Ripper J. American Stories: Living American History. Volume 2: From 1865
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AMERICAN STORIES
28
different way. A column of 200 U.S. soldiers marched into eastern Montana
in 1872, only to be greeted by the Hunkpapas. In the fight that followed, Sit-
ting
Bull walked into the grass separating the two firing armies, sat on the
ground, lit a pipe, and smoked a good lungful while bullets creased the air
around him. Then he walked back to the remaining Sioux, who summarily
retreated. Sitting Bull was developing a reputation to match that of Buffalo
Bill Cody, who, although he did not fight that day against Sitting Bull, served
during that year as an army scout in the region.
The
following year, 1873, Lieutenant Colonel Custer rode through the
northern plains protecting the men building the Northern Pacific railroad.
Although Custer had distinguished himself in the Civil War—earning re-
nown
for near-suicidal charges at Gettysburg—his gift for war had more to
do with guts than smarts, and he loved attention. In late November 1868, at
the Washita River in Indian Territory (now Oklahoma), Custer had gained
both national adulation and condemnation for leading troops in a slaughter
of about 200 Cheyennes, including Black Kettle and his wife. Some people
in the United States had called the Washita incident a massacre. Others had
seen it as just retribution against “hostile Indians.” General Philip Sheridan
considered Custer “distinguished” and his men “gallant” for their killing at
the Washita.
8
Now in 1873, George Custer was once more in Indian country.
As financial panic and economic depression gripped the nation, Custer found
a way to lift the nation’s spirits and to catapult himself as high, some have
speculated, as the presidency.
Treaties had made the pine-tree-studded Black Hills one of the last sanctu-
aries
of the Lakotas. In 1874, Custer led a detachment of the Seventh Cavalry
into those hills, hoping to corroborate rumors of gold. He found what he was
looking for, and more. By 1875, news of Custer’s finds swelled the telegraph
wires, which swelled the hills with prospectors, perhaps 15,000 by midsum-
mer
. The U.S. Army was not about to fight its own population as thousands of
men and women swept into Lakota territory and began mining and building
ramshackle dives like Deadwood. At a grand council held in 1875 with U.S.
officials, Red Cloud and other chiefs offered to sell much of the Black Hills,
but other chiefs, including Sitting Bull, refused. The U.S. government was
willing to give $6 million, but the Sioux in attendance demanded perpetual
compensation, which seemed only fair. Six million dollars would be spent
within years, but the land would never vanish. In any case, no one chief ever
spoke for all the Sioux.
R
ed Cloud and one of his rivals, Spotted Tail, had become affixed to
agencies—reservations—acting as intermediaries between Bureau of Indian
Affairs officers and their own people. Red Cloud and Spotted Tail urged their
young men to adhere to reservation policies, to give up fighting, but they had
29
COWBOYS AND INDIANS
little authority, and many young Sioux left the agencies to follow defiant
leaders like Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse. In the spring of 1876, thousands
of Sioux, Arapahos, and Cheyennes converged at the Little Bighorn River
(known to them as the Greasy Grass) in eastern Montana, certainly to hunt
but also to fight if fighting came to them. Custer came to them, with fewer
than 1,000 men under his direct command.
O
n June 17, eight days before Custer plunged into his own death, dragging
his men along with him, a battle was fought nearby at Rosebud Creek. Crazy
Horse and Sitting Bull had heard about a force of soldiers moving northward
led by General George Crook, a generally honorable man willing to meet
Indians as equals in battle or peace. Army command had recently relocated
Crook to the north after five years of kicking up Arizona dust in pursuit of
the Apaches. Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse met him in a daylong melee that
ended in a twilit standstill. Crook and his 1,000 soldiers turned back. The
Sioux were emboldened, and Sitting Bull’s best-known prophecy was about
to come true. Just before the battle, Sitting Bull had tried to induce a vision
by having another man slice 100 bits of flesh from his arms. Then he danced,
gazed at the sun, and passed out. As he came back to consciousness, a spirit
voice had informed Sitting Bull that soldiers would soon fall upside down
into his camp.
