The Toughest Indian in the World Read Online Free PDF

it go for anything. He reached inside a pocket and pulled out a piece of deer jerky. I recognized it by the smell.
    “Want some?” he asked.
    “Sure.”
    It had been a long time since I’d eaten jerky. The salt, the gamy taste. I felt as Indian as Indian gets, driving down the road in a fast car, chewing on jerky, talking to an indigenous fighter.
    “Where you headed?” I asked.
    “Home. Back to the rez.”
    I nodded my head as I passed a big truck. The driver gave us a smile as we went by. I tooted the horn.
    “Big truck,” said the fighter.
    I haven’t lived on my reservation for twelve years. But I live in Spokane, which is only an hour’s drive from the rez. Still, I hardly ever go home. I don’t know why not. I don’t think about it much, I guess, but my mom and dad still live in the same house where I grew up. My brothers and sisters, too. The ghosts of my two dead siblings share an apartment in the converted high school. It’s just a local call from Spokane to the rez, so I talk to all of them once or twice a week. Smoke signals courtesy of U.S. West Communications. Sometimes they call me up to talk about the stories they’ve seen that I’ve written for the newspaper. Pet pigs and support groups and science fairs. Once in a while, I used to fill in for the obituaries writer when she was sick. Then she died, and I had to write her obituary.
    “How far are you going?” asked the fighter, meaning how much closer was he going to get to his reservation than he was now.
    “Up to Wenatchee,” I said. “I’ve got some people to interview there.”
    “Interview? What for?”
    “I’m a reporter. I work for the newspaper.”
    “No,” said the fighter, looking at me like I was stupid for thinking he was stupid. “I mean, what’s the story about?”
    “Oh, not much. There’s two sets of twins who work for the fire department. Human-interest stuff, you know?”
    “Two sets of twins, enit? That’s weird.”
    He offered me more deer jerky, but I was too thirsty from the salty meat, so I offered him a Pepsi instead.
    “Don’t mind if I do,” he said.
    “They’re in a cooler on the backseat,” I said. “Grab me one, too.”
    He maneuvered his backpack carefully and found room enough to reach into the backseat for the soda pop. He opened my can first and handed it to me. A friendly gesture for a stranger. I took a big mouthful and hiccupped loudly.
    “That always happens to me when I drink cold things,” he said.
    We sipped slowly after that. I kept my eyes on the road while he stared out the window into the wheat fields. We were quiet for many miles.
    “Who do you fight?” I asked as we passed through another anonymous small town.
    “Mostly Indians,” he said. “Money fights, you know? I go from rez to rez, fighting the best they have. Winner takes all.”
    “Jeez, I never heard of that.”
    “Yeah, I guess it’s illegal.”
    He rubbed his hands together. I could see fresh wounds.
    “Man,” I said. “Those fights must be rough.”
    The fighter stared out the window. I watched him for a little too long and almost drove off the road. Car horns sounded all around us.
    “Jeez,” the fighter said. “Close one, enit?”
    “Close enough,” I said.
    He hugged his backpack more tightly, using it as a barrier between his chest and the dashboard. An Indian hitchhiker’s version of a passenger-side air bag.
    “Who’d you fight last?” I asked, trying to concentrate on the road.
    “Some Flathead,” he said. “In Arlee. He was supposed to be the toughest Indian in the world.”
    “Was he?”
    “Nah, no way. Wasn’t even close. Wasn’t even tougher than me.”
    He told me how big the Flathead kid was, way over six feet tall and two hundred and some pounds. Big buck Indian. Had hands as big as this and arms as big as that. Had a chin like a damn buffalo. The fighter told me that he hit the Flathead kid harder than he ever hit anybody before.
    “I hit him like he was a white man,”