Man on Two Ponies

by Don Worcester

  Wells spotted an old man standing below the creek bank, his rifle leveled toward them. Gallagher ordered Lieutenant Fast Horse to arrest him for threatening them with gun. Wells translated the order, then said, “Don’t do it! The agent doesn’t know that creek bed is full of Oglalas and we’re trapped here.” Fast Horse hesitated. “Do as I tell you,” Wells said. “I’ll take the responsibility.” Fast Horse obeyed.

  “I know the old man,” Wells told Gallagher. “Let me talk him into coming out.” He laid his rifle on the ground, and the old man lowered his, but when Gallagher stubbornly insisted on leading the way, the old man snatched up his gun and raised it to his shoulder.

  Wells finally persuaded Gallagher to remain with the police while he talked the old man into coming out. When the old man laid down his rifle again and climbed up the bank, hundreds of scowling Ghost Dancers rose into view in the creek bed, all holding rifles ready for use. Gallagher turned pale. “They were,” Reynolds reported later, “ready to seal their religious convictions at the mouths of smoking rifles in defense of what they deemed a religious rite.”

  The police drew their pistols, awaiting an order from Gallagher. Before anyone could fire a shot, Young-Man-Afraid-of-His-Horses rode into the dance circle and the tension immediately eased. Wells quickly explained that the agent hadn’t come to interfere with the ceremony but merely to observe it. Torn Belly came out of hiding and invited Gallagher to watch the dance so he could see for himself that there was no harm in it. Gallagher and Reynolds watched, but both were alarmed at what they saw. It was clear that the dancers were in no mood to compromise, and that any attempt to stop them would immediately lead to bloodshed.

  Gallagher reluctantly returned to the agency, grimly admitting that the situation was completely out of control. “Steps should be taken to stop it,” Reynolds informed the Commissioner, “but this can be done only by the military unless the weather accomplishes it.” Gallagher added that the Ghost Dance might have unfortunate consequences “should there be no restriction placed on it.”

  That would be someone else’s problem, not Gallagher’s. Two weeks earlier he had been informed that he was no longer needed and would soon be replaced by a Republican. So while the Ghost Dance intensified among the Oglalas, Gallagher did nothing to check it, wishing only that his replacement would arrive. He had to wait until October 9.

  Chapter Ten

  Every issue they faced divided the Tetons, especially the land sale they had all once opposed. The same was true of the Ghost Dance. It was not surprising that the former hostiles and the rest of the nonprogressives were the first to embrace it, for they were the most desperate. At Pine Ridge progressive chiefs American Horse and Young-Mao-Afraid-of-His-Horses opposed it from the start. Little Wound, who usually sided with them on every issue, supported the dancers along with Big Road and other nonprogressive leaders. It was the same at Rosebud. At both agencies, however, a growing number of progressives and their families also took up the dance. Teachers at several of the cabin settlements reported that their schools were nearly empty, and they didn’t know why. Not all of the missing families were at Ghost Dance camps-many were hanging around Valentine and Fort Niobrara, begging for food.

  Surprised to learn that the Brulés were still holding dances after he’d ordered them to cease, Agent Wright sent five Indian police to a dance camp with orders to observe, not interfere. When the men returned they came first to the trading post. They huddled together, staring blankly at Billy when he asked what they wanted. From their sheepish expressions he suspected that they were reluctant to report to the agent.

  “What’s the dance like?” he asked. They looked at him as if dazed, as if they didn’t understand the question. Their mumbled replies were unintelligible. Finally Elk Horn led him aside. Culver joined them, elbow in one hand, the other holding the pipe in his mouth.

  “We watched them dancing a long time,” Elk Horn said hoarsely, barely above a whisper. “They went round and round in a big circle, going faster and faster, until some of the young women died, the medicine men said. They were stiff like they were dead, but they moaned and said things we couldn’t understand. Others, both men and women, also died, but when they came to life again they were happy. The dancers stopped, and the ones who had died told everyone about going to the Spirit Land and talking to dead relatives. They described them so accurately we knew they told the truth. All the spirits told them they would soon come to earth. It was scary, but I think all we have heard is true. There is a Messiah, and he speaks with one tongue.”

