The world will not mourn Smith's passing, will not take note of just another young AmerIndian's death on a reservation in the center of the planet's most immensely profitable oil field. Smith's passing is only a cold statistic, and that is the truth. And yet, to his family and friends his death was life-shattering, and certainly for his little boy, both the center of each other's world.

I did not know Smith. Whether he was a credit to society or a blot, I cannot say, and certainly it is not my place to judge. But I will say this in the way of a kind of eulogy, after testifying at his killer's trial in Bismarck, and in moving on: I know well what cowardice and bravery in the face of certain death look like. Afghanistan and more especially the convoy routes of Iraq taught me that. Sometimes you see extreme grace as death nears, and it is a fiercely beautiful thing. This was the case in the final moment of Gerald Smith's life. He died out in the middle of a long stretch of sun-splashed open highway fronting a glittering Lake Sakakawea under skies of electric blue, evading a surprise knife attack with skilled composure.

Oddly, Gerald never made an offensive or aggressive move. We may never know why. Yet clearly his moves and skill set were such that if he had wanted to, he could have better defended himself by going on the offense. He was every inch the prizefighter in his last moment--bobbing, weaving, ducking, turning, his back-and-away footwork the nearly perfect shuck-and-jive dance of a professional boxer. He was facing his attacker unarmed but with a remarkable fearlessness; a Peacemaker, trying to calm his killer without turning tail and running away.