Wide-eyed, his heart pounding, ten-year-old Running Elk pressed his face against the cold window—the train was rushing headlong at the full moon, which was sitting on the track ahead. He held his breath, but gasped when the train whistle screamed. The moon defied the whistle and seemed to be growing larger—the train couldn’t miss it. Trembling, Running Elk glanced quickly at the other Brulé and Oglala boys—all were tensely staring out the windows as if paralyzed by fright. Then Spotted Tail’s eighteen-year-old son Stays-at-Home, who had a scar across the bridge of his nose that turned white when he was angry, sang a brave song to mask his fear. “Enemies tremble at my name,” he began, and other boys joined in, but their voices weren’t convincing. They know we’ll hit the moon and be killed. Quivering in anticipation, Running Elk sat back, pulled his blanket around him, and closed his eyes—he didn’t want to watch.
His thoughts flew back, as they often did, to that day in the Moon of Thunderstorms three summers ago when his father Pawnee Killer had ridden away. Tall, muscular, with the dignity of a fearless warrior, Pawnee Killer had placed his hands on Running Elk’s shoulders, his bear claw necklace clicking softly. He wore moccasins and his powerful legs were encased in fringed leggings of elk skin. On his breast were two scars made by tearing through his own flesh to free himself from the Sun Dance pole. To the Brulés, Oglalas, and other Tetons, or Prairie Sioux, Sun Dance scars were a mark of honor, signifying that Pawnee Killer was among the bravest of the brave.
“My son,” he said softly, “We may not meet again. Bluecoat soldiers are marching toward our last hunting ground. We must fight them or become like women.” He paused, while Running Elk looked up at him, feeling he would burst with love and admiration.
“Take me with you. I can shoot a rifle.”
“No, my son. You have seen only seven summers. Your time will come. Be brave always. Remember that it is better to die fighting your enemies than to run and live to be old and feeble.”
Across the tipi from them his mother, Scarlet Robe, sat in buckskin blouse and skirt, her oval face bent over the moccasin she was sewing. Her hands stopped moving as she listened, but she didn’t turn her head. Leaving Running Elk, Pawnee Killer leaned over her tenderly. “I go,” he said, his voice husky.
Scarlet Robe looked up longingly at his face, which had lost its usual stem expression. “Come back to us safely, my man.”
As he followed his father from the tipi to watch the warriors ride away on their spirited war ponies, Running Elk glanced back at his mother. She was bent over the moccasin again, but he saw a tear roll down each cheek. Buffalo robe over his shoulder, and holding his Winchester in his right hand, Pawnee Killer headed north with the others. I want to be a warrior like my father. Nothing else matters.
Remembering his father’s admonition to be brave always, Running Elk forced the moon from his thoughts. Exhausted by the tiresome train ride from Dakota Territory to Pennsylvania, he fell asleep. He didn’t awaken until he felt a hand on his shoulder shaking him. Short, stocky round-faced Whistler, his fourteen-year-old friend, leaned over him, nodding toward the window.
“Look back,” he said.
Rubbing his tired eyes, Running Elk fearfully peered out the window—the moon was behind them! They’d passed the edge of the earth where the moon rose and hadn’t fallen off! What could that mean? He stared at the moon, unbelieving.
Long Chin, or Charles Tackett, a solemn mixed blood of medium height and scraggly beard who was married to Brulé chief Spotted Tail’s daughter Red Road, entered the car. He’d been hired as interpreter for the boys who were to attend the new Indian school at the former cavalry post of Carlisle Barracks in Pennsylvania. Running Elk knew that his father never trusted any interpreter hired by the government, but Long Chin seldom smiled, so maybe he didn’t lie.
“We turned west at Harrisburg,” Long Chin told the boys in Lakota, the language of the Teton tribes. “That’s why the moon is behind us. In the morning we’ll be at Carlisle.”
I don’t want to be at Carlisle. I want to be back at Rosebud. Running Elk thought of that day not many suns ago when he and others had been running races among the tipis near Rosebud Agency. A twelve-year-old boy named Winter, whose forehead was pockmarked and who had an undying curiosity about the whites, joined them.
“There’s a big crowd at the agency,” he told them. “Let’s go see what’s going on.” He was off on the run, breechcloth sailing behind him.
