People of the Morning Star Read Free Page B

dirt.” MacGuire half-lidded his eyes. “Now Cochise, you’ve had your fun. Go away and leave us alone. We’ve got nothing against prehistoric Indians. Maybe they built this, and maybe they didn’t. And frankly, outside of a few deluded radicals like you, who cares?”
    John studied the man’s head, seeing the spot in the center of his brow where he’d put the bullet. The slow rage that always got him in trouble was rising to full boil. “You’re preaching the most insidious form of racism that there is: that my people weren’t just culturally and intellectually inferior, but that the notion they built Cahokia is so absurd even the most outlandish alternate explanation, Aliens, is more believable.”
    The skinny camera guy, apparently reading John’s reddening face, said, “Look, pal. No offense. Seventy percent of the American people are scientifically illiterate. Less than three percent have even heard of Cahokia, let alone what it might mean. They don’t believe anything existed in America before the white guys came.”
    In a condescending voice, MacGuire said, “Me, I’ve got nothing against the Indians. Okay, your people got a raw deal, and I can’t change that. People do believe in Aliens, and because they do, we’re going to sell them Aliens. It’s free speech.”
    “They got a term for what you’re doing. They call it cultural genocide. Murdering a people’s past as a way of marginalizing them.”
    “You’re a lunatic. What happened? You forgot to take your Prozac this morning?” the camera guy said with a smirk.
    “Before I send you on your way, take one last look.” John tightened his right hand around the pistol grip. “The mounds were just the foundations for the buildings. They sent colonies as far as Georgia and the Carolinas, hundreds of thousands of people lived within a thirty-mile radius of this spot. My people built a stunning and remarkable civilization here. Saying it was Aliens is a moral crime. And since you know it’s a lie, you’re just a modern version of Custer.”
    “Hey, Mr. Red Man. Reality check. A lie? What’s that? Everything’s marketing, what you can sell. Just like in politics, truth is whatever you can get people to believe. So go on,” MacGuire said with a wave of his hand. “Go away. Shoo!”
    John took a breath. Time.
    The cameraman was complaining to MacGuire, “Can you imagine that? That asshole called us racists? I voted for Obama.”
    John’s vision fixed on MacGuire’s face, at the point where he’d shoot. His heart was a slow and steady thumping beat, coursing blood through his body. He’d felt this way in combat—what he interpreted as the spirit of his warrior ancestors.
    As the revolver slid out of his belt, a hard hand clamped on his wrist from behind, a voice near his ear saying, “Ah, yes. Thought you’d come here.”
    “Uncle Max?” John cried, stunned.
    “So, you gonna kill them here, in the middle of the open?” Max asked as he wrenched the old Smith & Wesson from John’s hand and stepped around.
    Wig MacGuire and the cameraman both stared, wide-eyed, first at the gun, then at the older man with a Pendleton blanket hanging from his shoulders. Max’s face was lined by his aging smile. VA benefits had paid for very nice false teeth that gave him a healthy grin.
    “Wanted to make a statement, Unc,” John told him. “You know, remind the world that we’re tired of genocide. It’s what you fought for in Kosovo with KFOR, remember? Genocide is pretty much the same if you use a camera or a gun.”
    Max nodded, his expression turning pensive. “Yeah, I suppose it is.”
    “Hang on here!” Wig MacGuire had finally found his voice, his wide eyes bugged behind his glasses as he stared at the worn revolver. His hands were up, his face ashen. “We’re sorry. Okay. Do you want money?” He pawed desperately for his billfold. “You can have anything you want. We don’t want any trouble.”
    “Shit!” John cried in disgust.