by Margi Bettelyoun

Created on: August 10, 2009   Last Updated: August 11, 2009

"George"

She knows me as George, so that will do for now. I guess she knows that I am dead and that I was killed by my own people. It ain't easy being dead - at least not all of the time. Sometimes it's real nice and peaceful, sometimes not. I guess it's not that much different from being alive. I never was a mean or hateful person and I am told that helps. They say if you were good alive then you will be happy dead. Guess I must have done alright - can't complain much - except that I am dead!

I said I was killed by my own people. That's true but I should probably explain who my people are, since I am a half-breed, just like she was told. (Patience, and you will find out about this "she" I keep talking about.). She was also told I was an Indian scout and that was true too. But that is a heck of a way to sum up a man's life, the color of his skin and his last job! I sure do wish you living folks would learn not to be so judging. But, back to the story of my heritage; I didn't know my father. He was just passing through on his way up to the mountains, looking for pelts. My mother just happened to be along the trail. She said he was real nice to her, just couldn't stay. My mother was Lakota with equal amounts of pride and humility and an extra pinch of spunk. She raised me on her own, never taking a husband. She had four brothers who helped teach me to be a man. So I readily admit to being half white, but, I know nothing of them. When I say I was killed by my own people, I mean the Lakota. (That's a long way of getting to my point but I am dead - I have all the time in the world!) I didn't get killed because I was a scout or because I was a half-breed; my people knew I would never betray them. I was just showing these poor, lost, white folks how to avoid the badlands, find good water, and to steer them around our Black Hills. No, it wasn't helping whites that got me killed. It was that damned alcohol! I had heard stories about the stuff and to tell the truth, I was just plain scared of it.

One evening, my band was camped in the shadow of this big butte, famous for its den of rattlesnakes. Some said it had footprints in the rock at the top. We had camped there before; there was good grass for the horses and a nice little creek not far away. We were just getting settled for the night when this young guy rode into camp all liquored up and crazy for more. I told him I never had nothing to do with the stuff. So, like I said, this guy was crazy, roaming

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