They trotted after him to the log buildings and saw many Brulé men and women standing outside the council room. The boys boldly walked up to the windows, shielded their eyes with both hands, and pressed their faces against the glass. Seated at a table were two Wasicuns—white men—one a tall anny officer with a big nose. With them was a white woman who smiled at the boys and held out sticks of candy with one hand, motioning for them to come in with the other. The boys squealed and ran off to talk about it.
“I wonder why those Wasicuns are here,” Running Elk said. “They never bring good news.”
“I don’t care why they’re here,” Plenty Kill replied. “I want some of that candy.” His father, the mixed blood Standing Bear, had a little store at the agency. Plenty Kill, a long-faced, bright-eyed boy of twelve, who was always among the first in any adventure, led the way. Running Elk brought up the rear. I’ll probably be sorry if I talk to the Wasicuns, but I’d like some candy. Long Chin met them at the door of the council room.
“Come in boys,” he said in Lakota. “I want to show you something.” Thinking he meant the candy, they trooped in, but what he showed them were two short-haired, solemn-faced Indian boys dressed like whites. Long Chin nodded toward the tall officer, who forced a smile. There were some men Running Elk instinctively liked at first sight. Captain Richard Henry Pratt was not one of them.
“Captain Pratt asked me to tell you that if you go east to his new school you can learn to talk like whites and wear clothes like these Santee boys,” Long Chin continued. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Running Elk looked for the candy, but it had disappeared. Just like the Wasicuns.
The boys left the room to talk about it. “I’m going to ask my father to let me go,” Plenty Kill said. “I know he’ll want me to learn to talk like the Wasicuns.”
“Mine won’t,” Running Elk said. “He hates all Wasicuns. I’m sure my mother won’t want me to go either. Or my grandfather.” Since Pawnee Killer had ridden away three years earlier and had remained in Canada with Sitting Bull after defeating Long Hair Custer on the Greasy Grass, Running Elk and Scarlet Robe had lived with her father, Two Buck Elk, and his wife.
No Brulé parents were willing to send their children far away to learn to talk like the Wasicuns—only the squawmen and mixed bloods were. Captain Pratt then appealed to Spotted Tail. A large, handsome man, a famous warrior, and head chief of the Brutes, he was known as Speak-with-the-Woman because of his attachment to the opposite sex. He had four wives and was “speaking with,” or courting, another. Ever since he had been held at Fort Leavenworth for two years, Spotted Tail had refused to fight the whites. “We must get along with them,” he often said. “They are more numerous than the leaves on all the trees. If we fight them we will be destroyed.” But Spotted Tail, who was able to manipulate agents, didn’t allow them to rush his people into becoming made-over whites.
How it happened Running Elk didn’t know, but when Captain Pratt hired Long Chin as interpreter for the boys, Spotted Tail agreed to send four of his sons and a granddaughter to the new Carlisle Indian School. “If they learn to read and write and talk like the whites we won’t have to rely on government interpreters,” he explained. “They lie to us and change our words.”
Other chiefs and headmen naturally followed Spotted Tail’s lead, among them the wrinkled old warrior Two Buck Elk, whose left ear had been disfigured by an enemy arrow. “Grandson,” he said, touching the ear as he spoke, “I want you to go with the others. Be brave and learn to talk like the Wasicuns.”
Dismayed, Running Elk went to his mother. “I don’t want to go. I want to find my father.”
Since Pawnee Killer had failed to return Scarlet Robe seldom smiled, and her eyes seemed perpetually sorrowful. She looked at him sadly. “I don’t want you to go either, my son, but if your grandfather says you must, we have no choice. I can’t stop it; I’m only a woman.”
That night Running Elk tied his pony to a stake near the tipi so he wouldn’t’ have to hunt for it. Before dawn he filled a small buckskin bag with dried meat, hoping it would last until he found other Brulés or Oglalas. Taking his bow and arrows, with his blanket over his shoulder, he mounted his pony and rode north. Pawnee Killer was with Sitting Bull’s people in Grandmother’s Land, and it might take many suns to find him. But it was better to go hungry searching for his father than to be sent far away to the east.
Because his pony had been tied all night, he stopped to let it graze for a time along a stream. He watched it hungrily cropping the tall grass, feeling elated that in a few moons he’d be with his father again. He heard hoofbeats and looked up to see two riders approaching at a trot. In blue jackets and black hats, at a distance they looked like soldiers. As they approached he felt suddenly weak—they were Indian police. He eyed their unsmiling faces with mounting fear. The police worked for the agent, so all fullbloods resented them. Both had pistols strapped to their waists and Win chesters in their scabbards. They stopped their ponies and looked down at Running Elk, hands on the pommels of their saddles, their faces expressionless.
