They reached Rosebud after dark, and Billy spent an uncomfortable night on a thin mat in Smith’s cabin, wishing for a cot like the one he had at Carlisle. Wasicun! He forced the thought from his mind. In the morning Smith fed him a breakfast of greasy pan fried bread, fried salt pork, and bitter coffee. He forced himself to eat it, trying not to think of the ham and eggs, biscuits and honey, and coffee with cream that Mrs. Purvis had served.
“Reckon you should let the agent know you’re back so he can put you on the ration roll. You don’t want to miss gettin’ all this good grub.” Smith grinned, showing his broken tooth while wiping his greasy hands on his pants. Billy nodded, then went outside to see Rosebud by daylight.
The setting was as he remembered it. Bathed in early morning sunlight under a cloudless sky, the agency’s brown log buildings were nestled in a bowl of hills dotted with dark green pines against a background of yellowing grass. Just seeing it and breathing the pine-scented breeze made him proud to be a Brulé. In the old days it had been a favorite camping place of his people. That was why Spotted Tail had insisted on locating the agency there, that and the fact little land near it was suitable for farming. Although he knew the old life was gone, Spotted Tail had resisted the government’s efforts to force the Brulés to take up farming.
Now, however, most of the tipi camps that had clustered around the agency in all directions when Billy had last seen it were gone. The tipis that remained were of white canvas, not those of mellowed buffalo hide with paintings of warriors and soldiers on them. Somehow Agent James Wright had persuaded the families to move to areas where they could plant an acre or two of corn and build cabins. There were now many cabin settlements scattered over the land, some of them thirty miles or more from the agency.
Later, not knowing what to expect, Billy set out for the agent’s office next to the council room, carrying suitcase and toolbox. Some of the Brulé men he saw wore government issue shirts and pants along with moccasins. A few had cut the seats out of their pants and wore what was left as leggings; they also wore breechcloths and had trade blankets or worn buffalo robes over their bare shoulders. Even the ones who dress like whites still keep their hair long. But it’s clear some have changed and some have not.
Feeling self-conscious in his outgrown blue uniform, Billy knocked on Wright’s door and was told to come in. The office contained only a few chairs, a deerskin on the floor, a filing cabinet with a buffalo skull on it, and a scarred oak table Wright was using as a desk. A stocky, broad-shouldered man with a brown beard, Wright reminded him of Henry Purvis, and he felt at ease.
“I’m Billy Pawnee Killer, just back from Carlisle.”
“Been expectin’ you, Billy,” Wright said, holding out a gnarled hand. “Tackett wrote you’d be coming.” He glanced at the tool-box. “I see they trained you to be a carpenter.”
Billy nodded. “Summers I worked on a farm.”
“Good. I’m a farmer, you know. There isn’t likely to be much carpenter work here, outside what the staff does, but when you’re eighteen we’ll set you up on a farm. What will you do in the meantime?”
“I haven’t seen my mother for six years, my father for longer than that, and I’m anxious to get acquainted with them again.” Wright stroked his beard.
“I think you should know that few of those men who were with Sitting Bull or Crazy Horse have adjusted to reservation life, and some of them likely never will. They’re like caged tigers tom from the jungle. They camp as far from here as they can and still draw rations every ten days. They hate white men and avoid them, but they hate even worse any Sioux who looks or acts like a white. I doubt that they’d let you, with your short hair and uniform, even spend a night in their camp.”
Billy frowned. “But surely, if my father wants me there...?”
“You should let him know you’re back, of course, but it would be better for me to send him word and see what he says.” Billy’s frown deepened.
“I want to see him. I must see him.”
“Well, in that case, don’t expect him to ask you to stay. You’ll take some gettin’ used to, Billy. Not only by the others, but by your own parents, especially your father. There are some pretty wild warriors in that camp, and if they didn’t run you off, they’d make life miserable for you. I don’t even send the police to those camps if I can help it.”
“They couldn’t make it much worse than it was when I went away. I must see my father. Seeing him again is what I’ve lived for.” Billy shuffled his feet. Wright stroked his beard again.
“I understand,” he said softly, leaning forward on his elbows. “I hope it works out for you.” He pointed to a map of the reservation tacked to the log wall, and circled his stubby finger. “They’re usually somewhere in this area, but they move whenever they need fresh grass for their ponies. The trader, John Culver, can find out where they are through his wife’s kinfolk. She’s Brulé.”
