One of the other, older warriors near the youth spoke up. “In ancient days, in the days of the heroes, a boy of Makes Much Radiation’s age would not dare raise his voice in council before his father. Certainly not to say the things he just has. I cite as reference, for those interested, Robert Lowie’s definitive volume, The Crow Indians, and Lessor’s fine piece of anthropological insight, Three Types of Siouan Kinship. Now, whereas we have not yet been able to reconstruct a Siouan kinship pattern on the classic model described by Lesser, we have developed a working arrangement that—”

“The trouble with you, Bright Book Jacket,” the warrior on his left broke in, “is that you’re too much of a classicist. You’re always trying to live in the Golden Age instead of the present, and a Golden Age that really has little to do with the Sioux. Oh, I’ll admit that we’re as much Dakotan as the Crow, from the linguist’s point of view at any rate, and that, superficially, what applies to the Crow should apply to us. But what happens when we quote Lowie in so many words and try to bring his precepts into daily life?”

“Enough,” the chief announced. “Enough, Hangs A Tale. And you, too, Bright Book Jacket—enough, enough! These are private tribal matters. Though they do serve to remind us that the paleface was once great before he became sick and corrupt and frightened. These men whose holy books teach us the lost art of being real Sioux, men like Lesser, men like Robert H. Lowie, were not these men palefaces? And in memory of them should we not show tolerance?”

“A-ah!” said Makes Much Radiation impatiently. “As far as I’m concerned, the only good paleface is a dead paleface. And that’s that.” He thought a bit. “Except their women. Paleface women are fun when you’re a long way from home and feel like raising a little hell.”