“You come with us,” one said.
“I can’t. I’m looking for my father.”
“Agent says you go to school. You go.”
Back at the agency thirty-four boys and girls, including Running Elk, were loaded in wagons along with their families for the journey to Black Pole on the Missouri. The younger children looked frightened; the older girls appeared resigned. The glum expressions on the faces of the older boys made it clear to Running Elk that they would escape if possible. There was little talking as the wagons rolled along over the hills and prairies. The afternoon of the third day they reached Black Pole, where the families huddled together in silence. Oglala children and their parents soon arrived from Pine Ridge Agency. Sick at heart and dreading what was coming, Running Elk kept his eyes on his moccasins, glancing occasionally at uprooted trees floating down the Missouri.
The sun was near the horizon when Whistler shouted, “It’s coming! It’s coming!” Running Elk looked at the approaching river-boat, with smoke pouring from its stack, then at his mother, who gasped and placed a hand over her quivering lips. He looked wildly around for some place to hide.
“Remember what your father said,” Scarlet Robe whispered. “Be brave, my son.” Her voice trembled.
The rivetboat docked and men lowered the gangway. Long Chin stepped forward. “Come with me, boys,” he said.
Heart pounding, Running Elk followed him along with the others, while Red Road and their interpreter brought the girls. Once on deck they spread out along the rail, all anxiously looking at their families. As the sun dropped below the horizon and the last rays turned the clouds red, the mothers began wailing loudly. The girls and small boys cried piteously for their mothers. The boatmen ignored the clamor and pulled in the gangway; the crying on board and ashore grew louder. When a shrill whistle blew overhead all flinched and looked up at it in fear; then the paddlewheel at the stem of the rivetboat started turning. Terrified, Running Elk looked at his mother, who stood forlornly on shore weeping as she faded from sight. Running Elk gripped the rail with both hands, leaning forward and straining his eyes.
The boys rolled up in the blankets they wore and tried to sleep on the floor of a big room, but the motion and noise of the paddle-wheel kept them awake. In the morning the rivetboat docked and they sleepily followed Long Chin ashore. He led them up some steps into a little Wasicun house with two rows of seats covered with fuzzy red cloth and a window by every seat. The girls went into another little house just like it, and there were many more in a long row, all of them resting on strips of steel that stretched as far as Running Elk could see. He was wondering where the Wasicuns slept, when with a sudden jerk the houses all began to move. He leaped to his feet, ready to run to the door.
“Maza Canku!” Stays-at-Home exclaimed. “Iron Road.” Running Elk had heard of the Wasicuns’ Iron Road, but he had never seen it. The boys sitting by the windows ducked back every time a big pole flashed by as the train picked up speed. Soon it was racing along faster than the swiftest Brulé buffalo ponies. Running Elk’s skin tingled at the thought of hurtling through space like an arrow from a bow.
They had traveled on day after day, seeing town after town, eating the strange foods given them, and trying to sleep in their seats. Running Elk was stiff and his muscles ached. When the train stopped in the morning after they’d seen the full moon, Long Chin entered the car. “This is Carlisle,” he told them. “Everybody off.” My father is farther away than ever. How will/ever see him again?
Wearily they trudged the two miles from the railroad to Carlisle Barracks, a number of two-story brick buildings surrounded by a high brick wall with an iron gate. The untrampled grass around the buildings made it clear they hadn’t been lived in for years, and there was an air of lifelessness about them that reminded Running Elk of abandoned cabins he’d seen. Ghost houses! He felt gooseflesh on his arms as he stared at them.
Long Chin led the boys into one of the silent buildings, while the girls followed Red Road and their interpreter into another. Tired and sleepy, the boys ran into the building, eager to lie down on beds like the Wasicuns used. They ran from room to room, upstairs and down, but all were empty. Long Chin left them for a time, then returned and herded them into a big room on the first floor that had a cast-iron stove in the center. Running Elk glanced around the empty room, then at Long Chin.
“This is where you’ll sleep,” he told them. “I’ve just learned that none of the supplies Captain Pratt ordered have arrived, not even the food.” Murmurs of protest arose.
