 1992. In 1999 Dan Moonhawk Alford, a linguist, in collaboration with SEED University brought the dialogues to Albuquerque and made them public. The purpose of this dialogue is to share ideas and to discuss underlying principles of the Universe. The big discovery here for these western scientists is something our medicine men and women have always understood, that the Indian Peoples, in developing the Dream, operate in the frontiers of conciousness. The Indians were already there, in front of the Whiteman’s thinking in the realm of Quantum Physics. So this is the new frontier and Geronimo! The Indians already hold it. This once a year dialogue is facinating, especially for the open minded western educator, and is open to the public via registration with SEED University at Albuquerque. My understanding is Leroy has moved on and women have the leadership role, which can only be a good thing in any attempt at bridging a chasm so far across between cultures, male white mentalities, particularly, cannot even perceive the gulf seperating the systems of thought. I mention Hugh Monroe, known to the Blackfeet as Rising Wolf, but I do not attempt at all to explain his circumstance in Blackfeet history as the first White Blackfeet since the culture hero ‚Napi’ founded that tribe. In short, Rising Wolf, a literate runaway indentured servant of Hudson Bay Company, became a ,White’ Blackfeet as a teenager before 1820. Because he was both brave and wise, and provided invaluable counsel to the Blackfeet of his period relating to the encroaching Whites, his importance in Blackfeet history cannot be overstated. It is likely this man’s sole counsel to his adopted tribes chiefs prevented the Blackfeet ever engaging in a general war with the Whiteman. George Bird Grinnell and James Willard Schultz were both Whitemen of the generation that believed the Indians were doomed as distinct peoples and that they had seen the end time of the tribe before the inevitable Blackfeet assimilation into mainstream society, which was the intent of the policy of the United States of that era. But this in no way excuses what they had done. The halfbreed scout and whiskey trader Joe Kipp was simply the result of circumstance and history. Caught between races and loyalties and going along with the opportunities presented to him, he made some bad choices which he must be held accountable for. Subsequently he is a pathetic figure in Blackfeet history. A

202 footnote is that some of today’s Blackfeet Kipps are actually Heavy Runners of no blood relation to Kipp: stemming from Joe Kipp’s adoption of Heavy Runner grandchildren orphaned in the 1870 massacre of Heavy Runner’s village on the Marias River. Relating to Shultz’s claim of naming the mountains and other geographical features, some of the names are the original Blackfeet names, others are misplaced by a short distance, and some of the mountain names were changed away from the original Blackfeet. Complicating this is the fact that certain clans or families took spiritual care of particular features which had both Blackfeet common names and secret sacred names. Some of this information is lost, in other cases two sets of Blackfeet names for the geography persist, the common name and its other name only used in the ceremonial sense. On top of that, Schultz in a few cases renamed mountains from one Blackfeet word to another because the original Blackfeet name did not seem to suit him. Schultz’s legacy has created a fine mess. I had actually begun writing a satire surrounding a fictional repatriation of the bones of James Willard Schultz back to the Anglo world (Schultz is buried on a hill above the Montana Blackfeet town of Browning), placing Schultz’s bones in the basement of the Museum of the Plains Indian at Browning and making those bones the subject of a court battle over whether the Blackfeet tribe could investigate Shultz by hiring a phrenologist to study Schultz’s skull: to determine how Schultz could screw the very people he professed such love for in his literature. But I abandoned the task as in poor taste, too poor even for Penucquem. Brooke Medicine Eagle’s ideas put foward in her book „The Last Ghost Dance“ must be asinine from a native perspective. Looking Brooke up online after my books completion, to finish these epilogue notes, I read the promo for her book. The ideas expressed in the promo only further serve to reinforce the fact that Brooke demonstrates little authentic knowledge of the Indian phenomenal world. The fact is, you cannot authentically bring the prophecies of the Ghost religion out of the old Indian world without proper instruction from the priests of that world. These Indian prophecies concerning the Whites point more to those Whites that, over time, are actually able to become Indians in their outlook than to a White idea of what the the prophecies are about. Apparently Brooke believed she only needed a few hours of explanation from a Ghost priest apprentice on a drive up to see the Ghost religion ceremony (and only one of the Ghost ceremonies of the several related ones at that) to bring out the vision of the aboriginal prophets as concerns the New White Indians. Not so. But there is a precedent for what Brooke is actually doing. No amount of eloquent poetry can disguise the fact that the Apostle Paul’s self delusions subverted the message of the historic Jesus for two millennia. Brooke appears to be setting out down the same road. The idea expressed in the preface of Brooke’s book that the Sun and Ghost religion must be mixed in the future as stated: “Here we see that to form the Rainbow Bridge, the Sun Dance must be blended with the Ghost Dance. These powerful rituals must now come together in one great ceremony, one eternal dance of renewal for Mother Earth and all her children.”