On his way to the trading post Billy saw a familiar-looking youth approaching, but at first he didn’t recognize him. Then he knew it was his friend Julian Whistler. He’d let his hair grow into two short, pathetic-looking braids that dangled to just below his ears on each side of his round face, and he wore a red and white striped blanket uncomfortably over his bare shoulder. His expression was solemn, but he still didn’t look like a typical young Brulé fullblood. Even with blanket and braids he appeared different, like a Wasicun trying to pass for an Indian.
“Billy!” Julian exclaimed. “You’re back. Pratt must have run out of excuses for keeping you.”
“You were lucky, my friend. You left after four years.”
“Four were too many. Nobody here has any use for us now, and if we do anything different, like shaking hands or sleeping in cabins, they jeer and call us Wasicuns. Even our own families,” he said, curling his lip. “They act like we changed because we wanted to become make-believe Wasicuns, not because we were forced to. Pratt always bragged that he’d kill the Indian in us and leave the man. He should have killed both instead of sending us home the misfits he made us.”
“Have you done any carpenter work?”
Julian laughed bitterly, toeing the dirt with his moccasin, the short braids skipping back and forth on each side of his unhappy face. “Not one of us has worked a single day at what they made us learn. Either there’s nothing for us to do or the Wasicuns say we’re trying to take their jobs. ’We don’t need Injun carpenters,’ they say. Those years were wasted—worse than wasted.” He waved his arms violently, and the blanket slipped from his shoulder. “Where will you live?” he asked, pulling the blanket around his waist with both hands.
“I want to live with my father, but the agent thinks he’ll throw me away when he sees how I look.”
“Even if he doesn’t, you’d be going straight from Carlisle to one of the wildest camps on the Reserve.” Julian shook his head, and his braids flew. “You’ve been away so long you can’t have any idea what that would be like. I know I couldn’t stand it, and I doubt that you could for long. After living like we did and being busy all the time, the hardest part is having nothing to do but feel sorry for yourself and wish you were dead. I’d gladly work as a carpenter just to have something to do.”
“Living with my father is the only way I can become a Brulé again. I’ve got to, if he’ll let me.”
“Hah! Look at me! Too late for that, my friend. I don’t know which is worse, an imitation Wasicun or an imitation Brulé, but those are your choices.” Shaking his head again, with his ridiculous braids gyrating, he turned to go.
“Where does Mollie live?”
“Deer-in-Timber? Her family has a cabin down the creek a couple miles. She helps the teacher at the school there, though I hear she’ll get married before long.”
Billy picked up his suitcase and tool box and continued on his way. Mollie Deer-in-Timber getting married! I never thought of that happening. I should have talked to her before she left. I should have written and not let her forget me.
John Culver, the trader, was a tall, round-shouldered man with twinkling blue eyes and a sandy colored mustache that hid his mouth. He was smoking a pipe, and like most whites and Indians at Rosebud he wore khaki shirt and pants and Brulé moccasins. Billy introduced himself and shook hands. “Mr. Wright said you probably can tell me where my father is camped,” he said. “But first I must see my grandfather, Two Buck Elk, and borrow a pony.”
“You’re fresh back from Carlisle, I see,” Culver said. “I went to college in Pennsylvania for a couple of years before I got the wanderlust and headed west. Now I’m a squawman with a couple of mixed-blood sons. Come along way, ain’t!?” He smiled. “You know, if I had it to do over I wouldn’t change a thing.” Billy knew he’d like Culver.
“Your father is Pawnee Killer, you say?” Billy nodded. “Not figurin’ on stayin’ with him, are you?” Wishing he hadn’t been asked that, Billy nodded again.
“I must see him, and I don’t have anywhere else to go. I’ll stay with him if he wants me.” Culver’s mustache twitched.
“If it doesn’t work out like you want, come see me when you get back. “He took Billy outside and pointed out the trail to Two Buck Elk’s camp, about ten miles away.
Leaving suitcase and tool box at the trading post, Billy set out on foot for the camp. When he was almost halfway there a family of Brulés in a buckboard drawn by a team of trotting ponies approached, going in the same direction and leaving a cloud of dust behind. Billy stopped, expecting them to offer him a ride. The driver was dressed like a white man, but his hair was long. He glanced at Billy, frowned, and drove on without slowing down. The woman looked straight ahead, but the two children in the back of the wagon turned their heads owl-like to stare at Billy through the dust.
