Man on Two Ponies (12 page)

Billy touched the short braids that fell to the back of his neck. He'd tied them together so they wouldn't flop around like Julian's had done. “I guess you're right,” he admitted. “I've thought about it a lot, but I'm still
mixed
up. It hasn't gotten any better. Joe Smith was right when he said I'm a man on two ponies. I thought I wanted to go
all
the way back to the blanket and forget I'd ever been away, but I wanted that mainly to please my father, and I was too late. I still hope to hear him call me his son, but I know my chances are pretty slim. I might as well cut my hair, and when I've given up all hope I will. But I haven't yet. Something could happen to change things, though I don't know what.”

In February 1889 the Omnibus Bill passed in Congress. Dakota Territory would become the states of North and South Dakota and enter the union along with Washington and Montana
in
November.
Congress also passed a new Sioux Act to remove the Indians'
objections to the earlier one and end opposition to the land sale. President Cleveland signed it on March 2, just before leaving office.

Not long after President Harrison was inaugurated, the Democrats on the agency staff began to be replaced by Republicans. The Friends of the Indian had been ardent supporters of the Civil Service system and
had
protested loudly when Cleveland had replaced Republicans in the Indian Service. Now, when there were wholesale dismissals of Democrats, they were strangely silent.

“The brethren can't bring themselves to criticize their own administration,” Culver said, shaking his head, “especially after it handed them what they've wanted most—a free hand to meddle with its Indian policy. “

The Friends of the Indian were too busy making plans for the Sioux to care about Civil Service. Our first goal, they announced, is to cut down the Great Sioux Reserve by nine million acres and force every family to settle on a farm. Raising cattle won't do. It lets them keep roaming around, and that's bad because they enjoy it. The brethren even protested that when in Washington in October the chiefs had promised to promte the land agreement, and that most Sioux now favored it. No one but they believed that.

The new Sioux Act set the price for land to be ceded at $1.25 an acre for the first
three
years, seventy-five cents for the next two, and fifty cents an acre thereafter. Funds from the sales would be held for the Sioux at five percent interest to be used for education. Because the Sioux had worried about allotment, the act specified that the program could not be introduced at any agency until a majority of the men approved it. At that time each family would receive 320 acres instead of 160. The act also allocated $28,500 to compensate the Oglalas for the ponies seized in 1876, at
$40
per pony. But the Sioux must accept or reject the agreement, not abstain from voting.

“The chiefs did a good job in Washington,” Culver remarked as he read the agreement's provisions, “better than any of us realized.” He tapped the article with his index finger. “I've never seen Congress in such a generous mood. This time the Sioux had better accept before Congress has second thoughts about it. They'll never be so free handed again—they leaned over backwards to make
it attractive. If it's rejected, Congress will be miffed, and they'll figure a way to take the land without adequate compensation. Believe me.”

Billy frowned. Why do we have to give up our land? If they get half of it now, how long will it be before they take the other half? He only hoped that the government would send another bungler like Pratt, and that the Tetons would remain as united as before.

When Congress authorized President Harrison to send a new commission to negotiate with the Sioux under the terms of the new act, he quickly responded. This time the commissioners would not be what the Tetons considered small men. Harrison named Charles Foster, ex-governor of Ohio, as chairman, then added William Warner, head of the Veterans' Administration. Neither had been involved in negotiations with Indians, but the
third
member was expected to do the persuading. General George
Crook,
Three
Stars to the Tetons, had years of experience in dealing with Indians, and he had campaigned against the Sioux hostiles in 1876.

The announcement of his appointment stated that Crook had been named to the commission because he was an old friend of the Sioux. Culver snorted when he read that.
“An
old friend of the Sioux! Most of them will be surprised to hear that. They fear
him
for good reason, but they respect and trust
him
as a big chief who has never lied to them. I don't know any who call
him
friend.”

“From what he said, he must be a friend of
all
Indians. At least
he said that Indians should be treated fairly. I can't believe he'd
try
to force us to sell our land,” Billy said, fingering the braids at the back of his neck.

Culver scratched a match on his
pants
leg and lit his pipe. “Crook being on the commission is goin' to make a lot of Tetons
think
twice about opposing the sale. Just seeing
him
will
bring back the sound of bugles and the rattle of sabers. Putting him on the commission is a pointed reminder that the bluecoats are somewhere in the background. And it was just a year ago that
Pratt
recommended taking the land by force.”

“Three Stars wouldn't want to do that.”

“He's a good soldier, and soldiers do what they're ordered whether they like it or not.”

The commission, it was announced,
had
been given $25,000 for ordinary and “unusual” expenses. “That means Congress doesn't intend for them to
fail
this time. It gave them plenty of money to hire or bribe mixed bloods and maybe even a few fullblood progressives to do the arguing for them,” Culver observed. “That will make their work a lot easier. I'm not sure how it will
turn
out, but once they're here, it's not likely they'll leave until they have what they came for.”

“But if we stick together and refuse to sell...?” Billy thought of the Hunkpapas, and how they'd stayed with Grass through all of Pratt's threats. “Pratt couldn't force the Hunkpapas to sell.”

“Crook's not Captain Pratt.”