Three
columns of U.S. troops were supposed to have been converging
on the Greasy Grass, where a four-mile-wide camp of Sioux, Arapahos, and
Cheyennes waited. But Crook’s troops had been turned back at the Rosebud,
a fact that neither of the other two converging officers, General Alfred Terry
and Colonel John Gibbon, knew. Cocksure and hotheaded, Custer—who was
only supposed to scout ahead for General Terry—kept his Seventh Cavalry
going straight through the night of June 24, 1876, fearing that the Indians
would escape if he did not attack immediately. Had Custer waited for Gibbon
and Terry, history would have been different. When the morning sun rose
over the hills surrounding the Little Bighorn, thousands of Sioux, Arapahos,
and Cheyennes awoke from a good night’s sleep. Custer’s soldiers crested
the hills exhausted and shocked at the number of tents stretching out below
them. The Seventh Cavalry was obviously outnumbered.
Guided perhaps by the same unseen voice that had offered visions to Sitting
Bull, Custer’s cavalry charged headlong into a prophecy. At first, as a surviving
participant named Red Horse recounted, cavalry under Major Marcus Reno’s
command attacked one side of the Sioux camp. Red Horse recalled:
The women and children ran down the Little Bighorn River a short distance
into a ravine. The soldiers set fire to the lodges. All the Sioux now charged the
soldiers and drove them in confusion across the Little Bighorn River . . . A
AMERICAN STORIES
30
Sioux man came and said that a different party of soldiers had all the women
and children prisoners. Like a whirlwind the word went around, and the Sioux
all heard it and left the soldiers on the hill and went quickly to save the women
and children.
9
Led by Crazy Horse and another war chief, Gall, thousands of Sioux lanced
into Reno and Custer’s ranks. The initial cavalry onslaught had just killed
Gall’s young daughter and wife, and Gall struck back with blinding rage, his
grief mingling with dying men’s shrieks and the rolling thunder of 10,000
horses’ hooves. The killing lasted for hours. More than 100 Sioux died, and all
265 men under Custer’s direct command lost their lives at the Greasy Grass.
When army and cavalry reinforcements arrived, the Indians dispersed.
It
took a few days for the story to hit the major newspapers, and when it
did, people’s sympathy for previous injustices to the Sioux vanished. On July
6, the New York Times ran its first piece on the incident, titled “Massacre of
Our Troops,” with a subtitle indicating the way public opinion would sway:
“Attack on an Overwhelmingly Large Camp of Savages.” The following day,
the T
imes lamented, “how gallantly those poor fellows fought can only be
surmised.” The Times urged “chastisement” of the “wild Indians” and labeled
Custer “dashing” and a “hero,” if somewhat “imprudent.”
10
The Times credited
Sitting Bull with leadership of all the Sioux forces, though in reality he prob-
ably
did not even fight at the Little Bighorn. Nonetheless, the army massed
new forces in the area and gave chase. Most Indians easily hid in the hills or
returned to one of the reservations in the region. Sitting Bull went to Canada
with hundreds of followers, where he stayed until the Canadian government
pressured him into returning in 1881. Crazy Horse, a one-time loner now turned
into a symbol of resistance, stayed in the hills, feeding starving followers, until
the spring of 1877, when he realized that a life on the run would not work
with women and children in tow. He submitted himself to a reservation, but
confusion and jealousies got the better of him. Red Cloud and Spotted Tail
fretted over Crazy Horse’s popularity. He had stayed free and fought, while
they had submitted to white ways and white authority. Crazy Horse made
them look weak, and they feared the crazy ideas he might put in young men’s
heads. In September 1877, Crazy Horse died at the hands of friends and an
army soldier’s bayonet during an accidental altercation.
During these years of plains warfare, the army needed seasoned scouts
who could track Indians like Crazy Horse or Geronimo. On July 8, 1876,
the Ne
w York Times suggested that the army enlist men from the “Western
Territories” who “are used to the country and the climate, and who can live,
like the Indians, two or three weeks at a time on jerked beef and water, with
now and then a piece of hard tack.”
11
31
COWBOYS AND INDIANS
Buffalo Bill: Violence and Theater
Just before the battle at the Little Bighorn, William Cody received notice
that his services as a tracker were required. Cody could live on jerked beef,
water, and hardtack, though lately he had been living on audiences’ applause
and the proceeds from ticket sales. Buffalo Bill Cody had become an actor.
Now the army called him west in anticipation of troubles, and although he
arrived too late to play a role at either Rosebud or the Little Bighorn, he
managed to add another knife fight to his long list of Wild West heroics. On
July 16, Cody spotted a group of Cheyennes heading out to intercept two
army messengers. He rallied some troops and galloped after the Cheyennes.
