by James Welch
As the carriage turned onto Boulevard Peytral and slowed to a stop before the consulate, Bell made a mental note to look in on the Soulases the next day and every day after that, schedule permitting. Bell knew that the red tape would be maddening, but he was optimistic that the Charging Elk matter would be resolved in a week or two. Meanwhile, he would baby-sit the Indian at every opportunity.
“Voilà, Monsieur Bell.”
Bell looked up. He had been studying his brown hightop shoes. They needed polishing.
“Le consulat, monsieur.”
Bell smiled. After two years he didn’t need to be told where he was. But he must have been sitting there awhile. “Merci, Robert.” He stepped down and the carriage moved away, the white horse with the red pompom seeming to move faster as it thought of the stable. Or perhaps Robert was in a hurry to end his day.
But it was a fine winter day, and Franklin Bell took one last look at the sharp blue sky and smelled the heady brine of the Old Port before he hurried in to his meeting with the lavender processors from the Vaucluse. As he pulled open the heavy wooden door, he thought once again of the small, shapely French girl and decided that she wasn’t very pretty after all. Something of a pleasant illusion, not unlike the powderpuff boulevardiers of Marseille. Goddamn, he envied them.
CHAPTER SIX
Charging Elk stood at the window of his small room and looked down at the stable and the horses. It was night and the horses looked dark and indistinct beneath a single gas lamp. All of the other flats around the inner square were shuttered and dark. One of the horses walked around the pen, circling it again and again, while the others stood sleeping in the middle. Charging Elk thought the horse must be new to the pen, still spooked by the unfamiliar surroundings. Perhaps it was from the country. There was plenty of country between here and Paris. All of the Indian performers were fascinated by the country they passed through, even at night when they might see a gentle hill marked by rows of grapevines rolling away from the iron road, or a big stone building surrounded by smaller buildings, all the slate roofs glinting like ice in the moonlight, all the windows dark. And when they passed through a town, they watched for people and horses with quiet curiosity.
The train stopped often to take on water. Broncho Billy said it was the water that made the smoke, and the smoke made the train go. During these stops the Indians and the other performers were allowed to get off the train and walk the stiffness from their legs. Charging Elk never walked very far from the train, and when the whistle sounded, he was among the first to get back on.
Sometimes Charging Elk would see Buffalo Bill standing at the far end of the stone platform, usually accompanied by three or four other men in fine clothes, all of them smoking cigars. Once in a while, if the stop was long, he would come to stand with the Indians. Rocky Bear would also come from his carriage to interpret, even though Broncho Billy, who was married to a Lakota woman and spoke the language quite well, was always with the Indians. Once Buffalo Bill had talked with Charging Elk.
“How’d you learn to ride like that, young man?”
When Rocky Bear had interpreted the question, Featherman said, “He is a wild Indian from the badlands. He never surrendered.”
“But how is this? This young man came in with Crazy Horse, hell’s bells, twelve years ago. All the Oglalas came in.”
“There were some who could not accept the ways of the wasichus,” said Sees Twice. “This young man had never seen the inside of a church until we went to Notre Dame in Paris.” Sees Twice had said this in English, so Rocky Bear interpreted for Charging Elk.
“Well, you saw yourself one hell of a church, Charging Elk. That’s the greatest church on the face of the earth, next to the Pope’s house. You’ll see what I mean when we get to the land of the Eye-talians.”
Just then, the whistle sounded and Buffalo Bill clapped Charging Elk on the shoulder. “You’re going to see a lot of things on this trip, son, things that will make your head spin round and round. Enjoy it all—but just remember, when you re in that arena you’re a wild Indian from hell’s fire.”
Charging Elk had watched him stroll back to his carriage. He was dressed in a heavy wool suit and he wore a gray hat with a narrower brim than the one he used in the show. Except for his mustache and the little puff of hair on his chin, one wouldn’t have recognized him as the great warrior who thrilled the audiences with his buckskin suit, beaded gauntlets, and shiny black boots that came halfway up his thighs.
