Meatloaf in Manhattan
“He is sixty five years old. It’s been over fifty years since the day of the battle and he knows he has only a few months to live. His smooth black hair, streaked with the occasional grey, is tied tight in a ponytail. In his headband he wears the feather he won for bravery in the counting coup at Greasy Grass. Despite his illness he stands tall and strong. His eyes are bright and clear, belying the darkness of the sights and scenes they have witnessed.
He wears his raccoon-pelt coat to keep out ...the cold wind from the Great Plains, the one he fashioned and sewed on the reservation in Montana. He cups and blows his hands and watches the train disappear around the curve of the track, then walks slowly through the busy hallway of the North Pacific railway depot. He’s used to the looks he gets from strangers. Hostile. Suspicious. Fearful. Some stop and stare. Mothers hurry children along, worried he might be hiding a tomahawk and bloody intent. But Little-Path pays them no heed. If they knew the life he’s led they might show some sympathy, a modicum of kindness.MoreLess
He wears his raccoon-pelt coat to keep out ...the cold wind from the Great Plains, the one he fashioned and sewed on the reservation in Montana. He cups and blows his hands and watches the train disappear around the curve of the track, then walks slowly through the busy hallway of the North Pacific railway depot. He’s used to the looks he gets from strangers. Hostile. Suspicious. Fearful. Some stop and stare. Mothers hurry children along, worried he might be hiding a tomahawk and bloody intent. But Little-Path pays them no heed. If they knew the life he’s led they might show some sympathy, a modicum of kindness.MoreLess
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