Man on Two Ponies

by Don Worcester

  After a breakfast of bread and water the next morning, again there was nothing for them to do but wander around the old cavalry post. Running Elk thought of his mother, wondering if she still cried for him, and if she’d cut off her hair like the Tetons did when some family member died. I might as well be dead.

  At midday all of the children gathered around the door of the room where they’d eaten breakfast, sniffing the strange odors that came from the kitchen. When a woman came out and rang a bell, all dashed in, the oldest boys first. They sat at long tables where the food had already been dished out onto plates.

  Running Elk stared at the two carrots and small piece of fatty meat on his plate. He picked up the meat and nibbled it, wondering what it might be but certain it wasn’t beef. Closing his eyes, he chewed it up and swallowed it. Meat was the main food of the Tetons, and he hungered for more, no matter what it was. He looked left and right to see what others were doing.

  With fork in hand, his friend Whistler was chewing on a piece of carrot, and Running Elk knew from his expression that he didn’t like it. With his own fork he cut off a piece of carrot and put it in his mouth as cautiously as if it had been a live coal. Not liking the taste, he swallowed it whole, which brought tears to his eyes. Somehow he ate both carrots. Still famished, he looked at the others. All eyes were on the kitchen door. They’re as hungry as I am, and there’s nothing more to eat. They intend to starve us to death. He remembered the times he’d squatted in his mother’s tipi, eating his fill of beef or venison that had been roasting on a stake over the fire. His stomach protested.

  “Captain Pratt has requested that you be given regular army rations,” Long Chin told them when they reluctantly went outside. “He told them you can’t be expected to learn on empty stomachs. The food will soon be better.”

  The afternoon seemed longer than usual, for they had nothing to do but think about food and mourn for their families. When the sun finally neared the horizon, Running Elk felt more homesick than ever. In his mind he pictured the riverboat pulling away from shore while his mother cried for him, and a lump rose in his throat. After dark they rolled up in their blankets in the cheerless room, too unhappy to talk. Then Stays-at-Home and others sang brave songs. In their building the girls heard them and wailed loudly. Running Elk bit his lips to keep from sobbing like a girl.

  On the third day Long Chin brought them big sacks with slits in them. “These are your mattresses to sleep on,” he told them. Running Elk looked at the thin cloth—it wouldn’t be any better than the bare floor. After he had handed them out, Long Chin continued. “Out behind the stables is a haystack. Go there and fill these with hay.”

  In the morning Long Chin took them to the schoolroom, which had rows of desks and chairs facing a blackboard. A white woman in a long blue dress—Long Chin said she was their teacher—stood in front of the blackboard, smiling nervously at them. Running Elk recognized her and frowned; she was the one who had offered them candy. Finally she turned and made some white marks on the blackboard.

  “Those are white men’s names,” Long Chin told them. “Each one is different. You will choose one, and that will be your name hereafter.”

  Running Elk glanced at the other boys to see their reactions. All looked as shocked as he was. Having Wasicun names! He couldn’t imagine what that might mean. If his old name was dead, would he be someone else? If he had a Wasicun name, when he died he might not be allowed to travel the Spirit Trail that all dead Tetons followed to the Spirit Land. Even worse, he might have to go where the Wasicuns went. I don’t want a Wasicun name.

  When the teacher finished writing the names she faced the class, holding a long pointed stick in one hand. Long Chin beckoned to Running Elk to come forward. Reluctantly, dreading what he might have to do, Running Elk dragged himself up to the teacher, who handed him the stick. He reached for it like it was a sleeping snake, holding it gingerly in his moist right hand, not knowing what to do with it.

  “Touch the name you want,” Long Chin ordered. Running Elk looked at the other boys, wishing they could tell him if it was right to take a Wasicun name, but they stared at him blankly.

  “Hurry up,” Long Chin said. “Don’t take all day about it.” Not knowing what any of the names were, Running Elk touched one of the shorter ones. The teacher wrote the name on a tape, sewed it to the back of his buckskin shirt, then erased the marks so no other boy could choose the same name. Running Elk returned to his seat, wondering if his new name would make him feel and even speak like a Wasicun.