It had always puzzled Charging Elk that, in the daily reenactment. Buffalo Bill was the first wasichu to find the dead longknives on the Greasy Grass; yet none of the Indian performers, even those who had fought there, could remember any of the Lakotas talking about him then. Surely, such a big man would have been talked about. But Broncho Billy swore up and down that Pahuska had been a buffalo hunter and a scout for the longknives. Even now he was a big chief with the army of Nebraska.
Charging Elk watched the restless horse continue its path around the pen. There was something about the horse, as indistinct as it was, that reminded him of High Runner. It was taller than the other horses and it held its head up, as though it smelled open country and longed to be there.
It seemed like only a couple of moons ago that Charging Elk had handed the reins to his father and said, “High Runner is yours now. He will make you look like the shirtwearer you are.” Scrub’s own two horses were poor in color, with broad bowed backs and hooves as big as buffalo chips. They were meant to pull a wagon, not to ride with dignity. Charging Elk now regretted that he had not seen his father on High Runner, but when the iron horse shuddered and slowly began to grind away from the station, the reins were tied to a wagon wheel and Scrub stood on the platform, singing a brave-heart song with the others.
Charging Elk looked above the rooftops with their many dark chimneys silhouetted against the dark sky. They reminded him of the stumps in Paha Sapa that the wcuLchud left when they took the trees to make their houses and hold up their mineholes. Once he and Strikes Plenty had ventured a long way into a dark hole in search of the precious gold, but all they found was wet rocks, a broken pickax, and the squared-off wooden braces. Later, when they rode back to the Stronghold, they became afraid because they had entered one of the wasichu’s wounds in maka ina’s breast. They went directly to Bird Tail, the old pejuta wicasa, and told him what they had done. The holy man had simply looked off toward the strange shapes and colors of the badlands—although his eyes were frosted over and he had to be led around by his wife—and told the boys to fast, to think about what they had done, and to return the next day. Neither Charging Elk nor Strikes Plenty got much sleep that night. But the next morning, Bird Tail told them that he had had a dream in which a buffalo wandered through the forests of Paha Sapa and came upon a cave carved into a scarred rockface. The buffalo turned around four times, as a dog does before it lies down, each time looking back at the world. It seemed to be looking at everything. as though it wanted to remember all that was there. It looked for a long time, through the many winters of its ancestors, over the plains and rivers and mountains that they had crossed; it looked at times of good grass and times of hunger; it looked at times of trouble and times of peace. Finally, it looked up into the sky at the sun and its eyes turned as white and hard as polished stone. Then it whirled and entered the cave.
Bird Tail had picked up his pipe then and lit it with a match he struck across a piece of rough stone. After a couple of thoughtful puffs, he said, “I want to thank you two boys for going into the wasichu’s wound in grandmother s breast. You didn’t know it at the time, but you were sent there for a reason. Wakan Tanka knew that you would tell me and that I would dream about the buffalo with the stone eyes. The Great Mystery works that way. All things have a reason, but he chooses to let his children figure them out.
“You see, the dream I had was of the future. All this time, we have mourned the passing of the buffalo. We have thought the sacred hoop was broken when the wasicun
s came into our country and our people lost their way. But now I have seen that the buffalo are not gone forever; they have only returned to their home deep in the heart of Paha Sapa. There they will remain until the hoop is wakan again.”
“And how will they know when that time comes?” Strikes Plenty spoke in a voice that was at once excited and skeptical.
The old man smiled as he knocked the tobacco ashes from his pipe into the smoldering fire. “They will know, young man. They will tell us.” He put the pipe into its beaded pouch, then opened an ancient parfleche that was painted with faded vermilion-and-green designs. He helped himself to a braid of sweetgrass, a twist of tobacco, and a buffalo-tail flyswatter. “Now you boys help me up. Well go have a sweat and ask maka ina to forgive you for entering the wasichu’s wound in her flesh.”
