Man on Two Ponies

by Don Worcester

  “Tomorrow we fast,” Short Bull said. “The next morning we must have sweat baths to purify us, as the Messiah orders. Then, after our faces are painted, we will begin the dance to bring back our relatives, our land, and our buffalo.” Even though most had heard this before, a murmur of expectation rose from the throng. Billy’s skin tingled as he listened to Short Bull. There was a quality in his voice, the tone or vibration, that gave it a magical effect. It sounded different, like it wasn’t his own voice but the Messiah’s that came from his mouth. It was awe-inspiring to think of the Messiah speaking though Short Bull. Billy watched Bull Bear and his wives return to their tipi, and waited a while before following them. It was customary for several couples to share a tipi, but single men usually stayed in a separate lodge. Finally he lifted the flap and entered, straining his eyes in the light of a small dying flame. On one side of the tipi were two forms wrapped in blankets, which he assumed were Bull Bear and one of his wives. On the opposite side, on a pallet of grass, was another. He couldn’t see the bed promised him, nor his own bedroll. As he groped past the single figure a hand reached up and grasped his, pulling him gently down. He glanced in the direction of Bull Bear, but could see no movement.

  “It’s all right,” White Faun whispered, her warm lips against his ear. “He’s glad you’re here, and so am I.” She eagerly helped him undress, stroking and fondling his quivering body, then pulled him against her hot skin and wrapped her legs around him. When he collapsed in ecstasy she still clung to him, caressing his body with both hands. After a time he responded by running his hands over her extended nipples and slender thighs, wondering how long it would be before he was ready to go again. It proved sooner than expected. Then, exhausted, he fell asleep. Near morning he dreamed that a strange woman was stroking his body and sending sensations through weary muscles. He awoke to discover it was no dream.

  The next day passed slowly. Groups of men and women were scattered about, talking in low tones or sitting silently with eyes closed. Billy walked about the camp hoping to see his father and mother, but gave up and leaned against a tree near the creek. He chewed on a grass stem, trying to forget about eating. What am I getting into? Culver is probably right—I mustn’t lose my head. But what if it’s all true?

  As he sat musing, Billy tried to visualize the Messiah. He remembered the pictures of biblical prophets he’d seen at Carlisle. They were all old, with long flowing hair and beards and piercing eyes, and they carried shepherd’s staffs. The Messiah must be old like them and have long hair, but since he was the Indian Messiah, he wouldn’t have a beard.

  In the morning Billy went to one of the sweat lodges to wait his turn. The lodge, like the others, opened toward the east and had a carpet of pungent sage branches. In front of the opening, a buffalo skull on a mound of earth stared blindly at the lodge. Billy and several other men crawled into the low lodge and sat cross-legged on the sage. A medicine man who tended a nearby fire used a forked stick to push several hot stones into a hole in the center, then one of the men sprinkled water on them from a kettle. The water made a hissing sound and filled the lodge with dense steam, while outside the medicine man chanted prayers to the Wakan Tanka. Billy felt weak when he emerged, but a plunge in the cool stream revived him.

  After that he joined others who waited for the medicine men to paint their faces. Billy watched and listened to learn the proper procedure. A dancer went to a medicine man and placed his hands on the man’s head. “My father,” he said, “I have come to be painted so that I can see my friends. Have pity and paint me.” Some of the designs were those that had appeared to dancers in visions. Others were the same as those on the Ghost Shirts. The basic color was red, the color of Wi, the Sun. The designs might be yellow, the color of Inyan, the rock, green, the color of Maka, the Earth, or blue, the symbol of Skan, the sky. It was noon by the time all of the dancers’ faces had been painted and they had assembled on the dance ground.

  Both men and women wore Ghost Shirts above their buckskin leggings. A few were of buckskin with fringes or feathers, but most were of white cloth. The men’s were colored blue around the neck. Painted on them were circles, crescents, and crosses representing the sun, the moon, and the morning star, symbols they had been assured would make bullets fall to earth. As Billy knew, it had been the supernatural powers given their shields rather than the thick buffalo hide that warriors relied on to stop enemy arrows or bullets. They had placed this same reliance on the supernatural powers of the Ghost Shirts. Tying eagle feathers in their hair completed preparations for the dance.

