Man on Two Ponies (6 page)

“You won't know the place. It's some changed since Wright took over as agent in '83. He got lots of families to build cabins and grow some corn. Of course they ain't farmers by a whole lot, and most still sleep in tipis, but more are tryin' to farm. At least their wives are. Sure ain't like the old days.” He paused. “Glad you're finally comin' home?”

Billy looked down at his worn boots. “Now that I'm here I don't know if I'm glad or not. It's what I've wanted every day for six years, but now I'm not sure I belong here any more. I'm all mixed up. I don't even know what I am.”

“I'll tell you,” Smith said slowly. “You're kinda like us breeds. Whites hate you 'cause you're too much Indian. Indians hate you 'cause you're too much white. You're a man on two ponies, that's what you are.”

They reached Rosebud after
dark,
and Billy spent an uncomfortable night on a
thin
mat in Smith's cabin, wishing for a cot like the one he had at Carlisle.
Wasicun!
He forced the thought from his mind.
In
the morning Smith fed him a breakfast of greasy
pan
fried bread, fried salt pork, and bitter coffee. He forced himself
to eat
it, trying not
to
think
of the
ham
and eggs, biscuits and honey, and coffee with cream that Mrs. Purvis had served.

“Reckon you should let the agent know you're back so he can put you on the ration roll. You don't want to miss gettin'
all
this good grub.” Smith grinned, showing his broken
tooth
while wiping his greasy
hands
on his pants. Billy nodded, then went outside
to
see Rosebud by daylight.

The setting was as he remembered it. Bathed in early morning sunlight under a cloudless sky, the agency's brown log buildings were nestled in a bowl of hills dotted with
dark
green pines against a background of yellowing grass. Just seeing it and breathing the pine-scented breeze made him proud
to
be a Brulé.
In
the old days it had been a favorite camping place of his people. That was why Spotted Tail had insisted on locating the agency there, that and the fact little land near it was suitable for farming. Although he knew the old life was gone, Spotted Tail had resisted the government's efforts
to
force the Brulés to
take
up farming.

Now, however, most of the tipi camps that had clustered around the agency in
all
directions when Billy had last seen it were gone. The tipis that remained were of white canvas, not those of mellowed
buffalo hide with paintings of warriors and soldiers on them. Somehow Agent James Wright had persuaded the families to move
to
areas where they could plant an acre or two of corn and build
cabins.
There
were now many cabin settlements scattered over the land, some of them
thirty
miles or more from the agency.

Later, not knowing what to expect, Billy set out for the agent's office next to the council room, carrying suitcase and toolbox. Some of the Brulé men he saw wore government issue shirts and pants along with moccasins. A few had cut the seats out of their pants and wore what was left as leggings; they also wore breechcloths and had trade blankets or worn buffalo robes over their bare shoulders.
Even the ones who dress like whites still keep their hair long. But it's clear some have changed and some have not.

Feeling self-conscious in his outgrown blue uniform, Billy knocked on Wright's door and was told to come in. The office contained only a few chairs, a deerskin on the floor, a filing cabinet with a buffalo skull on it, and a scarred oak table Wright was using as a desk. A stocky, broad-shouldered man with a brown
beard,
Wright reminded
him
of Henry Purvis, and he felt at ease.

“I'm Billy Pawnee Killer, just back from Carlisle.”

“Been expectin' you, Billy,” Wright said, holding out a gnarled hand. “Tackett wrote you'd be coming.” He glanced at the tool-box. “I see they trained you to be a carpenter.”

Billy nodded. “Summers I worked on a farm.”

“Good.
I'm a farmer, you know. There isn't likely
to
be much carpenter work here, outside what the staff does, but when you're eighteen we'll set you up on a farm. What will you do in the meantime?”

“I haven't seen my mother for six years, my father for longer
than
that, and I'm anxious to get acquainted with them again.” Wright stroked his beard.

“I
think
you should know that few of those men who were with Sitting Bull or Crazy Horse have adjusted to reservation life, and some of them likely never will. They're like caged tigers tom from the jungle. They camp as far from here as they can and still draw rations every ten days. They hate white men and avoid them, but they hate even worse any Sioux who looks or acts like a white.
I doubt that they'd let you, with your short hair and uniform, even spend a night in their camp.”

Billy frowned. “But surely, if my father wants me there...
?”

“You should let him know you're back, of course, but it would be better for me to send him word and see what he says.” Billy's frown deepened.

“I want
to
see him. I must see him.”

“Well, in that case, don't expect him to ask you to stay. You'll take some gettin' used to, Billy. Not only by the others, but by your own parents, especially your father. There are some pretty wild warriors in that camp, and if they didn't run you off, they'd make life miserable for you. I don't even send the police to those camps if I can help it.”

“They couldn't make it much worse than it was when I went away. I must see my father. Seeing him again is what I've lived for.” Billy shuffled his feet. Wright stroked his
beard
again.

“I understand,” he said softly, leaning forward on his elbows.
“I hope it works out for you.” He pointed to a map of the reservation tacked to the log wall, and circled his stubby finger. “They're usually somewhere in this area, but they move whenever they need fresh grass for their ponies. The trader, John Culver, can find out where they are through his wife's kinfolk. She's
Brulé.”