That night Charging Elk dreamed of returning to the Stronghold. He rode High Runner and the tall bay danced through the badlands, in a hurry, as always, to return to the good grasses and the cunning mares. As they ascended the high butte, Charging Elk could see many people, on horses, in wagons, some walking, all going toward the Stronghold. And when he got on top, he saw many lodges and he saw many people dancing in a circle. He didn’t recognize the dance. It was not rhythmic and graceful like the old-time dances; rather, the people hopped and twirled in place, men shouting and wailing, women ululating and crying out. The drum group pushed the people even faster, until some of the dancers fell to the ground, where some lay motionless while others twitched and rolled around as though they were struggling to leave their bodies.
It was still night when Charging Elk heard a light rapping sound. He had quit dreaming and had been lying on the sleeping platform, covered with a heavy quilt. After much thought, he had decided that the crazy dancers were not Oglalas, not even Lakotas. They came from somewhere else. But who were they and what were they doing in the land of the Lakotas? The White Buffalo Cow Woman, who brought them the sacred pipe and the sun dance, had promised that the Lakotas would prosper and thrive as long as they sacrificed and performed her ceremonies correctly. But had she foreseen the coming of the wasichus? Why didn’t she warn the people so that they could prepare? If the people had done something bad, something that would anger Wakan Tanka and cause him to turn away from the people, why didn’t she intercede on their behalf? Charging Elk tried to understand but he knew that the Great Mystery was beyond understanding. He could only play out his role and hope and pray that the circle would become wakan again and he would live to be an old man among his people. He thought again of Bird Tail’s dream of the last buffalo and he thought that it must be roaming deep in the bowels of Paha Sapa, perhaps reproducing itself, perhaps learning new ceremonies from the White Buffalo Cow Woman. Perhaps one day they would emerge, leading a river of the great animals out into Lakota country. The thought made his heart jump up, just as it had that morning when Bird Tail told his dream. Through the window at the other end of the room he could just make out the white sliver of the new moon and he knew it was the Moon of Frost in the Tipi. It was the coldest of all moons—at the Stronghold only the hunters and those who had run out of wood or buffalo chips would get up early to go out. If Charging Elk and Strikes Plenty had meat, they would huddle around the fire and drink coffee, draping their sleeping robes over their backsides. Those were the long, lonely days that were so hard to endure. Sometimes when the wind blew and the snow piled up, they would be stuck inside the lodge for five or six sleeps at a time. Five winters ago, when Charging Elk was eighteen, they were stuck for nearly all of the Moon of Frost in the Tipi. They ran out of meat and coffee and tobacco and had to boil the rawhide they used to patch their moccasins.
There were seventeen lodges out at the Stronghold that winter, around seventy people all together. Some were families, others were young men a little older than Charging Elk and Strikes Plenty. They were “bad” Indians and so they had to be careful. If they ever came in to Pine Ridge they would be arrested. The men would be sent away to Fort Randall, the women put under guard, and the children taken by the agent to a home of many children. But that winter, as they ran out of food and firewood, there were many who would have liked to come in, no matter what the punishment. But there was no way they could move. The usual two-day journey would have taken five sleeps, if they made it at all. As it was, eight of them died of starvation that winter—four children, three old ones, and a wandering Sans Arc who had been gutshot by a miner. Bird Tail had kept him alive for two moons with his medicine, but the cold and starvation had been too much for him.
Charging Elk closed his eyes against the dark. He would have gone through ten such winters just to be back home. But this time he would be with his mother and father. And then he would find a wife. By now Strikes Plenty would have found his winy an out at the Whirlwind Compound. He had family there. And there were many young women looking for a husband.
Charging Elk didn’t feel much like a “wild” Indian anymore. He remembered the pride he had felt when Featherman told Buffalo Bill that he was a wild Indian. He had thought then that Pahuska had appreciated the fact that he was not a reservation Indian like his compatriots. Perhaps he had. But where had it gotten Charging Elk? Most of the reservation Indians could speak the American tongue; all of them adapted to this new life of strangers better than he did; and all of them were still with the Wild West show, wherever it was—perhaps at the Pope’s house.
