Corn. A woman in her seventies, with a broad face and short
graying hair, she had a gentle, scholarly manner that masked an
inner intensity. She showed me an exhibit of photographs of many
of the 2,229 allotted members of the tribe, including several of her
relatives, who had each received a headright in 1906. In one of the
display cases, I spotted a photograph of Mollie Burkhart sitting
happily with her sisters. Another photograph showed their
mother, Lizzie, and everywhere I turned while touring the exhibit I
recognized another victim of the Reign of Terror. Here, a young,
striking George Bigheart in a cowboy hat. There, Henry Roan with
his long braids. Over there, a dashing Charles Whitehorn wearing
a suit and bow tie.
The most dramatic photograph in the museum spanned an
entire side of the room. Taken at a ceremony in 1924, it was a
panoramic view of members of the tribe alongside prominent local
white businessmen and leaders. As I scanned the picture, I noticed
that a section was missing, as if someone had taken a scissors to it.
I asked Red Corn what happened to that part of the photograph.
“It’s too painful to show,” she said.
When I asked why, she pointed to the blank space and said, “The
devil was standing right there.”
She disappeared for a moment, then returned with a small,
slightly blurred print of the missing panel: it showed William K.
Hale, staring coldly at the camera. The Osage had removed his
image, not to forget the murders, as most Americans had, but
because they cannot forget.
A few years ago, Red Corn told me, she was at a party in
Bartlesville and a man approached her. “He said that he had Anna
Brown’s skull,” she recalled. It was evidently the part of Brown’s
skull that the undertaker had kept, in 1921, and given to bureau
agents for analysis. Outraged, Red Corn told the man, “That needs