Reason To Believe (48 page)

The formal speeches began with the introduction of the governor of South Dakota, who spoke of his admiration for the riders, of his commitment to recognizing the needs of the Indian people of the state, and of a "year of reconciliation" to end the long history of misunderstanding between non-Indians and the Lakota people.

Next, the local tribal chairman spoke of a bill recently passed in Congress which had originally contained a formal apology to the Lakota people for the massacre of their unarmed ancestors after they had surrendered to the U.S. Army in 1890. But the bill had been reworded by the South Dakota delegation, changing
apologize
to
express deep regret.
In addition, the request to rescind the Congressional Medals of Honor awarded to some of the soldiers for their actions at Wounded Knee had been denied. It would be impossible to go back and review the actions of each recipient so long after the fact, and it was unnecessary to humiliate their descendants at this point.

"Too bad they didn't feel the same way about taking Jim Thorpe's medals away after they found out somebody had paid him a few bucks to play a little baseball," TJ muttered to Clara as they listened together from their bleacher seats. "Finally they decide to give back the medals, way after he's dead. Interesting how these committees pick and choose who it's unnecessary to humiliate."

Clara recalled the old group photographs of the Seventh Cavalry taken after their so-called victory at Wounded Knee. Young men arranged row on row before the photographer, some standing, others sitting or kneeling so that every face would be recorded for posterity. With the uncompromising expression befitting a soldier, each displayed the weapon he'd presumably used during the recent campaign. Clara wondered what thoughts lurked behind each pair of eyes. She wondered if they'd gone back to the campsite days later when the frozen bodies shown in some of the other pictures were tossed into the trench by civilians hired to do the job.

When the air was filled with bullets and smoke and terror, maybe children were hard to see. If they had gone back, if they had seen the little bodies... But the old photographs said little of anyone's feelings. Feelings were left to the viewer, Clara realized. Along with those who would listen and connect the past with the present after so many years had passed.

After the dignitaries had their say, there were comments from some of the riders. They expressed their appreciation for the support they'd received from people along the way, from each other, from Tunkasila. Several of them told amusing anecdotes, stories about playing jokes on each other or having a run-in with a recalcitrant horse. It was difficult to express what the ride had meant to them. They knew it had changed them, but the experience was too fresh to evaluate. It was still hard to realize that it was over, that they had reached their destination.

Anna's turn came, and she took the microphone in hand and spoke with newfound confidence. "I'm really proud of my family. My mom and dad, my grandfather, my auntie, my cousins, we all got together on this, and we put aside everything else, and we just said we're gonna do it. But now I know I have even a bigger family than I ever realized I had. Whenever I had a problem, there was always someone to help me, and not just one of my parents. It was great. I think it's really helped me grow up a lot."

Clara's heart swelled with a mother's pride. The doubts and fears that had plagued her every waking moment in months past seemed like a bad dream now as she and Anna traded smiles past a crowd of jostling heads. But there was no distance between them. Not now. They'd shared the journey, and the circle would always connect them. Clara felt fat and full to overflowing. She wasn't sure she would be able to speak when her turn came. She listened to Elliot Plume speak of the pipe changing hands. He asked that people remember both the old pipe carrier and the young one in their prayers.

"Dewey carried the hoop for us, and then Ben carried it. It went from father to son, both good men. Both men we could trust to lead the way. So we followed the hoop throughout our journey. You learn to keep your eye on the hoop throughout your journey because you know it ain't gonna stop. It ain't gonna wait. But you stay with it, it's gonna keep you following the road in a sacred way. And that's how we got here." He scanned the line of riders before adding, "Ben Pipestone isn't here right now, but he'll be back with us soon, and I ask each and ever one of you to shake his hand when he gets here."

Clara took the microphone and cleared her throat as she stole a glance at Anna. "I want to thank my daughter for inspiring my decision to come on the ride. And my husband, my father, my sister, my family... all of you for..." She swallowed hard and took a deep breath, seeking a steadier voice. "... for taking me in. I'm stronger than I thought I was. I think I have a better understanding of a woman's power. I want to keep going. And I believe I can."

