Ghost Dance Read online

  Running Horse had scrawled his name on the board, taking care not to do it too well. After his name he drew a stick figure of a galloping pony, that to let Lucia know what his name really was.

  "Winona," said Lucia, "please come to the board."

  The slim brown girl bashfully left the bench. She sat in the rear of the room, and none of the boys would sit close to her. She was barefoot, to save her moccasins for more important times, when the weather would be cold.

  When she reached the board she dropped her head shyly.

  Joseph Running Horse was still there.

  "You may return to your seat, Joseph," said Lucia.

  Winona drew from memory, rather than wrote, her name on the board, forming the letters of the white man as carefully as she might draw a diagram in the sand. Then she added the sign for first daughter, which in Sioux is the word Winona. Lucia had known that there were no other daughters, or sons. Winona was the only child of Old Bear, her father. Her mother had died somewhere away from the reservation.

  Joseph Running Horse, who had not left the board, stood watching Winona.

  He's wondering how many horses she'd cost, thought Lucia, who was promptly ashamed of herself.

  Joseph Running Horse, still holding a piece of chalk, then drew a circle on the board, which included his stick figure of a galloping pony and the sign of the first daughter.

  Winona's eyes flashed in anger, and she hissed a word at him in Sioux. It meant "Short Hair," or an Indian who cuts his hair to be like a white man. Her back straight, she returned in pride to her bench.

  One or two of the boys in the room laughed.

  Tears of shame burned in the eyes of Running Horse, the chalk snapped in his hands.

  "Go to your seat, Joseph," insisted Lucia.

  Running Horse turned to the board and angrily drew a head, a circle surmounted with a stick feather. Through the throat of the head he scraped a horizontal line, and added the sign of the galloping pony.

  He was Indian–Sioux–he, Running Horse!

  The cutthroat tribe, thought Lucia to herself, and was troubled.

  "Go to your seat, Joseph," said Lucia softly.

  Joseph Running Horse stood angrily for a moment, and then abruptly returned to his bench, sat down with his knees hunched up, and stared at the floor.

  Outside the wind began to rise, and through the window Lucia could see the high brown grass flowing toward the south. The strip of tar paper in one corner of the window snapped as the wind tugged at it.

  Winter, thought Lucia, another winter.

  I won't stay, she thought.

  She rapped again on the desk for attention, as if by this action to restore the small world of that single room once more to the past, to begin the morning once again.

  But it would not be the same, she thought, for she realized that tomorrow either Winona or Running Horse, probably both, would not return to school, nor the day after, nor the day after. Winona was, as Lucia recognized, a woman, and Running Horse, a young man, had in his way spoken for her, and had been refused. No longer were they her children, no longer could they be her children.

  Winona had said "short hair" to Joseph Running Horse, and in that instant, for the first time, really, Lucia understood the depth of that insult. How even the gentle, quiet Winona, who worked with such care and scarcely moved in class, hated the white man, how she had spat out that epithet, how stung had been Joseph Running Horse that she had said this thing to him.

  How they must hate us, thought Lucia. We have taken their land, exterminated them, taught them whiskey and seeds, plows and disease.

  We have taken everything, she thought, and we have given nothing.

  And here she stood before them, white, to teach them to sign their names and read the words of white men, whom they hated.

  For a moment Lucia wanted to touch them, to speak to them of more than letters and words, but she could not.

  But she told herself that what she wanted, really wanted, more than anything, was simply to leave this place–this terrible place–as they could not. She wanted to return to a city, to Saint Louis, to a brick school, libraries and music, to leave the prairie, to see carriages again and hear the iron-rimmed wheels roll on the cobblestones, and see street lamps, and yards with grass in them, to sew on Sunday afternoons and wait for the young men to call.

  I will leave, said Lucia to herself, I will leave. Aunt Zita may stay if she can, but I will leave.

  Lucia was about to summon the next pupil to the board when she looked back, past the unlit stove, over the heads of the pupils, to the open door of the little frame building.

  In the threshold stood Drum.