When he reached the little settlement Billy saw that a white canvas tipi stood by every cabin, and near each was a buckboard. In the distance he saw small patches of knee-high corn. His grandmother, in a long calico dress, was entering a cabin, and he knew that Two Buck Elk was probably in the nearby tipi. Remembering the Teton custom just in time, he struck the tipi with his hand to announce a visitor, then raised the flap and peered in. His grand father was sitting crosslegged on a green and white blanket, leaning against a willow backrest and smoking his pipe. He wore pants and moccasins, but no shirt. The flesh hung loosely on his arms.
Two Buck Elk looked up at Billy with an expression of surprise, then of sorrow on his wrinkled face. With his left hand he touched his disfigured ear.
“Grandfather, they finally let me come home,” Billy said, entering the tipi.
Two Buck Elk looked him over sadly. “What have they done to you, grandson?” he asked hoarsely. Arising, he walked around Billy, inspecting him from all sides. “You’re as tall as I am,” he said. “But your hair! They promised to teach you to talk like a Wasicun, not to make you look like one. They lied.”
“Do you think my father will know me?”
Two Buck Elk started to answer twice, but checked himself each time. He knocked the ashes from his red stone pipe and returned it to its beaded buckskin case before replying. His reluctance to speak was ominous. Billy stared at him, holding his breath, wanting him to say what he hoped to hear.
“Grandson,” Two Buck Elk said softly, “there are many things that may be hard for you to understand. I don’t understand some of them myself. We can’t fight the Wasicuns any more-they are too many. If we can’t fight them, we can only live in peace with them and do what we must, what they tell us. If we can’t fight them it is senseless to hate them.” He paused and drew a deep breath as if gathering strength to continue.
“Your father and the other warriors who fought with Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse live on hatred of the Wasicuns, and they want only a chance to die fighting them. When your father heard that I had sent you away to learn to talk like a Wasicun he was furious. ’You destroyed my only son,’ he said. ’my son is no more! I should kill you!’ Perhaps I deserved to be killed. If he felt that way about you learning to talk like a Wasicun, how will he feel to see you looking like one, even walking like one? It would be wise not to let him see you, at least until your hair is long again.”
They stood for a time in silence, while Billy’s thoughts went back to his father’s affectionate farewell. Down deep inside he must still love the son he knew. Surely he’ll want me to become that son again. “I’ve been waiting nine years just to see him. I can’t wait for my hair to grow long. That will take years.”
Two Buck Elk remained silent, but Billy was sure he knew what the old warrior was thinking, as he tugged at his left ear. It would be better for his father to go on believing he was dead and never have to see what had happened to his son. But I must see him! He left the tipi and entered the open door of the cabin, where his grandmother was stirring something in a big pot on the stove. When she saw him she gave a little cry. “Grandson!” she exclaimed.
“How is my mother?” he asked.
“She mourns for you yet. She has never forgotten you, grandson. But you look so different without your hair.” Billy frowned.
They spoke little after that. Billy slept on a mat of grass his grandmother prepared for him. In the morning Two Buck Elk caught a spirited bay pony and saddled it. “He’s yours to keep, grandson,” he said, handing Billy the reins. “We always ride in the wagon. He’s a good pony—in the old days he might have been a buffalo runner,” he said sadly.
Billy mounted, feeling a bit nervous, for he hadn’t ridden in years. His grandmother handed him a small canvas bag filled with dried meat. “Grandson,” Two Buck Elk said, “you are welcome to share our tipi if you wish.” He’s sure my father won’t want me to stay, but he’s got to be wrong. He must be.
The lively bay traveled at a distance-covering jog trot. On either side of the trail Billy saw cattle grazing, and once passed two Brulé cowboys. By mid-afternoon the big camp loomed up ahead. At last, after waiting so long, he would finally be face to face with his father. He tried to visualize Pawnee Killer, wondering if he’d look exactly as he had that morning he rode away or if he’d appear older.
The tattered buffalo-hide tipis were strung out on high ground along a creek, while on his left three boys watched the grazing pony herd. Billy rode up to them; they stared at him wide-eyed. They think I’m one of the police, and they know the police mean trouble. “Which is Pawnee Killer’s lodge?” he asked the nearest boy in Lakota. The boy hesitated, then pointed to one of the tipis. As he rode to it, Billy saw a few men and women at a distance, but they ignored him. A feeling of apprehension swept over him as he dismounted and with trembling hands tied the pony to a stake. Holding his breath, he struck the tipi, raised the flap, and entered to see his father at last. Pawnee Killer wasn’t there.