Dr. Bland and the Indian Defense Association also had a war chest, and they printed warnings to the Sioux not to sell and distributed them at Pine Ridge. Joe Smith brought one of the sheets to show Billy. “I been over to Pine Ridge and got this,” he said, showing his broken tooth. “I hear tell that Red Cloud and the other chiefs got letters telling them to stand pat. They really got their backs up about it.”

After he left, Culver laid his pipe on the counter. “The lines are drawn,” he said, “and except for Dr. Bland's folks it's the U.S. against the Sioux Nation. That's so one-sided the Tetons likely can't hold out this time, but it's in their interest to accept anyway. It would be best if it could be managed without generating hard feelings, but that isn't likely to happen.”

Billy thought some more about General Crook. If Three Stars doesn't actually like Indians, at least he respects them as humans and wants them treated fairly. When he finds they don't want to sell, that should settle it.

In the East, the Friends of the
Indian
waited,
ready to
rejoice over
news that the Sioux
had
given up half of the Reserve. The Dakotans, whose demands had led to the Sioux Act, had suffered so severely from the prolonged drouth that they were no longer concerned over Sioux
lands,
at least for the moment. With statehood approaching, they were involved
in
political maneuvering over the location of the state capital, and ignored the land commission.

One afternoon in late May, Agent Spencer came to see Culver. “The commission is coming here first,” he said, flourishing a letter. “They arrive next week, and I'm supposed to have all of the Indians camped around the agency until they settle the land question. I've been after them to get their corn planted, and now this.” He waved the letter again.
“If
it drags on they'll miss planting time, and there goes any farming this year. After pushing farming here more than at any other agency, it has to take a back seat to talking the Indians out of their land. “He paused, watching Culver light his pipe. “The Commissioners said to bring
all
of them in,” Spencer continued. “Some of the old hostiles probably won't come in unless I send the police. And if they do come, they're likely to disrupt the
talks
if any of the others want to sell. I'll be damned if do and damned if I don't. What would you do?”

Culver blew smoke at a fly buzzing around his face. “Those ex-hostiles will never vote one way or the other, but they won't let anyone else vote if they can help it. You'll come out better if you don't even tell them about it.
If
enough of the others vote
in
favor, the commission can still get the required three-fourths approval.

“Good. I was thinking along that line, and you've confirmed it.”

Billy watched as one group after another set up canvas tipis on the open land around the agency. The men seemed puzzled. Farming had seemed almost sacred to the agents, but now, when their women were ready to plant com, the police had ordered them to come to the agency to talk about selling land they were determined not to sell. The agent had warned the chiefs that no family could leave until the commission was through with its work.

Late in the afternoon the commissioners and their staff arrived in wagons from Valentine. Billy joined the crowd that gathered to watch, eager to see Three Stars. He wore a brown corduroy suit; his beard was full and bushy, and his hair was short. Chairman Foster had a goatee. Warner was clean-shaven except for a carefully trimmed mustache. The large crowd of Brulés watched as the commissioners' aides set up tents near the agency headquarters.

The commissioners appeared to be on a friendly visit, with nothing in mind but leisurely
talks
with the Brulés. They immediately bought fifteen fat steers and had them butchered and roasted over fires, then invited everyone for a feast. For the Brulés it was like a successful hunt in the old days, when every family was roasting hump ribs, and men and women wandered around visiting and gorging themselves until they could eat no more.

But in the old days, when they celebrated, they danced. Then the missionaries had persuaded the Indian Bureau
to
ban all dancing as heathenish. Old Two Strike beckoned
to
Billy. “Tell
Three
Stars we want to dance,” he said.

Feeling awed and unsure of his voice, Billy cautiously approached Crook, who was wiping the grease from his flowing beard. “Two Strike asked me to tell you they want to dance,” he said nervously, fingering the braids at the back of
his
neck. “The agent doesn't allow dancing.”

“Come with me,” Crook said, and set off to find Spencer, walking with the measured tread of a veteran infantryman. “They want to dance,” Crook told Spencer. “I see nothing wrong with it, and it'll put them in a good humor.” The agent frowned.

“It was the Commissioner who ordered us agents to stop the dances,” he said. “But he also ordered me to cooperate with your commission in every way. This is one of the ways. They can put on the Omaha Dance if they want to.”

Billy relayed the good news
to
Two Strike, and when the feasting ended, the dance began. The Brulés enjoyed it enormously, while Three Stars looked on and smiled. Only the Reverend Cleveland looked unhappy, and he quickly left.

“I saw Louis Richards and other mixed bloods visiting Three
Stars in his tent after the feast,” Billy told Culver next day.

“Some of them were here
this
morning early,” Culver said, “and they all
had
money
to
spend. I'm sure it was some of
that
$25,000 Congress provided for 'unusual' expenses.”

That same afternoon, when he went to the agency for the
mail,
Billy saw old Swift
Bear
of the Corn Band talking to
Three
Stars. Of all the chiefs, Swift
Bear
was the only one who was always eager to please white officials and who could never say no to them. He must have forgotten that all Tetons
had
agreed not to discuss the land sale, for on June 4 he asked
Three
Stars to call a council. Crook was happy to oblige
him.
The Brulés
had
formed a big circle with their wagons, and it served as the council ground. In the center was a canvas shade for the commissioners, the chiefs, and the interpreters, who sat on wagon
seats.