On his way to the trading post Billy saw a familiar-looking youth approaching, but at first he didn't recognize him. Then he knew it was his friend Julian Whistler. He'd let his hair grow into two short, pathetic-looking braids that dangled to just below his ears on each side of his round face, and he wore a
red
and white striped blanket uncomfortably over his bare shoulder. His expression was solemn, but he still didn't look like a typical young Brulé fullblood. Even with blanket and braids he appeared different,
like
a Wasicun trying to pass for an Indian.

“Billy!” Julian exclaimed. “You're back.
Pratt
must have run out of excuses for keeping you.”

“You were lucky, my friend. You left after four years.”

“Four were too many. Nobody here has any use for us now, and if we do anything different, like shaking hands or sleeping in cabins, they jeer and
call
us Wasicuns. Even our own families,”
he said, curling his lip. “They act like we changed because we wanted
to
become make-believe Wasicuns, not because we were forced
to.
Pratt
always bragged that he'd kill the Indian in us and leave the man. He should have killed both instead of sending us home the misfits he made us.”

“Have you done any carpenter work?”

Julian
laughed bitterly, toeing the
dirt
with
his
moccasin, the short braids skipping back and forth on each side of his unhappy face. “Not one of us
has
worked a single day at what they made us learn. Either there's nothing for us to do or the Wasicuns say we're trying
to
take their jobs. 'We don't need Injun carpenters,' they say. Those years were wasted—worse
than
wasted.” He waved his arms violently, and the blanket slipped from his shoulder. “Where will you live?” he asked, pulling the blanket around his waist with both hands.

“I want
to
live with my father, but the agent
thinks
he'll throw me away when he sees how I look.”

“Even if he doesn't, you'd be going straight from Carlisle to one of the wildest camps on the Reserve.” Julian shook his head, and his braids flew. “You've been away so long you can't have any idea what that would be like. I know I couldn't stand it, and I doubt that you could for long. After living like we did and being
busy all the time, the hardest
part
is having nothing to do but feel sorry for yourself and wish you were dead. I'd gladly work as a carpenter just to have something to do.”

“Living with my father is the only way I can become a Brulé again. I've got to, if he'll let me.”

“Hah! Look at me! Too late for that, my friend. I don't know which is worse, an imitation Wasicun or an imitation Brulé, but those are your choices.” Shaking
his
head again, with
his
ridiculous braids gyrating, he turned to go.

“Where does Mollie live?”

“Deer-in-Timber? Her family
has
a cabin down the creek a couple miles.
She helps the teacher at the school there, though I
hear she'll get married before long.”

Billy picked up his suitcase and tool box and continued on his way.
Mollie Deer-in-Timber getting married! I never thought of that happening. I should have talked to her before she left.
I should have written and not let her forget me.

John Culver, the trader, was a tall,
round-shouldered man with twinkling blue eyes and a sandy colored mustache that hid his mouth. He was smoking a pipe, and like most whites and Indians at Rosebud he wore khaki shirt and pants and Brulé moccasins. Billy introduced himself and shook hands. “Mr. Wright said you probably can tell me where my father is camped,” he said. “But first I must see my grandfather, Two Buck Elk, and borrow a pony.”

“You're fresh back from Carlisle, I see,” Culver said. “I went to college in Pennsylvania for a couple of years before I got the wanderlust and headed west. Now I'm a squawman with a couple of mixed-blood sons. Come along way, ain't!?” He smiled. “You know, if I had it to do over I wouldn't change a thing.” Billy knew he'd like Culver.

“Your father is Pawnee Killer, you say?” Billy nodded. “Not figurin' on stayin' with him, are you?” Wishing he hadn't been asked that, Billy nodded again.

“I must see him, and I don't have anywhere else to go. I'll stay with him if he wants me.” Culver's mustache twitched.

“If it doesn't work out like you want, come see me when you get back. “He took Billy outside and pointed out the
trail
to Two
Buck Elk's camp, about ten miles away.

Leaving suitcase and tool box at the trading post, Billy set out on foot for the camp. When he was almost halfway there a family of Brulés in a buckboard drawn by a
team
of trotting ponies approached, going in the same direction and leaving a cloud of dust behind. Billy stopped, expecting them to offer him a ride. The driver was dressed like a white man, but his hair was long. He glanced at Billy, frowned, and drove on without slowing down. The woman looked straight ahead, but the two children
in
the back of the wagon turned their heads owl-like to stare at Billy through the dust.

When he reached the little settlement Billy saw that a white canvas tipi stood by every cabin, and near each was a buckboard. In the distance he saw small patches of knee-high corn. His grandmother, in a long calico dress, was entering a cabin, and he knew that Two Buck Elk was probably in the nearby tipi. Remembering
the Teton custom just in time, he struck the tipi with his hand to announce a visitor, then raised the flap and peered in. His grand
father was sitting crosslegged on a green and white blanket, leaning against a willow backrest and smoking his pipe. He wore pants and moccasins, but no shirt. The flesh hung loosely on his arms.

Two Buck Elk looked up at Billy with an expression of surprise, then of sorrow on his wrinkled face. With his left hand he touched his disfigured ear.

“Grandfather, they finally let me come home,” Billy said, entering the tipi.