As I write, thinking, reflecting on lives long past, most people are entitled to a single life. I had three, and if anyone reads this, perhaps I can claim a fourth life as an author. When I say three lives, each was a different life with its own identity unrelated to who I was before.

When I say unrelated, that's not to say one identity wasn't taken in an effort to escape the previous identity. In one of my lives, the most successful in my mind, I was on the run from murder charges.

I did the murders. I was a wanted man. It was not an unjustified warrant for my arrest, but I'm writing this as a means of explaining myself and my actions. While there is no justification for murder, and for most of my life, lives, I'd never consider such a thing, but life, lives, at times get away from the liver. That is to say circumstances can carry you beyond your control of events not of your making.

My first life led me to my second life. While they are related, one had nothing to do with the other. Living a life of fourteen years would be considered a short life, but my first life led me to the second, which was nearly as long as the first.

It's this second life which required me to have a third life. My second life was the life I liked best, and would have been living it still, except for those events I could not control. What I found in my second life was family, love, loyalty, and responsibility. Things I knew of but without experiencing any of it in a way I liked.

Now, as I consider it, I could have been an accessory to two murders before the murders that forced me to go on the run. These deaths were never uncovered, and so there's little reason to examine the circumstances that lead to two deaths.

A lot has to do with my brother. He was not present in my first life, but he saved my life, and that led me to life two. I had no brother in my first life, so having one was far more agreeable, and part of what made my second life the best of my lives.

Because of being born into my second life, I had family, love, and a life worth living. There was little to like about my first life, but all the things missing in that life were present in the next. It was like I made a wish, and that wish came true.

As with so much that is too good to be true, it comes to an end. Many lives come to an end without any true happiness or love. Love wasn't a consideration in my first life. There was nothing to love. I had an existence.

My first life as Gregory was ordinary. I was a white boy living in a relatively white world. Looks can be deceiving. I looked white but I was half Pawnee. I lived on the family farm with Maw and Paw. Maw was very white. Paw was Pawnee. Everyone knew my Paw was an Indian. It didn't mater what kind. He was treated the same way any Indian was regarded. White men saw him as lower than dirt.

They called Paw, "Half Indian."

Paw had one arm and the joke was on them. I'd seen Paw wrestle a tree stump out of the ground with that one arm. I'd seen him knock a hog cold with a single punch, when the critter ran around like he was crazy.

My Paw could take apart any of the men who called him "half Indian." Paw knew if he raised his one hand to a white man, they'd shoot him down like a dog.

He took their insults. He said nothing about their laughter. I was ashamed of Paw. He took it, and he took it, and he took it some more. That was in my first life. Looking back on it now, Paw was about the toughest man I know. He knew where he stood. He took all they handed out to him, and he took care of business in spite of it.

I went to town was Paw as a boy. I watched him ignore the taunts and insults. I was with him in Lawrence's store, and no one ever put the pieces together. I was Maw's kid and the preacher's grandson. None of them figured out that I was half Pawnee. None of them knew that Paw was Maw's husband. The preacher saw to it.

I was half Pawnee. No one called me half an Indian. My skin was white white. My grandfather insisted I take my mother's maiden name, because I could pass as white. It was my pass into the white world I hated. I went to the white man's school. They'd a hung me if they'd known I was an Indian going to school with decent white boys.

I knew better than to mention my Pawnee blood. I was brought up being told not to tell anyone I wasn't white. With a piece like that missing from the reality that was my life, I resented it and everyone who had a hand in denying who I was.

What could a kid do about a plan to make me acceptable to people I wouldn't give the time of day? I knew I was like my father. I was nothing like my father. Why didn't he stand up for himself? If he'd do that, I'd be proud to say, "I'm Pawnee."

Life was not that easy for me. I did what I was told and I said nothing. I suppose, in that way, I was just like Paw.

I didn't ask to get born into a white world. My father married my Maw. The result of that union was their own little half breed.

I knew what I was in spite of the little white lies told to convince people otherwise. I knew nothing about how to be Indian. I spent a lot of time pondering where my father came from. Why did he accept the way he was treated?

