“You got to work on your grades and practice basketball, and then maybe Coach Goodheart can get you a scholarship when you finish high school. But you have to keep your nose clean to even have a chance at winnin’ a scholarship. That’s why I got so mad tonight when I heard about the fight.”
“Sure, Dad, sure. I know you want me to do well, and I’ll try to stay out of fights. But you got to promise me that you will stay out of Rosie’s Saloon,” Johnny said, patting his father on the back.
His father grinned at him with tobacco-stained teeth. “Sure. I don’t need Rosie’s. I just go in there to see my drinking buddies.”
Johnny helped his father to his feet. Billy staggered slightly, leaned against the fence, and pulled on his belt.
“Go on in the house, Dad. Mom’s holding supper for you. I’m going to finish brushing down Thunder and then I’ll be in.”
“Okay, it’s cold out here anyway. Don’t say anything to your mom about this, okay?”
“Not a word,” Johnny said. He watched his father walk cautiously through the barn and out the door. Johnny rubbed his behind; the sting of the belt had mostly faded. Finding the grooming brush, he resumed the careful stroking of Thunder.
He was humming when he suddenly knew he was not alone. His heart pounding, Johnny spun around. “Oh, Grandfather, you nearly scared the pants off me. How long have you been here?”
“Long enough to see my son-in-law crying like an old woman. This is what the white man has done to him,” Gray Man said.
Johnny said nothing. He did not want to take sides between Gray Man and his father.
“What your father has told you is wrong, Hunter. There is nothing for you in the white man’s world except alcohol and death. The whites have been killing our people for three hundred years and now they use whiskey to do it. Come to our dances, learn our ways, and you will see how great the Cheyenne are. We must build our own future for ourselves. Our land is rich with coal and we can be a free people again. Think on my words. There is no hope for men like Billy Hunter. The hope of our tribe rests with the young people like you and Richard Amos.”
Gray Man’s eyes flicked with fire as he pounded his hands together. He reached around his neck and removed a necklace made of grizzly bear claws.
“Wear this, Hunter. It was a gift to me from my grandfather, a warrior who rode with Dull Knife on the plains of Kansas. It has much magic for its owner.”
“Thank you,” Johnny said. He slipped the necklace over his head. It felt heavy. The giant claws were yellow and must have come from a huge bear. “I’ve always liked this necklace.”
“It looks like it belongs on you,” Gray Man said. “Will you come again to our dance?”
Johnny stroked his pony. “I guess so. Dad sure wouldn’t like it, but I thought it was really cool. Maybe I’ll come to one more and wear this necklace so everybody will think I’m a big brave.”
“Good,” Gray Man said. “I’ll let you know when the next ceremony takes place.” The old man turned and disappeared through the door.
Johnny resumed brushing Thunder, but his stomach began churning. “What should I do, Thunder? I don’t want to disobey Dad, but when Gray Man talks to me about warriors and braves, it really makes me feel great. I want to learn all about the Cheyenne, but Dad gets mad so easily. Man, this is really getting to be a mess.” The pony neighed in response.
Johnny put down the brush and grabbed the old pitchfork; he tossed another load of hay into the stalls, filling the shed with the pungent odor of wet straw. Thunder and the other horses immediately began eating it, making crunching noises as they chewed.
WHEN THE FADED yellow school bus stopped at his driveway the next morning, Johnny was worried about what lay in store for him at school. He had started a fight during the game and expected to be disciplined for it but hoped that he wouldn’t be suspended from the basketball team.
The accordion doors squeaked open and he climbed the bus steps. “Good morning, Johnny,” the driver, Mrs. Jordan, said. She was a stout woman who always wore her hair in two braids and dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt.
“Good morning,” Johnny answered.
She closed the doors, shifted the bus into gear, and started down the road toward the school.
As he walked down the aisle, cheering greeting him; most of the boys were shouting and clapping. “There’s our hero!” Richard Amos shouted. “Way to show those Miles City boys we aren’t afraid of them!” The other team members patted him on the back as he walked toward the back to sit with Richard. He smiled and waved, his face turning red.
