Sherman Alexie - The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven

He counted his coins. Enough for a bottle of Annie Green Springs Wine in the Trading Post. He walked down the hill and into the store, grabbed the bottle without hesitation, paid for it with nickels and pennies, and walked into the parking lot. Victor pulled the wine from its paper bag, cracked the seal, and twisted the cap off.

Jesus, he wanted to drink so much his blood could make the entire tribe numb.

“Hey, cousin, you got to let it breathe.”

An Indian stranger jumped from a pickup, walked over to Victor, and smiled.

“What did you say?” Victor asked him.

“I said you got to let it breathe.”

Victor looked at his open bottle, offered it to the stranger in an intertribal gesture.

“You want the first drink, cousin?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

The stranger drank long and hard, his throat working like gears. When he was done, he wiped the bottle clean and handed it back to Victor.

“Listen up,” the stranger said. “Today is my birthday.”

“How old are you?”

“Old enough.”

And they laughed.

Victor looked at the bottle again and offered it again to the stranger in a personal gesture.

“Have a birthday drink.”

“Shit, you’re a generous drunk, enit?”

“Generous enough.”

And they laughed.

The Indian stranger drank half the bottle with one swallow. He smiled when he handed the wine back to Victor.

“What tribe are you, cousin?” Victor asked him.

“Cherokee.”

“Really? Shit, I’ve never met a real Cherokee.”

“Neither have I.”

And they laughed.

Victor looked at the bottle for a third time. He handed it back to the Indian stranger.

“Keep it,” he said. “You deserve it more.”

“Thanks, cousin. My throat is dry, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.”

Victor touched the Indian stranger’s hand, smiled hard at him, and walked away. He looked at the sun to determine the time and then checked his watch to be sure.

“Hey, cousin,” the Indian stranger yelled. “You know how to tell the difference between a real Indian and a fake Indian?”

“How?”

“The real Indian got blisters on his feet. The fake Indian got blisters on his ass.”

And they laughed. And Victor kept laughing as he walked. And he was walking down this road and tomorrow maybe he would be walking down another road and maybe tomorrow he would be dancing. Victor might be dancing.

Yes, Victor would be dancing.

THOMAS BUILDS-THE-FIRE WAITED ALONE in the Spokane tribal holding cell while BIA officials discussed his future, the immediate present, and of course, his past.

“Builds-the-Fire has a history of this kind of behavior,” a man in a BIA suit said to the others. “A storytelling fetish accompanied by an extreme need to tell the truth. Dangerous.”

Thomas was in the holding cell because he had once held the reservation postmaster hostage for eight hours with the idea of a gun and had also threatened to make significant changes in the tribal vision. But that crisis was resolved years ago as Thomas surrendered voluntarily and agreed to remain silent. In fact, Thomas had not spoken in nearly twenty years. All his stories remained internal; he would not even send letters or Christmas cards.

But recently Thomas had begun to make small noises, form syllables that contained more emotion and meaning than entire sentences constructed by the BIA. A noise that sounded something like rain had given Esther courage enough to leave her husband, tribal chairman David WalksAlong, who had been tribal police chief at the time of Thomas Builds-the-Fire’s original crime. WalksAlong walked along with BIA policy so willingly that he took to calling his wife a savage in polyester pants . She packed her bags the day after she listened to Thomas speak; Thomas was arrested the day after Esther left.

Now Thomas sat quietly in his cell, counting cockroaches and silverfish. He couldn’t sleep, he didn’t feel like eating. Often he closed his eyes and stories came to him quickly, but he would not speak. He nodded and laughed if the story was funny; cried a little when the stories were sad; pounded his fists against his mattress when the stories angered him.

“Well, the traveling judge is coming in tomorrow,” one guy in a BIA suit said to the others. “What charges should we bring him up on?”

“Inciting a riot? Kidnapping? Extortion? Maybe murder?” another guy in a BIA suit asked, and the others laughed.

“Well,” they all agreed. “It has to be a felony charge. We don’t need his kind around here anymore.”

Later that night, Thomas lay awake and counted stars through the bars in his window. He was guilty, he knew that. All that was variable on any reservation was how the convicted would be punished.

The following report is adapted from the original court transcript .

“Mr. Builds-the-Fire,” the judge said to Thomas. “Before we begin this trial, the court must be certain that you understand the charges against you.”

Thomas, who wore his best ribbon shirt and decided to represent himself, stood and spoke a complete sentence for the first time in two decades.

“Your Honor,” he said. “I don’t believe that the exact nature of any charges against me have been revealed, let alone detailed.”

There was a hush in the crowd, followed by exclamations of joy, sadness, etc. Eve Ford, the former reservation postmaster held hostage by Thomas years earlier, sat quietly in the back row and thought to herself, He hasn’t done anything wrong .

“Well, Mr. Builds-the-Fire,” the judge said. “I can only infer by your sudden willingness to communicate that you do in fact understand the purpose of this trial.”

“That’s not true.”

“Are you accusing this court of dishonesty, Mr. Builds-the-Fire?”

Thomas sat down, to regain his silence for a few moments.

“Well, Mr. Builds-the-Fire, we’re going to dispense with opening remarks and proceed to testimony. Are you ready to call your first witness?”

“Yes, I am, Your Honor. I call myself as first and only witness to all the crimes I’m accused of and, additionally, to bring attention to all the mitigating circumstances.”

“Whatever,” the judge said. “Raise your right hand and promise me you’ll tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

“Honesty is all I have left,” Thomas said.

Thomas Builds-the-Fire sat in the witness stand, closed his eyes, and spoke this story aloud:

“It all started on September 8, 1858. I was a young pony, strong and quick in every movement. I remember this. Still, there was so much to fear on that day when Colonel George Wright took me and 799 of my brothers captive. Imagine, 800 beautiful ponies stolen at once. It was the worst kind of war crime. But Colonel Wright thought we were too many to transport, that we were all dangerous. In fact, I still carry his letter of that day which justified the coming slaughter”:

Dear Sir:

As I reported in my communication of yesterday the capture of 800 horses on the 8th instant, I have now to add that this large band of horses composed the entire wealth of the Spokane chief Til-co-ax. This man has ever been hostile; for the last two years he has been constantly sending his young men into the Walla Walla valley, and stealing horses and cattle from the settlers and from the government. He boldly acknowledged these facts when he met Colonel Steptoe, in May last. Retributive justice has now overtaken him; the blow has been severe but well merited. I found myself embarrassed with these 800 horses. I could not hazard the experiment of moving with such a number of animals (many of them very wild) along with my large train; should a stampede take place, we might not only lose our captured animals, but many of our own. Under those circumstances, I determined to kill them all, save a few in service in the quartermaster’s department and to replace broken-down animals. I deeply regretted killing these poor creatures, but a dire necessity drove me to it. This work of slaughter has been going on since 10 o’clock of yesterday, and will not be completed before this evening, and I shall march for the Coeur d’Alene Mission tomorrow.