  One after another, each boy touched a name without any idea what name he was choosing. When all were back in their seats the teacher held up a piece of paper, said something, lowered it, then looked at them as if expecting a reply.

  “She’s calling roll,” Long Chin told them. “When she calls your name you must stand up and say ‘present.’ “Since no one knew his name, nobody answered. The teacher walked around the room looking at the names on the shirts, then stopped by Running Elk. “Billy,” she said.

  “That’s your name. You’re now Billy Pawnee Killer,” Long Chin told him. “Stand up and say ’present.’ ” This continued until all the names had been called. Stays-at-Home was now William Spotted Tail. The chiefs other sons were Talks-with-the-Bear, now Oliver; Bugler, now Max; and Little Scout, now Pollock. The adventuresome Plenty Kills, now Luther Standing Bear, was the only one who seemed to be pleased to have a Wasicun name. It took several days for all to know their new names.

  One morning Long Chin brought with him to the schoolroom a large burly man who looked like a mixed blood and who held a short, heavy strap in his hand. “This is your disciplinarian,” Long Chin told them. “His name is Campbell, and he will punish anyone who makes trouble. I advise you to do whatever you’re told.”

  Billy and the others looked at the man, hardly believing what they’d heard. Tetons never punished children beyond expressing disapproval. Campbell stared at them unsmiling, his brawny arms folded, the strap dangling from one hand. He looked mean.

  After school that afternoon Long Chin and a red-faced man with short gray hair met them outside the building. The man stood stiffly erect, hands by his sides. “This man is a former soldier,” Long Chin explained. “He’s going to teach you how to march like they do in the army. Line up in two rows.”

  March like the hated bluecoats after his father had fought them! Billy clamped his jaw shut, clenched his fists, and folded his arms across his chest. This was too much. He took his time getting into one of the lines.

  Through Long Chin the old soldier told them which was left and which was right. “When I say ’left,’ lift your left foot, then put it down. When I say ’right,’ do the same with the right foot. Keep your hands by your sides,” he told them.

  Defiantly Billy stood with his arms folded, both feet on the ground as the others marched in place. He was so angry he didn’t hear Campbell approaching behind him until he was yanked from the line and felt the strap across his back. Then he was flung back into the line, falling to his knees against Julian Whistler. Julian helped him to his feet. “Do as he says,” he whispered in Lakota. Soon they were keeping in step and turning and stopping on command. Thereafter they marched to meals and to school, looking as downcast as prisoners of war.

  A few days later Long Chin announced their hair would be cut the next day. Cutting hair was a sign of mourning among the Tetons. I don’t want my hair cut, even though we have much reason to mourn. That evening the older boys held council to discuss it.

  “If I’m here to learn to talk like a Wasicun,” the slender, square-jawed Oglala Robert American Horse said grimly, holding a braid in each hand, I can do it better like this, with my hair on.”

  “Hau!” the others said in agreement.

  The next morning they saw a man with a long mustache carrying a big chair into a room in the school building. Billy watched nervously as Long Chin led one of the younger boys out of the room. The teacher was writing the alphabet on the
blackboard, but he ignored her. Soon the boy returned, eyes lowered in shame, his hair cut off clear to the scalp.

  “You’re next,” Long Chin said. Billy’s legs felt numb as he followed Long Chin into the other room. The man with the long mustache stood behind the chair, holding a pair of clippers in his hand. On the floor beside him was a small pile of hair in two little braids. Campbell stood nearby, strap in hand.

  “Get in the chair,” Long Chin ordered.

  “No! I don’t want my hair cut!”

  “Captain Pratt’s orders. There’s nothing you can do about it, so get in the chair and keep quiet.”

  “No!” Billy shouted. At that Campbell grabbed his arms and pinned them behind his back while he struggled to free himself. Angrily Campbell threw him to the floor and lashed him repeatedly. Finally Billy stopped struggling, choking back sobs. Campbell sat him down hard in the chair, while the barber quickly clipped off his hair.

