Sherman Alexie - Indian Killer

“There,” Aaron had said, surprised by his own giddiness. He’d wondered if this was how the great Indian-fighters, like Custer, Sheridan, and Wright, had felt just before battle.

“Oh, we got them now,” Buck had said. “We got them good.”

The car had rattled down the access road and stopped beside a camas field. The engine had idled for a few moments before shuddering to a stop. Slowly and quietly, five, six, seven Indians had crawled out of the car. David had not understood how seven people could have fit into that small car. Four children, David saw, and a man and woman, perhaps the mother and father of the children, and, following behind them, an elderly woman.

“Tell me when, tell me when,” Aaron had whispered to his father.

“Patience, patience.”

The Indians had walked across the field until they were standing less than fifty feet away from the hunting blind. With his finger lightly feathering the trigger, Aaron had stared down the barrel of his rifle and sighted in on the Indian father.

“When? When?” Aaron had asked.

David had watched as the Indians, even the children, pulled out strange curved tools and began digging in the earth. Digging for camas root. David had wondered why the Indians loved the root so much. Why had they come in the middle of the night? After Buck had threatened them with physical violence? Even the Indian children, who David had always seen as wild and uncontrollable, quietly and respectfully dug for those roots. David had no idea the Indians had been root digging for thousands of years.

“Get ready,” Buck had whispered. David, knowing what was expected of him, had reluctantly raised his rifle.

“They’re just kids,” David had whispered.

“Lice make nits,” Buck had whispered as he raised his rifle.

The Indians dug for roots. As the old woman dug, she’d remembered when she had come here with her grandmother.

“Remember,” Buck had whispered. “Shoot over their heads.”

David had aimed his rifle at the moon, not wanting to even see the Indians as they ran away. He’d heard the soft laughter of the Indian mother. David had wondered if she was beautiful.

“Now,” Buck had said and pulled the trigger. David had squeezed off a bullet and then had turned to look at his brother, who had not yet fired. David had seen the look in his older brother’s eyes and had known Aaron was sighting in on the Indian father. Not above his head, but at his head.

“No!” David had shouted as Aaron pulled the trigger. The Indian man had fallen to the ground. He didn’t move for a brief moment, long enough for David to cry out, but then the Indian man had jumped to his feet and, apparently unharmed, raced to the car. As the Indians drove away, Aaron and Buck had laughed and whooped loudly.

“You tried to shoot him,” David had accused his brother.

“What are you talking about?” Aaron had asked.

“You aimed at him. You tried to kill him.”

Buck had stared at his sons with recognition and love. Aaron, who had always wanted so much to be like his father that he wore the same shirts. And David, who had been scared of everything, but would fight Aaron for the slightest transgression.

“David,” Buck had said. “Aaron wouldn’t do something like that. We were just trying to scare them. Right, Aaron?”

“Right, Dad.”

David had thought his big brother was lying.

“Did you see them Indians run?” Aaron had asked his father.

“I saw it,” Buck had said.

“Just like the old days must have been, huh?” Aaron had asked. “Just like the old days!”

David had looked down at the rifle in his hands. He’d felt like crying.

“Hey,” Buck had said to David. “What’s wrong with you?”

David had looked at his father.

“Oh, Jesus,” Buck had said. “You ain’t going to cry?”

David had ducked his head.

“You look at me when I’m talking to you,” Buck had said impatiently. He hated it when his son avoided eye contact. It showed fear. Buck had always hated fear.

“Yes, sir,” David had whispered. With great effort, he’d looked into his father’s blue eyes. David and Aaron had inherited the same color and shape of their father’s eyes. Buck had seen a shadow of his face in his youngest son’s. More important, he had also seen his late wife’s fine features in David’s face.

“Listen,” Buck had said, softening. “I know this is a tough thing to do, shooting after people like this. But we ain’t trying to hurt them. We’re just trying to teach them a lesson. They’re stealing from us, son. This is our land. My land. Your land. Your brother’s land. This land has been in our family for over a hundred years. And those Indians are stealing from us. They’re trying to steal our land. We just can’t have that. Okay, son?”

“But they were kids,” David said. “And an old woman.”

“Indian is Indian,” his father had said, close to losing his temper.

“Hey, Dad,” Aaron had said, trying to divert attention away from his little brother. “Let’s go see if those Indians dropped anything. Maybe one of those weird digging sticks.”

Buck had stared at David for a few seconds, trying to understand how this boy could have been his son. But there could be no getting around it. David was his son, one of two. All the family he had left in the world. Buck had shrugged his shoulders, mussed David’s hair, and then climbed down from the stand. Just before he’d followed, Aaron smiled at his brother.

“Hey, bro,” Aaron had said. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll get them next time.”

Thinking about the camas field, David Rogers barely heard Dr. Clarence Mather lecturing during that first session of the Native literature class.

“Jack Wilson is much more than a mystery novelist,” said Mather. “He is a social realist. Unlike many other Native writers whose work seems to exaggerate the amount of despair in the Indian world, Wilson presents a more authentic and traditional view of the Indian world.”

“Oh, God,” Marie blurted out.

“Do you have something to add, Ms. Polatkin?” asked Dr. Mather. “Yet again?”

“How can Wilson present an authentic and traditional view of the Indian world if he isn’t authentic and traditional himself?” asked Marie. “I mean, I’ve done some research on this guy. He isn’t even Indian at all. How would he know about the despair, or happiness, in the Indian world?”

“Ms. Polatkin,” said Dr. Mather, speaking very slowly. “Since this is the first session of this class, perhaps you might let me actually conduct the class? But, in answer to your questions, Mr. Wilson is, in fact, a Shilshomish Indian.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because he says so and I have no reason to doubt him.”

“But the Shilshomish don’t exist as a tribe anymore. There are no records of membership. Lots of people claim to be Indians, and Wilson’s vague statements about his Shilshomish ancestors can’t be verified.”

“Are you going to blame Mr. Wilson for the shoddy bookkeeping of others?”

“No, but don’t you find it highly ironic that all of these so-called Indian writers claim membership in tribes with poor records of membership? Cherokee, Shilshomish? I mean, there’s not a whole lot of people claiming to be Spokane. And do you know why? Because we’re not glamorous and we keep damn good records.”

“I fail to understand your point, Ms. Polatkin.”

“There’s more,” Marie said. “I’ve been more and more curious about Wilson. I’m active in all the Indian organizations around here and I’ve asked around. Nobody at the Seattle Urban Indian Health Center has ever met Wilson, and nobody at the United Indians of All Tribes Foundation knows him. Nobody at Indian Heritage High School. And he’s never been in contact with anybody at the Native American Students Alliance here at the University. I also called all of the local reservations and nobody has heard of him. Not the Lummi, Puyallup, Tulalip, or anybody else.”