Man on Two Ponies

by Don Worcester

  Two Buck Elk started to answer twice, but checked himself each time. He knocked the ashes from his red stone pipe and returned it to its beaded buckskin case before replying. His reluctance to speak was ominous. Billy stared at him, holding his breath, wanting him to say what he hoped to hear.

  “Grandson,” Two Buck Elk said softly, “there are many things that may be hard for you to understand. I don’t understand some of them myself. We can’t fight the Wasicuns any more-they are too many. If we can’t fight them, we can only live in peace with them and do what we must, what they tell us. If we can’t fight them it is senseless to hate them.” He paused and drew a deep breath as if gathering strength to continue.

  “Your father and the other warriors who fought with Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse live on hatred of the Wasicuns, and they want only a chance to die fighting them. When your father heard that I had sent you away to learn to talk like a Wasicun he was furious. ’You destroyed my only son,’ he said. ’my son is no more! I should kill you!’ Perhaps I deserved to be killed. If he felt that way about you learning to talk like a Wasicun, how will he feel to see you looking like one, even walking like one? It would be wise not to let him see you, at least until your hair is long again.”

  They stood for a time in silence, while Billy’s thoughts went back to his father’s affectionate farewell. Down deep inside he must still love the son he knew. Surely he’ll want me to become that son again. “I’ve been waiting nine years just to see him. I can’t wait for my hair to grow long. That will take years.”

  Two Buck Elk remained silent, but Billy was sure he knew what the old warrior was thinking, as he tugged at his left ear. It would be better for his father to go on believing he was dead and never have to see what had happened to his son. But I must see him! He left the tipi and entered the open door of the cabin, where his grandmother was stirring something in a big pot on the stove. When she saw him she gave a little cry. “Grandson!” she exclaimed.

  “How is my mother?” he asked.

  “She mourns for you yet. She has never forgotten you, grandson. But you look so different without your hair.” Billy frowned.

  They spoke little after that. Billy slept on a mat of grass his grandmother prepared for him. In the morning Two Buck Elk caught a spirited bay pony and saddled it. “He’s yours to keep, grandson,” he said, handing Billy the reins. “We always ride in the wagon. He’s a good pony—in the old days he might have been a buffalo runner,” he said sadly.

  Billy mounted, feeling a bit nervous, for he hadn’t ridden in years. His grandmother handed him a small canvas bag filled with dried meat. “Grandson,” Two Buck Elk said, “you are welcome to share our tipi if you wish.” He’s sure my father won’t want me to stay, but he’s got to be wrong. He must be.

  The lively bay traveled at a distance-covering jog trot. On either side of the trail Billy saw cattle grazing, and once passed two Brulé cowboys. By mid-afternoon the big camp loomed up ahead. At last, after waiting so long, he would finally be face to face with his father. He tried to visualize Pawnee Killer, wondering if he’d look exactly as he had that morning he rode away or if he’d appear older.

  The tattered buffalo-hide tipis were strung out on high ground along a creek, while on his left three boys watched the grazing pony herd. Billy rode up to them; they stared at him wide-eyed. They think I’m one of the police, and they know the police mean trouble. “Which is Pawnee Killer’s lodge?” he asked the nearest boy in Lakota. The boy hesitated, then pointed to one of the tipis. As he rode to it, Billy saw a few men and women at a distance, but they ignored him. A feeling of apprehension swept over him as he dismounted and with trembling hands tied the pony to a stake. Holding his breath, he struck the tipi, raised the flap, and entered to see his father at last. Pawnee Killer wasn’t there.

  Scarlet Robe gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth. “My son! You’re back at last! It’s been so many summers. But...”

  “Where is my father? I want to see him.”

  “He’s hunting antelope.” She paused and lowered her head. “My son, I hate to tell you this, but you must not be here when he returns.”

  Billy looked shocked. “Doesn’t he want to see his own son?” She looked at him sadly, then lowered her eyes.