  Eyes on the floor, Billy limped back to his seat, the welts on his back throbbing painfully. If I had a knife I’d kill him. The others had heard his cries, and all quietly submitted to the indignity of having their long hair cut off. That night Billy slept fitfully, for he kept feeling his scalp. Losing his name had been bad, but losing his hair was worse. Will there be anything left of me that is still Brulé? Would my father know me now?

  A few days later a wagon arrived with a load of big boxes. “You’re going to wear white men’s clothes,” Long Chin told the boys. “Carry these to the room.” The older boys carried the boxes, while the younger ones chattered excitedly, eager to see their new clothes. They crowded around Long Chin while he opened the boxes. Curious, Billy watched out of the comer of his eye, not wanting to appear eager.

  Starting with red flannel underwear, Long Chin held up a garment in front of each boy until he had made an approximate fit. The same process was repeated for gray pants, coats, vests, and dark gray shirts. Each boy also received socks, heavy boots, suspenders, and a cap. None of the clothing fitted well, but most of the boys were too excited to notice. The boots squeaked when they walked; some of the younger boys walked around the room after lights out for the pleasure of hearing their boots. Billy wasn’t amused. I’m glad my father can’t see me. He’d probably think I’m a Wasicun.

  When they arose next morning, Billy started to dress. “Do the pants button in front or in back?” he asked.

  “In front,” one boy replied.

  “No, in back,” said another. Fortunately, a few of the boys had slept in their clothes and showed them where the pants buttoned.

  What else can they do to make us forget we’re Tetons? We have Wasicun names, our hair has been cut, we march like blue-coats, and now we dress like Wasicuns. The thought of being made over to look like a Wasicun filled Billy with resentment and worry. Like the others, he was painfully homesick, and it seemed that every day the world of the Tetons was farther away. After they learned to say a few simple sentences, Pratt announced that anyone heard speaking Sioux thereafter would be punished. That meant there was little talking if anyone was near, and they were more lonesome than ever. When no one was in sight, Billy spoke quietly to Julian in Lakota. “I don’t want to forget how to talk like a Brulé,” he said. “What will my father think if I can only talk like a Wasicun?” The round-faced, usually good natured Julian looked sad.

  “I wish none of us had come here. Our people will despise us when they see us.”

  Forty-seven forlorn Pawnee, Kiowa, and Cheyenne children arrived one day. Although the Brulés and Pawnees had been deadly enemies in the old days, Billy almost felt sorry for them.

  Eventually each boy had an army cot, a wooden box for clothes, and a chair. Then they were given strange-looking shirts. “These are nightshirts,” Long Chin told them. “At bedtime, take off your clothes and wear these to sleep in.”

  “Why do they give us so many things to look after?” Paul Black Bear grumbled. He was always late getting ready for the inspections Captain Pratt held every Sunday morning. Billy was wondering what his father would say if he saw him dressed like a woman. He’d probably think the Wasicuns had turned his son into a girl.

  That night they put on their nightshirts just before lights out at nine o’clock then tiptoed outside to scamper around barefooted on the cold grass. In the loose-fitting garment and with no disciplinarian watching, for a few delightful moments Billy felt almost free. Then they heard Pratt’s office door open and dashed inside. Billy was sure Pratt saw them, but he never mentioned it.

  “You’re all going to work in shops with white craftsmen,” Pratt told them one morning in the Moon of Hairless Calves. “This is Carlisle Indian Industrial School, and the main reason you’re here is to learn a trade. When you leave you’ll be able to work and support your families like white men do. The government is tired of feeding you Indians in idleness, so the sooner you learn to do something useful the better. It doesn’t matter how much English you know if you can work with your hands.”

  Told he would learn to make harness for work horses, William Spotted Tail exploded, and the scar across his nose became livid. When Campbell came for him he fought back. “Kill him! Kill him!” Billy shouted in Lakota as the two grappled, but Campbell was too strong. Sullenly Willian went to the harness shop, with Campbell following. Not wanting to taste the strap again, Billy hurried to the carpenter shop with Julian. Robert American Horse was in the smithy, and Luther Standing Bear was put in the tinshop. Others learned bricklaying or tailoring.