Sarah Pretty Feather warmed him with her smile, her black eyes shining. The most popular girl at St. Andrew, he had seldom even talked to her. It made him blush even more.
Reaching his seat, he slid his backpack on the floor and sat next to Richard Amos. “Well, that wasn’t the greeting I anticipated. It was just a fight.”
“You made us proud, and that Miles City boy had it coming. And it should have been called a foul. Everybody in the gym knew that the ref blew that call.”
“What do you think will happen to me at school? I’m worried that Father Shannon might kick me off the team.”
Richard shrugged his shoulders. “I hope not. You’re the best player we got.”
The school bus slowly wound its way over the snow-covered gravel road, seeming to hit every pothole and bouncing the students around. Turning into the school parking lot, it stopped behind another faded yellow bus by the front door of the brick school, and the boys and girls clambered down the steps and into the small school.
Father McGlothlin, wearing a cassock, was standing just inside the door, greeting the children. “Johnny,” he said as he spotted him, “can I see you for a moment?” He put his arm around Johnny’s shoulder and led him away from the crowd. “Father Shannon wants to see you.”
Johnny felt a knot in his stomach, dreading what was coming. They headed toward the principal’s office where Father Shannon waited. “Am I in big trouble, Father?”
“Just tell the truth and you’ll be fine.” He patted Johnny on the shoulder.
Father McGlothlin knocked on the door, opened it, and said, “Here’s Johnny Hunter, Father.”
Johnny stepped inside and the other priest left the room, quietly closing the door behind him.
The winter sun flooded the room with light from two windows. The older priest sat behind a huge wood desk, a cigarette in his hand, reading parish financial statements. Father Shannon, in his early-seventies, was a large man but still active for his age. He sat back in the chair, wearing his black cassock, his big hands resting on his stomach. Pointing at a chair, Father Shannon indicated that Johnny should sit. He looked at Johnny through his glasses for a long minute before he sat up straight in his chair and took a last puff from his cigarette. “Well, Johnny Hunter, tell me what happened at the game and how you came to be in a fight,” he said, his voice raspy but still loud.
Johnny cleared his throat and proceeded to tell Father Shannon the whole story, from the rough play throughout the game to the hard foul at the end that wasn’t called. “I just got so mad, and I lost my temper when the Miles City boy called me Geronimo. So I ran after him and punched him in the nose, making it bleed. Then some other Miles City boys jumped on me until Coach Goodheart pulled me away from them.”
“Is that how you got that bump above your eye?”
“I guess so.” Johnny gently rubbed the bruise on his forehead. “It was all pretty fast and confusing.”
Father Shannon ran his thumb and forefinger down his substantial nose before speaking. “That boy should not have used a racial slur on you. But I’m afraid it won’t be the last one you will hear in your life, and they can’t all be answered by punching someone in the face. You need to strengthen your restraint or there will be a lot of trouble ahead for you. An Indian in court does not usually fair well with a white judge and jury.”
“I know, Father. My dad tells me that all the time
. I do want to go to college someday and he says I won’t be getting into a good school with a bad reputation.”
“You should listen to Billy Hunter. He wants what’s best for you.”
Johnny nodded his head in agreement.
“Now, Johnny, I need something from you. I need a promise that you will not get into a fight again on the basketball court. I know you are a good player but I will take you off the team if another incident occurs. Understand?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Coach Goodheart, Father McGlothlin, and your father have all spoken to me on your behalf or I would have suspended you now. But for the next two Saturdays, I want you to come to the school and help clean or mop the floors or chop firewood until noon. Do that and behave yourself on the basketball team and you can continue to play.”
Johnny smiled and relief washed over his body. “Oh, thank you, Father Shannon. Thank you. Can I go now?”
Father Shannon returned to his financial sheets and waved Johnny out.
He ran down the hall and entered the classroom where the English class had already started. He smiled at Richard Amos and sat in his desk. He was going to be allowed to play basketball!