  “It’s so hard to tell you. Your father... I mean you’ve been among the Wasicuns so long your father has convinced himself that you died when they took you away. He believes that, well, because he couldn’t bear to think you were becoming a Wasicun. To see you as you are would be a knife in his heart. He still loves the son he once knew, and he always will. But to him that son is only a memory, not flesh and blood. When your hair is long perhaps you can see him, even be his son again. But not now!” Her voice trembled and broke. “For his sake and mine, he must not see what they have done to you.” She looked at him appealingly, head tilted to one side, her eyes filled with tears.

  Billy’s heart was on the ground. Everything he’d waited for, lived for, had exploded in his face. First his grandfather, then his mother, opposed him seeing his father. It isn’t fair. Don’t I mean something to them? I may look different, but I’m still the son of Pawnee Killer. He stared coldly at his mother, the comers of his mouth down.

  “Forgive me, my son. Don’t think me cruel, or that I don’t love you. I’ve never stopped thinking about you or longing for your return. It’s only that seeing you as you are would destroy your father. You can’t want to do that to him. Maybe later, when your hair is long.... ” Billy didn’t wait for her to finish.

  Blindly he untied the pony and mounted, oblivious to the scowls of men and women who were watching. As he rode out of camp he saw two warriors wearing breechcloths and leggings approaching, each with an antelope across his pony’s shoulders. Billy stared at them. There could be no doubt—one was the proud figure of Pawnee Killer! Maybe he’ll know me and tell me to stay. His heart was pounding and his mouth felt dry as he breathlessly watched his father. The two riders would pass within fifty yards of him. He slowed the bay, ready to turn and follow them.

  The warrior with Pawnee Killer saw Billy’s short hair and uniform and glowered at him, but Pawnee Killer didn’t even look in his direction. It was as if he’d sensed that the rider was dressed like a Wasicun and didn’t merit even a glance. Billy opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. The two warriors rode on without looking back. Billy exhaled deeply, feeling weak. He loosened his rein and let the bay pony pick its way.

  At the trading post next day Billy numbly tied the pony to the hitching rack and stiffly entered, his leg muscles aching from the long ride. Culver was talking to three Brulé men; they wore the usual pants and shirts, and their hair was long. Billy stared enviously at their hair as they walked past him to the door. Culver leaned against the plank counter, feet crossed, arms folded, looking at Billy’s somber face. He doesn’t need to ask. He knows.

  “I saw him but he didn’t see me. I can’t let him see me till my hair is long and I look like a Brulé again.” Culver nodded sympathetically. “And what kept me alive, especially those first years, was the thought of being with him again.”

  Culver was silent for a moment. “What will you do now?”

  Billy didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know. My grandfather said I can live with them. There’d be nothing to do but sit and watch my hair grow. I’d go crazy doing that.”

  His mustache twitching, Culver walked around the counter and placed both hands on it. “I can use a clerk and handyman who knows both Lakota and English. Pay is five dollars a month. There’s a cabin with a cot in it out back where you can sleep, and you can draw your rations and eat with the other hands.” Billy’s head was lowered; he looked up at Culver without raising it. “I know it’s not what you had in mind, but it would be something to do for a few years. You could save your pay and buy cattle. That’s all this country’s good for. Think about it.”

  “I will, but I’ve forgotten a lot of Lakota words.”

  “They’ll
come back quick enough,” Culver said.

  Billy rode aimlessly around the agency. Most of the Brulés he’d seen, except his father and those at his camp and a few near the agency, dressed like whites but kept their hair long. If my hair was long I’d look just like them, no matter what Julian says. It’s not the clothes that matter, it’s the hair. But that will take years.

  Then he recalled something else Julian had said. After being at Carlisle, the hardest part was not having anything to do. Even working like a Wasicun was better than watching the sun rise and waiting idly all day for it to set.

  Back at the trading post, Billy tied his pony and entered. “What will I do with my pony?” he asked. Culver smiled.

  “You can put him in with my bunch. A boy turns them out to graze mornings and pens them at night. Now let’s get you out of that uniform and into clothes that fit.”

