Full Circle

by Rosanne Bittner

  Jubal frowned. “Where in hell am I going to find a woman I can bring here who’ll willingly go to your bed? The only white women around here are either married or damn missionaries.”

  “I didn’t say she had to be willin’, and I didn’t say she had to be white. Hell, there’s plenty of pretty young Indian women around. Just make sure she’s a virgin.”

  Jubal grinned. “You looking to start another war? There would be hell to pay doing something like that.”

  Seth shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. These Sioux take pride in their young virgins. Any that got soiled by me would be too ashamed to admit it to their relatives. Even if they did, what are any of them gonna do about it? It’s the word of a white man against them, and you know what most whites think of Indian women. If I say she came willingly, who’s gonna say it ain’t so? The Sioux know they can’t stir up trouble without sufferin’ for it. All in all, nothin’ much would be done about it. Maybe the relatives would even be willin’ to sell the girl to me for whiskey or food or whatever else they need.

  “Even so, it’s best I find someone with few relatives, maybe some girl with only a grandmother—no men who care about her.”

  A cunning look came into Seth’s eyes. “Or maybe there is a way to get one particular Sioux man in trouble and get him out of our hair. He puts up a fuss, gets arrested and sent away… no more trouble to us.”

  Jubal frowned. “Black Hawk? How would we—” He hesitated, then smiled.

  “I hear tell Black Hawk’s got a pretty little sister,” Seth told him. “From what I understand from Bill Doogan, she just went through some special ritual three or four weeks ago on account of she’s considered a woman now, some damn celebration her people have when a girl has her first time of month. They consider it sacred. I consider it a stupid ceremony.”

  Jubal shook his head. “I don’t know, Seth. Black Hawk’s sister. That’s pretty risky. You might pay worse than you care to before Black Hawk could be caught and arrested.”

  Seth shrugged. “I could have me a piece of somethin’ tight and pretty, and if she chooses to tell and Black Hawk should come for me, I’d have every right to shoot him down like the skulkin’ wolf that he is, and that would be that. Ain’t no soldier and no white man’s court that would blame me for it. All I have to say is the wild sonofabitch tried to kill me, so I shot him. His people might say he came after me on account of his sister, and I’ll just say she slept with me willingly, so Black Hawk was in the wrong. I’m not afraid of that bastard. Fact is, I expect the soldiers and a lot of white folks around here would be glad to be rid of him.”

  Jubal grinned. “And so would the whiskey runners.”

  Seth nodded. “You know how I could get my hands on the sister?”

  Jubal shook his head. “Many Birds’s grandmother keeps her pretty sheltered. She’s only thirteen.”

  “Thirteen’s a good enough age. And I’ve got all the time in the world. There must be a way to get that little girl away from her stingy ole grandma. Maybe you can talk to that stuck-up schoolteacher. Get her to encourage Many Birds to come to school. If she does, the girl will have to ride by here every day to get there.”

  Jubal shook his head. “It’s awfully risky, Seth. I don’t think it’s a very good idea. Besides, I’m not exactly on Miss High-and-Mighty’s good side right now. I don’t think she’s gotten over the embarrassment of accepting my invitation to that dance and finding out I supposedly already asked somebody else. Your little debt to me cost me a night with the prettiest woman on the reservation.”

  Seth crushed out his cigar. “You damn well know you had a better time with Lucy than you would have with that straight-laced bitch. Any man gets between her legs will have to tie her down and pry them apart.”

  Jubal grinned. “Not an unpleasant thought.”

  Both men laughed deep in their throats, unaware that Lucille had come inside. She stood just out of sight, and had caught only the last remark. What was Jubal Desmond doing here? Her heart pounded with dread, especially at the way he and Seth were laughing. What were they up to now?

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Desmond told Seth. “In the meantime, when do I get another turn at Lucy?”

  “Soon as you bring me a couple bottles of whiskey,” Seth answered.

  “I just happen to have some with me.”

  Lucille felt as though the blood was draining from her body. Jubal Desmond had come to do bad things to her again! She turned to run, but just then Katy came through the front door, sweating from cutting the grass. Before she realized Lucille did not want her to say anything, she called out to Seth. “I finished the grass, Seth.”