THE TWO BOYS walked around the corner of the gray church to the base of a pine tree that stood nearly sixty feet tall. The tree towered over the church, which was built entirely of stones with plain glass windows and black shingle roof. The steeple wasn’t very tall, but the bell in the tower had been calling the Cheyenne to Sunday Mass since the early 1900s. Sitting on the cold ground under the tree, Johnny and Richard watched the crowd milling around the church steps. Father Shannon, wearing a large wool coat, was greeting his parishioners as they left 9:30 Mass. He shook hands with the men and women, his breath sending up warm puffs into the cold air.
“Watch him,” Richard said. “He pats all the kids on the head just like he really likes them.”
“Yeah, and he probably doesn’t know half their names.”
“He sure knows yours,” Richard said, smiling.
Johnny nodded his head. “I know, but really, Father Shannon was very fair with me. I always just thought he was a grumpy old man, but he let me off pretty lightly for the fight at the Miles City game. I thought I would get kicked off the team for hitting a white boy. But, he was pretty cool. I helped Dad clean up the school yesterday and it wasn’t too bad, even if it was on a Saturday.”
“I think it helped that Father McGlothlin and Coach Goodheart stood up for you.”
“I’m sure it did.” After a moment or so, Johnny said, “Actually, Father Shannon reminded me a little of Gray Man when we were in his office.”
The two sat silently for a moment. Johnny picked up an old pine cone and tossed it to Richard. The ground around them was covered with pine needles, pine cones, and a little snow.
“Do you think Gray Man is a priest?” Johnny asked. “I know he wouldn’t call himself that because he’s a medicine man.”
“Sure, he’s a priest in the faith of the Cheyenne. He talks to his Great Spirit, Maheo, just like the Catholic priests talk to their Great Spirit, God the Father.”
“But what about Jesus and Mary and all the saints? How can you believe that a white buffalo robe has magical powers while the Church teaches us that miracles only happen through God?”
“I have to admit,” Richard answered, “that sometimes I’m confused, especially when I receive Holy Communion. But the other night, when Gray Man cured that little girl and we danced to celebrate, I knew that the Cheyenne beliefs are just as true as the white man’s. It seems to me that Maheo and God are the same guy and it’s okay to worship Him whatever way we want.”
Johnny turned to his friend. “I don’t see how things could ever be more confused than they are right now. I saw my grandfather cure a sick girl with a rattle and drum. It’s impossible, but I saw it happen. If I told my father that, he’d probably beat me with his belt again. Yet, I can’t help what I feel. Every day I feel more and more Cheyenne, more like Gray Man.”
Richard put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it so much. Everything will be all right. Just give it time. Keep coming to the dances and listen to our people talk of the old days, and you’ll make the same decision I did. We were once a free and proud people; maybe we can be again.
“I gotta go now. Mom’s blowing the horn.”
“Wait!” Johnny shouted. “Did you get in any trouble with your mom over moving Moody Johnson’s body?”
“No, not really. She reminded me of the evils of alcohol.”
“My mom and dad were pretty cool about it, too. They were happy that the courts weren’t going to charge us with anything. But they wanted to make sure that I wouldn’t do anything like it again. It was pretty easy.”
“I guess we were lucky.” Richard stood up, brushed off his pants, and ran through the thinning crowd to his mother. He was smaller than Johnny, stockier in build, and ran much slower. When Richard reached the rusted Ford Bronco, he hopped in the front seat and slammed the door. Mrs. Amos popped the clutch, spitting gravel as they drove out of the church parking lot onto the paved road.
Johnny smiled as he walked around the church to the pickup where his parents sat waiting for him. He almost bumped into Sarah Pretty Feather. “Hi, Johnny,” she said, smiling with beautiful white teeth. “Do you think you’ll win the game this time?”
“Boy, I hope so.” He tried to think up something clever to say, but the words stuck in his throat. He was in the eighth grade and he still couldn’t talk to girls. Instead, Johnny pushed some pebbles around with his foot.