  He was the son of Kills-His-Horse, now a legend among the Hunkpapa. Kills-His-Horse had taken many scalps and counted coup more than a hundred times. He had owned seventy ponies and could kill five buffalo with five arrows in the time a man's heart could beat a dozen times. Twelve years ago, in the winter, not far from the frozen Powder River, Kills-His-Horse, attacked by a Crow war party, wounded, had cut the throat of his pony and fallen behind it, and managed to kill six of his enemies. Out of ammunition he had limped forward, knife in hand, to charge the war party. It had circled him, moving away from him as he charged, keeping him always in the center of the circle. Then he had sat cross-legged on the frozen grass in the snow and waited for them, and one of the Crows had shot him through the back of the head. Kills-His-Horse had had six sons, and five had died, two at the Little Big Horn. His remaining son, Drum, had now come into his manhood, and had not yet earned the eagle feather of the warrior, nor would he, thought Lucia, for the days of the eagle feathers are gone.

  Drum regarded her and she dropped her head, unaccountably confused, blushing.

  Drum must have been in his mid-twenties, and had known women, and she felt this as he looked at her, sensing his dispassionate gaze cut away the cotton of her clothing, seeing her not as a teacher, but as hated, as white, as female.

  The Sioux had too little respect for women.

  Lucia had been called a good woman by an old Indian once, and he had said it as he might have said good horse, or good rifle. To the Sioux the purpose of woman was clear. She was for the use of man, like his horse, his weapons, his blankets, his robes. Like the antelope and the vanished buffalo. For his use.

  Foolishly the thought crossed her mind that women could now vote in Wyoming, and that in Boston they might elect members to the school board. But of course not the Indian women. Nor Indian men.

  "Have you come to school?" asked Lucia, raising her head and looking directly into Drum's eyes.

  Drum's eyes were shrewd, sharp, deep, unfriendly. His straight, hard lips wrinkled in a small sign of distaste.

  Lucia knew that he understood little English.

  "Have you come to school?" she repeated, more slowly, enunciating each word.

  Winona, eyes sparkling, translated the words for Drum.

  His expression did not change.

  He and Lucia looked at one another over the benches. None of the boys stirred. Lucia became acutely aware of the sound of the wind outside.

  His arms folded, the young Indian continued to stand motionless in the doorway, the wind from outside moving the long, rawhide-bound braids of his hair. He wore moccasins and a breechclout, leggings and an unusual buckskin shirt. It was dyed scarlet, and on the chest, in bright yellow, was the rim of a rising sun. Buckling in the shirt was a beaded belt, from which hung a long-handled steel hatchet. Lucia hadn't seen the Indians dress like that except twice a year at the dances.

  "Ghost Shirt," whispered William Buckhorn to the fat, stolid-faced little boy who sat next to him, pointing to Drum's bright scarlet buckskin with its flaring rim of a morning sun.

  Lucia was grateful to William Buckhorn. He had spoken in English, undoubtedly for her benefit, not for that of his companion.

  She had heard of the Ghost Shirts, whose wearers could not be slain, of the Ghost Dancing, where men and women danced wi
th Crazy Horse and Red Cloud, but they had been dead for many years.

  "I'm glad you've come to school," said Lucia. "I have heard much about you, and your very brave father, of course."

  Winona translated this quickly for Drum.

  The smallest sign of displeasure passed over Drum's young, handsome, very cruel face.

  Then, looking past Lucia, to the board, Drum saw Running Horse's circle, that line of chalk that had enclosed his name with that of Winona.

  Drum looked at Winona sharply, but she shook her head in denial, her eyes wide, and then he looked at Running Horse, who dropped his head and stared at the planks of the floor.

  Drum's hand slipped the long-handled hatchet from his belt and swung it far behind his shoulder and with a swift, free overhand motion, hurled the hatchet toward the board.

  Lucia screamed as the steelish blue blur and the whirling white handle flew past her, striking the board, shattering it and sinking deep into the wall behind it.

  It had split apart the name signs of Running Horse and Winona.

  In an instant Drum had retrieved the hatchet.