  “Katy? Come on in here.”

  The girl caught the look in her sister’s eyes when she came closer, realizing then that something was terribly wrong. She knew better than to defy Seth, so she hesitantly walked into the parlor, eyeing Jubal Desmond warily. “What is it, Seth?”

  “Your sister out there someplace?”

  Katy swallowed. Before she could answer, Lucille walked into the parlor, not about to leave Katy alone with Seth and the sergeant. “I’m here.” She held her chin proudly, refusing to show fear or shame. She did not look at the sergeant. She hated him even more than she hated Seth, had not forgotten how he used her like a whore the night of the dance.

  “The sergeant wants to see you alone, up in our room, Lucy. You go on up, and you be nice to him. Katy will stay down here with me till the sergeant leaves.”

  Lucille knew what he meant. Oblige his order, or let Katy suffer for it. She turned and walked out, going up the stairs. A grinning Jubal Desmond nodded to Seth. “You’ll have your whiskey when I’m through.” He turned and followed Lucille up the stairs.

  Beverly Evans approached the circus wagon, totally fascinated by its bright colors and by the striped zebra that was tied behind it. She had never seen such an animal, not even back in Wisconsin, for her parents had never allowed her to attend any social functions except church. She had never been to the theater, to a dance, certainly had never seen a circus, although she had read about them.

  Now here was a wonderful red-and-yellow wagon, with O’BANYON’S CIRCUS EXTRAVAGANZA painted on its side. A handsome man with black, slicked-back hair stood up in the wagon seat, wearing a fancy suit and ruffled shirt, explaining to settlers who had gathered, and to the Indians through interpreters, that O’Banyon’s Circus was coming to Standing Rock and other reservations. “You have all heard about Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show,” he was telling his audience. “You Indians, your own Sitting Bull was a part of that show once. That tells you how important he thought such shows were to the public. Bill is retired now, but the circus goes on, and the government is paying you back for Sitting Bull’s contributions by bringing circus to you so that you can see some of the wonderful things that are out there in the white man’s world. The government is sending you O’Banyon’s Circus! Monkeys! Elephants! Giraffes! Zebras! You will see aerial acts, tumblers, jugglers! There is no trick here. You need not be afraid to bring your children. This is entertainment for all, old and young alike!”

  Beverly wiped at sweat on her brow. It was a terribly hot day, but her stern husband refused to allow her to wear anything but long-sleeved dresses that buttoned high on the neck. She hated it here at the Oahe Mission. This land along the Peoria bottom of the Missouri was treeless and flat, the sorriest section of the Standing Rock Reservation. She wished she could have gone on with Evelyn Gibbons and Janine Phillips when they first arrived here together, wished her husband would at least let her visit those women once in awhile. She had not wanted to come here at all, but once married to a missionary, a woman had to follow her man wherever he went.

  She watched the handsome announcer, wondering what a glamorous life it must be traveling with a circus. She had already decided that if Greggory would not allow her to go and watch the circus once it arrived, considering it sinful, she would sneak out and go without his permi
ssion. When would she ever get another chance like this one? All her life either her parents or her husband had been preaching to her about how to think and behave. She could not recall even being a child, laughing and running and playing. She had never been allowed to do those things, and, for some reason, she had lately begun to long for them.

  The fancy man told his audience they would also see “Miss Haley Downs,” better known as the “Pretzel Woman.” He put out his hand, and a beautiful, slender redheaded woman emerged from the wagon to stand beside him. People gasped and stared. Several clapped. Beverly moved closer in awe. The Pretzel Woman wore a sparse costume of glitter and feathers, with a very short skirt that showed her bare legs. The top was cut low and was held in place only by very thin straps. She knew she should feel ashamed looking at so much skin on another woman, yet the beautiful costume and the paint on the woman’s face, as well as her gaudy, feathered hat, intrigued her to the point that she felt almost hypnotized.

  “Here is just a taste of the kind of unusual and fascinating acts you will see when you come to the circus!” the man announced.