203 Demonstrates a profound ignorance of the Native American fact that dream and ceremony are derived from laws set by the seasons, the laws of nature. This preceeding statement relating to Brooke’s book, and her imagined Indian ways, taken in an authentic native sense, suggests ritualizing and initiating chaos in our weather and environment, something our planet does not need more of and something authentically trained medicine people would never do, a violation of mankind’s place in nature’s scheme. These ceremonies do not mix in any sense as Brooke imagines. There are no accidents in nature however, and that includes Brooke, and the idea of coincidence does not exist in the reality of the native thinking scheme and understanding of nature’s laws. Consequently Brooke’s ritualizing must be seen as an involuntary and destructive ceremonial manifestation of our world’s chaos: as manifest in the unconcious Whiteman. Unknowingly, Brooke is manifesting ritual that reflects mankind bringing chaos to nature. She reminds me more than anything of the old Blackfeet story of Ai-Ta-Pyooyi that lured children into her camp and made these innocents into stew, that’s the concept that comes to mind when I think of Brooke’s students, the story is called „The Children That Were Left Behind.“ If Brooke is a real Medicine Woman, she is subject to peer review. How many of the laws of the medicine world does it seem Brooke breaks? Translated into western concepts, those laws are; The law of peer review, you cannot close off your actual method to the authentic medicine people. The law that some ceremony, particularly Sun Dance and Ghost Dance, belong to all of the people, you cannot close these off to the general public. The law that seperates the seasonal phenomena in natures ceremonies. The law that you cannot price learning the medicine ways or work with healing in such a manner that it precludes the poor. The law that medicine people cannot acquire wealth exceeding the basics required for a simple comfortable life, they must return their excess wealth to the people, especially in caring for the poor and the public feeding of the people at ceremony, giving back to the entire nation. Just to name a few. However if Brooke does not claim any authenticity in the native traditions of this land, then of course none of the above is applicable to her. What Brooke is doing is not much, if any different at all than Earl Old Person putting himself foward as an authentic Blackfeet Chief or the acts of the numerous ‚Telescope’ or other phony medicine men in Indian country. If Indian people were to concern themselves with straightening out these matters closer to home, relevant their own nations, then their criticisms of Brooke would appear more valid. The best example I can relate to the case of Earl, Brooke and the phony medicine men would be the 9th rule of Buddhism’s Kalama Sutta „Don’t believe something just because the speaker appears believable, perhaps due to an appearance of credibility or prestige. Outside appearances and the actual knowledge inside a person can never be identical. We often find that speakers who appear credible outwardly turn out to say incorrect and foolish things.“ I could add to that the reverse could be true as well. Indian culture once upon a time taught similar ideas. Contrasted to Brook Medicine Eagle, Brant Secunda who has also been critized by Indian people for his „Shamanism“ is a different story. I had brought Pat to Brant’s workshop in 1984 at the Feathered Pipe Ranch because the previous year I had met Don Jose Matsuwa, Brant’s teacher from the Huichol Indians, and Don Jose had made it very clear

204 that he had given the Dance of the Deer to Brant to bring out into the western world. There is nothing coy about what Brant is doing. The authentic Medicine Men have always held the right to determine the future of their knowledge, in short, they can pass it to whomever they please. Don Jose, in no uncertain terms, validated Brant’s work. Brant primarily teaches about living right, the first and primary lesson of the real medicine men. The Indians that are criticizing Brant should reread this books chapter „Modern Indian Society“ with particular care given to the section devoted to the „Racist Red Indians.“ My pronunciations of Blackfeet are my own phonectic device, I have not studied any of the Blackfeet-English grammars or dictionaries, none of which are established as offcially standardized. Now there is an obviously substandard system: Mine. How old are the ancient Blackfeet stories? The cannibal woman Ai-Ta-Pyooyi met her end when she attempted to cross a river on the back of a ‚Water Bull’ and was swept away. The Water Bull’s description leads one to think it was a Woolly Mammoth. Did the North American Indians ride Elephants too? The Whiteman’s so called „Empirical Science“ would never be able to determine this one way or the other. But why not. My approach writing this book Except for refering to a few Blackfeet related documents, this entire work is written from memory. I kept no recorded Journal per Pat’s instruction I learn the old way... Memorize. So it is largely in the Oral tradition and what I would call a modified native storytelling format. In this case sometimes the stories are rendered ‚more true’ in the sense of the Indian saying: ‚My dog is not fat... it’s just that his head is small.’ The stories cannot be dry, they must both teach and entertain. Also it should come as no surprize that the Indian Oral history, and my own accounts, would significantly differ from the Anglo record and contemporary anglo or assimilated Indian accounts, for two significant reasons: America has suppressed the history of it’s crimes of genocide and present continuing ethnocide against these people and history is shaped by contemporary reality. The culturally intact Indians and myself have a different reality from the dominant christian Anglo and assimilated Indian reality. To quote Paula Gunn Allen „Don’t look to the anthropologists for the truth of the Indian experience, but look instead to the Story Tellers.“ Paula is right. I would add to that: don’t look to the assimilated Indians for the truth either. Whatever small skill I might demonstrate in this rather short narrative, short in the sense that it is only a snapshot of my experiences, has solely to do with circumstance. The reading habit I picked up during my childhood (the chapter ‚Retrospective’) has been a habit I had never let go of. This fact coupled with having lost my handwriting ability due to my neurological disease and the circumstance of living with an Oral native tradition that provided a substitute for the western society’s penchant for pen and paper, this taken alltogether with the new technology of word processing for the handicapped on the computer after the fact, has made it possible.

