Man on Two Ponies (20 page)

“There's not much you can do without starting a war. The best thing would be to keep hands off and wait for bad weather to stop it, or for it to die by itself. The next best thing is to have a friendly
talk
with Short Bull and other dance leaders. Try persuasion, though it's a bit late for that to have much chance.
If
you can arrange a meeting with them, better use Billy here as an interpreter. Short Bull trusts him.”

With great difficulty, two progressive fullbloods persuaded Short Bull and others to meet Reynolds halfway between White Horse's camp and the agency by promising he wouldn't bring any Indian police. Reynolds and Billy rode alone to the meeting place. Short Bull and two others soon joined them, all three looking determined.

“The Great Father wants you
to
stop the dancing,” Reynolds told them through Billy. The three men stared unblinking at the agent.

“We would rather die fighting than starve to death,” the sharp-faced Short Bull replied. “Threats mean nothing to us, for we're not afraid to die. The day is soon coming when you whites will
be
gone and all dead Indians will return.”

Reynolds, a little pale, had nothing more to say. Short Bull and the others headed for White Horse's camp. It was almost time for his next dance.

At the trading post Billy bought a Winchester and a box of cartridges while Culver was away. Early the next morning he packed a few scraps of meat and bread in a canvas bag, saddled his pony, and tied his bedroll to the back of his saddle. He hoped he could leave without seeing Culver, for he almost felt guilty. He'd told Culver he wanted only to watch the Ghost Dance. That much was true, but it wasn't the whole story. He wanted to watch, but as a dancer, not a spectator, to learn for himself what caused others to believe. As he thought about it, he realized that he badly wanted to believe. He stared straight ahead as his pony shuffled past the trading post, hoping Culver hadn't gotten there yet. The skin on the back of his neck tingled, and without turning he knew that Culver was standing in the doorway watching him and shaking his head.

After riding at a steady trot for ten miles, Billy fell in with a party of families in wagons, all heading for White Horse's cabin settlement. In one of the wagons was portly Bull Bear, who had criticized Billy for working in his cornfield like a woman. With him were his two wives in long calico dresses. White Faun sat on
the folded canvas tipi alongside the tipi poles, which stuck out behind the wagon. Bright Star, her heavier-set older sister sat by Bull Bear. As Billy rode past them, Bull Bear called to him. “You can share our tipi,” he said. Both of the young women stared at Billy, then exchanged glances.

Others joined the caravan, until it was so long Billy couldn't see the end. In late afternoon they came to the cabin settlement, and soon the canvas tipis of the newcomers were set up all around it, and hundreds of ponies were grazing on the prairies along the creek. When Bright Star and White Faun set up their tipi, Billy put his rifle and bedroll in it, then unsaddled and hobbled his pony. “We'll
fix a bed for you,” White Faun told him, dimpling as she spoke.
He wondered what it would be like sleeping in a tipi with one man and two pretty women.

After dark everyone gathered around a fire in the center of the big camp. Billy stood at the back of the crowd to watch and listen,
eager to hear what Short Bull would say.
What am I doing here?
It was like a dream. He remembered Culver's warning: “Keep reminding yourself it's an illusion.”
I don't need to remind myself Nothing seems real, yet everything seems real. Am I already in a trance?

Recalling Culver's words had set him to wondering.
If
all non-believers and Wasicuns are to buried under the new earth, what will happen to good white men who are married to Tetons? He didn't care what happened to the rest of the Wasicuns after their lies and broken promises, but Culver was different. Then he remembered the Purvis family he'd stayed with summers. Some Wasicuns were good-hearted people and should be spared. He wondered if the Messiah was aware of that.

He heard Short Bull's voice and his thoughts returned to the scene before him. He glanced around the big circle and caught his breath. Across from him was Pawnee Killer, arms folded, eyes on Short Bull. So much had happened lately he'd almost forgotten that his father would surely be at one of the dance camps with other former hostiles. Without thinking, he felt of his braids-the ends fell to just below the top of his shoulders.

“Tomorrow we fast,” Short Bull said. “The next morning we must have sweat baths to purify us, as the Messiah orders. Then, after our faces are painted, we will begin the dance to bring back
our relatives, our land, and our buffalo.” Even though most had heard this before, a murmur of expectation rose from the throng. Billy's skin tingled as he listened to Short Bull. There was a quality in his voice, the tone or vibration, that gave it a magical effect.
It
sounded different, like it wasn't his own voice but the Messiah's that came from his mouth. It was awe-inspiring to think of the Messiah speaking though Short Bull. Billy watched Bull Bear and his wives return to their tipi, and waited a while before following them. It was customary for several couples to share a tipi, but single men usually stayed in a separate lodge. Finally he lifted the flap and entered, straining his eyes in the light
of a small dying flame.
On one side of the tipi were two forms wrapped in blankets, which he assumed were Bull Bear and one of his wives. On the opposite side, on a pallet of grass, was another. He couldn't see the bed promised him, nor his own bedroll. As he groped past the single
figure a hand reached up and grasped his, pulling
him
gently down. He glanced in the direction of Bull Bear, but could see no movement.

“It's
all
right,” White Faun whispered, her warm lips against his ear. “He's glad you're here, and so am
I.”
She eagerly helped
him
undress, stroking and fondling his quivering body, then pulled
him
against her hot skin and wrapped her legs around him. When he collapsed in ecstasy she still clung to
him,
caressing his body with both hands. After a time he responded by running his hands over her extended nipples and slender thighs, wondering how long it would be before he was ready to go again. It proved sooner than expected. Then, exhausted, he fell asleep. Near morning he dreamed that a strange woman was stroking his body and sending sensations through weary muscles. He awoke
to
discover it was no dream.

