Two-Fingers and the White Guy Who Said the Only Safe Place to Live Is on an Indian Reservation?

By Steve C. Schneider JD

Two-Fingers and the White Guy
Who said the only safe place to live is on
an Indian reservation?

A novel by Steve C Schneider, JD

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781665534987

Book preview

Before the White Man

The Blackfeet Indians reigned supreme over the Northern Plains for centuries, they were referred to as the, Lords of the Plains. They were the strongest, meanest and the most feared tribe in a land filled with mean and strong Indian tribes. Their traditional enemies feared them more than the grizzly bear and the mountain lion. They were the baddest of the bad. In short, the Blackfeet were warriors and masters of their own destiny long before there was a United States of America.

Their name, Blackfeet originated from the distinctive black color of their moccasins; moccasins that turned black from dancing in the ashes of campfires. They are not naturally, black footed.

At one time, the Blackfeet domain included parts of the areas now known as Montana, North Dakota, Minnesota, Alberta, Saskatchewan, Manitoba and Ontario. It stretched from the Great Lakes all the way west to the Rocky Mountains.

The Blackfeet were nomadic meat eaters who traveled in search of game. They ate a lot of buffalo, deer and elk meat. Before they had guns and horses, the Blackfeet would hunt on foot with bows and arrows. They would chase large herds of buffalo off of cliffs to their death. So many Buffalo were killed, it would take days to skin them and prepare the meat for the inevitable long winters. They also ate berries and vegetables and would only eat fish as a last resort.

The Blackfeet Nation was made up of three large distinct bands: the Northern Piegan, the Blood and the Southern Piegan.

During the summer, the Blackfeet lived together in large tribal camps. It was during this season that they hunted the large herds of buffalo and engaged in traditional dances and other ceremonial endeavors.

Competition was fierce among the bands to see who was the strongest, fastest and smartest. Contests of manhood were engaged in to determine who was going to lead and who was going to be led. Leaders were chosen based on what they could do for the community at large and any leader that did not deliver on community needs was swiftly replaced and banished from the tribe.

When the bands congregated in the summer, they formed distinct camps which were separated by a stream or some other natural boundary. When the Southern Piegan, Blood, and Northern Piegan joined together for ceremonial purposes, each band camped in a circle. During late fall or early winter, they would go their separate ways and forage for food in traditional hunting areas. Generally, they separated into smaller bands of between 10 and 20 lodges and each band had its own Chief.

Religion played an important role in their lives. The religious life of the Blackfeet centered on medicine bundles that were individually owned and originated from an encounter with a supernatural spirit. These encounters took the form of dreams or visions sought in a vision quest. A young Blackfeet Indian brave, with the help of a medicine man, would go to some lonely, far away place and fast until he had a vision.

Bundles were symbols of their religious beliefs. Symbolism is important in all religions and the Blackfeet drew strength from the different rituals they performed just as modern religions draw strength from their symbols and rituals.

Blackfeet believe in circles; what goes around, comes around, so to speak. The harmony of spirit and the continuity of the universe were their major concerns. They did not believe any person owned land. Rather, land was to be used by everyone and taken care of by everybody. Wealth came in the form of great deeds accomplished, not in how many possessions they owned. Their lives were centered on community needs, not individual needs.

Around 1622, the French began to move deeper into the Great Lakes region. Shortly after that, the Blackfeet began to migrate westward, eventually settling in the area now known as Northern Montana and Southern Alberta.

For years the Blackfeet tried to avoid contact with the white man. In fact, they did not trade with them until 1831. Shortly thereafter, in 1837, a small pox epidemic broke out and 6,000 Blackfeet, over two-thirds of the total population, were wiped out.

In 1855, even though the Blackfeet were never conquered in battle, they agreed to a peace treaty that guaranteed them much of their traditional land. In less than five years, that treaty was broken when white settlers began to enter their territory.

In 1865, fighting broke out among the white settlers and the Blackfeet. In 1874, without consulting the Blackfeet, Congress arbitrarily and unilaterally moved their reservation boundaries north to the Birch Creek-Marias River line. This resulted in the loss of the Blackfeet’s best land. Land that was sacred and holy; land that was filled with trees, lakes, streams, game and a variety of other natural resources.