What happened next has come down through history as a mixture of Cody’s
flare for promotional storytelling and the accounts of a few witnesses. In
Cody’s account, a Cheyenne chief named Yellow Hair turned to face Cody
gladiator-style where all could watch. Cody shot Yellow Hair’s horse, raced
down on the fallen warrior, and plunged a knife to the hilt in the man’s
heart. Cody finished by saying, “I scientifically scalped him in about five
seconds. . . . As the soldiers came up I swung the Indian chieftain’s top knot
and [war] bonnet into the air and shouted: the first scalp for Custer!”
12
A
soldier on the scene saw things a little differently, believing that Cody killed
Yellow Hair with a bullet, not a knife. But whether by knife or gun, Cody
used the incident to adorn his reputation and advertise his show in the com-
i
ng years. Reenactments of the scalping of Yellow Hair became a favored
scene in Cody’s Wild West. There are no surviving accounts of Indians who
traveled with Cody objecting to these kinds of displays. White men and
Indians mutilated their victims’ corpses as a matter of course, just as they
had been doing for centuries. That Cody would use this grisly practice to
his advantage was only natural.
To think that scalps were the trophies of men only would be to mistake
the commonplace use of body parts in western culture. In the early 1900s,
a woman named Emma Warfield Howard recalled a keepsake from her
childhood during the pioneering days in Oregon: “My father volunteered in
the Indian war of 1855 and 1856. . . . When my father came back from the
war, he gave me the scalp that he had cut from the head of Peu-peu-mox-
mox [chief of the Walla Walla]. Mother used to make rag dolls for me and
would sew the scalp of Peu-peu-mox-mox on the doll’s head for hair. This
scalp served as hair for several of my dolls. As the dolls would wear out
I would change the scalp to the new doll.”
13
It was no wonder that Cody
borrowed liberally and graphically from the frontier wars to entertain his
audience. A mock scalping, let alone, apparently, a real one would have
shocked few people.
AMERICAN STORIES
32
Annie Oakley
Real women in the West had to do whatever was necessary to survive. That
often meant toiling alongside their husbands in soils gone hard from drought,
driving fence posts, planting crops, and shouldering a rifle, whether to keep
an unsavory character at bay or to shoot the evening’s meal. The popular
image of a woman, however, included neither rifles nor farming, but rather
demure domesticity: gentle humor, plenty of baking flour, an apron, and an
uncomplaining endurance.
P
hoebe Ann Moses was not born in the far West. However, as Annie Oakley,
she became one of the most famous Americans of her day, part of a Western
tableau cooked up by William Cody’s imagination and her ability to remain
ladylike while enthralling audiences as one of the best rifle shots on the planet.
She was born in rural Ohio in 1860. Like Cody’s father, Phoebe’s father died
when she was young, leaving her mother with five children and nowhere near
enough food or money to fend for them all. The local orphanage sent Phoebe
to an abusive farm family whom she later called “the wolves.” When only
twelve, Phoebe escaped, found her way back to the orphanage—which was
under new and kinder management—and learned to sew, a skill she later used
to make her own outfits. During the next five years, Phoebe found her way
to a gun, which she promptly used to put single shots through the heads of
tasty birds. A local grocer realized the money to be made from her hunting
and gave her a better gun. By the age of fifteen, Phoebe was providing fowl
and rabbits to local high-end restaurants in Cincinnati and had paid off the
mortgage on her mother’s home. The year she turned fifteen, 1875, was the
year miners flocked to the Black Hills and the second year of Bill Cody’s
incipient acting career. The next year Phoebe Moses met an Irishman, Frank
Butler, a traveling marksman who worked in vaudeville. Butler had a stand-
ing
offer in each new town that after a performance anyone could challenge
him to a pigeon shoot. Any challenger who beat him would walk off with
100 dollars. Imagine his surprise when five-foot Phoebe Moses easily won
the money. Apparently possessed of steadier humor than hands, Frank fell in
love with the diminutive champion, and within a few years they were tour-
ing
together, though it was not until 1882 that they married and that Phoebe
appeared on stage—the day Frank’s partner fell ill and could not perform.
Phoebe, of course, out shot both Frank and the audience’s expectations of
her. The crowd loved her, and Annie Oakley was born.
