Way Out Yonder on the Indian Nation

You've seen Westerns lit up against a night sky at drive-ins, on silver screens in darkened theaters, or maybe in a parlor on your own TV. It's inescapable, insidious intended for mature audiences and children alike with a cast handpicked out of Hollywood, who whoop and holler right on cue, summersault off horses and stagger with arrows lodged in rib cages or tomahawks splat in the back.

Maybe you saw the lone white hero, six-guns blazing infinite rounds, fall to his knees beneath a tattered flag rippling in the breeze, speared in the spleen with a Holy Lance like a frontier-version of Christ.

You may have shed a tear when Custer died for your sins or you may have cheered.

It's the propaganda machine, the American Dream, the Indian Myth.

But when I wandered onto the Great Plains and got surrounded by a thousand Indians it didn't feel at all like a movie but visceral in the natural order of the Cosmos. The earth inhales and rises, exhales and falls, trembles and gasps, alive.

It felt like if you tripped over the horizon you'd tumble into space and drift away and become a speck of light in the sky.

The shadows of campfires danced on teepees, pop-up tents, and RVs, ghostly ribbons of wood smoke rose illuminated by a full moon over a vast dark prairie surreal and deep and fragrant with sweet grass, venison, and fry bread.

I traipsed into the powwow like a scraggly white dog sniffing camp-to-camp licking chops and carrying a kooky Looney Tunes voice in my head that said, "Which way do I go? Which way do I go?"

I felt really fine, invincible, like nothing could go wrong and that alone is a prompt to look over my shoulder because right then God's heavy hand grabbed hold of my scruff.

I did a half-spin dangle to catch a glimpse and it wasn't God grabbed a hold of me, but Mitchell Looks Young, a big fellow wearing long braids and a badge.

You know a cop can be god - god the judge, god the jury and god the executioner. Mitchell Looks Young had me by the collar, not with any rancor, mind you, but he had me.

Sink me. Nabbed.

"Come with me," he said as he released his grip and jerked his thumb.

"Uh, what'd I do?"

He turned and strode into a throng of Indigenous revelers like a canoe slipping through wild rice, reeds parting before the bow. Everyone smiled but me.

For a moment I thought of running but where? No freeway overpass to leap off, no gangway to cut-through, no alley to duck down, no city boy foils to put into action. Perhaps a quick dash into darkness but what if I trip over the horizon and tumble into space?

I know, space, you can't breathe. You die. I'm just saying hiding behind a teepee seemed out of the question, preposterous.

I didn't know Mitchell Looks Young personally but I knew his reputation as a badass bouncer from the Twin Cities who worked the thug joints at the edge of downtown Minneapolis where the criminal element hung with corporate thrill seekers, hoodlums, and hookers.

I heard one time he cleaned out a whole bar of ruffians – his fists were like sledgehammers felling stone pillars. What was he doing here?

"Hey man, what'd I done do?" I said mumbling and stumbling like a marionette monkey with rivets for elbow, shoulder, and knee joints.

Other than his long braids, he looked every bit the cop in uniform baton and pistol.

"Shit, damn. What the fuck?"