"So that makes it all right for someone named Cosgrove to steal from Apowas?"
"If we burn babies, have they not burned our babies? If we burn them alive in their white-man's houses, have they not burned us in our tents? We are standing against oppression and…"
As they drove into the Big A parking lot, Lynn Cosgrove was suddenly silent. She had not seen Remo's hand move, but she felt a sudden stinging in her throat and realized that no words would come out.
Remo found the manager of the store and negotiated a purchase of frozen foods and instant dinners.
"I don't think there's anyone at the church who could baste a turkey," said Remo to the manager, who, like all supermarket managers, was harried to the point of exhaustion at the end of the day and managed with great effort to cover it all with a bright smile. But when Remo said "the church," the smile vanished from the reddish tan face and the dark eyes set in the high Indian cheekbones no longer welcomed Remo.
"This is for the thugs who took over our church?"
"They gotta eat, too."
"Have you been there?"
"Well, yes," said Remo.
"Did they really spread excrement on our church?"
"Well, they'll be pushed out soon."
"You're damned right, they're going to be pushed out soon," said the store manager, tears welling up in his dark eyes.
"What do you mean by that?" asked Remo.
"None of your business. You wanted food. You got food."
"I want to know what you meant by that. I mean, people could get hurt. Killed. A lot of people."
"Then a lot of people will get killed."
"The federal marshals will move them out," Remo said.
"No doubt, some day. A .155 millimeter howitzer will move 'em out a lot faster, I'll tell you that. Without any real Indians having to get killed, either. And without even having to say howdy to a fed."
Remo thought of a .155 millimeter cannon shell smashing into the monument. He thought of the Cassandra going up. All five nuclear devices going up. Montana going up. Large sections of Canada going up without anyone missing them. Wyoming and Colorado and Michigan and Kansas and Illinois and Indiana and Ohio and all points east and west—one big nuclear flame.
"You got a great idea there, buddy," Remo said, "but you don't want to go firing away willy-nilly at your own church."
"We can rebuild it. We built it with our own hands the first time to commemorate what the monument now commemorates. We thought that if the government could build a monument there, we could build one, too. The church is our monument. You know, if the New York Globe columnist didn't insist on talking to those thieves and crooks from Chicago, he'd find out what a real Indian feels. Not some schoolroom, alley-ghetto philosophy."
"You won't have to rebuild the church. How would you like to get a clean shot at Dennis Petty? With your bare hands?"
When Remo said "bare hands," he saw a joyous lust in the store manager's eyes.
"Will you have that daffy bitch who started this nonsense with that book? Will you have her for us? That burning planet?"
"Burning Star? Cosgrove. Lynn Cosgrove?"
"Yes," said the store manager.
"If you don't blow up your own church."
"You've got an hour. Make it an hour and a half," said the store manager. "Could you make it five minutes?"
"Wait. I need time," Remo said.
"It ain't your church they're shitting in," said the store manager. "What the hell do you whites know about what's sacred and what isn't? You come into our lands and desecrate them. You leave us the scrapings, and when we make out on those, you come into the places we built and crap all over them."
"Not me," said Remo. "The Revolutionary Indian Party."
"Yeah. Indian. Hah! This is Apowa country. Would a Frenchman let a German come in and tear down Notre Dame just because the German's white, too? Why the hell should we Apowa put up with this crap from those fucking half-breeds who want to paint their faces and go shooting up our cows?"
"No reason," said Remo. "I'll have them for you in a day. Now where's the Howitzer?"
"None of your business, white man. But I promise you this. I'll be reasonable. You get me those bums, those desecrators, and I'll give you one day. Sunrise, day after tomorrow. More than a day because this is an Indian's gift to you."
"The day after tomorrow. Right. Who should I look for? I mean I can't just ask for the Indian giver."
"Do you want my real name or the legal one?"
"Whatever people know you by."
"My legal name is Wayne Ramage Henderson Hubbard Mason Woodleaf Kelley Brandt."
"Let's try your real name."
"Promise you won't laugh?"
"I got through your legal name with a straight face, didn't I?"
"It's He Who Walks like Cougar at Night."
"You got a serial number people know you by?" asked Remo.
"What's your name, big shot?" asked Brandt defensively.
"Remo."
He Who Walks like Cougar at Night called people over to hear the funny name, and after they all had a good laugh, they loaded the network truck with frozen dinners and shrimp bottled in their own cocktail sauce and Captain Crunch sugar-coated cereal, and seven cases of Twinkies.
"Good. Our buffalo," said Burning Star when she regained her voice and saw the goods being loaded on the network truck. Remo hit her again where he'd hit her before, and Burning Star was quiet.
He drove to the marshal's lines outside the Wounded Elk church, but then could not find his stolen marshal's badge.
He flashed a piece of cellophane at one of the marshals. "United States Federal Justice Department," he said with authority.
"That's a damned Twinkie wrapper," said the young federal marshal with the dark blue baseball cap and carbine. The cap had the American eagle on it.
"Not every plan is flawless," said Remo, and he snatched the carbine by its barrel, gave the kid a healthy zonk on the side of the head, and drove on toward the monument and church. Just in time, because Lynn Cosgrove's voice was returning and she was beginning the chant of the brave hunter returning with buffalo for the tribe.
The Master of Sinanju made his way into Wounded Elk in a different manner. When the night was at its darkest, he donned his black night kimono and signaled Van Riker that they must go.
The peculiar white man wore a suit that reflected light, one of the chemical fabrics so common in the West. He carried that funny broom which was supposed to tell if the potential disaster he had created was going to come true. How strange, these Westerners, creating weapons that are bigger dangers to themselves than to their enemies, thought Chiun. But he remained quiet because if fools wished to destroy themselves, even he and all his ancestors could not protect them from themselves.
"You must change that suit," said Chiun.
"No can do, Papasan," said General Van Riker. "This suit protects me against radioactivity."
"How can a dead man be protected?" asked Chiun.
"Look, Papasan, I have great respect for your traditions and all that, but I don't have time for riddles. Let's go."
With a courteous nod, Chiun followed the white man out into the night, past the cars and down the road. When they came to a gushing muddy sewer by the side of the road, Chiun assisted Van Riker's balance by tumbling him down into the ditch. Then he was upon the larger man with his feet, rolling him in the dirty water like a log.
Spitting blackness out of his mouth, Van Riker gagged out, "What did you do that for? What did you do that for? First you tell me we have to walk and then you shove me in a ditch."
"Do you want to live?"
"Damned right, but not in a ditch."
"Ah well," sighed Chiun. He would have to make it simple for the great American scientist general. Chiun tried to think of some parable that would make it clearer. Something simple. Something that a child would understand.