The timing was perfect. During the first few years that Annie Oakley
shaped her stage persona, Bill Cody broke free from stiff dramas written and
produced by other people. In 1883, the Wild West made its debut in Omaha,
Nebraska. Two years later, Annie Oakley joined the troupe, with Frank, no
33
COWBOYS AND INDIANS
longer himself a headliner, acting as her manager. Audiences loved watching
this pretty woman’s cute, endearing ways as she blasted away with a deadly
smoothbore shotgun, letting a soft smile touch her face when she missed a
shot (which rarely happened) and springing a jaunty backward heel kick after
a particularly good shot. As business people, she and Cody needed each other,
and except for a two-year break from 1887 to 1889, they were not parted on
the road or on stage until 1903. Long white hair flowing from underneath his
Stetson, Cody cut a dashing figure on his show horse, which the poet E.E.
Cummings called “a watersmooth-silver stallion.”
14
Oakley always wore a
dress, never once appearing in bloomers or pants, both of which she decreed
unfit for a woman.
As cultural ambassadors of the United States, Cody, Oakley, ninety-seven
Lakotas, other performers, stagehands, and droves of symbolic livestock
(namely buffalo and elk) steamed to England in 1887 for a grand celebration
of Queen Victoria’s fifty years under the crown. Victoria, the most powerful
woman in the world, took a coach to the fairgrounds to watch Annie Oakley,
the most famous American woman, shoot pennies in the air, split playing
cards on the thin side, and clip a cigarette held trustingly in Kaiser Wilhelm’s
lips. Although the tour of England was an unqualified success for all, with
goodwill and good money flowing generously, Oakley and her husband de-
cided
to try showbiz on their own for a while, and they left for New York City
before the tour was completed. Oakley tried Pawnee Bill’s competing Wild
West production, tried going it alone, but ultimately accepted Cody’s offer
to cross the Atlantic again for a madcap circuit of the European continent.
Audiences loved her as much in Europe as they did in the United States, and
the history of the West as told by Buffalo Bill became the story of the West
that everyone learned.
There
was a tricky, emotionally treacherous side to these presentations
of Western history and civilization: after all, real people, white and Indian,
had really died. But the last major confrontation between them—at the Little
Bighorn—had occurred years earlier, in 1876, and with Sitting Bull himself
appearing for a season in Cody’s Wild West show during 1885, it seemed safe
to Buffalo Bill to trivialize killings through the act of glorifying killings. Sit-
ting
Bull got paid fifty dollars a week, a handsome sum, though he returned
to the Standing Rock reservation after one season because he could not abide
the way white Americans treated their paupers on the street. Lakotas took
better care of their own. Before leaving the show, Sitting Bull befriended
Annie Oakley, being variously impressed by her shooting and her attitude.
After 1890, as it turned out, the Wild West shows had to scale back some of
their bloodier acts, making displays of Oakley’s shooting skill more palatable
to a nation spent on western massacres.
AMERICAN STORIES
34
For generations the Sun Dances had been vital to plains people from the
Kiowas to the Sioux. In The Way to Rainy Mountain, N. Scott Momaday recalls
the “annual rites” of the Sun Dances, by which the Kiowa ritually restored
themselves through dance and “buffalo medicine” in the presence of Tai-me,
“the sacred Sun Dance doll” given to them by the Crow in the late 1600s.
15
But the dance had not prevented white colonization or the eradication of the
buffalo, and Momaday explains how his own grandmother attended the last
attempted Sun Dance of the Kiowa in 1890 when soldiers from Fort Sill,
Oklahoma, dispersed the Sun Dancers. Momaday says, “without bitterness,
and for as long as she lived, she bore a vision of deicide.”
16
During this same
period of suppression of Native religion in the 1880s a new dance, the Ghost
Dance, began to make its way across the plains. Preached by Jack Wilson,
known better as Wovoka, an orphaned Paiute raised by a Nevada rancher, the
Ghost Dance offered the promise of a return to a prewhite world. If dancers
followed Wovoka’s advice and rituals—which included only peaceful and
exhausting movements—Indians could regain the plains as the white people
faded away, to be guided elsewhere by a messiah. The dance arrived in Sioux
country in 1889, making both military and Indian Affairs officials nervous
and twitchy, especially with a Sioux innovation that involved Ghost Dance
shirts with the power to stop bullets. Besides, who wants to be shimmied
into oblivion?