No, Charging Elk’s wildness counted for nothing now. He felt like the fire boat out on the big water, no land in sight, no end in sight. Just the vast, swelling water that played games with the suddenly small boat.
But where was Yellow Breast? Wakan Tanka had sent him with tobacco. Surely that was an offering, a sign to let Charging Elk know that the Great Mystery had not forgotten him. He had tried to smoke the cigarette in the right way, but he was no pejuta wicada—he had no real power in the spirit world. And it was clear that his animal helper did not have the power anymore to talk with Wakan Tanka on his behalf. So where did that leave him? Had Yellow Breast abandoned him too?
He heard the light rapping again and he became alert. He looked toward the door and saw it open a little to let in light from the long-room.
“Bonjour, Charging Elk. Est-ce que vous avez bien dormi?”
The door opened a little wider, and Charging Elk swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. He was still wearing the suit and shirt he had had on yesterday, minus the collar and tie and shoes.
A head peeked around the door and he saw it was the Frenchman who lived here.
“Ah, très bien. Ça va?”
Suddenly an electric wire came on above them, making the room look hollow and cold. Charging Elk stood and narrowed his eyes against the glare.
The short, stocky man was dressed in blue pants and a black sweater. He was carrying a heavy pitcher. He smiled at Charging Elk, but he was also looking at the rumpled suit. Then he made a gesture that seemed to excite him. All the time he was speaking the tongue of the French. He pointed to the duffel and the small valise, which had remained unopened at the foot of the bed. He asked a question, but Charging Elk could only look at him.
Charging Elk watched the man and he guessed that he had lived about thirty-five winters. His slick hair was thin and combed back over a patch of skin at the back of his dome. Charging Elk had noticed the day before that the man’s hands were surprisingly big for his size. They looked red and nicked in the pale light. But Charging Elk was most interested in the mans face. It had no mustache or beard. Even the sideburns were cut short, barely reaching the lobes of the ears. For some reason Charging Elk didn’t mind looking into this wasichus face. Although the nose was flat and two of the man’s lower front teeth were missing, there was something in the eyes that the Oglala recognized—the kind of sad wisdom that some of the older people possessed. Their eyes expressed a kindness, a forgiveness of mankind’s trangressions, that comes from a hard life, from understanding what human beings go through to become better—or som
etimes, even worse. The eyes of these old people did not condemn. And now Charging Elk was seeing it in the eyes of this small man, who was talking and gesturing almost nonstop.
Charging Elk stood aside as the man carried the pitcher over to a little stand that had a large bowl on top and a cloth hanging from a peg on the side. The man looked around, exclaimed, then pulled the duffel over to a box of drawers. He opened up the drawers, each time gesturing and saying “Et voilà!” Then he dumped the contents of the duffel into the drawers and muttered to himself as he pawed over the clothes. Finally he held up a long gray shirt without a collar or buttons and handed it to Charging Elk. He found a pair of new blue pants much like his own. Then a white-and-blue-striped sweater. As if by magic, he produced a pair of big, rough shoes from the duffel. And a rolled-up wool jacket. He opened the top drawer and found a pair of gray stockings tucked together. He looked at Charging Elk with a satisfied grin. He pointed to the clothes, then to the tall Indian. He poured some of the warm water into the bowl and made signs of washing his face. “I will wait just outside,” he said. Then he spied the valise. “Let us see.”
The valise held a comb and brush, a razor and strop, and a toothbrush, among other things. “Très bien, très bien, très bien,” said the small man, as he held each item up to the light before placing it on the box of drawers. Then he drew out a hand mirror. He held it up to Charging Elk’s face and laughed. “C’est un bel homme, nedt-ce pas? I will wait just outside.”
Charging Elk was glad to get out of the suit. It was warm but it made his legs itch. He put on the new clothes, and although the pants were stiff, they didn’t make him itch. He put on the stockings and the rough shoes, tying the knot just as Brown Suit had instructed him. He was relieved that these new shoes were bigger than the ones he had worn the day before. The toes were wider and he wriggled his foot gratefully.
