For a number of years, I ran the flea market circuit in East Texas. I had a 1973 Chevrolet/Carpenter 36 ft. school bus. It was painted gray. It was know as “The Big Gray Bus.” What a monster. I had it set up as an RV in the front, with room in the back for an inventory. I sold knives, Swords, Brass items, Jewelry, porcelain and whatever I figured I could turn a profit on. (All of this in the early nineties.)
I went to places like Canton, Kirbyville, Onalaska, Nacogdoches, College Station and the like. Buying here and selling there….and camping through the week. I met a lot of interesting people, which bring me to our story.
There was this Indian fellow pretty much running the same circuit as myself. So I’d see him here and there. He sold Indian stuff. Turquoise jewelry, rain sticks, drums, staffs and all kinds of stuff he pretty much made himself.
Well we got to be kind of buddies, and I’d try and set up near him, cause he would dress up like an Indian, with war paint and a big feather bonnet. He would hoot and holler and shake rattlers (that he made and sold) and carry on like a wild west Indian, and tell his story to any who’d listen, and sell them something in the process. To say the least, he drew a crowd, and being close by, a crowd didn’t hurt me none.
In the evening, some of the marketeers would get together around a campfire, have a few beers and chew the rag. Tell each other our stories. You know, fish stories.
Well one evening in Kirbyville, about a dozen of us marketeers were siting around a campfire, having a beer and the Indian, ‘Creeping Wolf,” was tell us all about being an Indian. He was sitting there in his Indian grab and warpaint, telling us how his great-grandfather was chased by the Texas rangers. How he was one of the last Apaches, and his people rode the plains hunting the white man’s cattle and on and on… We were all hanging on every word, he was indeed a great orator, this included me.
While he steady telling us stories a small girl, of about six appears in our mist. She had sandy hair and was wearing a pink dress, she was rather grubby, I guess from running around the flea market. I’d seen her a few times during the day. Not sure who she belong to, but she was listening intently.
Then she said, right emphatically… “You’re not an Indian.”
Everybody, I mean everybody leaned over, and craning their necks, turned and looked at this little girl, like she was crazy!!!
She continued, “You need to shave, Indians don’t shave.”
Just like that, I mean... just like that, everybody’s head turned and looked at Creeping Wolf. Sure enough, he needed to shave.
The power of innocence. There she stood in his presents, looking right at him. Oh Creeping Wolf was caught, red handed, (pun intended,) needing to shave. He couldn’t lie to her… he couldn’t do it… Out came the big confession. Turns out his name was Scott, and he was half Scottish. His mother was a Scotsman, she named him Scott so he wouldn’t forget, cause he look like an Indian (his father.)
He said I worked in the plants, when I retired, I thought I take up the flea-market as a way to travel and sell all this stuff I’ve been making over the years. So I became “Creeping Wolf, Son of Great Apache Warrior.” Seems to work, I am half Indian and I’ve been having a good time. I do have to shave regular.
Well… we all have a good laugh… cause we all had a gimmick, I was selling pirate loot. But I had to marvel over the power that little girl had, noticing something we had all over looked, and calling him to task, and how quickly ‘Creeping Wolf, Son of Great Apache Warrior’ became Scott, in the blink of an eye.
Be wary of stories you tell little kids, they aren’t blind, and they aren’t stupid, and the are listening to every word. Seek the truth, and it shall set you free.
George Henry Nichols
June 2026
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