I suppose I was lucky to have skin like my mother's, rather than having skin the color of my father's. I felt dishonest. I was taught to always tell the truth. My mother and grandfather both told me that being dishonest was about as bad as you could be.

Except if your daughter married an Indian and you didn't bother to mention that little detail to the good town's folk. I suppose it was a little late to correct the record once I'd been in school a few years.

As I grew, my mind was often on my father and what it meant to be Pawnee. When I started going to town with Paw to get the things on the list Maw handed me, I got to see how white men looked down on Paw. I went along because I could read what was on Maw's list. Previously Paw had to go to the church to give the list to Maw's father. My grandfather, a man of some importance in town, went with Paw to Lawrence's store to get the things Maw was out of. Even with my grandfather being with my father, men kept an eye on Paw.

Paw knew English. He couldn't read English. I don't know how this built-in humiliation wore on Paw, but I never saw him react to being watched or to the things men said to him. When I was old enough to take over making sure Maw got what she wanted, I hated Lawrence's store, but I knew if I didn't go with Paw, my grandfather would go. I wouldn't let Paw deal with my grandfather any more often than was necessary.

Even though I was with my father, when we went into Lawrence's store, no one ever considered that I might be my father's son. I was Grandpa's daughter's son. I was white. Of course I couldn't be Half Indian's son. My father was the man who worked for Maw on her father's farm. That's all there was to it. Grandpa spent a lot of time making that clear to the town folk from his pulpit.

He often spoke of being the Good Samaritan who found an Indian on the side of the road, and he took him in. He even put him to work on his daughter's farm. What he didn't say would definitely change the reaction to that sermon.

I heard him say, and as honesty goes, it was technically true. My grandfather liked to speak of the kindness he felt in his heart for the less fortunate. He never mentioned my father's marriage to my mother, but he only had so much time, and leaving details out was hardly dishonesty. As honest goes, I'm not sure where the facts he leaves out fits on the honesty scale.

I'd still be living on Maw's farm and doing chores if Maw hadn't gotten me the Hawkin 50 for my 14th birthday. It wasn't an unusual gift for a 14 year-old. Boys at school talked about getting their Hawkin at 12 and 13. This meant you were a man and when you hunted you could take down a buck, a buffalo, or a good size bear. The Hawkin wasn't a toy. It was a serious rifle in these parts.

The Hawkin weren't my idea. It wasn't even Maw's idea, although she wanted me to have a respectable gun for hunting. It was Grandpa's idea. Grandpa didn't have anymore use for me than he had for Paw, but when he had a chance to make Paw look smaller than he made him look over the years, he couldn't resist. Grandpa had a little blackness in his preacher's heart. He made sure he bought a rifle my father couldn't afford to buy for me.

That rifle marked where my first life ended. My life as a white boy was swiftly heading for its untimely ending. It wasn't my idea either, although the idea that took me to the mountain where that life ended was all mine.

That rifle represented my entry into manhood, and as a man, I was going to do what some men did, I intended to go get me a griz. A Hawkin 50 could bring down the biggest grizzly bear.

I aimed to prove to Paw, I am a man now.

I'm sure, being as white as I was, made life easier for me. It wasn't so easy to wonder about being Pawnee. My father never spoke about being Pawnee. That didn't sit well with me. Many days I wondered what it would be like being Pawnee. I pretended I was an Indian marauding for rabbits Maw would fix for supper, as I moved stealthily through the forest behind the cabin.

No, I couldn't use a Hawkin on a rabbit. Wouldn't be nothing left to eat. When I hunted over that summer, I used my squirrel gun so we got to eat what I kilt. I practiced with the Hawkin.

I'd always been a good shot. I practiced and practiced with my squirrel gun. I wanted Paw to be impressed with my hunting skill. The one thing he did with me that was something he did as a Pawnee, he took me hunting with him.

With one arm he couldn't use a bow any longer, but he had a shotgun and a squirrel gun. When Paw took a shot, he didn't miss. I was just like him there. When I shot, I didn't miss, but the Hawkin stayed in the corner of the cabin until Paw and I would go off to get a couple of bucks to furnish meat that would last all winter.

I'd gone with Paw to hunt bucks since I was 8. I couldn't get a buck with my rifle, but I could shoot smaller critters that kept us fed until we was coming home with whatever Paw kilt.