W
ith Ghost Dancers already swaying at the Rosebud and Pine Ridge res-
ervations,
only Standing Rock remained free of the movement, until October
1890 when Sitting Bull allowed its practice there as well, though he may have
viewed the Ghost Dance with some skepticism. Sitting Bull never danced,
according to biographer Robert Utley, but he “presided over the community of
believers” and, possibly to renew his waning influence, “he led, reluctant but
resolute, uncertain but committed.”
17
Thousands of army troops were massed
around the reservations, anxious at the prospect of a renewed Indian uprising,
which the dance seemed to portend. On December 15, 1890, a group of Indian
police officers tried to arrest Sitting Bull in an effort to remove his support for
the dance. A group of the old prophet’s friends surrounded the police. In the
ensuing scuffle, guns were discharged, one or two directly into Sitting Bull’s
brain. The Indian agent, James McLaughlin, who had ordered the arrest had
also, foolishly, prevented Bill Cody from trying to help. General Nelson Miles
had telegraphed Cody a couple of weeks before, asking him to assist with
Sitting Bull, to “deliver” Sitting Bull to the military.
18
Agent McLaughlin,
however, had not wanted the impresario of the West either mucking things
up or getting any credit for arresting Sitting Bull, which McLaughlin had
thought he could accomplish. So McLaughlin had telegraphed the president
arguing that Cody would “cause a fight.” President Benjamin Harrison had,
35
COWBOYS AND INDIANS
in turn, “rescinded Cody’s authority.”
19
Whether or not Cody would have
made a positive difference during Sitting Bull’s arrest cannot be known, but
Sitting Bull’s death did precipitate a much larger tragedy than the sadness a
few friends experienced at his passing.
The
most famous and enduring (and in this case unplanned) massacre of
Indians took place at Wounded Knee, South Dakota, on December 29, 1890,
only two weeks after Sitting Bull died. Edgy in the aftermath of the killing,
hundreds of Hunkpapa Sioux left the Standing Rock reservation and wandered
off into the Black Hills and toward other encampments of Sioux, including
Chief Big Foot’s camp at Cherry Creek.
20
Then, in the last days of December,
Big Foot—who was coming down with pneumonia—led his Miniconjou and
the newly arrived Hunkpapa toward Red Cloud’s headquarters at Pine Ridge.
The Ghost Dance still beat a strong tempo, and army troops moved in around
the camp-in-motion of the pneumonia-plagued chief Big Foot, whom they
had orders to arrest, under the false assumption that Big Foot posed a risk.
Paranoia ran rampant throughout the ranks of soldiers and Sioux. For one
night, U.S. cavalry and Sioux cavalcade traveled slowly together over the
snow toward Pine Ridge. The next morning, the soldiers gathered the Sioux
together and set about disarming them, taking all knives and guns. Women,
children, and warriors were gathered there together on the snowy ground. In
the process of trying to collect their firearms, a number of missteps coincided:
jittery soldiers making a stressful encounter worse; a Sioux holy man throw-
ing
a handful of dirt into the air (a sign to fight, perhaps); a Sioux’s gun firing
accidentally or intentionally; volleys of army bullets in return. Within a few
minutes, a few soldiers lay dead, and at least 153 Sioux—out of an original
350—were sprawled on the ground, including Big Foot, where they stayed
until New Year’s Day, when a detachment of soldiers showed up to collect
the corpses for burial. At least one baby was found alive in the snow, wrapped
tightly in blankets, snug against its lifeless mother. More than thirty years
later, a Lakota elder named Black Elk memorialized Wounded Knee. “I did
not know then how much was ended,” Black Elk said. “When I look back
now from this high hill of my old age, I can still see the butchered women
and children lying heaped and scattered all along the crooked gulch as plain
as when I saw them with eyes still young. And I can see that something else
died there in the bloody mud, and was buried in the blizzard. A people’s dream
died there. It was a beautiful dream.”
