Читать книгу Neither Wolf Nor Dog - Kent Nerburn - Страница 16

CHAPTER SIX

JUNK CARS AND BUFFALO CARCASSES

On the way back down the hill, Dan suggested that we go visit Grover. “He makes a mean baloney sandwich,” he said.

I was more than happy to agree. I had come to value Grover greatly. He was a tough and crusty character. But he spoke his mind. Ever since I had given him the tobacco, he had taken on the role of Dan’s protector. He did not trust me totally. He had seen enough wasichus come and go, bearing good intentions, sycophantic fantasies, and simple greed. He was not willing to give an easy assent to any white person who claimed to want to work or live among Indians. As he had put it to me one time, “Most of you white people don’t even know what it is you want. But you want something, and you’re using us to get it.”

Until proven otherwise, I was just one more in this long tradition of exploiters who had come among the Indian people to fulfill some personal agenda, whether spiritual, material, or otherwise. But he knew the old man had asked me to come, so he was willing to work with me. He just wanted to make sure I kept what he called “a good heart.”

Grover’s house was on the other side of the village. I had not yet gone through the village itself — Dan’s house was nearer the highway. A visit to Grover would give me a chance to see more of the reservation without feeling like a white intruder.

We bounced our way back down the hill, then turned onto a gravel road that skirted a dusty, amber wash. Houses were set back from the road about a half a mile apart. They all had the look of prefab postwar bungalows gone to seed. Doors hung by one hinge. Windows without screens were covered by blankets. The front yards were nothing more than spotty patches of dirt with kids’ bicycles and old appliances lying randomly on the ground.