“A few days earlier, Chess and Thomas had driven to Spokane for a cheap hamburger. They walked in downtown Spokane and stumbled onto a drunk couple arguing. "Get the fuck away from me!" the drunk woman yelled at her drunk husband, who squeezed his hand into a fist like he meant to hit her. Thomas and Chess flinched, then froze, transported back to all of those drunken arguments they'd witnessed and survived. The drunk couple in downtown Spokane pulled at each other's clothes and hearts, but they were white people. Chess and Thomas knew that white people hurt each other, too. Chess knew that white people felt pain just like Indians, Nerve endings, messages to the brain, reflexes. The doctor swung hammer against knee, and the world collapsed. "You fucker!" the white woman yelled at her husband, who opened his hands and held them out to his wife. An offering. That hand would not strike her. He pleaded with his wife until she fell back into his arms. That white woman and man held each other while Chess and Thomas watched. A hundred strangers walked by and never noticed any of it.After that, Chess and Thomas had sat in the van in a downtown parking lot. Thomas began to weep, deep ragged tears that rose along his rib cage, filled his mouth and nose, and exploded out.”

“Where's your dad now?" Thomas asked."He's gone."The word gone echoed all over the reservation. The reservation was gone itself, just a shell of its former self, just a fragment of the whole. But the reservation still possessed the power and rage, magic and loss, joys and jealousy. The reservation tugged at the lives of its Indians, stole from them in the middle of the night, watched impassively as the horses and salmon disappeared. But the reservation forgave, too. Sam Bone vanished between foot falls on the way to the Trading Post one summer day and reappeared years later to finish his walk. Thomas, Chess, and Checkers heard the word gone shake the foundation of the house.”

“Thomas," Chess said, "if you don't want to be famous and have your stories heard, then why'd you start the band up?""I heard voices," Thomas said. "I guess I heard voices. I mean, I'm sort of a liar, enit? I like the attention. I want strangers to love me. I don't even know why. But I want all kids of strangers to love me."The Indian horses screamed.”

“All of the Indians must have tragic features: tragic noses, eyes, and arms.Their hands and fingers must be tragic when they reach for tragic food.The hero must be a half-breed, half white and half Indian, preferablyfrom a horse culture. He should often weep alone. That is mandatory.If the hero is an Indian woman, she is beautiful. She must be slenderand in love with a white man. But if she loves an Indian manthen he must be a half-breed, preferably from a horse culture.If the Indian woman loves a white man, then he has to be so whitethat we can see the blue veins running through his skin like rivers.When the Indian woman steps out of her dress, the white man gaspsat the endless beauty of her brown skin. She should be compared to nature: brown hills, mountains, fertile valleys, dewy grass, wind, and clear water.If she is compared to murky water, however, then she must have a secret.Indians always have secrets, which are carefully and slowly revealed.Yet Indian secrets can be disclosed suddenly, like a storm.Indian men, of course, are storms. The should destroy the livesof any white women who choose to love them. All white women loveIndian men. That is always the case. White women feign disgustat the savage in blue jeans and T-shirt, but secretly lust after him. White women dream about half-breed Indian men from horse cultures.Indian men are horses, smelling wild and gamey. When the Indian manunbuttons his pants, the white woman should think of topsoil.There must be one murder, one suicide, one attempted rape.Alcohol should be consumed. Cars must be driven at high speeds.Indians must see visions. White people can have the same visionsif they are in love with Indians. If a white person loves an Indianthen the white person is Indian by proximity. White people must carryan Indian deep inside themselves. Those interior Indians are half-breedand obviously from horse cultures. If the interior Indian is male then he must be a warrior, especially if he is inside a white man.If the interior Indian is female, then she must be a healer, especially if she is insidea white woman. Sometimes there are complications.An Indian man can be hidden inside a white woman. An Indian womancan be hidden inside a white man. In these rare instances, everybody is a half-breed struggling to learn more about his or her horse culture.There must be redemption, of course, and sins must be forgiven.For this, we need children. A white child and an Indian child, gendernot important, should express deep affection in a childlike way.In the Great American Indian novel, when it is finally written, all of the white people will be Indians and all of the Indians will be ghosts.”

“James tells the crowd that the river is just a few yards from where we stand is all we ever need to believe in. One white woman asks how old James is and I tell her he's seven and she tells me that he's so smart for an Indian boy. James hears this and tells the white woman that she's pretty smart for an old white woman.”

“Thou mutters, Miss Putnam. Speak up.”Like she couldn’t hear. She’d hear Chess if Chess ran to the other end of the room, covered her mouth with her hands, and whispered “Fuck you,” but she couldn’t hear Chess standing four feet away from her.”

“He could see his uncles slugging each other with such force that they had to be in love. Strangers would never want to hurt each other that badly.”