21
With Native American traditions and culture remaining strong and resilient,
in the late nineteenth century, Congress tried to make Indians more “Ameri-
can,”
to “assimilate” them into the mainstream culture. Between 1894 and
1935, the federal government banned Native American religious ceremonies,
making them illegal on reservations. Even before 1890, the U.S. government,
AMERICAN STORIES
36
the Bureau of Indian Affairs, and well-meaning (if presumptuous) “reform-
ers” decided that Indian children should be educated in Christian, English,
and industrial manners. Starting with the Carlisle School in Pennsylvania in
1879 (which received federal funds beginning in 1883), thousands of Native
American children from all over the nation were forced into Indian schools
where they had their hair cut, got stuffed into military-style clothes, and were
punished for speaking their native languages. Sent back to their respective
reservations, these adolescents straddled two cultures and often had a hard
time fitting into either. Most of the reservations they were sent back to had
been vastly diminished by another federal decision: the Dawes Severalty
Act of 1887, which intentionally broke up reservation lands, apportioning
160-acre plots to individual families (families as defined by the white one-
husband-one-wife model). Much of the rest of the reservation got doled out
to white families, either via lottery or sales. By the time Congress revoked
the Dawes Act in the 1930s, more than half of all reservation lands had been
taken away.
Bill Cody’s Wild West shows demonstrated a commonplace in American
life: the way to assimilate is through acceptance rather than coercion. Cody
offered women and Indians the same thing he offered men: three meals a
day and good pay. The federal government was reluctant to let Indians leave
the reservations and work for Cody, but when offered the chance, they went
with him by the dozens and hundreds. Their old West was gone anyway, and
they could earn more honor and sustenance working for the Wild West show
than they could on reservations where pushy teachers and missionaries told
them how life ought to be. Bill Cody and Annie Oakley were apparently two
of the very few white people that Sitting Bull liked. Though most Americans
still lived on farms or in towns with fewer than 2,500 residents by the time
that William Cody died in 1917, he had seen many transitions and helped to
usher in a few.
The Old West was gone: cattle had replaced buffalo, and even cattle
ranching was changed. Cattle drives northward out of Texas along routes
like the Goodnight Trail from Abilene to Colorado were no longer necessary
since railroads could take cows and steers directly where once the cowboy
was needed to keep the vast herds in line. Out of the lariat and saddleback
skills of the cowboy, Bill Cody invented the rodeo, yet one more Western
device in his make-believe re-creations of fact and fiction.
22
Enthusiastic
audiences, including crowds of children given free tickets, watched Buffalo
Bill’s scruffy-faced actors yank stagecoaches around the central performance
concourse as yelping Indians chased behind. There in the noonday sun of
an East Coast summer, audience members had as much heat and humidity
to contend with as the actors. But Thomas Edison, who patented literally
37
COWBOYS AND INDIANS
hundreds of gizmos from the ticker tape to the phonograph recorder, also
devised motion pictures. By the early 1900s, Edison’s movie cameras were
creating entertainment faster than Cody could re-create the past. Cody
invested time and money in some movie flops, which exhausted the little
money he had ever been able to set aside in the compulsive fits of partying
and philanthropy that overcame him regularly. Today there are a few minutes
of surviving film footage of Buffalo Bill riding in dusty circles and Annie
Oakley shooting teensy targets out of the air. Cody died in 1917, before
movies could undo him. He was still the biggest act in America. Annie
Oakley lived until 1926, when the stars of the vaudeville stage were being
inched out by the stars of the screen.
Sherman Alexie’s Poem on Buffalo Bill
Sherman Alexie is a Spokane/Coeur d’Alene Indian. Alexie has published
haunting and hilarious stories and poems about Indian life on and off the
reservation. While still writing new stories, Alexie has also produced two
movies, Smoke Signals and The Business of Fancydancing.
23
Evolution
Buffalo Bill opens a pawn shop on the reservation
right across the border from the liquor store
and he stays open 24 hours a day
, 7 days a week
and the Indians come running in with jewelry
television sets, a
VCR, a full-length beaded buckskin outfit
it took Inez Muse 12 years to finish. Buffalo Bill
takes everything the Indians have to offer, keeps it
all catalogued and filed in a storage room. The Indians
pawn their hands, saving the thumbs for last, they pawn
their skeletons, falling endlessly from the skin
and when the last Indian has pawned everything
but his heart, Buf
falo Bill takes that for twenty bucks
closes up the pawn shop, paints a new sign over the old
calls his venture
THE MUSEUM OF NATIVE AMERICAN
CUL
TURES
charges the Indians five bucks a head to enter.
24