She looked for her daughter as she handed the microphone back to Elliot. Anna was grinning ear to ear.

The riders received handshakes from a seemingly unending line of well-wishers, after which many community members came to the microphone and spoke of what had been accomplished. Much mention was made of the martyrs and survivors of Wounded Knee and of mending the shattered hoop. The people would mend the hoop themselves, many of them said.

One older man took exception to "all this talk of forgiveness." He pointed southward and said, "I go down to that cemetery, and I read the names on that monument, and I look around me at what's still goin' on, and I can't forgive," he declared, and there were some few
hous
of agreement. "I won't forgive."

Won't forgive? Clara mused. Or won't forget. The man sounded bitter, and his bitterness had a familiar ring to it. She imagined herself aging in a vat of acrimony, unwilling to let go, unable to walk away. The image made her cringe inwardly.

TJ caught her shaking off the thought and gave her a puzzled look. "Chills?"

"Like somebody just walked on my grave," Clara said, using an expression of her mother's.

"What a thought. The girls want to stay at their cousins'."

"More cousins?"

TJ laughed and waved her hands. "They're everywhere, they're everywhere."

Alone again, Clara mused as she surveyed the crowded room. "Is it okay to sleep here, do you think? I mean, after this party breaks up."

"Sure, if that's what you want. But your husband might have other ideas."

Clara shook her head. "It's too cold to stay outside."

"Too cold for me, that's for sure. But you're the only one who can decide what's best for you."

"Do you know where he went?"

"I've got a pretty good idea, but he didn't tell me because he knew damn well I wouldn't approve." TJ folded her arms, glanced past Clara, and shook her head. "But you can't talk 'em out of it, you know. They're gonna do what they're gonna do."

Clara gave a sad nod. Obviously TJ assumed that she would welcome the man back with open arms no matter what. Clara wasn't going to comment. She wasn't going to ask
what
or speculate about
what.
He'd done what he'd been asked to do. He'd carried the pipe and the hoop to Wounded Knee. The rest was his business. She'd just about had herself believing he wouldn't backslide, and she decided to hang on to that possibility for a few more hours.

Supper had been set out, served, and put away. There was a giveaway going on, sponsored by the women of Manderson and Porcupine. It was getting close to nine, and Clara was beginning to worry. He wasn't drinking, she told herself. She couldn't imagine him doing that now. The weather was so cold, the roads so long and desolate, that anything could happen. Worse things than falling off the wagon.

Great. Either he's drunk or he's stuck somewhere, freezing to death. Could be both.

What was she thinking? They'd been on the road for two weeks in cold weather. They'd been living outside for two whole weeks. Ben could take care of himself.

Ben could, indeed, take care of himself.

Then the side door opened and Ben stepped inside, carrying his father in his arms. Howard White Calf followed with a wheelchair, which he quickly unfolded so that Ben could set the frail old man down.

"Shut the door," somebody shouted. "You're lettin' the cold air... Hey, it's Ben!"

Ben straightened the blankets over his father's lap, then turned, ignoring the greetings as he searched for his wife's face.

Clara rose slowly from her seat. She found herself trembling. She was relieved, overjoyed, and anxious, all at once. Ben was back. He was safe. He had, once again, done what he'd been asked to do. But Dewey was ill. He shouldn't have left his hospital bed, shouldn't have come out in the cold, shouldn't...

The old man's twinkling eyes met hers. He nodded, clearly pleased with himself for doing all those things he shouldn't have done. He waved her over. "You gave him my message," the old man said as she drew close.

"Yes, I did, but..." She knelt beside his blanketed knees. "How are you feeling?"

"On the outside, old," he said with a smile. "On the inside, young. If you could see me on the inside, you'd have a hard time choosin' between me and that husband of yours."