Even with the loss of their best land, the Blackfeet were able to live without the assistance of the federal government. That changed in the Starvation Winter of 1883-1884. That was the winter the buffalo herds disappeared and over 600 Blackfeet starved to death. After that, the Blackfeet became dependent on government rations.

In 1896, the Blackfeet, desperate for food, sold what is now Glacier National Park for one million five hundred thousand dollars.

The Blackfeet have struggled to survive for years. Throughout the 1900s, they lived through several federal policy changes. Policies made by people from outside the reservation, people who really did not understand the Blackfeet and their needs. In order to survive, the Blackfeet had to assimilate into white culture and forget about their own.

Historically, the Blackfeet were once a proud people. They may still have pride, but it is masked behind the realities of reservation life; a life filled with drug and alcohol abuse, abject poverty and domestic violence.

The once mighty and feared Blackfeet, the Southern Piegan, now scratch out a living on wind swept, barren reservation land; land with boundaries. Their reservation has been reduced to 1.5 million acres of land, land that nobody else wanted. The reservation lies in North Central Montana and it’s boundaries run east to Cut Bank Creek, west to Glacier National Park, north to Alberta and south to the Birch Creek-Marias River line.

The Tribal headquarters of their reservation is a town called Browning. Browning lies in the shadows of the Rocky Mountains which the Blackfeet call, The backbone of the world. Browning, Montana, the place of broken dreams and unhappy endings.

Chapter 1

Here are my first impressions of the headquarters of the Blackfeet reservation, Browning, Montana. As the saying goes, it certainly isn’t the end of the world but you can see it from there. It is a hard town, visually and geologically hard.

Rocks and boulders of various sizes rose from the ground everywhere I looked. There were a few paved streets but most of the roads were either gravel or dirt. In the spring the roads became mud puddles and in the summer, after the mud dries, clouds of dust filled the air and blocked out the sun.

In the winter, snow piles up everywhere. The snow gets so deep entire houses are covered over and snow tunnels are dug from the street to the front door and remain there until early spring. The Blackfeet are constantly shoveling themselves out.

As a consequence, school is routinely cancelled. This is a fact, Browning is one of the coldest towns in America. Violently cold winters and unbearably hot summers. The wind seldom stops blowing, that is one reason there isn’t a tree in Browning. There are a few lawns but not as many as you would think, if a guy had a lawn care service in Browning he would starve to death.

The few lawns that exist on the Rez are those up at the Government Square, it is literally a square section of land. In the center of the square is a large field of mowed grass. They actually mow the grass and bail it, that is how big this field is.

Around the perimeter of the square is where you will find the federal government employees’ housing. The houses are set out in perfect rows, well kept and with lawns. It is temporary housing provided to the federal government employees who are doing their time until they can figure out a way to get transferred off the Rez.

The Government Square is also where the local Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) offices are. Behind the BIA complex is the local jail, tribally owned and operated. Not far from the jail is a large warehouse where the commodities are stored.

Every Saturday morning, commodities are distributed to all enrolled members of the Blackfeet tribe. You must be an enrolled member to receive commodities, health care and government payments.

Saturday mornings are highly anticipated, cars and trucks line the street leading to the warehouse where hungry families wait patiently to receive their allotment of powered milk, pinto beans, canned chopped meat, bread and commodity cheese.

The commodity cheese comes in five pound packages and is considered a delicacy, it is highly sought after. The winos sell their commodity cheese for money to buy Muscatel wine. Wine and cheese are a big deal on the Rez. Well, the wine is, the cheese is just an after thought once the wine kicks in.

The Government Square is discretely separate from Browning. It even has a cattle guard you have to cross before you can enter, perhaps a futile attempt at keeping the Indians out so the white people can live their lives separately, unattached to the hardships they perpetuate. However, they have to send their children to the Browning public schools. Too bad, integration at it’s finest.

Catholicism is the dominant religion on the Rez, all good Blackfeet are catholic. The Catholic church is also the biggest church on the Rez, it is a large two story rock building that has a separate rectory for the nuns and the priests. It sits in the center of Browning not far from main street.

There is a smaller Mormon church on the Rez near Moccasin Flats, but it is small and sparsely attended. The Mormons are always trying to recruit the Blackfeet but are largely unsuccessful. Over the years, the Blackfeet have been asked to give up their ancestral religious beliefs and assimilate into white society and they have largely done so; the Blackfeet are always being asked to give up something.

