Man on Two Ponies (5 page)

“You're welcome to come back every summer,” Mrs. Purvis told him in the Moon of Yellow Leaves when he had to return to Carlisle. “Henry and I never had a son of our own before.” He felt embarrassed but also warm inside when she gave him a farewell hug.

Louise patted his shoulder. “Keep on with your reading, Billy. It's the road to knowledge.” He promised he would.

Earlier he'd hated the idea of returning to Carlisle, but when he thought of Mollie Deer-in-Timber he forgot about it. When he saw her she looked even prettier than he remembered. “I can
read
much better now,” he told her the first time they had an opportunity to talk. “I like to read. Do you
think
I'm getting too much like a Wasicun? What did you learn?”

She ignored the first question. “I can follow recipes and bake pies and cakes,” she said proudly. “Some day I'll bake a cake for you.”

The second year the boys in the tailor shop made uniforms for
all.
They were blue with two thin red stripes
down
the outside seams of the pants. Some of the boys were proud to wear them, but they reminded Billy of the bluecoat soldiers who had forced the Tetons to live on the Great Sioux Reserve.
It's just one more Wasicun trick to make us forget who we are.

The year passed uneventfully. Billy recalled Spotted Tail's promise to get them all away, and waited for word that he
had
succeeded. Sunday afternoons he walked around the post with Mollie or sat under the elms, happy to be with her even though they might sit in silence. He spent a second summer on the Purvis farm; his reading and speaking improved considerably and Louise got him into the habit of reading newspapers.
In
the Moon of Ripe Plums, a few months over a year after the chiefs' visit, Long Chin received a letter from the Brulé agent.

“My God!” he exclaimed. “Crow Dog murdered Spotted Tail!
I'll have to tell Red Road her father's dead.” Long Chin learned later that Crow Dog and White Thunder hoped
to
replace Spotted Tail as head chief, and so Crow Dog shot him.
There goes our only hope of getting away from here. That means two more years.
Billy remembered Pratt's promise to the families that he'd send their children home after four years.

The
third
year Pratt sent men
to
the agencies
to
recruit more Sioux children, but because of Spotted Tail's action and the fact that several children had died at Carlisle, no family responded. Billy was shocked one day in October to see about fifty unhappy Teton children being herded to the school by two men and a woman. Inside the gate the men left the children and headed for Pratt's office.

“Why did your parents let you come?” Billy asked White Crow, a sad-looking Brulé boy he had known. “Don't they know about this place?” White Crow looked around desperately, as
if
wanting to hide.

“They know, and they refused to allow us to come. But the agent had the police waylay us. When our fathers protested he threatened to cut off their rations and let them starve.”

One morning in November Billy saw Pratt leaving in a hurry
and looking grim. “Is someone in his family sick?” he asked Long
Chin.

“Not quite, but he's about as upset. Some people heard about the disciplinarian beating children and they got Congress to introduce a bill doing away with disciplinarians at
all
Indian schools.” Billy had steered clear of Campbell after the first year, but others hadn't been so fortunate.

“That's good news.”

“Not to Captain Pratt,
it
ain't. He's on his way to Washington to tell them if the bill passes it will mean the end of schools like Carlisle. They won't want to cause that, so they'll likely drop it. Too bad. I don't hold with beatings.” He was right; the bill was withdrawn.

In March Long Chin received another letter from the Brulé agent. “Got news for you,” he told Billy. “The Brulés and Oglalas
who've been with Sitting Bull in Canada and at Standing Rock Agency are now back at Rosebud and
Pine Ridge. Pawnee Killer
is among 'em.”

One more year and I'll be with my father. I hope he won't be ashamed of me. I know that every day I'm getting more like a Wasicun. I don't want to—I can't help it.

In
May of the fourth year Billy was counting the days until the school term ended, thrilled that at last he'd be going home.
I wish I could grow long hair before my father sees me, but I can't wait for that.
Finally in June the day came, and Pratt assembled the first group of Teton students.

“I promised your parents to send you home after four years,” he said. “The four years are up, and tomorrow you can go. We've taught you enough to hold jobs and earn your living, but if any of you want to stay longer, you're welcome to remain two more years.”

That night after supper the boys talked gleefully of going home. The adventuresome Luther Standing Bear was silent. “Aren't you glad to be leaving?” Billy asked him.

“I'm not going. A man named Wanamaker who has a big store in Philadelphia wants one or two of us to come work for him. Captain Pratt recommended me.” He seemed pleased.

Robert American Horse, who had also been silent, now spoke.
“My father sent word he wants me to stay.” His father, the Oglala chief American Horse, was considered the greatest orator of all the Tetons. “He wants me to be able to talk in Wasicun like he does in Lakota. I must do as he wishes.”

Clarence Three Stars, another Oglala, admitted that he also intended to stay. “It's not bad here once you get used to it,” he explained. That was true, Billy had to admit, for he'd gotten accustomed to the school routine, and keeping busy had made him forget to be unhappy. Seeing Mollie Deer-in-Timber every day helped him even more.

“The reason I'm staying,” Clarence confessed, “is that Maggie Stands-Looking wants to become a teacher. If she stays, I stay.”