“We’re hungry,” the pockmarked Winter said.
Long Chin held out his hands, palms up, and shrugged. “There’s nothing I can do about it. I’m hungry too, but we’ll just have to get along the best we can.”
Running Elk and the others wandered hungrily among the buildings. People came from the town and stared at them like they were strange animals. Some smiled and tried to talk to them, but no one could understand what they said. When a woman offered Running Elk a piece of candy, hungry though he was he ran to the stables and kept out of sight. Stomachs empty, and with only the blankets they wore, they tried to sleep on the floor that night. It was the Moon of Falling Leaves and the air was cold, but there was no fire in the stove.
After a breakfast of bread and water the next morning, again there was nothing for them to do but wander around the old cavalry post. Running Elk thought of his mother, wondering if she still cried for him, and if she’d cut off her hair like the Tetons did when some family member died. I might as well be dead.
At midday all of the children gathered around the door of the room where they’d eaten breakfast, sniffing the strange odors that came from the kitchen. When a woman came out and rang a bell, all dashed in, the oldest boys first. They sat at long tables where the food had already been dished out onto plates.
Running Elk stared at the two carrots and small piece of fatty meat on his plate. He picked up the meat and nibbled it, wondering what it might be but certain it wasn’t beef. Closing his eyes, he chewed it up and swallowed it. Meat was the main food of the Tetons, and he hungered for more, no matter what it was. He looked left and right to see what others were doing.
With fork in hand, his friend Whistler was chewing on a piece of carrot, and Running Elk knew from his expression that he didn’t like it. With his own fork he cut off a piece of carrot and put it in his mouth as cautiously as if it had been a live coal. Not liking the taste, he swallowed it whole, which brought tears to his eyes. Somehow he ate both carrots. Still famished, he looked at the others. All eyes were on the kitchen door. They’re as hungry as I am, and there’s nothing more to eat. They intend to starve us to death. He remembered the times he’d squatted in his mother’s tipi, eating his fill of beef or venison that had been roasting on a stake over the fire. His stomach protested.
“Captain Pratt has requested that you be given regular army rations,” Long Chin told them when they reluctantly went outside. “He told them you can’t be expected to learn on empty stomachs. The food will soon be better.”
The afternoon seemed longer than usual, for they had nothing to do but think about food and mourn for their families. When the sun finally neared the horizon, Running Elk felt more homesick than ever. In his mind he pictured the riverboat pulling away from shore while his mother cried for him, and a lump rose in his throat. After dark they rolled up in their blankets in the cheerless room, too unhappy to talk. Then Stays-at-Home and others sang brave songs. In their building the girls heard them and wailed loudly. Running Elk bit his lips to keep from sobbing like a girl.
On the third day Long Chin brought them big sacks with slits in them. “These are your mattresses to sleep on,” he told them. Running Elk looked at the thin cloth—it wouldn’t be any better than the bare floor. After he had handed them out, Long Chin continued. “Out behind the stables is a haystack. Go there and fill these with hay.”
In the morning Long Chin took them to the schoolroom, which had rows of desks and chairs facing a blackboard. A white woman in a long blue dress—Long Chin said she was their teacher—stood in front of the blackboard, smiling nervously at them. Running Elk recognized her and frowned; she was the one who had offered them candy. Finally she turned and made some white marks on the blackboard.
“Those are white men’s names,” Long Chin told them. “Each one is different. You will choose one, and that will be your name hereafter.”
Running Elk glanced at the other boys to see their reactions. All looked as shocked as he was. Having Wasicun names! He couldn’t imagine what that might mean. If his old name was dead, would he be someone else? If he had a Wasicun name, when he died he might not be allowed to travel the Spirit Trail that all dead Tetons followed to the Spirit Land. Even worse, he might have to go where the Wasicuns went. I don’t want a Wasicun name.
When the teacher finished writing the names she faced the class, holding a long pointed stick in one hand. Long Chin beckoned to Running Elk to come forward. Reluctantly, dreading what he might have to do, Running Elk dragged himself up to the teacher, who handed him the stick. He reached for it like it was a sleeping snake, holding it gingerly in his moist right hand, not knowing what to do with it.
“Touch the name you want,” Long Chin ordered. Running Elk looked at the other boys, wishing they could tell him if it was right to take a Wasicun name, but they stared at him blankly.
