consistent hundred yards behind him. When the dogs flopped in exhaustion beside the car the coyote sat down in the exact place the chase had begun, and continued to watch us until we left.
So in the evening while I was cleaning the car and the dusk disappeared into dark I heard a coyote. I walked out into the pasture into the warm darkness beyond the sound of Ruthâs piano practice. My skin tingled and my stomach hollowed because I somehow thought it might be Duane who could imitate coyotes to the point they would answer him. Duane said the coyotes didnât believe his call, they were only curious and amused. But out there in the pasture I admitted to myself I was going to try to find Duane.
Mother had been cautious with me after the baby on the advice of something she had read, not to pry, not to submit my every moment and mood to scrutiny, and in exchange I offered as much honesty as I could muster. I slipped out of bed the next morning at 5:00 A.M. and left a note saying not to worry, but that I was going to visit my old friend Duane. To make sure I wouldnât be stopped I woke up Ruth, gave her the note, and told her to give it to Mother after school. Ruth was reading Wuthering Heights at the time and thought my search for a lost love was âutterly thrilling.â
I reached Route 12, then drove west until I arrived at Valentine at daylight where I stopped for breakfast, but my butterflies were so bad I couldnât eat the meal. The waitress, who reminded me of a spindlier version of Lena, expressed concern. I said I was worried about my grandmother who was quite sick in Rapid City. The waitress sat down with a cup of coffee and chatted for a while. She admired my sheepskin coat and Paul Bond boots. She said, âDonât talk to no cowboys. They just want to get in your pants.â She said this rather loudly, glancing at a table of cowboys eating their eggs. I felt my face redden and stared out the window at a stock semi full of steers probably headed to the feedlots of Sioux City and eventual slaughter.I paid my bill, thanked her for the advice, and left. What is so wrong with loving a half-brother? I thought.
I took Route 83 north toward Murdo, turning off on 18 in the Rosebud Indian Reservation on the road to Parmelee. I didnât have much hope that Duane would be there as if waiting for me but I hoped to at least cold-track him as the local hunters called it. White people have a hard time understanding why Indians live the way they do, identifying it with the manner our own peculiar âwhite trashâ live; I mean the bare-ground lawns, broken fences, discarded, picked-over cars, ramshackle houses. Grandfather said you donât want to understand someone if you are stealing, or have stolen, all their property. It might make you feel bad about what you did if you understood them.
Parmelee was indeed a sorry-looking place. Indian summer had suddenly disappeared and a cold wind out of the north blew icy dust in my eyes as I knocked on doors which quickly closed in my face. Some kids and barking dogs began to follow me at a polite distance. The kids laughed and shrieked when I spoke to them in a few words of rudimentary Sioux. I did see an old man working under the upraised hood of a junk car. He poked out, smiled, and said, âMay I help you, daughter,â in Sioux. When questioned, he said that he had heard that both Duane and his mother were down in Pine Ridge.
Pine Ridge was another hundred miles down the road but my heart was light as I drove with the wild and blustery north wind rocking the car. I even sang along to the country songs on the radio from a Rapid City stationâthinking that Duane might be listening to the same station. It was easiest to sing with Patsy Cline because that was how I felt.
Pine Ridge was terribly unfriendly but again my rather clumsy attempts at the Sioux language got me the unpleasant information. Duane had been drunk and had beaten up a
So in the evening while I was cleaning the car and the dusk disappeared into dark I heard a coyote. I walked out into the pasture into the warm darkness beyond the sound of Ruthâs piano practice. My skin tingled and my stomach hollowed because I somehow thought it might be Duane who could imitate coyotes to the point they would answer him. Duane said the coyotes didnât believe his call, they were only curious and amused. But out there in the pasture I admitted to myself I was going to try to find Duane.
Mother had been cautious with me after the baby on the advice of something she had read, not to pry, not to submit my every moment and mood to scrutiny, and in exchange I offered as much honesty as I could muster. I slipped out of bed the next morning at 5:00 A.M. and left a note saying not to worry, but that I was going to visit my old friend Duane. To make sure I wouldnât be stopped I woke up Ruth, gave her the note, and told her to give it to Mother after school. Ruth was reading Wuthering Heights at the time and thought my search for a lost love was âutterly thrilling.â
I reached Route 12, then drove west until I arrived at Valentine at daylight where I stopped for breakfast, but my butterflies were so bad I couldnât eat the meal. The waitress, who reminded me of a spindlier version of Lena, expressed concern. I said I was worried about my grandmother who was quite sick in Rapid City. The waitress sat down with a cup of coffee and chatted for a while. She admired my sheepskin coat and Paul Bond boots. She said, âDonât talk to no cowboys. They just want to get in your pants.â She said this rather loudly, glancing at a table of cowboys eating their eggs. I felt my face redden and stared out the window at a stock semi full of steers probably headed to the feedlots of Sioux City and eventual slaughter.I paid my bill, thanked her for the advice, and left. What is so wrong with loving a half-brother? I thought.
I took Route 83 north toward Murdo, turning off on 18 in the Rosebud Indian Reservation on the road to Parmelee. I didnât have much hope that Duane would be there as if waiting for me but I hoped to at least cold-track him as the local hunters called it. White people have a hard time understanding why Indians live the way they do, identifying it with the manner our own peculiar âwhite trashâ live; I mean the bare-ground lawns, broken fences, discarded, picked-over cars, ramshackle houses. Grandfather said you donât want to understand someone if you are stealing, or have stolen, all their property. It might make you feel bad about what you did if you understood them.
Parmelee was indeed a sorry-looking place. Indian summer had suddenly disappeared and a cold wind out of the north blew icy dust in my eyes as I knocked on doors which quickly closed in my face. Some kids and barking dogs began to follow me at a polite distance. The kids laughed and shrieked when I spoke to them in a few words of rudimentary Sioux. I did see an old man working under the upraised hood of a junk car. He poked out, smiled, and said, âMay I help you, daughter,â in Sioux. When questioned, he said that he had heard that both Duane and his mother were down in Pine Ridge.
Pine Ridge was another hundred miles down the road but my heart was light as I drove with the wild and blustery north wind rocking the car. I even sang along to the country songs on the radio from a Rapid City stationâthinking that Duane might be listening to the same station. It was easiest to sing with Patsy Cline because that was how I felt.
Pine Ridge was terribly unfriendly but again my rather clumsy attempts at the Sioux language got me the unpleasant information. Duane had been drunk and had beaten up a
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