  The Pretzel Woman climbed to the top of the wagon and began moving into a variety of contortions that Beverly could not believe any human body was capable of performing. She went into a full split, then bent over backward and came around under her own legs to look out at the audience as though her body were made of rubber. There came more gasps, some applause, even a few screams, as though some expected the woman to fall apart. Beverly thought it horribly sinful that a woman could expose her body that way, yet she admired the woman for her talent and for the magnificent control she had over her muscles. She gave them quite a show: backbends, handstands, sitting down and pulling her ankles up behind her neck. It was both amazing and revealing. She watched dumbfounded unaware that she in turn was being watched by the fancy circus man.

  Miss Haley Downs finished her act and bowed to cheers and applause before disappearing inside the wagon again. “Three weeks!” the man announced. “In three weeks the full circus will come to Standing Rock for several performances at various locations throughout the reservation. This will be one of them! So come one, come all, compliments of the United States Government!” With that, the man grabbed some hard candy that was wrapped in waxed paper and threw a handful into the crowd. People screamed and laughed and began scrambling to pick it up, and the fancy man climbed down from the wagon. Beverly started to leave when she felt a hand on her arm. “Excuse me, miss.”

  She turned, feeling almost faint at the realization it was the announcer. Up close, he was even more handsome.

  “I couldn’t help noticing the longing look on your face.” The man bowed slightly. “I am Herbert True, publicity man for O’Banyon’s Circus. May I ask your name?”

  She swallowed. “Beverly… Beverly Evans. I really must go, Mr. True.”

  He smiled handsomely. “I have a feeling you would like to see the inside of our wagon, maybe meet Miss Downs? Would you like that?”

  Beverly looked around. Greggory was home preparing a sermon. Herbert True’s gentle smile made her feel more relaxed. “I would love to meet her! Are you sure it would be all right?”

  “Certainly.” The man led her to the back of the wagon and knocked at the door. Haley Downs opened it, startling Beverly by standing there in a thin robe that a person could see through in just the right light. She smiled through painted lips. “I just got my costume off. Who you got with you, Herb?”

  “This is Beverly Evans.” He looked at Beverly. “Miss? Mrs.?”

  “Mrs. My husband is a missionary here.”

  The man’s eyes lit up strangely, and Beverly felt as though he could see right through her. Was he reading the sinful thoughts in her heart? Did he see her childish excitement at seeing such wonders? Did he sense the strange new feelings he stirred in her soul? She felt something awakening deep inside, something she could not even explain yet to herself. It was as though she had been dead and was suddenly coming to life.

  “Come inside, Mrs. Evans. Haley, give Mrs. Evans something to drink, some lemonade, perhaps.”

  Haley smiled knowingly. “Sure, Herb.” She put out her hand to Beverly and led her inside.

  Herbert True closed the door, smiling. “There’s one in every crowd,” he muttered.

  Evelyn walked her horse through old Night Hunter’s village, feeling the stares of others. Although Anita did not know she had met with Black Hawk last Saturday, she did realize she had had dreams about the man. The woman understood why she needed to come and talk to Night Hunter, and she had agreed to stay at school and teach on her own today so that Evelyn could come here. Reverend Phillips thought she had simply decided to take the day to visit another village.

  She kept reminding herself she was doing the right thing, but part of her wanted to turn and run. She forced that part to forge ahead. She had to speak to Night Hunter before she went back to Black Hawk’s camp tomorrow. Her dreams had been leading her to this place for weeks before even coming to this reservation, and she supposed to Black Hawk. Few of her people believed in men like Night Hunter, but for all her Christian upbringing, she had no doubt such men truly did have special spiritual powers. She did not consider it a heathen thought. These people had a very intimate connection to nature, and in her mind nature and God were one and the same. Who was to say that the Great Spirit the Sioux worshiped was not the same God she worshiped. And who was to say that Night Hunter was any different from the old prophets of the Bible?