“Hurry up,” Long Chin said. “Don’t take all day about it.” Not knowing what any of the names were, Running Elk touched one of the shorter ones. The teacher wrote the name on a tape, sewed it to the back of his buckskin shirt, then erased the marks so no other boy could choose the same name. Running Elk returned to his seat, wondering if his new name would make him feel and even speak like a Wasicun.
One after another, each boy touched a name without any idea what name he was choosing. When all were back in their seats the teacher held up a piece of paper, said something, lowered it, then looked at them as if expecting a reply.
“She’s calling roll,” Long Chin told them. “When she calls your name you must stand up and say ‘present.’ “Since no one knew his name, nobody answered. The teacher walked around the room looking at the names on the shirts, then stopped by Running Elk. “Billy,” she said.
“That’s your name. You’re now Billy Pawnee Killer,” Long Chin told him. “Stand up and say ’present.’ ” This continued until all the names had been called. Stays-at-Home was now William Spotted Tail. The chiefs other sons were Talks-with-the-Bear, now Oliver; Bugler, now Max; and Little Scout, now Pollock. The adventuresome Plenty Kills, now Luther Standing Bear, was the only one who seemed to be pleased to have a Wasicun name. It took several days for all to know their new names.
One morning Long Chin brought with him to the schoolroom a large burly man who looked like a mixed blood and who held a short, heavy strap in his hand. “This is your disciplinarian,” Long Chin told them. “His name is Campbell, and he will punish anyone who makes trouble. I advise you to do whatever you’re told.”
Billy and the others looked at the man, hardly believing what they’d heard. Tetons never punished children beyond expressing disapproval. Campbell stared at them unsmiling, his brawny arms folded, the strap dangling from one hand. He looked mean.
After school that afternoon Long Chin and a red-faced man with short gray hair met them outside the building. The man stood stiffly erect, hands by his sides. “This man is a former soldier,” Long Chin explained. “He’s going to teach you how to march like they do in the army. Line up in two rows.”
March like the hated bluecoats after his father had fought them! Billy clamped his jaw shut, clenched his fists, and folded his arms across his chest. This was too much. He took his time getting into one of the lines.
Through Long Chin the old soldier told them which was left and which was right. “When I say ’left,’ lift your left foot, then put it down. When I say ’right,’ do the same with the right foot. Keep your hands by your sides,” he told them.
Defiantly Billy stood with his arms folded, both feet on the ground as the others marched in place. He was so angry he didn’t hear Campbell approaching behind him until he was yanked from the line and felt the strap across his back. Then he was flung back into the line, falling to his knees against Julian Whistler. Julian helped him to his feet. “Do as he says,” he whispered in Lakota. Soon they were keeping in step and turning and stopping on command. Thereafter they marched to meals and to school, looking as downcast as prisoners of war.
A few days later Long Chin announced their hair would be cut the next day. Cutting hair was a sign of mourning among the Tetons. I don’t want my hair cut, even though we have much reason to mourn. That evening the older boys held council to discuss it.
“If I’m here to learn to talk like a Wasicun,” the slender, square-jawed Oglala Robert American Horse said grimly, holding a braid in each hand, I can do it better like this, with my hair on.”
“Hau!” the others said in agreement.
The next morning they saw a man with a long mustache carrying a big chair into a room in the school building. Billy watched nervously as Long Chin led one of the younger boys out of the room. The teacher was writing the alphabet on the blackboard, but he ignored her. Soon the boy returned, eyes lowered in shame, his hair cut off clear to the scalp.
“You’re next,” Long Chin said. Billy’s legs felt numb as he followed Long Chin into the other room. The man with the long mustache stood behind the chair, holding a pair of clippers in his hand. On the floor beside him was a small pile of hair in two little braids. Campbell stood nearby, strap in hand.
“Get in the chair,” Long Chin ordered.
“No! I don’t want my hair cut!”
“Captain Pratt’s orders. There’s nothing you can do about it, so get in the chair and keep quiet.”
“No!” Billy shouted. At that Campbell grabbed his arms and pinned them behind his back while he struggled to free himself. Angrily Campbell threw him to the floor and lashed him repeatedly. Finally Billy stopped struggling, choking back sobs. Campbell sat him down hard in the chair, while the barber quickly clipped off his hair.