Scarlet Robe gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth. “My son! You’re back at last! It’s been so many summers. But...”
“Where is my father? I want to see him.”
“He’s hunting antelope.” She paused and lowered her head. “My son, I hate to tell you this, but you must not be here when he returns.”
Billy looked shocked. “Doesn’t he want to see his own son?” She looked at him sadly, then lowered her eyes.
“It’s so hard to tell you. Your father... I mean you’ve been among the Wasicuns so long your father has convinced himself that you died when they took you away. He believes that, well, because he couldn’t bear to think you were becoming a Wasicun. To see you as you are would be a knife in his heart. He still loves the son he once knew, and he always will. But to him that son is only a memory, not flesh and blood. When your hair is long perhaps you can see him, even be his son again. But not now!” Her voice trembled and broke. “For his sake and mine, he must not see what they have done to you.” She looked at him appealingly, head tilted to one side, her eyes filled with tears.
Billy’s heart was on the ground. Everything he’d waited for, lived for, had exploded in his face. First his grandfather, then his mother, opposed him seeing his father. It isn’t fair. Don’t I mean something to them? I may look different, but I’m still the son of Pawnee Killer. He stared coldly at his mother, the comers of his mouth down.
“Forgive me, my son. Don’t think me cruel, or that I don’t love you. I’ve never stopped thinking about you or longing for your return. It’s only that seeing you as you are would destroy your father. You can’t want to do that to him. Maybe later, when your hair is long.... ” Billy didn’t wait for her to finish.
Blindly he untied the pony and mounted, oblivious to the scowls of men and women who were watching. As he rode out of camp he saw two warriors wearing breechcloths and leggings approaching, each with an antelope across his pony’s shoulders. Billy stared at them. There could be no doubt—one was the proud figure of Pawnee Killer! Maybe he’ll know me and tell me to stay. His heart was pounding and his mouth felt dry as he breathlessly watched his father. The two riders would pass within fifty yards of him. He slowed the bay, ready to turn and follow them.
The warrior with Pawnee Killer saw Billy’s short hair and uniform and glowered at him, but Pawnee Killer didn’t even look in his direction. It was as if he’d sensed that the rider was dressed like a Wasicun and didn’t merit even a glance. Billy opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. The two warriors rode on without looking back. Billy exhaled deeply, feeling weak. He loosened his rein and let the bay pony pick its way.
At the trading post next day Billy numbly tied the pony to the hitching rack and stiffly entered, his leg muscles aching from the long ride. Culver was talking to three Brulé men; they wore the usual pants and shirts, and their hair was long. Billy stared enviously at their hair as they walked past him to the door. Culver leaned against the plank counter, feet crossed, arms folded, looking at Billy’s somber face. He doesn’t need to ask. He knows.
“I saw him but he didn’t see me. I can’t let him see me till my hair is long and I look like a Brulé again.” Culver nodded sympathetically. “And what kept me alive, especially those first years, was the thought of being with him again.”
Culver was silent for a moment. “What will you do now?”
Billy didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know. My grandfather said I can live with them. There’d be nothing to do but sit and watch my hair grow. I’d go crazy doing that.”
His mustache twitching, Culver walked around the counter and placed both hands on it. “I can use a clerk and handyman who knows both Lakota and English. Pay is five dollars a month. There’s a cabin with a cot in it out back where you can sleep, and you can draw your rations and eat with the other hands.” Billy’s head was lowered; he looked up at Culver without raising it. “I know it’s not what you had in mind, but it would be something to do for a few years. You could save your pay and buy cattle. That’s all this country’s good for. Think about it.”
“I will, but I’ve forgotten a lot of Lakota words.”
“They’ll come back quick enough,” Culver said.
Billy rode aimlessly around the agency. Most of the Brulés he’d seen, except his father and those at his camp and a few near the agency, dressed like whites but kept their hair long. If my hair was long I’d look just like them, no matter what Julian says. It’s not the clothes that matter, it’s the hair. But that will take years.
Then he recalled something else Julian had said. After being at Carlisle, the hardest part was not having anything to do. Even working like a Wasicun was better than watching the sun rise and waiting idly all day for it to set.
Back at the trading post, Billy tied his pony and entered. “What will I do with my pony?” he asked. Culver smiled.
“You can put him in with my bunch. A boy turns them out to graze mornings and pens them at night. Now let’s get you out of that uniform and into clothes that fit.”