205 Additional Credits Blackfeet I have known, native to that tribe or adopted or married into, that I have not extensively written about or necessarily mentioned, and have to a greater or lesser extent contributed to my knowledge mostly in a positive way (whether they realized it or not, and whether I have got their names right or not), are from the Montana Amskapi Pikuni: Joe (Spy E Kwan) Eagle Child, Cecile Horn, Mary Ground, Forest Little Dog, Mike Little Dog, Francis Potts, Al Potts, Jim and Mabel Little Bull, Leonard Mountain Chief, John DeRoche & Clan, Alex Sherman, Kenny LaPope (grandson of Louis Reil), Wayne Many Guns, Mike Swims Under, Marlene Bear Walter, Alvin Reevis, Johnny Ground, Larry Ground, the William ‚Goat’ Running Crane clan, Anthony (Snowman) Yellow Owl, Jim Bird, Darrell Kipp, Woody Kipp, Terry Running Crane, Sam Young Running Crane, David Dragonfly, Gary Comes at Night, Melvin Running Rabbit, the Aims Back family, Dayton (Mountain Chief) Bachand, Mary Left Hand, Cecile (Big Spring) Rider, Justine Big Spring & Raymond Croft, Thomas Big Spring, Melvin Mad Plume, the Rider Clan, Daryl Makes Cold Weather, Tommy Youngman & family, Kenny Buffalo, Harold Gray, George & Molly Kicking Woman, Buster, Thelma, Sissy (Helen), Nolan, Tiny Man and Merle Yellow Kidney, Del Boss Ribs, the No Runners, Leon Rattler, Philip Many Hides, Levi Many Hides, Terry Pepion, Jim Junior & Susie White Calf, Faye, Shorty and Timmy Cuddotte and family, Alfred and Agnes Wells, Richard Jackson, Bill Hameline, Daryl Yellow Owl, George (Our Stick Game Jesus) Hilling, Jack, Tommy, Smarty and Francis Heavy Runner, Fatty Heavy Runner & Gobbles Wells, Mike & Annie Takes Gun, Marie Arrow Top Knot, Jimmy Small, Buckwheat Arrowtop, Butch (Heavy Runner) Arrow Top Knot & family, Grace Arrow Top Knot, Pat Kennedy Jr, Fred Noon, Carol Kennedy, Ed North Piegan & Wilma Wells, Old & Young Dave Wells, Doris Wells, and all of Heart Butte, Badger, Two Medicine and Browning Wellsfrom the Skinni Pikuni at Brockett: Kim Buffalo, Arthur, Andrew, Jim, Devalon, JoAnn, Nelson & Florence Small Legs, Milton Born With A Tooth, and Mary Little Mustachefrom the Kainah at Stand Off: Keon Weasel Head, Sheldon and Cathy First Rider, Floyd Many Fingers, Smokey Wells, Brian (Moon Calf) Watt, Dean Plumefrom from the Siksika at Blackfoot Crossing: all those fine people at the meeting to discuss the ressurection of the Blackfeet Confederacy who presented me with the gift of a Commemorative Peace Medaland entirely too many more Indian people to mention, my many friends of the other tribes, inclusive of all of the stick game players, pow wow singers and dancers I have known, some whose faces and events I remember but whose names I have forgotten... Very special thanks to Samantha Schroeder, Whit Hibbard and Marten Briese for taping and transcribing the interviews that, over time, evolved into this book.............................