After a long moment, Sarah smiled and said, “Me, too. Maybe we’ll win this time and there won’t be any trouble. I’ll be there cheering for you,” and she walked off to join her parents.
He shook his head and climbed into the bed of the faded red truck, sat on a blue plastic milk box, and tapped on the window. “Let’s go, Dad.”
BEFORE THE FIRST practice after Monday’s Miles City game, Coach Goodheart had the boys kneeling down in the gym under the basket in a circle; he stood in the middle. He was silent for what seemed like a long time to Johnny. The coach looked each boy in the eye before he spoke.
“Boys, I know the Miles City players and some of their fans yelled some racists and insulting things at the game last week. I do not doubt there will be some more on Friday. But, I don’t think it will be as bad because we are home this week, so we’ll have a lot of our fans cheering for you.
“But, even if they do call you redskin or Geronimo, you have to ignore it and just play basketball.” He looked directly at Johnny. “If we lose our temper, we will lose the game. Okay?”
The boys mumbled; some even said yes but without any enthusiasm. Johnny was quiet.
“Johnny, I need you to agree to just play basketball.”
“Coach,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about this all weekend and I promise to behave myself on the court. I want to beat Miles City fair and square. If there is trouble, I won’t be the cause of it.”
“Thanks, Johnny. So, Chiefs, are we in agreement? No fighting!”
This time the team shouted their approval.
“Great! Let’s have a strong week of practice and I think we can beat Miles City this time.” He tossed the basketball to Johnny. “Get a bunny line going, Johnny.”
The week flew by, filled with school work and very intense basketball practice. At the end of each practice, Johnny felt tired but happy with the progress the team made.
The weather turned even colder on Friday but the snow held off, and at three o’clock, the bright yellow Miles City school bus pulled into the St. Andrew parking lot. A dozen late model cars followed the bus and soon filled the small lot. The Miles City players, all wearing their Mustangs school jackets, climbed down the bus steps and silently walked into the school and down the basement to the locker rooms.
Inside the gym quickly filled with St. Andrew fans, including Johnny’s parents. His mom waved at
him and he smiled back. Three tribal drummers pounded loudly and chanted. The Miles City fans sat in their small section, which was located behind the team’s bench. The Chiefs fans, yelling and clapping in time with the drums, far outnumbered them.
Both teams warmed up: passing, shooting, and rebounding. Cheerleaders led each school in cheers and working up enthusiasm for their team. Finally, the time clock ran down to zero and the buzzer sounded. The two refs blew their whistles and the teams huddled for final instructions from their coaches.
Goodheart held a chalk board in his hands but didn’t use it. “Remember, keep your cool this time, work the ball around for a good shot, and then go for the rebound.” He put his hand in the middle of the team and they covered it with their hands.
“Go Chiefs!” they shouted and broke the huddle. The five starters walked onto the court for the center jump. Johnny took his position next to the Miles City player he had punched. The boy’s face was swollen and purple.
Without thinking, Johnny reached out to shake the other boy’s hand. Cautiously, the Miles City player took it and they shook. “Sorry about punching you,” Johnny said loud enough to be heard over the crowd. “It won’t happen again.”
The Miles City boy smiled slightly. “Me, too. I shouldn’t have called you those ugly names.”
“Thanks,” Johnny replied.
The ref waited until everyone settled and then tossed the basketball high in the air. Michael Taos jumped, but the taller Miles City boy easily flipped it to one of his guards. Pushing the ball quickly up the court, with a snap pass under the basket, Miles City made an easy layup to start the game.
The Chiefs brought the ball up the court and Johnny shouted, “Number two!” He passed the ball into their center, Michael Taos, who dribbled twice and bounce passed to Johnny, cutting toward the basket, a step ahead of his defender. He jumped as he neared the basket and laid the ball softly on the backboard. It fell into the basket, when Johnny was fouled from behind. Knocked to the floor, he stood up, the anger flowing into him.
Johnny Hunter Page 5
