Last War Dance by Warren Murphy

Author:Warren Murphy [Murphy, Warren]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Men's Adventure, Business & Economics, Investing, Personal Finance
ISBN: 9780759276413
Publisher: ereads.com
Published: 2002-08-01T01:26:28+00:00

CHAPTER SEVEN

“How many must we be forced to kill in the liberation of our land?” asked Burning Star as she and Remo sped through the night toward the Apowa village of Wounded Elk. “How many must die in our search for the buffalo before the great eagle nests in the cliffs of his father’s home?”

“You mean at the Apowa supermarket?” asked Remo. Up ahead he saw the cluster of lights, a flashing neon arrow, and a huge neon sign that read, “Big A Plaza-Open Late.”

“At the new buffalo hunting grounds, yes. Will we slay tens or hundreds or tens of hundreds to liberate our sacred buffalo and return his skin to the lodge where men can look upon themselves as men and not as helpless children driven by the white man’s alcohol to debase themselves and their sacred heritage.”

“We’re going to pay for the food it that’s what you’re asking.”

“But it is our food. Our buffalo. While I condemn the killing itself, I can understand why we must do this. To bring attention to the injustices done our people.”

“I’ve got a pocketful of money,” said Remo. “And I’d just as soon pay for the goods. Besides, do you want to load the truck?”

Burning Star shook her head, her bright red curls flashing from side to Side. “As our ancestors were robbed of their land, so shall we rob these oppressors of their stolen buffalo.”

“Hey, Cosgrove,” said Remo, pulling into the lot, “these stores are all owned by full-blooded Apowas.”

“They are Sacajaweas.”

“Sacks of what?”

“Sacajawea. She was the traitor who guided Lewis and Clark across our land.”

“So that makes it all right for someone named Cosgrove to steal from Apowas?”

“If we burn babies, have they not burned our babies? If we burn them alive in their white-man’s houses, have they not burned us in our tents? We are standing against oppression and…”

As they drove into the Big A parking lot, Lynn Cosgrove was suddenly silent. She had not seen Remo’s hand move, but she felt a sudden stinging in her throat and realized that no words would come out.

Remo found the manager of the store and negotiated a purchase of frozen foods and instant dinners.

“I don’t think there’s anyone at the church who could baste a turkey,” said Remo to the manager, who, like all supermarket managers, was harried to the point of exhaustion at the end of the day and managed with great effort to cover it all with a bright smile. But when Remo said “the church,” the smile vanished from the reddish tan face and the dark eyes set in the high Indian cheekbones no longer welcomed Remo.

“This is for the thugs who took over our church?”

“They gotta eat, too.”

“Have you been there?”

“Well, yes,” said Remo.

“Did they really spread excrement on our church?”

“Well, they’ll be pushed out soon.”

“You’re damned right, they’re going to be pushed out soon,” said the store manager, tears welling up in his dark eyes.

“What do you mean by that?” asked Remo.

“None of your business. You wanted food.

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