Like most towns, main street is where the majority of the businesses are located. These businesses rely heavily on the summer tourist trade and, since Browning is close to Glacier National Park, business was good

Tourists stopped to get gas, spend the night, eat and take a few pictures. Most of the businesses back when I moved there were owned and operated by white people, that’s no longer true.

There was a large Standard stucco gas station that was built in a cone shape to look like a giant teepee, it was painted red, white and blue. That place always drew large crowds of picture takers because everybody wanted their picture taken in front of a huge red, white and blue stucco teepee, everybody.

On the highway to Glacier National Park sat two really nice museums, the Museum of The Plains Indians and the Bob Scriver’s Art Museum. Bob was a local celebrity who once appeared on the show, What’s My Line? He became nationally known for his bronze sculptures.

Across the street from his museum is the Junction Drive Inn, it’s not like I am trying to promote the Junction or anything, but they really do put out a nice cheeseburger and onion rings.

The neighborhoods that surround the businesses are made up of a variety of housing types. Keep in mind, this is the Rez and there are no zoning laws. Trailer houses are scattered among the brick and mortar residences and yards are filled with broken down cars and half dressed children.

Packs of dogs ran wild all over town. Back in the day, there were a lot of cats running around until someone opened up a Chinese food restaurant.

The alleys were filled with winos seeking shelter and a safe place to drink. Even paved streets were bumpy and rough regardless of the time of year and the ditches were filled with whiskey bottles, wine bottles, beer bottles, beer cans and pop bottles.

Garbage tumbled down the streets before becoming permanently affixed to the barbed wire fences. Like I said earlier, Browning is a hard place. Browning was always just one step behind the rest of society, close but yet so far away. For example, there are plenty of handicaps on the Rez, just no handicap parking.

Over the years, my opinion of Browning has changed. This really isn’t a warning about Browning, honest. Not that you shouldn’t be warned. Hell, I wish I had been. Wouldn’t you want to be warned if you were getting near quicksand or if you were about to walk off a cliff? Browning, grew on me but it’s still a place where you can fall and never be seen again.

Chapter 2

By the way, my name is Tony Church and I am a white guy. Even though we claim to be a color blind society, I think you should know that. I’m always asked how a semi-bright, white individual ended up on an Indian reservation. That is easy, I was forced by my father, Robert Bud Church and my mother, Ruby Fitzgerald Church. It wasn’t like I was physically kidnapped and taken to an undisclosed area by a group of criminals. No, their deception was far more devious. My parents had a way of mentally kidnapping me. I was never given much say in any family matter. My older brother Stan was treated the same way until he broke free. But, he still ended up going to the Rez to finish his senior year of high school. Stan was older than me by almost four years and that is a very big gap to a fourteen year old.

Any way, as the story goes, dad went west before World War II and loved it. He rodeoed and worked on a ranch in Wyoming before he joined the army and was sent to war. While he was on the rodeo circuit, he met a guy by the name of Charles Charley Owen and they became best friends. Charley is from Cut Bank, Montana and happens to be the only child of Bob Owens, the owner of a massive ranch where the biggest deposit of oil in Montana happens to be.

In the early stages of the war, dad joined the army and Charley joined the marines. Dad ended up getting badly wounded while serving in Italy. Charley made it back from the Pacific without any physical wounds but dad always said nobody is unscathed by war.

While recuperating stateside in New York, dad met mom. Mom was a nurse’s aide who cared for a number of the returning soldiers that had been wounded overseas. She fell in love with dad almost immediately, she admired his strength and courage. There was also a bit of rogue in dad that especially appealed to her. Dad noticed how caring and loving mom is and he vowed to win her over. Mom was very beautiful and extremely popular with all the wounded men, but she only had eyes for dad and when he proposed, she let him think it was his idea.

Anyway, mom always said her happiest years were after the war when mom and dad married and settled down and started a life together.

She loved living in Cherry Hills, New Jersey, it was home. Ironically, it was dad’s hometown too. Dad, on the other hand never loved it like mom. He could never get adjusted to big city life as he referred to it. Cherry Hills isn’t really a big place, dad just yearned for more freedom and the wide open spaces out west.

