Once, when I was just twenty, and fresh out of the military, I was given the opportunity of being the Tribal Historian for a confederacy of Indian tribes. It would have meant traveling with the itinerant medicine man and his beautiful teenaged daughter (who, the first time I saw her, was wearing a tan, buckskin skirt and whose black hair sported two braids with an actual feather, for God’s sake, tethered to each), to the various reservations across the U.S., compiling mountains of notes, learning –- as the medicine man promised I would learn –- and later documenting for posterity the true sto more...