  Chapter Four

  The trading post was one big room with storage compartments at the back. Behind the plank counter were shelves containing canned goods, boxes of rifle cartridges, knives, rolls of calico, and other brightly colored cloth, and other items. Hanging from pegs in the wall were a few saddles, bridles, and lariats, and the smell of new leather filled the air around them. A rack held a row of Winchesters. From the ceiling were suspended cooking pots, pails, and baskets. “It’ll take a while to get to know where everything is,” Culver told him, “but I guess you’ve got lots of time.” Billy winced.

  “You’ll find the Brulés, like the Oglalas and the rest, are divided between what the government calls progressives and nonprogressives,” Culver said as he pulled a pair of khaki pants from a stack. “Try these.” Billy held them to his waist while Culver lit his pipe. They looked about right.

  “I’ve seen both kinds. It’s easy to tell which are nonprogressives.”

  “At first the progressives were mostly squawmen and mixed bloods, but not any more,” Culver continued, searching through a stack of shirts. “A growing number of fullbloods are following the agent’s advice and making an effort to adapt. For nomadic hunters who once claimed this whole country, settling down on one little comer of it is pretty hard, but some now admit the old days are gone and are trying to forget them. Even so, most of them move their cabins every few years.”

  “Why?”

  Culver laughed. “For a good reason. The first year or two after the sod is turned they can grow corn. After that the weeds take over. It’s a lot easier to have the agency farmer plow a new place than battle those weeds. Of course the women do most of the planting, but the men like to move, too.”

  “What about the nonprogressives?” Billy asked, buttoning the new shirt.

  “They refuse to build cabins or plant corn or let their children attend the schools Wright had built at the cabin settlements. They don’t do much but draw their rations and clothing and talk about raids and buffalo hunts they remember. They figure the whites took their hunting grounds and killed off the buffalo, so it’s up to the government to feed them. They’re right about that, but it’s slow death for them. You’d think they’d be glad to become cowboys and work with the Brulé cattle, but few will even do that. The government would like to wring their necks for refusing to become imitation whites, but I feel sorry for them. They’re pining for something they’ll never see again. It’s pathetic.” He knocked the ash out of his pipe.

  “Do they come here?”

  “Whenever they need anything and have antelope or deer skins to swap.”

  “My father?”

  “Once or twice a year, maybe. He avoids whites, mixed bloods, and even fullblood progressives.” He paused, then leaned forward, looking Billy in the face. “I know it won’t be easy for you, but you’d be better off to forget him. You’re not the son he once knew, and he’s not the father you remember. You need to get on with your own life and not, like the nonprogressives, spend your time mourning for something you’ve lost. That’s a hard thing to say, Billy, but I know it’s what’s best for you.”

  After thinking about it, Billy shook his head. “I’ve waited nine years to be with him again. I may have to wait nine more, but there’s one thing I want above all, and that’s to hear him call me his son. Once I hear that I won’t care what happens, but until he does I’ll never know who I am.” Culver’s mustache twitched like his lips were moving, but no words came out.

  Billy settled into the routine of the trading post, glad he had something to occupy his time. He built new shelves for the post and storerooms. “You’re a pretty good hand with a hammer and saw,” Culver told him, as he inspected his work. I never thought I’d be pleased to hear anyone say that.

  One day Billy looked up and felt a sudden thrill to see Mollie Deer-in-Timber and her mother enter the post. At fifteen Mollie was taller and prettier than ever in the dress she’d made, which was tight enough to show that she was becoming a woman. Her eyes opened wide for a moment when she saw Billy. She walked toward him, looking pleased but not quite smiling.

  “Billy, it’s good that you’re finally back,” she said, offering her hand like a Wasicun. Her mother eyed Billy suspiciously.

  “Julian told me you’re helping the teacher.” She nodded. “You never baked a cake for me like you promised.” She smiled. “Julian also said you’ll be married soon.” The smile faded and she lowered her eyes.