  Billy pondered his words. Maybe I should join the dancers. The Messiah said that only the believers, those who dance, will be saved when the new earth covers the old. I don’t want to get buried with the Wasicuns. I wish I knew what to do.

  “What do you make of it?” he asked Culver, nodding toward the departing police.

  Culver looked thoughtful, and his mustache twitched several times before he replied. “The dancers fast a whole day before they dance; they’re already weak from hunger, and it makes them weaker. They’re all thinking of the dead relatives they want to see and what they expect them to say. They go round and round in a circle, get all worked up, and finally fall into a trance. That’s sort of like being asleep and dreaming with your eyes open. Under those circumstances, most see and hear what they want to see and hear. Being half-conscious, they remember their dead relatives in perfect detail, which explains why their descriptions are so convincing to others who also remember them. There’s something hypnotic about the whole process. They get mesmerized.”

  “Mesmerized?”

  Culver paused to light his pipe. “There was an Austrian doctor named Mesmer,” he said between puffs, “who discovered a way to put people into hypnotic trances. They called it mesmerizing. The dancers mesmerize themselves. With the help of the medicine men, of course.”

  “What will happen to the dancers?”

  “If no one interferes—tries to force them to stop-in the spring, when the Messiah fails them, the whole thing will die out as quickly as it started. But they’re desperate for any reason for hope, and they’ll probably be so crushed they’ll likely lose their will to live. Some were close to that before they heard of Wovoka. I hate to think what might happen if the government interferes. It would take the army to stop it—the Indian police can’t possibly do it—and the army couldn’t do it without a big fight.” He paused and relit his pipe.

  “What Wovoka began as a peaceful religion,” he continued, “is no longer peaceful among the Tetons—quite the opposite. From what I hear, those dancers are itching for a fight and are ready to kill anyone who tries to stop them. They figure the whites will disappear soon anyway, so they wouldn’t mind sending a few on their way early.”

  “Short Bull didn’t say anything about Wovoka telling them to wear Ghost Shirts. He said we must not fight.”

  “Correct. I suspect it’s only among the Tetons that Ghost Shirts have appeared and the dancers have become militant. After all the bad things that have happened to the Tetons that’s not surprising. My wife’s folks say the Oglala Little Wound had a vision about the shirts and described the symbols to paint on them. They’re supposed to make them stop bullets. They can’t, of course, but the shirts caught on and spread to all the dance camps.”

  “But if they believe the shirts will stop bullets...?”

  “That’s a big part of the problem. They have no fear of the police, and if soldiers are sent here, God forbid, they’ll have no fear of them. That makes for an explosive situation.”

  “If it’s just going to die out in the spring like you say, I’d like to see a dance before that happens. Maybe when Short Bull starts his next dance I’ll ride out and watch for a few days. There’s got to be something strange about it to get everyone so excited.” He said it like he was only considering it, but he’d already decided to go. I’ve got to see for myself I must know before it’s too late.

  Culver looked at him sharply. “Th
at’s risky,” he said. “My advice is to forget it. You just might get hooked on it. Level-headed men like Bull Bear have fallen for it, even some who went to church regularly. I’d hate to see that happen to you. Think about it, but if you must go, keep reminding yourself it’s an illusion, not the real thing.”

  Billy nodded in agreement, but he wasn’t convinced. Culver’s not an Indian; he could be wrong. The Messiah is coming to save the Indians, not the whites. The dances were held every six weeks, but not at the same time in the different camps. Short Boll’s next one would be at White Horse’s camp in late September, and that was the one Billy wanted to watch. Short Bull, after all, had talked to Wovoka. He said nothing more to Culver about it, but it was constantly on his mind.

  In mid-September the Brulés were at the agency to draw their meager rations when a young man galloped up on a lathered pony. “Soldiers coming on the reservation!” he shouted in Lakota.