  In the center of the dance ground was the prayer tree, a sapling the dancers had cut down and planted there. Near it a young woman raised and lowered her arms toward the west—it was from that direction the new earth would come to cover the old. The dancers crouched tensely in a long line facing Short Bull, Mash-the-Kettle, and the other medicine men. Each carried a rod with a red cloth and a red feather attached to one end. They uttered incantations to the Messiah as they walked along the line hypnotically fluttering the feathers before the dancers’ eyes and over their heads. As Short Bull’ s rod passed over his head Billy felt a strange sensation sweep over his body.

  That was like magic, but it was real. He didn’t touch me, but I felt it. That was no illusion. Short Bull looked at the sun and uttered a prayer, then the dancers formed a large circle around the tree. Billy felt his pulse quicken as a young woman near the tree raised a red stone pipe toward the sun, while another held four blunted arrows aloft. She shot them into the air one by one, then retrieved them and hung them with the bow on the tree.

  Billy’s eyes opened wide as he watched the medicine men and those who had already talked with dead relatives in the Spirit Land. Chanting, they marched around the circle of dancers. When they completed the circle they returned to the center and sat on the ground.

  “Great Wakan Tanka,” Short Bull began, “we are ready to begin the dance you have commanded. Our hearts are now good. We will do all you ask of us, and we beg you to give us back our hunting grounds and our buffalo. Carry us to the Spirit Land that we may see our dead relatives. Show us the good things you have prepared for us and let us return safely to earth.”

  Then he gave them instructions and taught them the songs they were to sing. Those in the line all faced to the left and placed their hands on the shoulders of the persons in front of them. At a signal from Short Bull they started walking to the left, bending and straightening their knees so their bodies fell and rose. They chanted “Father, I come,” over and over until Short Bull held up his hand. “Weep for your sins,” he called out. At that the air was filled with piercing wails and shrieks as some of the dancers rolled on the ground, crying out for forgiveness.

  When it was quiet again the dancers picked up dust, rubbed it between their palms, then threw it into the air. Raising their eyes to the sky, they stood with hands clasped above their heads, calling on the Messiah to let them see their dead friends. Without thinking, Billy found himself doing whatever the others did.

  Finally all sat in place while Short Bull walked around in the center, saying again and again “The Messiah is coming!” Then all rose to their feet, widened the circle, and took the hands of those on either side of them. Across from him Billy saw Pawnee Killer. but Scarlet Robe wasn’t with him. The medicine men began singing. and all joined in.

  Someone comes to tell us news, tell us news.

  There will be a buffalo hunt.

  There will be a buffalo hunt.

  Make arrows. Make arrows.

  Bodies swaying, hands swinging back and forth, they moved slowly to the left. The earth beneath their feet had been pulverized to a thick layer of dust by so many dances in the same place. As they shuffled through it, the dust swirled up around them.

  The dancers were young and old, men and women. Some were gaunt from hunger, looking like little more than skeletons, but their movements were as animated as the others’. What gives them the strength to keep goin
g? Is it the Messiah himself, or their faith in him? Gradually moving faster, the dancers chanted, “Father, I come. Mother, I come. Brother, I come. Father, give us back our arrows.”

  This continued for half an hour, when a woman whose hair was flying and whose face turned purple, staggered away from the line and fell. Billy watched her, the skin on his arms tingling, as she lay unconscious, with arms and legs twitching. None of the dancers seemed aware of her, but continued to circle ever faster to the left. Several men and women were stepping high and pawing the air, like they were trying to climb a steep hill. The arms and legs of others twitched and their bodies shook convulsively; some leaped erratically forward and back, wailing and shrieking. When a woman fell in the line of dancers, her husband stood over her as she lay moaning in the dust to prevent others from stepping on her.