Eyes on the floor, Billy limped back to his seat, the welts on his back throbbing painfully. If I had a knife I’d kill him. The others had heard his cries, and all quietly submitted to the indignity of having their long hair cut off. That night Billy slept fitfully, for he kept feeling his scalp. Losing his name had been bad, but losing his hair was worse. Will there be anything left of me that is still Brulé? Would my father know me now?
A few days later a wagon arrived with a load of big boxes. “You’re going to wear white men’s clothes,” Long Chin told the boys. “Carry these to the room.” The older boys carried the boxes, while the younger ones chattered excitedly, eager to see their new clothes. They crowded around Long Chin while he opened the boxes. Curious, Billy watched out of the comer of his eye, not wanting to appear eager.
Starting with red flannel underwear, Long Chin held up a garment in front of each boy until he had made an approximate fit. The same process was repeated for gray pants, coats, vests, and dark gray shirts. Each boy also received socks, heavy boots, suspenders, and a cap. None of the clothing fitted well, but most of the boys were too excited to notice. The boots squeaked when they walked; some of the younger boys walked around the room after lights out for the pleasure of hearing their boots. Billy wasn’t amused. I’m glad my father can’t see me. He’d probably think I’m a Wasicun.
When they arose next morning, Billy started to dress. “Do the pants button in front or in back?” he asked.
“In front,” one boy replied.
“No, in back,” said another. Fortunately, a few of the boys had slept in their clothes and showed them where the pants buttoned.
What else can they do to make us forget we’re Tetons? We have Wasicun names, our hair has been cut, we march like blue-coats, and now we dress like Wasicuns. The thought of being made over to look like a Wasicun filled Billy with resentment and worry. Like the others, he was painfully homesick, and it seemed that every day the world of the Tetons was farther away. After they learned to say a few simple sentences, Pratt announced that anyone heard speaking Sioux thereafter would be punished. That meant there was little talking if anyone was near, and they were more lonesome than ever. When no one was in sight, Billy spoke quietly to Julian in Lakota. “I don’t want to forget how to talk like a Brulé,” he said. “What will my father think if I can only talk like a Wasicun?” The round-faced, usually good natured Julian looked sad.
“I wish none of us had come here. Our people will despise us when they see us.”
Forty-seven forlorn Pawnee, Kiowa, and Cheyenne children arrived one day. Although the Brulés and Pawnees had been deadly enemies in the old days, Billy almost felt sorry for them.
Eventually each boy had an army cot, a wooden box for clothes, and a chair. Then they were given strange-looking shirts. “These are nightshirts,” Long Chin told them. “At bedtime, take off your clothes and wear these to sleep in.”
“Why do they give us so many things to look after?” Paul Black Bear grumbled. He was always late getting ready for the inspections Captain Pratt held every Sunday morning. Billy was wondering what his father would say if he saw him dressed like a woman. He’d probably think the Wasicuns had turned his son into a girl.
That night they put on their nightshirts just before lights out at nine o’clock then tiptoed outside to scamper around barefooted on the cold grass. In the loose-fitting garment and with no disciplinarian watching, for a few delightful moments Billy felt almost free. Then they heard Pratt’s office door open and dashed inside. Billy was sure Pratt saw them, but he never mentioned it.
“You’re all going to work in shops with white craftsmen,” Pratt told them one morning in the Moon of Hairless Calves. “This is Carlisle Indian Industrial School, and the main reason you’re here is to learn a trade. When you leave you’ll be able to work and support your families like white men do. The government is tired of feeding you Indians in idleness, so the sooner you learn to do something useful the better. It doesn’t matter how much English you know if you can work with your hands.”
Told he would learn to make harness for work horses, William Spotted Tail exploded, and the scar across his nose became livid. When Campbell came for him he fought back. “Kill him! Kill him!” Billy shouted in Lakota as the two grappled, but Campbell was too strong. Sullenly Willian went to the harness shop, with Campbell following. Not wanting to taste the strap again, Billy hurried to the carpenter shop with Julian. Robert American Horse was in the smithy, and Luther Standing Bear was put in the tinshop. Others learned bricklaying or tailoring.
Each new thing that happened to them made Billy more desperate. Losing their names and their hair, then having to dress like Wasicuns and march like the hated bluecoats was almost more than he could stand. Now they were being forced to work like Wasicun laborers, something no proud warrior would submit to even to save his life. The shame of it all could never be washed away. They’re trying to kill the Indian in us on purpose, but what will be left? I want to be a Brulé warrior like my father, not a Wasicun carpenter. Glumly he learned to measure and saw boards squarely, and to drive nails straight.
