Free RavenShadow by Win Blevins Page B

way to Mount Rushmore with me. Though we didn’t have any money to get in, we figured the place was really ours—the whole Black Hills are really ours—and we slipped in through the woods. Then we climbed to the top of those big, funny heads and looked down George Washington’s nose at the tourists, just the way he looked down his nose at Indians.
    It got to be a good game. Every day I would slip away, and every day they would let the truant officer know. Sometimes he would come after me, sometimes not—he didn’t like me getting the best of him. Folks in town would give him leads about where I went (or sometimes misdirect him). He knew pretty well that I liked to hang out at the pond north of town, which they called a lake, or a couple of places down Medicine Root Creek. I developed skills to hide from him. Learned to build a brush shelter that looked natural, like part of the landscape, and sit inside while he went by. Learned to sit so still among the rocks he wouldn’t see me. Once in November I built a snow cave and slipped inside. It was a good game.
    I hardly ever played with the other boys. Sometimes I did stand by the schoolyard and watch them play basketball. But they thought I was strange—a bush boy—and I thought they were snobs.
    One place I never ran off to was home to Grandpa and Unchee. Every half-moon Grandpa came to me.
    The half-moon around the white-people holiday Thanksgiving he came, and like always he took me down to the store for a dreamsicle—I loved those babies. He got a pop. When we sat down outside, he looked at me and said, “I hear you been running away.”
    I nodded yes.
    “You haven’t been in class learning.”
    “I have learned some,” I said. I started to follow with the English words I’d gotten good at, Goddamn, holy shit , and such, but thought better of it. I hadn’t turned white enough to act disrespectful to Grandpa. “I haven’t been in their classes much,” I admitted.
    He looked at me for a long time. Finally he said in a certain way, not harsh, but unmistakable, “You won’t run away any more.”
    I didn’t. I wasn’t worried about Mr. Banks, or Mr. King, or the truant officer. I was worried about Grandpa.

Jumping Ju
    I went through one month of hell, from Thanksgiving to Christmas vacation. I didn’t run away even once, and it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I sat and listened to Mr. Banks and pretended to memorize his English words. I tried to memorize his numbers, and get the idea of how to figure with them, addition and subtraction. I learned to repeat back whatever he said to me, like a dummy. Every sentence I learned was like swallowing a thistle. I hated it. I wanted to puke it back up. But I had made up my mind to do what Grandpa said, and I was going to do it or die.
    The day before Christmas break, Gordon True Bull came and found me in my room. His three sons, who all went to Kyle School, stood behind him in the hall, looking embarrassed. This family lived down the Medicine Root Creek road, less than halfway to Grandpa and Unchee’s place. We’d never had much to do with them, because they were the sort of Indians I was supposed to steer clear of. They lived a lot further into the twentieth century than we did. Had a truck. Used propane instead of a wood stove. Even had a TV on an antenna. Gordon drove that truck to Kyle every day and worked on people’s cars. He had magic hands, they said, could fix any kind of car or truck or anymachinery at all and make it run. His sons rode in and out with him, every day.
    Gordon says to me in Lakota, “Your grandpa asked us to give you a ride home tomorrow afternoon. You come over to the station right after school, bring your stuff.”
    I looked at the True Bulls and my heart sank. Gordon was a big man with a big belly, and his older two sons were taller than he was. They looked intimidating, standing there. Besides, though the sons were schoolmates, they were just the sort I didn’t hang out