Billy pondered that. He'd never thought he'd consider for a moment staying one day longer than necessary, but he understood
Clarence's predicament.
Would I stay
if
Mollie Deer-in-Timber stayed?
He shook his head, glad he didn't have to make that decision.

With
hands
trembling from joy, Billy bundled up his possessions after breakfast the next morning. He'd waited for this moment longer than he cared to remember. Now it
had
come! Soon he'd put Carlisle out of his mind, and with his father's help become a Brulé warrior. It seemed too good to be true. He felt a sudden chill on the back of his neck and looked around. Campbell stood in the doorway, frowning down at Billy.

“You can unpack,” he said gruffly. “The agent
wrote
that your father stays with other hostiles and is considered a trouble-maker. Captain Pratt says you're not to go back to him and waste all the good training he's given you. You're to remain two more years.” He turned and left.

Billy's numb fingers dropped his bundle. He couldn't believe it. Two more years! By then it will be too late. He thought of the two boys who had died at Carlisle and almost envied them. He considered hiding on the train, then remembered the beating he'd gotten the first time he tried that. Feeling sick, he hid in the stables, not wanting
to
see the others leave. He heard Mollie and Julian both calling his name, but he didn't reply.

Once the others were gone, Billy resigned himself to remaining two more years. People in the community had given books to the school library, and he spent most of his
free
time reading books like Cooper's
The Last of the Mohicans
and Scott's
Ivanhoe.
He soon discovered that reading helped make the time pass quickly.

Most of
all
he missed seeing Mollie Deer-in-Timber.
I should have said goodbye to her instead of acting crazy. Tomorrow I'll write her
and
tell her I miss her.
“Dear
Mollie,” he
wrote,
“I wish you were still here.”
No, I wish I was at Rosebud.
He scratched out the line and tried again. Finally he crumpled up the paper and gave up.

He was in the library reading as usual when Long
Chin
looked in.

“Always got your nose in a book, don't you? You're more
of a Wasicun than I am,” Long Chin told
him.
“You could probably teach at one of the reservation schools if you wanted
to.”

Shocked, Billy thought about that, and
realized
that what Long
Chin
said was true. Wearing Wasicun clothes, having his
hair
short, and reading regularly now seemed
natural
to
him.
He'd even forgotten the Brulé way of doing things. He knew the Wasicun words for the days and months, but he
had
trouble recalling the Teton names of the moons. It
had
happened
so
gradually he hadn't been fully aware of the change in
him.
Now it was
too
late. Even though he longed to be a
real
Brulé, he was comfortable living like a Wasicun.

At sixteen Billy was a few inches under six feet, but not heavy-set like many Brulés. His face was handsome, but after the years at Carlisle the comers of his mouth were usually turned down, giving
him
a slightly sullen look. He could speak and
read
English
as
well as most interpreters, but he'd foxgotten many Lakota words. It had been nine years since he'd watched his father ride away;
he
still
remembered that day vividly, but most memories of Rosebud had become
hazy.

With his clothes in the cheap suitcase he'd been given, and the carpenter's tool box he'd made that contained a saw, hammer, ruler, and a few chisels the carpenter had donated, he set out on the long train ride to Valentine, Nebraska,
thirty
miles from the Rosebud Agency. On the way he thought of the day two years earlier when the others had been sent home.
If
I'd returned then, I might still
be a Brulé.
Now I'm more Wasicun than Indian. I wonder if my
father even knows I'm alive.

When the train puffed to a stop in Valentine, he picked up his suitcase and toolbox, left the car,
and walked toward the little station.
This is what I've wanted for years. I should be excited
and
eager to get to Rosebud, but I'm not.

Waiting for
him
was Joe Smith, a slow-talking mixed blood with a broken front tooth, who he remembered as an agency employee. “Agent sent me to meet you,” he said leading the way to a buckboard with a pair of Indian ponies hitched to it. Billy put his gear in the back of the wagon, then climbed up and sat by Smith.
In a way it reminded
him
of the wagon trip to the Missouri six years before. Then they'd all been scared witless, not knowing what awaited them. Now he was going among Brulés looking like a Wasicun, knowing what to expect, and he dreaded that as much as he had earlier feared the unknown.

“You don't look like no Brulé to me,” Smith said, “especially you don't look like no son of ole Pawnee Killer. He's what they call irreconcilable, and I reckon he always will be. Stays with others like him and avoids all whites. They still consider him a likely trouble-maker.”

Most of the way they rode in silence, while the ponies trotted and the buckboard bumped along over the rough road. Billy gazed at the distant hills and the open stretches of prairie grass on every side. His pulse quickened when he caught sight of a buck antelope flashing its white rump in warning to others, then saw a dozen of them scamper away. The land seemed much vaster and the sky bluer than he remembered.
I should never have left this
land.
Once I belonged here too, like the antelope. But it's no place for an imitation Wasicun with the skin and heart of a Brulé. But where do I belong? Nowhere?
The thought troubled him.

As they traveled, Billy thought of his father. Pawnee Killer had been one of the most respected Brulé warriors, for he had led many successful raids and counted many coups. It didn't matter what the whites thought of him; Billy wanted only to be with him again, so he could forget everything about Carlisle. Otherwise... Smith interrupted his thoughts.