  Each new thing that happened to them made Billy more desperate. Losing their names and their hair, then having to dress like Wasicuns and march like the hated bluecoats was almost more than he could stand. Now they were being forced to work like Wasicun laborers, something no proud warrior would submit to even to save his life. The shame of it all could never be washed away. They’re trying to kill the Indian in us on purpose, but what will be left? I want to be a Brulé warrior like my father, not a Wasicun carpenter. Glumly he learned to measure and saw boards squarely, and to drive nails straight.

  School continued afternoons, and they learned new words, the numbers, and geography. One day the teacher showed them a round object painted in several colors. “This is a globe,” she told them. “It’s just like the earth, which makes a complete turn on its axis every day. Like this.” She spun the globe. The boys looked at one another and smiled. Everyone knew the earth was flat and had four comers, and it didn’t turn. And she thought it was round and spinning all the time. That was amusing. Wasicuns were silly.

  “It can’t be like she says,” Julian said after school. “If the earth turned upside down every night, everyone would fall off and there wouldn’t be anybody left. Flies can walk upside down. People aren’t flies.”

  “Hau,” the others said. Billy was sure they were right.

  In the Moon of Frost on the Tipi, the teacher brought a white-haired man in a dark suit and shiny black shoes to class. “He’s an astronomer,” she explained. “He studies the stars through a telescope, and he has something to tell you.”

  The man cleared his throat. “A most interesting celestial phenomenon will transpire next Wednesday night at nine-thirty,” he said. Billy and the others stared at him with puzzled expressions. “Excuse me. I forgot you’re Indians. What I mean is that the earth will pass between the sun and the moon. The earth’s shadow will cover the moon briefly, cutting off its light. It’s called a lunar eclipse.” The boys smiled. The funny looking Wasicun couldn’t know what he was talking about.

  The night of the eclipse was clear, and the children stood on the grass outside the buildings after lights out and gazed at the full moon. Billy wondered how long they would have to wait in the cold before they knew nothing would happen. But when the earth’s shadow began crossing the moon, he clapped hand to mouth in surprise. All watched awestruck as the moon’s light was gradually blotted out. Billy expected the older boys to sing brave songs, but no one made a sound. When the moon began to emerge from the
earth’s shadow, however, the younger children chattered gleefully and pointed their fingers. The moon had died and come to life again! Billy exhaled deeply. From now on I’ll believe what the teacher tells us. The earth is round, not flat. Somehow people don’t fall off. He couldn’t imagine how the astronomer knew there would be an eclipse at exactly the time he said. Either it was magic or white people know a lot of strange things.

  In the Moon of Ripe Berries, which the whites called June, the first school year ended, and Pratt planned a big celebration. Spotted Tail, Two Strike, Black Crow, and two other Brulé headmen, dressed in their finest buckskin shirts and leggings, stopped at Carlisle on their way to Washington. From Pine Ridge Agency came Red Cloud and several other Oglala chiefs in their finery to take part in the ceremonies. There were also a number of well-dressed white ladies and a man with a camera. Captain Pratt was the center of attention, and he kept the chiefs around him, giving them no opportunity to talk to their sons. Billy couldn’t tell from their solemn faces what they thought of the school.

  The chiefs were nearly ready to depart for Washington when Spotted Tail demanded to see his sons. “Can you talk like Wasicuns?” he asked as Billy listened.

  “Only a little bit,” William answered, rubbing the scar on his nose, “but they’ve given us all Wasicun names and they make us go to church on Sundays.” Spotted Tail frowned.

  “If you’re not learning to speak, what are you learning?”

  “To make harness for horses.” Spotted Tail’s face turned black, like he was strangling.

  “Make what?” He was almost shouting.

  “Harness for work horses,” William said, hanging his head.

  “Why?”

  “There’s a man they call the disciplinarian. If we don’t do what they say, he beats us with a leather strap. We hate it here. Take us home.”

  His younger brothers echoed his plea. “Yes, yes. Take us home!”