  Before the agent learned what was happening, many Brulé men rushed to get their Winchesters, then mounted their ponies and raced down the road to Valentine and Fort Niobrara. Wright called for the Indian police, and they dashed down the road. When he returned two hours later, he told Culver that when he found the men they were stripped for battle, galloping their ponies back and forth to give them second wind, brandishing their rifles, and shrieking war cries.

  “I had a terrible time convincing them it was a false alarm,” he said. “I thought at first they’d attack us. I don’t understand it, but they looked disappointed, like they were determined to die in battle with soldiers and resented having the opportunity snatched away from them.”

  I understand that. It’s better to die fighting your enemies face to face than to let them kill you by starvation and disease. I’m not surprised they were disappointed. I would be.

  This episode convinced Wright that it was time for a showdown with the Brulés, and he called them together the next morning before they set out for their camps. Billy watched as the young agent, trying to look as stern as General Crook, climbed onto a wagon bed with the glum-looking interpreter following. The stony faced Brulés gathered around to learn what he had to say.

  “I have heard from the Great Father,” he said, pausing for the interpreter. “The Great Father says the dances must cease. He orders you to stop them at once. Unless you do there will be no more rations issued!”

  A growl of protest rose from the lean faces, then the Brulés broke up into groups to talk. Billy heard clicking sounds as some warriors angrily worked the levers of their Winchesters, but no shot was fired. After a half hour the headmen met with Two Strike. The old chief listened impassively, then walked slowly toward the agent, while Billy edged nearer to hear what was said.

  The dignified old chief looked Wright in the face as he spoke through the interpreter. “It is a cruel thing for your Great Father to threaten to cut off what little food we receive when we are already hungry,” he said. “But we are at your mercy and have no choice. We will do as you say.” Then he turned and walked away, still a proud old warrior even in defeat. Billy watched him go, feeling sorrow for him but also for himself. He’d waited too long and missed his chance to see a Ghost Dance.

  While the sullen Brulés set out for their camps with their rations, Billy walked to the agency office with Wright. A well-dressed white man arrived in a wagon, and hopped down while the driver waited for orders.

  “You’re Wright?” he asked. The agent nodded. “I’m J. H. Cisney, Special Agent of the Indian Office. The census shows there are only 5250 Indians at this agency, but you’ve been receiving rations for 7500. You are hereby suspended while the Commissioner determines what you did with the surplus.”

  “Surplus? Good God, man! The rations have been so reduced these people are starving. And I even had to threaten some.... “

  “Don’t tell me about it. I’m just following orders. Inspector Reynolds is coming from Pine Ridge to take over while you’re suspended. If you can clear yourself, that is.”

  Shocked, Billy hurried to tell Culver. “What stupidity! Wright’s as honest as they come. He’s not the problem. It’s that ignoramus of a Commissioner and Congress.” His hands trembled as he lit his pipe.

  “Wright should have no trouble clearing himself, but that may take months, the way they move in Washington. It’s one hell of a time for him to be away and for a total stranger to be in charge. Reynolds doesn’t know a single Brulé leader, or anything at all about the situation here. I think Wright was starting to get a handle on it, but that’s down the creek now.”

  A few days later Billy learned that Short Bull had told the Brulés to forget the promise to Wright—he was no longer in charge—and to continue dancing. Billy was relieved. I’ll get to see the Ghost Dance after all!

  Hungry Brulés killed some of the cattle in the tribal breeding herd. When Reynolds heard about it, he sent six Indian police to arrest two of the worst offenders. They returned empty handed. They had arrested the two men, they reported, but a large crowd of armed Ghost Dancers surrounded them. “Let them go or you die, they told us. We let them go.” Reynolds was angry.

  “You seem to know these people as well as anyone,” he told Culver. “It sounds like Wright let them get out of control.”

  “It wasn’t Wright’s fault. It’s the same at the other agencies, except maybe Standing Rock. McLaughlin seems to have kept the lid on so far, but I wouldn’t bet that he can continue to.”

  “I have orders to stop the dances, and I hear they’re still going on,” Reynolds said. “How would you go about it in my place?”