  At a signal from Short Bull the dancers stopped and sat in place. About a third of them had dropped out, and some still lay where they’d fallen. As those who had died came to life again, they staggered to the center, where they told one of the medicine men what they had seen. The medicine man repeated it loudly so all could hear. The ones who had seemed to be climbing said that they felt the earth rise up and feared it would hit them in the face. One man said that an eagle had flown toward him, but vanished when he held out his hand. When asked what he thought that meant, he scowled. “Big lie,” he said.

  Billy was surprised that some who had died remembered nothing, while a few didn’t believe what they’d seen. But others had talked to dead relatives who assured them they’d soon return to earth.

  After resting for a time, the dancers arose, then repeated the entire performance two more times, stopping only to eat at sundown. The medicine men were active the whole time, hopping about, sprinkling sacred powder on the dancers, waving eagle feathers in their faces, and chanting.

  When the dance ended, it was already dark, and Billy again waited a quarter of an hour before entering Bull Bear’s tipi. There was no fire this time, but he made his way to the pallet he’d slept on before and felt the body of White Faun on it. This time she didn’t move as he quickly stripped and slipped under the blanket. Gently he ran his hands over her thick thighs. But White Faun’s were slender—it was Bright Star waiting for him, and though she was less demonstrative than her younger sister, she was no less eager.

  Each morning as he took a sweat bath to purify himself for the dance, Billy asked himself why he was doing it. I’ve seen enough to know what it’s like. If Culver is right, it’s just moke-believe anyway. But I’m not so sure he’s right. So he had his face painted and continued dancing, for he couldn’t bring himself to leave. He wanted to know more about the dance, he told himself, but he also wanted more nights with White Faun and Bright Star.

  On the fourth afternoon Billy suddenly found that everything seemed to be growing hazy; he felt dazed and not fully aware of what he was doing. Finally his legs gave way and he fell to his knees. Short Bull gently pushed him onto his back and hovered over his upturned face, staring into his eyes and moving his head slightly in a small circle. His eyes are like a snake’s, Billy thought. Then Short Bull vanished.

  In his place was a handsome old Indian with flowing hair who held along staff with a crook at the top. His countenance was serene; his face was bathed in a soft radiance from a circle of light around his head. His eyes glowed brightly, and Billy knew he was a holy man.

  “Are you the Messiah?” he asked. The old Indian slowly, majestically, nodded his head.

  “Yes, my son. I’m the Messiah of the Indian people. I’m coming soon to save you. Believe in me and you’ll be saved.” Then a cloud of blue mist encompassed him and he was gone.

  Billy opened his eyes, raised his head, and looked around. He was flat on his back, with arms and legs outstretched. Trying to remember where he was, he rolled over onto his knees and arose. He saw prostrate forms around him, some rigid, some twitching and moaning. The dance circle was still moving. He walked unsteadily to the center, where Short Bull greeted him.

  “What did you see, my son?”

  Billy rubbed his face with both hands. “The Messiah, the Messiah himself. I talked to the Messiah,” he said in awed tones.

  “What did he tell you?”

  “That he’s the Messiah of the Indians, and he’s coming to save us. He told me to believe and I’ll be saved.”

  “Do you?”

  “I do.”

  Short Bull’s sharp face glowed with delight. “You’re one of his chosen people,” he said. “You’re fortunate.”

  After that Billy remained in the center with others who had also died and come to life again, while the circle of dancers, much reduced in size, continued to move. At one time Billy glanced up to see Pawnee Killer stretched out in the dust. When his father came to life again, Billy listened as Short Bull questioned him.

  “Two great eagles carried me to the Spirit Land,” he said. “There I saw my son who died ten summers ago when the Wasicuns took him away. He said he will soon be coming.”

  Billy was stunned. His father had seen him in the Spirit Land, but he wasn’t dead. Does that mean he was only dreaming? And if he was did I only dream I saw the Messiah? It was a troubling thought. He was real; I heard his voice. But... I must ask Short Bull what this means.

  He waited until he could speak with Short Bull alone. “Pawnee Killer is my father, but he hasn’t seen me since I was small and doesn’t recognize me. I couldn’t let him see how the Wasicuns made me look; I must wait for my hair to grow long. But how could he see me in the Spirit Land when I’m not really dead?”

