Full Circle

by Rosanne Bittner

  “Thank you for coming with me,” Beverly told her.

  As they headed out into a stinging wind that was already spitting rain and sleet, Evelyn thought about Black Hawk, alone at Eagle Canyon. When would he come for her again? When would they know the answer to the vision that was yet unfulfilled? It looked as though a long, lonely winter lay ahead.

  Twenty-three

  Evelyn let go of Little Fox’s hand long enough to button her woolen coat higher at the neck to ward off a chilling north wind. She took the boy’s hand again. Both of them stood in line with hundreds of other Sioux who had gathered at the agency. This was the week that rations were handed out by the government. Each day Indians from a different section of the reservation lined up to get their share. Evelyn could understand the humiliation and anger they felt at this degrading procedure.

  Such a proud people they were, once totally self-sufficient. Now they were reduced to standing in line for hand-outs like beggars. The government was trying to teach them to farm, but farming simply did not come naturally to these Plains warriors who were accustomed to hunting for their food, and who despised digging into Mother Earth and bringing Her pain. It went totally against their spiritual beliefs, but most whites could not understand that. They only thought them lazy and belligerent.

  In spite of the shame waiting in line meant for him, she had decided that Little Fox might as well get his fair share of blankets and clothing, as well as whatever food he had coming. She had no doubt the meat would be tainted and mostly inedible, but there would be grains and canned food, although many of the Indians refused to eat some of the unfamiliar foods they were given. In the five months she had been here, she knew of at least seven deliberate cases of starvation, stubborn men and women who had allowed themselves to starve to death rather than eat the white man’s food.

  She looked back at the long line behind her, at the stony, unsmiling faces, such a contrast to a people who once celebrated a good buffalo hunt with dancing and story-telling and feasting. The women would laugh together then as they helped each other clean the hides and smoke the meat, while the warriors who had risked their lives on the hunt would lounge about with full bellies and tell stories of war and argue over who had killed the most buffalo. This was a people who normally enjoyed celebrating just about everything, whose sense of humor was sweet and subtle; but there was no laughter among this crowd not even much talking.

  They were dressed in a mixture of Indian and white clothing. Some women wore tunics, others faded white women’s dresses, most of which did not fit right. It was all clothing discarded by whites and shipped to the Indians. Some men wore deerskin leggings and moccasins, fringed shirts and jackets, others wore calico shirts and woolen jackets. A few wore white man’s wool pants and leather boots. She had allowed Little Fox to continue wearing the deerskin clothing Black Hawk had left for him, but she had purchased a few pair of cotton long johns for him from Bill Doogan’s trading post, as well as a pair of leather shoes, which he hated. He much preferred his moccasins, but Evelyn knew that the day was coming when all Indians would have to learn to wear white man’s clothing. Eventually, the deerskin clothing would wear out, and there was not enough wild game left in the area for six thousand Indians to continue killing deer for meat and clothing. The buffalo, once almost all they needed for every stitch of clothing, every utensil, footwear, bags, housing, was now nearly extinct. The raw material necessary for their survival the old way had disappeared.

  “My father does not come to the agency for supplies,” Little Fox told her. “I have never done this.”

  Evelyn looked down at his dark eyes, full of innocence and pride. “I know, Little Fox. Your father is very proud, and so far he has been able to find his own food. I don’t like this any more than the rest of your people do, but the government owes you these things, and you might as well take them. Winter is coming.” She squeezed his hand. “Maybe it will be different for your generation. You will be educated, but will still keep your old customs and beliefs. You can live in both worlds, Little Fox. That is what I have to convince your father of.”

  They reached the long tables where goods were distributed. Soldiers milled about, watching the procedure closely, and James McLaughlin paced behind the tables, keeping an eye on everything. Agency personnel sat scattered behind the tables, stern looks on their faces. It irritated Evelyn that they could not hand out the supplies with at least a friendly smile. “Name?” The first man they came to studied a long list of names.

  “Little Fox,” she answered. “Son of Black Hawk.”