  He seized terrified Lucia by the arm and threw her violently to the side of the room.

  Lucia struck the wall with considerable force, and before, stunned, she could turn, she became aware that Drum, hatchet in hand, had followed her, and was standing behind her. Not turning, terrified, unaccountably she felt her knees giving way and she half knelt, half crouched against the wall, shrinking against it, and when she turned her head she saw Drum's hatchet lifted. Whimpering, Lucia fell to her knees and covered her head with her hands. She suddenly felt as though the top of her head were torn away as Drum's hand reached into her long blond hair and yanked her head savagely up and twisted it so that the pupils might see fear on her face.

  "Teacher," said Drum, using the English word. "Teacher!"

  Drum released her, and Lucia, unable to move, knelt against the wall, leaning against it, shrinking against it, her hands before her mouth.

  Drum looked down on her and she shivered.

  Drum laughed and turned away.

  Lucia did not try to rise. She did not know if the young Indian would have permitted it. She did not feel that she could stand if she had wanted. She knew only that she was afraid, terribly afraid.

  Drum was speaking to the class, swiftly, harshly in the Hunkpapa Sioux that sounded so gutteral to her ears. His eyes shone and his hands moved rapidly. He had forgotten her.

  As Drum spoke, the eyes of the pupils became wide and his words were greeted with grunts of astonishment, gasps. And as he spoke, one after another of the boys left the schoolroom. Lucia could see them through the open door, running across the prairie toward various settlement districts and camps.

  When Drum had finished speaking only Lucia, Winona and Joseph Running Horse were left in the room.

  Drum now turned and looked again at Lucia.

  Lucia's eyes met his, briefly, before she dropped her head, unable to meet his gaze, daring only to stare at the boards on which she knelt.

  Never before had a man so looked upon her.

  She shuddered, involuntarily, her entire body trembling under the cotton dress.

  This pleased Drum.

  He had looked upon her as he might have looked on a horse he might someday own, looked upon her as though he might remember her at some more auspicious hour.

  Then Drum strode to the door. He paused in the threshold for an instant and wheeled to face Joseph Running Horse. "Short Hair," he said in Sioux. Joseph Running Horse did not look up, but the muscles of his face tightened like twisted cable about the bone of his jaws.

  Winona pattered after Drum in her bare feet, to hold the nose rope of his pony.

  Lucia numbly heard the sudden sound of pony hoofs, rapid, diminishing.

  Joseph Running Horse went to the door and looked out, after Drum.

  Then he turned and slowly, his leather work-shoes heavy on the planks, went to Lucia's side, and extended his hand, helping her to her feet.

  Lucia arose and smoothed her dress, and with her two hands thrust the hair that had fallen across her face behind her head.

  "Thank you, Joseph," she said.

  "You are welcome," said Joseph Running Horse.

  Lucia went to the open door of the empty school and looked out across the prairie, the brown prairie.

  There was no sign of Drum, nor of Winona.

  "What did he say to them?" asked Lucia.

  "Much," said Joseph Running Horse, "and many things not good for you to hear–but most he came to tell us that the dancing will begin at dusk, on the banks of the river, in the camp of Sitting Bull."

  "The Ghost Dance," said Lucia.

  "Yes," said Joseph Running Horse.

  Lucia looked out again across the prairie. "What else did he say?" she asked.

  But Joseph Running Horse did not answer her.

  Lucia turned to him. "Please, Joseph," she begged.

  Joseph Running Horse suddenly looked at her. "You do not like Standing Rock," he said. "You do not like us."

  Lucia was startled.

  "You go away," he said. "You come from Saint Louis– you go back."

  "I–I do like you," Lucia faltered.

  Running Horse looked at her for a long time. Then he said, "It is better you go away–there is going to be trouble– much trouble here."

  "I don't understand," said Lucia. She shook her head. The Indians were tamed now, broken, civilized. She had seen them, the old men in their cotton shirts, the squaws in calico. The wooden cabins, the chickens, the cattle. The Indians had been educated to the plow, taught to drive mules, just like white farmers. Keep the Sioux off horseback, she had heard, keep the devils off horseback.