  Short Bull gazed at the sky and the distant hills while pondering Billy’s question. “Your father has longed for the son he knew and believed was dead. When he saw you in the Spirit Land it was the Messiah’s way of telling him that you’ll soon be with him again, like you were in the old days. Then he will forget what the Wasicuns did to you.”

  Billy exhaled deeply. His faith in the Messiah had wavered briefly, but now it was stronger than ever.

  Chapter Eleven

  In the morning, Billy thanked Bull Bear for sharing his tipi, not to mention his wives. Both smiled shyly at him as he left to walk through the camp, glancing at the women deftly taking down the tipis and loading the wagons. He was in no hurry to return to the trading post, where he would face Culver’s questions and disapproval. He saw Short Bull, Mash-the-Kettle, and other medicine men surrounded by a few dozen Ghost Dancers, and stood at the back of the crowd to observe. At twenty-one he was tall enough to have a good view of the dynamic dance leader over the shoulders of others.

  Seeing Short Bull made him recall the day he had brought him the letter from his Shoshoni friend to translate. In the interim, the sharp-faced Ghost Dance apostle seemed to have become a different person. His serene countenance, his commanding voice, with its unique and penetrating tone, and his dignified gestures marked him as a man who knew holy things unknown to others. His resonant voice especially was different—just hearing him speak was to believe in him and want to follow him.

  As he watched Short Bull, Billy was suddenly aware that another’s eyes were on him, and out of the comer of his eye he saw Pawnee Killer staring at him, a puzzled expression on his face. He avoided looking directly at his father, but he involuntarily touched the braids on his back just below his shoulders. They were slowly getting longer, but they were still nowhere near long enough to be respectable. I wonder if he thinks he recognizes me and can’t believe I’m still alive? He was pondering what to do when Short Bull saw him and pushed his way through the crowd to his side.

  Putting his hand on Billy’s shoulder, Short Bullied him a few steps away from the others. Billy quivered with excitement. First his father had been looking at him, possibly recognizing him, and now Short Bull wanted to talk to him.

  “My son,” Short Bull said softly, “I will soon need to send messages to Kicking Bear and leaders at other agencies. Each of us must know what the others are doing and
what the Wasicuns are saying. We must get all Tetons dancing so the Messiah won’t fail to save us. I’ll need you to write the letters and to read those I receive, for we can’t let whites or mixed bloods see them. Will you come when I send for you?”

  Billy didn’t need to think it over before replying. “Gladly,” he said. “I’ll go anywhere with you.”

  Short Bull smiled. “Good. I hoped you’d say that.” He returned to Mash-the-Kettle and the others. Billy glanced around quickly, and saw his father just leaving. Maybe at the next dance he’ll ask if I’m his son. He saw Short Bull talk to me, and that means I’m not a make-believe Wasicun.

  As he rode toward the agency, Billy’s thoughts leaped about like an excited Ghost dancer. He was thrilled that his father might have recognized him, and that Short Bull would soon send for him. Then he remembered Culver’s warning to keep reminding himself that it was just an illusion. In the excitement of the dance and his nights in Bull Bear’s tipi he’d gradually forgotten that. Now that he remembered, he was sure Culver was wrong. But what will he say when he knows what happened? The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that Culver mustn’t know about his talking to the Messiah or that he expected to join Short Bull. But how to avoid it?

  As his pony jogged down the trail, Billy’s thoughts leaped to the land sale, and then to General Crook. That reminded him of American Horse talking for days without once referring to the land sale. That’s it. I’ll do what American Horse did. The first thing Culver will ask is what I thought about the Ghost Dance. I’ll tell him every detail/can remember about it, except what happened to me. Then he’ll want to know if I took part in it. I’ll have to admit I did. When he asks if I fell into a trance, I’ll tell him how close I was to many who did, and that it was almost the same thing.

  “You’re back,” Culver remarked when they met in the morning. “Tell me about it.”

  Billy explained in detail the preparations the dancers made each morning, and what Short Bull said and did. He went on and on until Culver stopped him.