  She stopped to ask an old woman, in the Sioux tongue, where Night Hunter’s lodge was located. The woman looked at her as though she were a crazy woman and pointed to a tipi that was larger than the others that were mixed in among small log homes. She ignored the stares of others as she led her horse to the old priest’s tipi. Chickens scattered and dogs barked. She tied her horse to a small, scraggly tree nearby, then walked around and shook the rattles that hung over the tipi entrance as an announcement that someone waited outside.

  A moment later, old Night Hunter pushed the entrance flap aside and stuck his head out. So close in the sunlight, the man looked even older than Evelyn realized, the deep brown skin of his face carrying a thousand wrinkles. She had seen him once before, from a distance, but had never met him. She expected to see surprise and mixed emotions in his faded brown eyes at the sight of a white woman wanting to come into his tipi, but instead he actually seemed to have been expecting her. “You are the schoolteacher,” he said in a gruff voice.

  “Yes,” Evelyn answered in surprise. “My name is Evelyn Gibbons. How did you know? We have never met.” She spoke the words in the Sioux tongue, wanting to impress him.

  Night Hunter’s eyes drilled into her own as though he was looking at her soul. “I am a man who knows many things. Come.”

  He ducked inside, and Evelyn followed. The tipi was filled with the sweet smell of burning grasses that had been laid over the hot coals of a fire she suspected was kept going at all times in spite of the heat. To Night Hunter, the fire was sacred, the source of all prayer. It was used for the burning of herbs and grasses to purify the air and the spirit. Because of the hot coals, it was rather stuffy inside the tipi, but not unbearable, since the bottom of the skins were rolled up, as was always done in summer for circulation of air. An old woman sat to the right of the entrance, the area where all women were expected to sit. She supposed the woman was Night Hunter’s wife. There was no one else inside.

  She waited on the entrance side of the fire, knowing that one did not walk between the fire and the sacred area of the tipi at the rear until and unless invited to do so. Night Hunter moved to sit there, then motioned for her to join him. She thanked him and sat beside him, removing her bonnet. Her heart pounded with dread that the man might laugh at her reason for coming, yet she felt anticipation for what Night Hunter might tell her. Even before she could speak, the old man said the words for her.

  “You have come to talk about Black Hawk.
”

  She studied his eyes in shock. “How did you know?”

  “Did you not just ask me that question? Did I not tell you that Night Hunter knows many things?” He turned and put more sweetgrass on the fire, then waved some of the smoke toward her. “I have seen you before, not in the physical sense, but in spirit… in my own vision. I know the secrets of your heart.”

  Evelyn frowned. “I do not understand.” How strange that only moments before she had been next to terrified of facing this old man, and now she felt completely at ease by the knowledge and gentleness in his dark, discerning eyes.

  “I saw a white woman with golden hair. She spoke in my people’s tongue and understood our ways. I also saw death. A white man will die, and somehow this white woman will help one of our own who will be blamed for this death. I saw no faces, but I know that you are that woman. I have been expecting you. I knew that if it was you, our spiritual connection would bring you to me.” He reached out and pushed his thumb into some of the cooler ashes, then pressed it to her forehead and drew a line across it. “Your heart is good.”

  A white man will die? What was this man talking about? If she did not believe in his spiritualism, she would not worry about what seemed like a silly statement. And how on earth was she going to help the situation? She breathed deeply of the smell of sweetgrass and Night Hunter’s perspiration. Suddenly, it seemed even closer inside the tipi, and she wanted to run, but she could not leave until she got what she had come for. So far the man had only confused her more instead of answering her own concerns. “You said I had come to talk about Black Hawk. How did you know this?”

  A twinkle came into his eyes. “You must ask Black Hawk, not me. I will tell you, though, that you had a dream about Black Hawk. Perhaps more than one dream. Is this not so?”

  He continued to astonish her. “Yes! I dreamed of him before I even came here, before I ever knew who he was.” She spoke softly, feeling almost as though she were in a church. “In the dream an Indian man is riding toward me on a spotted horse. He reaches out for me, but the moment our hands touch, he disappears. The dream is very real. I was brought up among Indians. I was very close to a Cheyenne man when I was a little girl. He was killed before my eyes. People who know me think that is the reason for my dreams, and that they really mean nothing. They say they are just memories.”