Runner

Frank Runs Far was dead. It was my duty as Public Health Officer for the Bureau of Indian Affairs to see about the body, and so I had driven across the fields to his small log cabin.

The body was sitting, as I had expected, in front of a still-warm stove—this despite the ninety-degree heat. There were no marks on the old man, and I had no reason to expect any violence. I laid him out on the bed and covered him, for the time being, with a sheet. I was supposed to report the death, fill out some forms, and arrange burial in the Tribal cemetery, but I thought that in this case the usual procedures would not do.