How Robert Whitekiller Got a New Name and Found His Own Grave

Abstract

How Robert Whitekiller Got a New Name and Found His Own Grave Robert J. Conley (bio) He stopped his new GMC pickup right there in the middle of the bridge. There wasn't any other traffic visible anyway, and there was an old Indian man sitting on the bridge rail, his feet dangling off over the water below, and his whole appearance projecting a kind of hangdog look. "Hello there," Robert said. The old man glanced over his shoulder. "Hello," he said. He squinted at the stranger in the new pickup. "You an Indian?" he asked. "Yes sir," Robert said. "You ain't from around here," said the old man. "I'm Cherokee," said Robert, "from Oklahoma." "Cherokee?" the old man said. "You look like a real Indian." "I'm a full-blood Cherokee," Robert said. "And I think I'm real. I feel real." "Well, I'll be," the old man said. "The only people ever told me they were Cherokees were white people. I didn't know there were any real Cherokees left." "Well, you're talking to one," Robert said, and he shut off the engine of the pickup and stepped out onto the road. "You're way out here in the middle of nowhere all by yourself," he said. "You got a car somewhere?" "No." "Is someone coming to pick you up?" "No." "Well, can I give you a ride somewhere?" "No," the old man said. "I'm just sitting here thinking about jumping off this bridge." "Oh, hey," Robert said. "What you want to do that for?" He swung first one leg, then the other over the rail and sat down beside the old man. "You don't want to kill yourself, do you?" [End Page 37] "Don't see why not," the old man said. "I got no money. Got nothing to eat. No family left, so no one cares a damn about me any more. All I do is sit around getting older and wait to die." "Well, I care," Robert said. "Come on. Let's go get something to eat." The old man shrugged but made no move. "My name's Robert Whitekiller," Robert said. "Whitekiller?" said the old man, and he grinned. "That's a good name, alright. Whitekiller. I like that. I'm Roman White Horse," and he gave emphasis to the second syllable of his first name, giving it a French sounding pronunciation. "I'm a full-blood Lakota. The white men call us 'Sioux.'" He held out a small right hand, and Robert took it in his. "Hell, I'm glad to know you, Roman," he said. "Come on. I've got some cold beer in the pickup." "Well, that sounds pretty good," Roman said. "Okay." They walked over to the pickup and got in. Roman rubbed the dashboard and the back of the seat. "This is a real nice truck," he said. Robert reached into a cooler behind the seat and pulled out two cans, dripping from the melting ice in which they had been immersed. He handed one to Roman, and they pulled the tabs. Each man took a long swig of cold beer. "Ahh," Roman sighed. "That's good. It's been too damn long." "Well, there's plenty where that come from," Robert said. "You know a good place to eat around here?" "I know the best place," Roman said. "It's also about the only place." Robert laughed. "Well then," he said, "it'll do. Tell me where to go." Roman gave Robert directions to a small place just on the outside of the reservation. Signs on the outside of the building advertised gas, groceries, cold beer and barbeque, ready to eat. "They make hamburgers, too," Roman said. "Pretty good ones." A number of cars and pickups were parked around the building in the gravel parking lot. Robert thought that was usually a good sign, but then, if this was the only place around, it might not mean much this time. "It's off the reservation," Roman said, "so he can sell beer. You can't sell beer on the reservation, you know." [End Page 38] "Yeah, I know," Robert said. "Oh," said...