  "They say," said Joseph Running Horse, not looking at her, "that the buffalo are coming back."

  "You surely don't believe that?" said Lucia.

  "I do not know," said Joseph Running Horse. "I do not know what to believe."

  "When do they say the buffalo are coming back?" asked Lucia.

  "In the spring," said Joseph Running Horse, turning to face her, "–when the white people are dead."

  Lucia said nothing. She felt empty and sick.

  Joseph Running Horse stepped outside the school building, but he did not put on his hat.

  He dropped it into the dust, and turned to leave.

  "Joseph," called Lucia, "where are you going?"

  The young Indian turned to face her. "To grow my hair," said Joseph Running Horse.

  "No," said Lucia. "Tell me!"

  "I am going to seek a vision," he said. "I must dance."

  "Not you," said Lucia, "not the Ghost Dance."

  "No," said Running Horse, "not the Ghost Dance."

  Lucia looked puzzled.

  "An old dance," said Joseph Running Horse, "a dance they do not dance any longer."

  Lucia stood in the doorway of the school, not understanding Joseph Running Horse, who no longer seemed a boy to her.

  "I must learn the truth," said Joseph Running Horse.

  "What truth?" asked Lucia.

  "About the buffalo, about the Hunkpapa–about Joseph Running Horse," he said.

  Lucia said nothing.

  "I will dance," said Joseph Running Horse, "until I know the truth."

  Then he was gone.

  Lucia stepped from the school, and called after him, but only the wind answered her.

  The door of the school banged shut behind her, caught in the rising Dakota wind, and she jumped.

  I'm behaving like a little girl, she thought. And how abominably I acted in the schoolroom. I shall not allow myself to be frightened again. That rude Mr. Drum must be reported to the agent.

  Then she cried out with fear. "Joseph!" she cried. "Joseph, come back!"

  But Joseph Running Horse had disappeared, and Lucia was alone, and the wind suddenly seemed not only swift, but cold, very cold.

  Winter, she thought.

  "Joseph,
" she called again.

  But again only the wind responded.

  I will dance, he had said, until I know the truth.

  I will not stay another winter, said Lucia to herself, I will leave now.

  Calmly she re-entered the school, arranged the benches in proper order, took the heavy metal key from the desk, and closed the desk, making sure each of the drawers was shut.

  She left the school, and turned the key in the lock, and dropped it into the pocket of her dress.

  She picked up Joseph Running Horse's hat from the dust where he had dropped it.

  She dusted off the hat and placed it on the small bench near the door of the school.

  She saw the broomstick that she had carried that morning, to sweep the grass for rattlers.

  She turned and looked out over the bleak prairie, over the brown grass bending under the huge, gray sky, and looked toward the Grand River, and listened for a long time to the desolate, persistent wind.

  Then not fully understanding why Lucia Turner turned and began to run, her broomstick leaning forgotten against the wall of the school, began to run stumbling and falling under the windy, gray sky of Standing Rock toward the soddy, afraid, more afraid than she had ever been in her life.

  Chapter Four

  Corporal Jake Totter was goddam mad.

  He leaned on the bar in the one saloon in Good Promise, South Dakota, his heavy face in his stubby fingered hands, and glared into the bottom of the small, heavy glass that sat before him.

  He cheated me, said Totter to himself. He had to of.

  The squat glass, the inch of muddy amber fluid, the puddled rings on the mahogany bar from Chicago, all blurred and snapped back into focus with a fierce snort and shake of Totter's yellow-haired, close-cropped head.

  His heavy fist, yellow hairs bristling from the vague, freckled patches, closed on the small glass, hiding it, and he chucked down the last of the drink, bourbon from the bottle's label, though what-in-hell it might really be he hadn't figured out, and didn't much care, not any more.

  Totter squinted over the bar into the mirror across from him, studying his image over and among the bottles stacked against the glass. He was pretty much satisfied with what he saw. Not perfect, of course, but pretty damn good.