The fall after I got my Hawkin, I wouldn't be going hunting with Paw, because this fall, I intended to go get me a griz. The Hawkin 50 would be key to my finding my second life. The Hawkin could bring down anything you aimed at, and I intended to aim at a grizzly bear.

The only trouble was, my birthday was in June. You didn't hunt big game in warm weather. As far as I intended to go to get me my griz, I'd need to fight my way back through the predators that were fixing to take that meat away from me.

No, you didn't hunt big game in warm weather. As far as the mountains were, and that's where the grizzly bears called home, the meat would need to keep for the time it took me to get home.

Everyone was going to say, 'That preachers grandson got himself a griz.'

When Paw and me went hunting in the fall, we waited until after the first hard freeze. This fall, after that hard freeze, I'd be going hunting alone. While Paw headed out to the east, I'd be making tracks for the mountains. I didn't intend to tell no one I was going, but they'd figure it out. Paw could try to track me, but I didn't think so. He'd figure me to be back in a day or two, but he'd remember the Hawkin, and he would think about what I intended to kill.

As soon as I saw that Hawkin rifle, a plan began developing in my head. My Paw hardly regarded me at all, but when we hunted, he instructed me on how the Pawnee hunted. Even with one arm, Paw needed only one shot to bring down anything he got in his sights. Even with my squirrel gun, I could hit anything I shot at. When I first got that single shot rifle, I knew there wouldn't be time to reload for a second shot. That meant making my one shot count. I better hit it the first time. I hunted for rabbits and squirrels for supper, and I rarely came home empty handed. It's the one useful thing I did. I kept Maw's pot full of small game in between hunts. That way we had enough venison to last until we went hunting again.

With a Hawkin I could bring down a buffalo or a grizzly bear. It wasn't the buffalo that called to me. I wanted to get me a griz. A buffalo wasn't likely to give me any trouble, but a grizzly bear was dangerous. It would take some courage to come face to face with a griz and take a careful steady aim. A griz was dangerous, especially if you missed. There wasn't likely to be time to reload with a griz charging at you.

I wouldn't miss. I had no fear. I was 14. I had me a Hawkin 50.

I wasn't happy being a white boy. I wasn't white. I had to hide I was part Pawnee. I wanted to know what it meant to be Pawnee. Whites believed they were entitled to take what they got it in their mind to take. Some of what they took belonged to the Pawnee. I kept quiet, because I knew what was good for me. I didn't like it.

I only knew how to be white. Perhaps, if I got me a griz, Paw would see me different. Maybe then he'd tell me about being Pawnee. He didn't need to do it in front of anyone. I wanted him to sit down with me and explain what it means to be Pawnee.

I was Pawnee. My Pawnee part wanted to be set free.

I knew Paw wasn't likely to change and that's when Maw give me that gun. She opened the door to my future. She give me that Hawkin and some big ideas. I did what any boy would do with a Hawkin 50.

I went hunting once the time came.

I lived in the valley where the river runs. Beyond the river to the north were the mountains we watched from the front porch after supper. It was those mountains that called to me since I was small. I didn't know what that call meant when I was small. I couldn't be sure what it was that made me feel what I felt when I looked at them. After I got me a Hawkin, I decided I needed to answer the call. The idea I'd go get me a grizzly bear was part of it. It was the part that made the most sense to me. I'd know more about the meaning once I'd gone and came back with my griz.

I put everything I planned to take with me in the corner of the barn a little at a time. I put it in a spot where Paw wasn't likely to stumble on to it. It took a lot of waiting, but early one morning, I slipped out of the cabin, got my gear out of the barn, and I slipped across the river, heading for the mountains. They always looked close enough to touch, but I was about to find out how far away they were.

While it sounded easy, nothing ain't easy in life, I suppose. I was too young and too inexperienced to be going after a griz alone. As stupid as it all seems now, my first life was coming to a close.

No, a griz didn't get me. I might have fallen off that mountain, but I wasn't kilt. I could have been ate by a grizzly bear. I could have died from my broke leg, after I fell off that mountain, but I didn't, even though my first life was over.


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"2nd Life"

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