  The man looked up at her as though surprised. “Black Hawk never comes for his supplies.”

  “I am aware of that. He is not here today, but he has left his son for schooling. I brought the boy here to get what he fairly has coming.”

  The man scowled, his eyes moving over her with a look that told her he thought she was crazy to be here. “Where’s the boy’s father? We’re handing out supplies to Indians, not white women.”

  Evelyn stiffened. “I am looking after the boy while he goes to school. I am not here to get anything for myself.”

  “Why would Black Hawk let a white schoolteacher look after his kid?”

  Evelyn could not help wondering if Sergeant Desmond had been telling others about her and Black Hawk. “That is none of your business,” she answered. “The point is Little Fox has no one here to see that he gets his fair share, so I have elected myself.”

  The man looked down at his ledger. “Does he have a white name?”

  “No.”

  He scanned the ledger. “He should be assigned a white name. You’d better talk to McLaughlin about it. Makes it easier to keep records if they have regular names.”

  Evelyn bristled. “Why? The alphabet is the same no matter what they go by. Just look under ‘L’ for Little Fox. You can read, can’t you? I imagine that is why you are the one checking off names.”

  The man, who wore a wool suit and sported a full, curled mustache, glanced up at her again, dark animosity in his eyes. “You have quite a mouth on you, lady. You’re that schoolteacher, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. I am Evelyn Gibbons. I don’t remember seeing you around the agency.”

  He looked back down at the ledger, turning to the “L’s.” “Vincent Jacoby. I’m usually cooped up in a back office keeping records updated, which is why you’ve never happened to see me. I’ve had to do a lot of rearranging and deleting since the cholera epidemic. Some of these people come through twice, try to get the rations of a dead relative.”

  “Can you blame them? What they get probably isn’t near enough, nor is it what was actually promised by treaty.”

  “A treaty most of them refuse to recognize or sign. They’re lucky to be getting what they’re getting, after Custer and then Wounded Knee. They don’t have sense enough to admit they’ve lost their land, keep yelling that the Black Hills still belong to them. By all rights, we don’t have to give them a damn thing.”

  Evelyn squeezed Little Fox’s hand reassuringly. “Well, Mr. Jacoby, I am glad to know how understanding and generous men like you can be,” she answered with bitter sarcasm. “Have you found the boy’s name yet, or do you need help? As I said, it begins with ‘L’.”

  Jacoby breathed deeply to check his irritation, then checked off a name. “Get going,” he said with a note of anger.

  Evelyn only smiled. She led Little Fox down the long line of tables, picking up shirts and pants she thought would fit him, then taking two blankets. She opened one of them and put the clothes inside. “We will carry the food in the other blanket,” she told him.

  “You make sure only the kid and his father get the food” another agency man called out to her. “This stuff isn’t for the whites. The government and Mission Services provides for you teachers.”

  Evelyn forced herself to ignore the ignorant and insulting remark. She gathered up the blanket of clothes and gave it to Little Fox to carry
. “Is it too heavy?”

  “I can do it,” he said with a grin. He hoisted the bundle over his back, and walked with her to the area of food distribution. Evelyn spread out the other blanket and walked back and forth with Little Fox, carrying a sack of flour, dried beans, sugar, coffee, and canned goods to the blanket, as well as a package of smoked meat. The other meat being offered looked rancid but she kept her temper in check. Somewhere there were white people eating the good meat meant for the Indians, meat that the government had paid for but had been traded off en route for meat of lesser quality. Someone had made a profit at the government’s expense. She intended to start a letter-writing campaign, both to the President, Congress, and to Mission Services. Something had to be done about the corruption among the suppliers to reservations and many of the agents themselves.

  “Go and get our horses, Little Fox. We’ll load all of this on your horse and ride home on Reverend Phillips’s old white nag.”

  Little Fox grinned. “She is old true, but she has a good spirit.”