Over the years, dad tried to make the best of it and he eventually bought his parents bar and ran it as well as he could. But, he was unhappy and before long he was spending more and more time on the customer side of the bar. His physical and mental war injuries took a long time to heal and the alcohol he consumed helped with the pain.

When dad’s parents died in a car accident, he sold the bar and convinced mom that Cut Bank, Montana was the place for us. A new start, a new beginning. Mom, against her better judgment, supported dad’s decision.

By that time, I was finishing the eighth grade and Stan was finishing his junior year in high school. Stan and I pleaded with our parents not to move. Dad insisted it would be fun and a great adventure, it would make men of us. He was certain we needed to get out to the wild open spaces of Montana. I remember Mom consoling us the best she could.

So, on June 26, 1968, we loaded all of our worldly possessions into and onto our ’57 Chevy two door sedan and started off to Montana. Dad drove the entire 2,622 miles in three days. He only stopped when it was absolutely necessary which meant only when he needed to get gas or groceries. Peeing was a luxury, the man had a bladder the size of Ohio and he thought everybody else did, dad was on a mission.

Mom made bologna sandwiches in the front seat and Stan and I held our pee as mile after lonesome mile passed us by. The really weird thing was we all slept in the car during this trip west, no fancy motels for us.

In the back seat, Stan and I slept all crunched up in knots with our cheeks pressed to the windows. Stan was a big dude and when he stretched out he took up the whole back seat, I was constantly fighting for space. Dad’s tactics paid off, after a thousand miles we were too worn out and exhausted to continue to fight the move.

With each passing mile, dad grew stronger and stronger while the rest of us got weaker and weaker. I don’t think the old man slept more than six hours the whole trip. I only mention this trip because I hope some of you can relate, if my old man is the only father that refused to stop the car and let his kids pee, I am really going to be upset.

I remember when we finally reached the city limits of Cut Bank, Montana there was this big green sign with black paint that said, Welcome to Cut Bank population 3,367. I was never so happy to see a sign in my life. I normally didn’t get that excited over a sign, but it made me happy. Not only because we were in Cut Bank, I was also happy because I finally got to piss.

As soon as dad stopped to get gas at a Texaco station, mom, Stan and I sprinted to the restrooms. It’s little things like that that make life worth living. When I finished peeing, I walked around the station to stretch my legs and as I walked by the gas pump, I overheard my dad asking the attendant for directions to the Owen Ranch. Owen spread, can’t miss it. Go back down this road about a mile and you will come to a big old oil refinery-they own it. The attendant said as he pointed in the direction we had just come from. Now, to get to their ranch, you take a left just before the refinery and stay on that road for about five miles. That is all their land. At the end of the road you will see their place, can’t miss it. The attendant said as he finished filling up the tank. It was really nice hearing another person’s voice.

After paying for the gas and getting everybody loaded back into the car, dad drove back the way we came and we soon turned onto the road leading to the Owen Ranch. I was amazed at how many oil wells there were; hundreds of them pumped at a slow, methodical pace. There were also hundreds of Black Angus cattle grazing between the derricks and dozens of horses running wild on the wide open prairie.

As we drove down the road, we eventually passed under a large cast iron ornamental sign that said, Owen Ranch. Before long, we were parked in the front yard looking up at a huge colonial style mansion, the place was massive. White columns on the porch reached skyward; the porch was huge and it had white railing that seemed to run on forever. When you are young, everything seems big. It was one of those great houses that your parents didn’t have to tell you to behave in, you just instinctively knew not to start rough housing in a place like that.

I remember us stretching and staring up at the house and this huge barn in the distance. Suddenly, a big cowboy came running out of the barn headed in our direction. I had never seen Charley before but I figured this must be him.

As it turned out, Charley was in the barn tending to one of his prize Black Angus bulls when he saw us drive up. He shook my dad’s hand for what seemed to be about five minutes before he introduced himself to Stan and me. After the introductions were made, Charley led us up the steps of his mansion and opened the door and let us in, he was really a gracious guy. Humble, unassuming with cow shit all over his boots.

When he opened up the front door to let us in, I couldn’t help whistling. The place was huge. The floor was made of marble and there was a spiral staircase that ran from the foyer to the second