One doesn’t have to look very deep into American pulp fiction to find all manner of lurid mistreatments of American Indian imagery. These steamy details from the back cover of a thirty-five-cent pulp novel (Savage Cavalier) don’t even match the jacket copy, much less, I am sure, the deathless prose inside:

She stood in the firelight, her coppery, moon-breasted body bared to his unbelieving eyes. She was Princess Adiawando of the warring Senecas. He was Lt. Jeff Wyatt, her prisoner. But Wyatt had been spared torture and death — for a night. Spurred by her hot, primitive desires, the Princess had chosen Wyatt as her partner in the weirdest love rite known to history…

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