Good Friday on the Rez by David Hugh Bunnell

Author:David Hugh Bunnell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

BOMBING RANGE

WAR BONNET OF THORNS

As we travel east past what Vernell calls the “Kyle city limits,” even though there are no city limits, I spot a wooden sign near the edge of the road—the silhouette of an Indian warrior running alongside the silhouette of a running buffalo. The sign says WELCOME TO THE HOME OF TANKA BAR. About a hundred yards down a gravel drive behind the sign, near the Kyle water tower, is a small, industrial-looking brown building with a double-door front entrance, a few small windows, cars parked along the side. I presume it is the Tanka Bar headquarters.

“Wow, I didn’t know they made Tanka Bars in Kyle … I bought some at Big Bat’s.”

Vernell is not a fan and complains about a shortage of Lakota people in top management, aside from the CEO, Karlene Hunter.

“Tanka Bars don’t even taste good to me,” he says.

As there is a certain finality to his pronouncement, I don’t ask Vernell anything else about Tanka Bars.

“Here’s my turn.” Vernell effortlessly twirls the Fairlane steering wheel with one hand, simultaneously stomping on the accelerator. Vroom! Vroom! Spitting gravel, we’re spinning off the pavement onto a deeply rutted dirt road clearly marked by a new road sign that looks like it belongs in a suburban development, the intersection of BIA Highway 2 and Bombing Range Road.

“What does the bombing range have to do with spare parts?” I ask.

“Have you been there?”

“No. I didn’t know you could go there.”

“Only if you know the roads. I’m about the only person who comes here.”

Vernell stops at a barbed-wire gate, hops out and moves the fence aside, jumps back in the car, tells me he’ll put the gate back when we return.

“Some white ranchers lease this land, but we don’t care if their cattle get lost.”

I have to ask. “Do people steal cows here?”

“Not long ago a rancher was checking on his cattle when he saw several strange lumps on the ground. As he got near these lumps, he could see they were his cows. Rustlers shot them, butchered off the front and hindquarters, left the rest. He was really angry.”

“Must be hard for white ranchers around here to get livestock insurance,” I joke.

Vernell smiles.

The bombing range is a good twenty miles from this gate, along bumpy tire tracks that branch off in different directions every few hundred yards. The going is slow. Good thing Vernell knows how to navigate the ruts. Bad thing his car has no seat belts.

“Brought some Japanese tourists here once. They were nice people, asked good questions. When we got close to the range, they started crying, really crying, very loudly. I did not realize that the American bombardiers who dropped those atomic bombs got their target practice here.”

“That’s one of the saddest stories you’ve ever told me.”

“Yeah. Guess I never told you about the years I went to boarding school in Pine Ridge, 1959 through 1961.”

“What was it like?” I ask.

Vernell takes a deep breath, slows down but continues to drive on while he looks over at me.

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