  Evelyn watched him run off to get the horses, and it was then she saw the familiar spotted horse. Black Hawk had come! She stood still as he rode closer, leading a second horse laden with supplies. Little Fox spotted his father and ran to him. Quickly, Black Hawk grabbed up his son and embraced him. They talked for a moment, and Little Fox pointed in her direction. Black Hawk looked her way, and even from a distance, Evelyn could feel the passion. She watched him ride over to where her and Little Fox’s horses were tied. He let the boy down, and Little Fox untied the animals and led them in her direction. Black Hawk followed, and as he came closer, neither of them could take their eyes off each other. Evelyn felt fire creeping through her blood.

  “I knew it was rations day,” he told her. “My grandmother is getting too old to walk all the way to the agency, as many have to do now. I brought her and Many Birds on my two extra horses.” He looked toward the line, then back at her, and she saw the sorrow in his eyes.

  “I don’t like it any more than you do, Black Hawk.”

  He remained on his horse, looking past her, then at a line of soldiers that stood watching, rifles ready, as though they thought the unarmed, ragged line of Indians was going to suddenly attack. “I do not like being here at the agency around so many soldiers,” he said. “I only came because you and Little Fox were not at your cabin or at the school. I decided you must have come here.”

  “I thought Little Fox might as well get his share of what he had coming. I hope I haven’t offended you.” He looked grand today, wearing winter moccasins and deerskin leggings decorated down the outside with diamond-shaped beadwork. His outer coat was also deerskin, the hair still on it for warmth. His own long black hair was worn loose, except for a braid at one side with a leather string of beads wound into it. The cold wind blew his hair about his handsome face, and she saw the agony in his eyes, knew how much he hated rations day, hated that his people had to do this.

  “You only do what must be done. It takes courage for a white woman to stand in that line.” His eyes moved over her, and in spite of the cold day, Evelyn felt warm. “I will wait for my grandmother. She is not well.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Black Hawk. Many Birds didn’t say anything about it.”

  “She has been coming to school as promised?”

  “Yes. She’s doing very well. So is Little Fox. You should come yourself, Black Hawk. I never got to continue your lessons.”

  He glanced at the soldiers again. “We will talk about it tomorrow. It is your Sabbath, is it not?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have decided to stay with my grandmother for the winter. Come there tomorrow. Tell your preacher friend that you are going to visit some of the others, as you have often done in the past. We will talk then.”

  She nodded. “I have missed you, Black Hawk.” In the two weeks since Beverly Evans had returned, she had worried and wondered, afraid this man had no intention of coming back. But now she could see the love and desire in his eyes.

  “As I have missed you,” he told her. “I want to embrace you, but we cannot do it here. It is not good that the soldiers even see us talking. I will see you tomorrow. I have something to show you, a surprise.”

  She smiled. “You mean you aren’t going to tell me what it is?”

  He smiled a little himself then. “Tomorrow.” He reached out for Little Fox, and the boy grabbed hold of his father’s hands and let him hoist him up onto his horse. “If the soldiers ask, you only spoke with me because Little Fox was with you. I am taking him with me back to my grandmother’s village. I wish to spend some time with my son. You take your horses and the supplies back to your cabin. I go to wait for Many Birds and old Grandmother. I will ride with them back to their village.”

  Their eyes held a moment longer before he turned his horse and rode farther away. Evelyn watched after him, longing to go along, but he was right: they dared not show affection here, or be seen riding off together. She tied the supplies onto Little Fox’s horse, then managed to mount the sidesaddle on her own horse. The last thing she wanted to do was ride away when Black Hawk was so close. She ached for him, needed to feel his arms around her. He. said he had missed her, and wanted to embrace her. It warmed her heart to be reassured that he was nothing like Herbert True. There was not a dishonest or evil bone in his body. He was so misunderstood by others.

  She picked up the reins to Little Fox’s horse and led it along as she headed south to her own cabin, several miles away; and she realized how attached she had grown to Little Fox. It would be very lonely without him there tonight. She had already begun to think of him as her own.