"I'm glad I don't have to choose." She leaned closer and whispered, "I love you both."

"Could you find me some decent food then, daughter? They've been feedin' me nothin' but baby food and pills."

After he'd eaten, Dewey demanded his chance at the microphone. Ben laughed, saying he should have known the old man wasn't about to miss his chance to tell a story. He pushed the wheelchair center stage. But before he had a chance to step away, Dewey caught his arm as he reached inside his shirt and withdrew an eagle feather. He motioned for his son to lean closer. Ben looked shaken. Slowly he lowered one knee beside his father's chair, bowed his head, and permitted the feather to be tied into his hair.

"I used to wonder what was gonna happen to us Indians," Dewey began, after Ben handed him the microphone. "Long time ago when they were taking all the children and putting them in boarding school, I used to think, when they come back, they won't be Indians no more. Then when they started all that relocation stuff, sending people to the cities for training and saying they were gonna terminate the reservations, I thought, pretty soon there won't be no more Indian country to come back to. And I knew how old Sitting Bull must've felt when the people were givin' in to the government, signing their papers, and he said he was the only Indian left.

"I saw a show on TV once about the buffalo, the lions, the wolves, and some of the other four-leggeds that they've been killin' off and killin' off, and pretty soon there was just a little bit left." He measured "a little bit" between a gnarled thumb and forefinger. "Somebody said, 'Wait now. These creatures are almost gone. We better save a
few,
anyway. Keep them in a place where they can't hurt nothin', so we can look at them and remember.' "

"In a way, that's what happened to us. After they got done at Wounded Knee, they said, 'Wait now, this don't look too good. Let them live, a
few
at least.' But it got so it was pretty hard to remember who we were, even for us, and some of the old ones got to thinkin', maybe I'm the last one. Maybe there won't be no seven more generations."

He searched the crowd until he found three of his granddaughters, and he smiled. "But there will be. I look around at these young faces, and I think, I'm gonna see that Old Bull pretty soon, and I'm gonna tell him he wasn't the only Indian left." He chuckled as he wagged
a
finger at nobody in particular. Nobody particularly
visible,
anyway. "And then we're gonna have some good laughs together, him and me."

As Dewey gave up the microphone, Robert Cady burst forth from the crowd with his camera. "I wonder if you'd mind if I took your picture, Mr. Pipestone."

Dewey nodded. "Take one of me and my son. The old pipe carrier, the new pipe carrier." He motioned to Ben to close in behind him.

"Try to look serious, now," Ben muttered, striking
a
square-shouldered pose. "Like two big Indians, can't crack a smile."

"Right." Dewey put his hand behind his own head and stuck up two fingers.

"Cut it out, now, you're makin' me laugh."

"One smilin', one serious," Dewey quipped. "We'll give you two for the price of one, if you'll promise to get the story right this time, Mr. News Man. This ain't no hostile uprising. Just tell what you saw, and don't put words in our mouths."

"Your words are better than any I could come up with," Cady said, lining up another shot. "This is the smiling one, now. What word would make you smile? Probably not cheese."

"Commodity cheese, hey," Howard White Calf put in.

"Just look at your wife's face,
cinks"
Dewey said to his son. Clara smiled and waved. Dewey grinned at Cady. "Now he's smilin', right?"

"We're checkin' him in at the clinic down here tonight," Ben told Clara later when, after all the handshaking, she finally coaxed him into the kitchen for a bite to eat. "We made a deal. He agreed to let them take him somewhere where they have the equipment to check him over and see what they can do for him." He tore a piece of cold fry bread in half and dipped it into the soup she had pushed in front of him. "I agreed to bring him here, and I promised I wouldn't let him die in a hospital. If he has his way, he's gonna do it right here before I can get him anywhere else. He's just gonna wear himself out and die happy. There's stuff goin' on tomorrow, and he wants to be here. Probably wants to make sure I can offer a prayer without screwin' it up too bad."