Later, after I’d left the cemetery and had gotten back in the pickup and had driven away from Wounded Knee and had stopped for the evening in a town on the far side of the reservation, I sat in a bar across the road from the motel where I’d found a room, and drank two beers with two shots of tequila, and made small talk with the bartender, a twenty-something Lakota woman who wore jeans shorts and the t-shirt of a heavy metal band.