  Evelyn wondered at the giggling that was going on among the few Sioux women who happened to be working or cooking outside when she rode into the village where Black Hawk’s grandmother lived. The cold weather kept most inside their tipis and cabins, but a few peeked out as she trotted her old white mare toward Dancing Woman’s tipi, which she knew from previous visits was the one painted with a moon and stars on one side, a sun and mountains on the other. She kept the hood of her fur coat pulled over her head against the cold wind, but she could still hear some of the remarks the Indian women made.

  “You are a lucky woman!” one of them shouted.

  “It is the schoolteacher,” someone else told another, as though her coming today was somehow a different and more exciting event than her other visits. Some just watched her quietly, but most of them grinned. Never in her other visits had there been this sense of frivolity or the feeling she was the center of their humor.

  “Black Hawk is waiting for you,” another woman told her with a grin.

  Evelyn felt her face flushing. What had Black Hawk told them about her? Somehow she thought these people were unaware of the deep love she and Black Hawk shared.

  She smiled and nodded to some of those who spoke to her, then dismounted, ducking her head against stinging sleet. She realized Reverend Phillips had been partially right earlier this morning when he told her she should not come here today because it would be a very cold trip. She felt chilled to the bone, and she was anxious to get inside, where she supposed old Dancing Woman and Many Birds, as well as Black Hawk and Little Fox, all sat around a warm fire; but when she started to tie her horse to a nearby post, Little Fox came running from a different direction and took the reins for her.

  “I will take care of your horse,” he told her with a grin. “I will let it graze out in the fields where my father’s horses graze.” He grasped his short wool jacket tighter around himself and ran off before she could ask where he had come from, why he wasn’t in the tipi with Many Birds. With a shiver she jiggled the cow bell that hung over the tipi entrance to signal her arrival, and in the next moment Black Hawk himself threw back the buffalo-hide entrance flap. He grinned with delight, stepping aside to let her in. He closed and tied the flap, then turned to sweep her into his arms.

  “It has been too long,” he told her, movi
ng his mouth to smother her in a kiss before she could say a word.

  Evelyn felt herself melting against him, not even thinking his grandmother and Many Birds might be watching until he let go of her to lead her to a bed made of robes and blankets to the right of the warm fire burning at the center of the tipi. Evelyn looked around, saw no one.

  “My sister and grandmother are with someone else for the day,” Black Hawk answered her unasked question.

  Evelyn started to ask why, then realized what he had planned. Now she understood the giggles and smiles from the other women. The whole village must know his intentions! “Black Hawk, everyone knows—”

  He moved a foot behind one of her ankles and kicked lightly, making her lose her balance. He held her as she went down, pressed her into the robes. “They know that Black Hawk loves the schoolteacher. They know you have the heart of an Indian, so they do not mind. They understand that by Sioux custom, we are married, and I wish to make love to my wife.”

  Before she could answer, his mouth met hers again, parting her lips, searching with his tongue. She had not even had a chance to get a good look at him, and she only then realized he wore no shirt, in spite of the cold. He left her mouth, and his lips trailed over her throat.

  “You said you had something to show me,” she told him, feeling breathless.

  “In time,” he answered. “Take off your coat, woman, and I will help you undress.”

  “I… someone could come…”

  “No one will come until I go out and tell them it is all right. They know they are to leave us alone.”

  Evelyn was sure she heard drumming and singing, and she felt almost in a trance while she helped him remove her clothes, both of them hurrying now, needing to touch again, be one again. She had missed him so, had not considered they might be able to be alone. Paintings of various scenes of hunting and making war swirled around her as he laid her naked body back into the robes and she studied the bright paintings on the inner tipi walls, paintings she was sure Black Hawk had done himself. She was vaguely aware that he threw his breechcloth aside, and she opened herself willingly, so much on fire for him that she could already feel the hot moistness deep in private places that meant she was ready for her man. He did not even have to touch her in any special way this time, and neither of them wanted to take time for preliminaries. They had been too long apart and were too hungry for each other.