School continued afternoons, and they learned new words, the numbers, and geography. One day the teacher showed them a round object painted in several colors. “This is a globe,” she told them. “It’s just like the earth, which makes a complete turn on its axis every day. Like this.” She spun the globe. The boys looked at one another and smiled. Everyone knew the earth was flat and had four comers, and it didn’t turn. And she thought it was round and spinning all the time. That was amusing. Wasicuns were silly.
“It can’t be like she says,” Julian said after school. “If the earth turned upside down every night, everyone would fall off and there wouldn’t be anybody left. Flies can walk upside down. People aren’t flies.”
“Hau,” the others said. Billy was sure they were right.
In the Moon of Frost on the Tipi, the teacher brought a white-haired man in a dark suit and shiny black shoes to class. “He’s an astronomer,” she explained. “He studies the stars through a telescope, and he has something to tell you.”
The man cleared his throat. “A most interesting celestial phenomenon will transpire next Wednesday night at nine-thirty,” he said. Billy and the others stared at him with puzzled expressions. “Excuse me. I forgot you’re Indians. What I mean is that the earth will pass between the sun and the moon. The earth’s shadow will cover the moon briefly, cutting off its light. It’s called a lunar eclipse.” The boys smiled. The funny looking Wasicun couldn’t know what he was talking about.
The night of the eclipse was clear, and the children stood on the grass outside the buildings after lights out and gazed at the full moon. Billy wondered how long they would have to wait in the cold before they knew nothing would happen. But when the earth’s shadow began crossing the moon, he clapped hand to mouth in surprise. All watched awestruck as the moon’s light was gradually blotted out. Billy expected the older boys to sing brave songs, but no one made a sound. When the moon began to emerge from the earth’s shadow, however, the younger children chattered gleefully and pointed their fingers. The moon had died and come to life again! Billy exhaled deeply. From now on I’ll believe what the teacher tells us. The earth is round, not flat. Somehow people don’t fall off. He couldn’t imagine how the astronomer knew there would be an eclipse at exactly the time he said. Either it was magic or white people know a lot of strange things.
In the Moon of Ripe Berries, which the whites called June, the first school year ended, and Pratt planned a big celebration. Spotted Tail, Two Strike, Black Crow, and two other Brulé headmen, dressed in their finest buckskin shirts and leggings, stopped at Carlisle on their way to Washington. From Pine Ridge Agency came Red Cloud and several other Oglala chiefs in their finery to take part in the ceremonies. There were also a number of well-dressed white ladies and a man with a camera. Captain Pratt was the center of attention, and he kept the chiefs around him, giving them no opportunity to talk to their sons. Billy couldn’t tell from their solemn faces what they thought of the school.
The chiefs were nearly ready to depart for Washington when Spotted Tail demanded to see his sons. “Can you talk like Wasicuns?” he asked as Billy listened.
“Only a little bit,” William answered, rubbing the scar on his nose, “but they’ve given us all Wasicun names and they make us go to church on Sundays.” Spotted Tail frowned.
“If you’re not learning to speak, what are you learning?”
“To make harness for horses.” Spotted Tail’s face turned black, like he was strangling.
“Make what?” He was almost shouting.
“Harness for work horses,” William said, hanging his head.
“Why?”
“There’s a man they call the disciplinarian. If we don’t do what they say, he beats us with a leather strap. We hate it here. Take us home.”
His younger brothers echoed his plea. “Yes, yes. Take us home!”
Spotted Tail charged off to where Pratt was standing, the interpreter trotting to keep up with him. The boys followed to hear what Spotted Tail said. Pratt, who was accustomed to bullying helpless Indians and who flew into a rage when anyone opposed him, tried to browbeat the most powerful chief of the Brulés but was shouted down. Red Cloud and the other chiefs came, and all supported Spotted Tail. The white ladies looked shocked. Then, leaving Pratt helplessly fuming, the chiefs departed for Washington.
“I hope your father comes back and takes us all home,” Billy said to William later.
“Forget it,” Long Chin told him. “You won’t see them again. Captain Pratt is asking the Indian Commissioner to send them home by another route. He doesn’t want them here again.”