  “It’s not that I put you out of my mind as soon as I got back, Billy. I kept hoping you’d write me.” She looked embarrassed to admit that. “When you didn’t I was sad for a while, for I knew you’d forgotten me and that I must forget you. It wasn’t easy.”

  “I meant to write,” Billy stammered. “Really I did. I tried to, but it sounded so stupid I tore it up.” She looked a little sad.

  “My father wants me to marry a white man. He says I’m too much Wasicun to live like an Indian. There’s a man... He’s a bit older, but I think he’ll be a good husband. He wants to wait a year or two, till I’m older.”

  As she left with her mother, she said, “I hope I’ll see you the next time we come.” Billy weakly tried to smile. He felt empty inside, and could think of nothing to say. I never knew how much I wanted her. Now it’s too late.

  Culver regularly received newspapers from Dakota Territory and Nebraska, and Billy got in the habit of scanning them when no one was in the post. In November he read that the Friends of the Indian had met with Secretary of the Interior L. Q. C. Lamar to give him their views on what his Indian policy should be.

  The Friends of the Indian held their annual meeting at A. K. Smiley’s plush hotel at Lake Mohonk in October 1885 to decide for the government what it should do about the Indians. The time has come, they agreed, to give each Indian family a farm, sell the surplus land, cut off free rations, and force the Indians to support themselves. We must educate the Indians and make them citizens whether they want these things or not. A few expressed concern over pushing the Indians too rapidly, but the majority favored all possible speed in stamping out the Indianness in all Indians by one great stroke.

  Captain Pratt, who had been invited to attend because of his humanitarian work with Indian children, recommended turning the Indians out into the white population to sink or swim. When someone worried that the Indians weren’t prepared to cope with that and would surely sink, Pratt cheerfully agreed. “A few, those who desetve to, will sutvive,” he said, and dismissed the rest with a shrug. The well-fed brethren now spoke of statving the Indians into submission by cutting off their rations in the same breath they talked of educating them. As St. Paul said, “He who will not work shall not eat,” they intoned.

  Their course set, in November they sent a delegation to Washington with the distasteful task of making their views known to new Secretary of the Interior Lamar. Not only was he a Democrat-even worse, he was a former rebel slave owner. Hoping he would be as amenable as the Republican secretaries they preferred to deal with, they presented their plan for scrapping all treaties, allotting land to families, cutting off rations, dissolving t
he resetvation system, and making all Indians citizens.

  Lamar listened politely, then told them bluntly that he would have no part in uprooting the Indians and casting them, unprepared, into the position of tax-paying citizen land owners. “No hard and fast policy can be applied to all the tribes,” he explained, “and making them suddenly citizens and land owners is nearly as cruel as a war of extermination. Those that are ready I will push on; those that are not I will protect.” The brethren withdrew to regroup and plan their attack.

  “Who are the Friends of the Indian?” Billy asked Culver. “I didn’t know Indians had any white friends.”

  “There are some wealthy Republicans in the East who like to champion causes, and after the slaves were freed they forgot them and discovered the Indians. The brethren are sincere and well-meaning folk who do what they decide is right, but they insist on having their own way even when wrong. None of them has ever seen an Indian, but no matter. They’ve made their fortunes, so what they think and say must be right—the arrogance of wealth, someone called it. Occasionally they may do something good, like blocking the Edmunds land grab, but they’re dangerous friends because they’re so self-righteous.”

  “The Edmunds land grab?”

  “A couple of years ago, when you were in school, a commission under Newton Edmunds of Dakota Territory was sent to ask if the Sioux would sell some of their land. On his own, Edmunds drew up what he called an agreement that was intended to swindle the Sioux out of more than half their land, then claimed the Sioux had approved it. The brethren heard about his methods and blocked it, not that they object to the Sioux selling land. Then Edmunds said that the government had broken a treaty when it took the Black Hills, which set a precedent for doing it again. That didn’t fly either—at the time the brethren said treaties are sacred, and of course Congress backed off. Now it sounds like their attitude toward treaties has changed, thanks to Captain Pratt.”