  “There’s not much you can do without starting a war. The best thing would be to keep hands off and wait for bad weather to stop it, or for it to die by itself. The next best thing is to have a friendly talk with Short Bull and other dance leaders. Try persuasion, though it’s a bit late for that to have much chance. If you can arrange a meeting with them, better use Billy here as an interpreter. Short Bull trusts him.”

  With great difficulty, two progressive fullbloods persuaded Short Bull and others to meet Reynolds halfway between White Horse’s camp and the agency by promising he wouldn’t bring any Indian police. Reynolds and Billy rode alone to the meeting place. Short Bull and two others soon joined them, all three looking determined.

  “The Great Father wants you to stop the dancing,” Reynolds told them through Billy. The three men stared unblinking at the agent.

  “We would rather die fighting than starve to death,” the sharp-faced Short Bull replied. “Threats mean nothing to us, for we’re not afraid to die. The day is soon coming when you whites will be gone and all dead Indians will return.”

  Reynolds, a little pale, had nothing more to say. Short Bull and the others headed for White Horse’s camp. It was almost time for his next dance.

  At the trading post Billy bought a Winchester and a box of cartridges while Culver was away. Early the next morning he packed a few scraps of meat and bread in a canvas bag, saddled his pony, and tied his bedroll to the back of his saddle. He hoped he could leave without seeing Culver, for he almost felt guilty. He’d told Culver he wanted only to watch the Ghost Dance. That much was true, but it wasn’t the whole story. He wanted to watch, but as a dancer, not a spectator, to learn for himself what caused others to believe. As he thought about it, he realized that he badly wanted to believe. He stared straight ahead as his pony shuffled past the trading post, hoping Culver hadn’t gotten there yet. The skin on the back of his neck tingled, and without turning he knew that Culver was standing in the doorway watching him and shaking his head.

  After riding at a steady trot for ten miles, Billy fell in with a party of families in wagons, all heading for White Horse’s cabin settlement. In one of the wagons was portly Bull Bear, who had criticized Billy for working in his cornfield like a woman. With him were his two wives in long calico dresses. White Faun sat on the folded canvas tipi alongside the tipi poles, which stuck out behind the wagon. Bright Star, her heavier-set olde
r sister sat by Bull Bear. As Billy rode past them, Bull Bear called to him. “You can share our tipi,” he said. Both of the young women stared at Billy, then exchanged glances.

  Others joined the caravan, until it was so long Billy couldn’t see the end. In late afternoon they came to the cabin settlement, and soon the canvas tipis of the newcomers were set up all around it, and hundreds of ponies were grazing on the prairies along the creek. When Bright Star and White Faun set up their tipi, Billy put his rifle and bedroll in it, then unsaddled and hobbled his pony. “We’ll fix a bed for you,” White Faun told him, dimpling as she spoke. He wondered what it would be like sleeping in a tipi with one man and two pretty women.

  After dark everyone gathered around a fire in the center of the big camp. Billy stood at the back of the crowd to watch and listen, eager to hear what Short Bull would say. What am I doing here? It was like a dream. He remembered Culver’s warning: “Keep reminding yourself it’s an illusion.” I don’t need to remind myself Nothing seems real, yet everything seems real. Am I already in a trance?

  Recalling Culver’s words had set him to wondering. If all non-believers and Wasicuns are to buried under the new earth, what will happen to good white men who are married to Tetons? He didn’t care what happened to the rest of the Wasicuns after their lies and broken promises, but Culver was different. Then he remembered the Purvis family he’d stayed with summers. Some Wasicuns were good-hearted people and should be spared. He wondered if the Messiah was aware of that.

  He heard Short Bull’s voice and his thoughts returned to the scene before him. He glanced around the big circle and caught his breath. Across from him was Pawnee Killer, arms folded, eyes on Short Bull. So much had happened lately he’d almost forgotten that his father would surely be at one of the dance camps with other former hostiles. Without thinking, he felt of his braids-the ends fell to just below the top of his shoulders.