The next day passed slowly. Groups of men and women were scattered about, talking in low tones or sitting silently with eyes closed. Billy walked about the camp hoping to see his father and mother, but gave up and leaned against a tree near the creek. He chewed on a grass stem, trying to forget about eating.
What
am
I getting into? Culver is probably right—I mustn't lose my head. But
what
if
it's all true?

As he sat musing, Billy tried to visualize the Messiah. He remembered the pictures of biblical prophets he'd seen
at
Carlisle. They were
all
old, with long flowing hair and beards and piercing eyes, and they carried shepherd's staffs. The Messiah must be old like them and have long hair, but since he was the
Indian
Messiah, he wouldn't have a beard.

In the morning Billy went to one of the sweat lodges to wait his turn. The lodge, like the others, opened toward the east and had a carpet of pungent sage branches.
In
front of the opening, a buffalo skull on a mound of earth stared blindly at the lodge. Billy and several other men crawled into the low lodge and sat cross-legged on the sage. A medicine man who tended a nearby fire used a forked stick to push several hot stones into a hole in the center, then one of the men sprinkled water on them from a kettle. The water made a hissing sound and filled the lodge with dense steam, while outside the medicine man chanted prayers to the
Wakan Tanka. Billy felt weak when he emerged, but a plunge in
the cool stream revived him.

After that he joined others who waited for the medicine men to paint their faces. Billy watched and listened to learn the proper procedure. A dancer went to a medicine man and placed his hands on the man's head. “My father,” he said, “I have come to be painted so that I can see my friends. Have pity and paint me.” Some of the designs were those that had appeared to dancers in visions. Others were the same as those on the Ghost Shirts. The basic color was red, the color of Wi, the Sun. The designs might be yellow, the color of Inyan, the rock, green, the color of Maka, the Earth, or blue, the symbol of Skan, the sky. It was noon by the time all of the dancers' faces had been painted and they had assembled on the dance ground.

Both men and women wore Ghost Shirts above their buckskin leggings. A few were of buckskin with fringes or feathers, but most were of white cloth. The men's were colored blue around the neck. Painted on them were circles, crescents, and crosses representing the sun, the moon, and the morning star, symbols they had been assured would make bullets fall to earth. As Billy knew, it had been the supernatural powers given their shields rather than the thick buffalo hide that warriors relied on to stop enemy arrows or
bullets. They had placed this same reliance on the supernatural powers of the Ghost Shirts. Tying eagle feathers in their hair completed preparations for the dance.

In the center of the dance ground was the prayer tree, a sapling the dancers had cut down and planted there. Near it a young woman raised and lowered her arms toward the west—it was from that direction the new earth would come to cover the old. The dancers crouched tensely in a long line facing Short Bull, Mash-the-Kettle, and the other medicine men. Each carried a
rod
with a
red
cloth and a
red
feather attached to one end. They uttered incantations to the Messiah as they walked along the line hypnotically fluttering the feathers before the dancers' eyes and over their heads. As
Short
Bull' s rod passed over his head Billy felt a strange sensation sweep over his body.

That was like magic, but it was real. He didn't touch me, but I felt it. That was no illusion.
Short Bull looked at the sun and
uttered a prayer, then the dancers formed a large circle around the tree. Billy felt his pulse quicken as a young woman near the tree raised a red stone pipe toward the sun, while another held four blunted arrows aloft. She shot them into the air one by one, then retrieved them and hung them with the bow on the tree.

Billy's eyes opened wide as he watched the medicine men and those who had already talked with dead relatives in the Spirit Land. Chanting, they marched around the circle of dancers. When they completed the circle they returned to the center and sat on the ground.

“Great Wakan Tanka,” Short Bull began, “we are ready to begin the dance you have commanded. Our hearts are now good. We will do all you ask of us, and we beg you to give us back our hunting grounds and our buffalo. Carry us to the Spirit Land that we may see our dead relatives. Show us the good things you have prepared for us and let us return safely to earth.”

Then he gave them instructions and taught them the songs they were to sing. Those in the line all faced to the left and placed their hands on the shoulders of the persons in front of them. At a signal from Short Bull they started walking to the left, bending and straightening their knees so their bodies fell and rose. They chanted “Father, I come,” over and over until Short Bull held up his hand. “Weep for your sins,” he called out. At that the air was filled with piercing wails and shrieks as some of the dancers rolled on the ground, crying out for forgiveness.

When it was quiet again the dancers picked up dust, rubbed it between their palms, then threw it into the air. Raising their eyes to the sky, they stood with hands clasped above their heads, calling on the Messiah to let them see their dead friends. Without thinking, Billy found himself doing whatever the others did.

Finally all sat in place while Short Bull walked around in the center, saying again and again “The Messiah is coming!” Then all rose to their feet, widened the circle, and took the hands of those on either side of them. Across from him Billy saw Pawnee Killer. but Scarlet Robe wasn't with him. The medicine men began singing. and all joined in.

Someone comes to tell us news, tell us news.

There will be a buffalo hunt.

There will be a buffalo hunt.

Make arrows. Make arrows.

Bodies swaying, hands swinging back and forth, they moved slowly to the left. The earth beneath their feet had been pulverized to a thick layer of dust by so many dances in the same place. As they shuffled through it, the dust swirled up around them.

The dancers were young and old, men and women. Some were gaunt from hunger, looking like little more than skeletons, but their movements were as animated as the others'.
What gives them the strength to keep going? Is it the Messiah himself, or their faith in him?
Gradually moving faster, the dancers chanted, “Father, I come. Mother, I come. Brother, I come. Father, give us back our arrows.”