By halfway home, he had made his decision.
“Mac,” he said at breakfast one morning, “I’ve figured it out.”
“Good,” said McGregor. It’s about time. What have you figured out?”
“I’m goin’ back to the blanket.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It’s an expression the old-timers use,” John explained. “They’ve tried white man’s ways, and have figured they don’t work very well. So they just go back.”
“Back to what?”
“To the old ways. It’s hard to explain, Mac. It’s something that you learn as a child … A mixture of religion and spirit and life and death and faith and trust … You don’t know what I’m talkin’ about, do you?”
“I haven’t got the faintest idea,” mumbled the startled McGregor.
“Well, I’m afraid it can’t be explained,” said John. “Some whites find it … I think you have to find it for yourself. Nobody can really tell you about it. Maybe it’s what whites call our ‘medicine,’ though there’s really no English word for it.”
He paused and took a deep breath. McGregor was still staring at him in astonishment.
“We’re taught in the ‘Indian’ schools to be ashamed of it,” John continued. “I never realized what they took from me, till now.”
“So, what are you gonna do?” asked Mac, looking as if he expected to be scalped.
“I’m goin’ home.”
“To where?”
“To the reservation. Or some other one. I’m qualified to teach. I’ll find a job, teaching my own people. Give ’em back some of their pride.”
“That’s good, John. At least, I guess so. But you always were a good teacher.”
“Thanks, Mac. I knew you’d understand.”
Mac chuckled.
“At least, I understand the joke.”
It was years since he had seen the prairies and far horizons of the northern plains. His heart quickened at the sight of familiar-looking landmarks.
John rented a horse at the livery and rode out across the prairie toward the Agency. He drew in great lungfuls of the clean air, scented slightly with sage and sweetgrass. His chest expanded and his shoulders straightened.
It was good, to be astride a horse in the country where he now realized that he belonged. Here was home!
At the Agency, he introduced himself.
“I am Little Bull, son of Yellow Bull. You may have me on your rolls as John Buffalo.”
The white secretary rummaged through a dusty file folder from an ancient cabinet, and came up with a sheet of paper.
“Yes, here it is. You went off to school and never came back. Your parents are dead?”
“Yes … I’m back now.”
“To stay?” she asked in astonishment.
“Yes. I’d prefer to resume my own name, but … Well, I’m a teacher. I’d like to teach in a reservation school. How do I go about applying?”
“I guess you’d contact the schools. We don’t have many teachers who apply here, you know.”
She was a little sarcastic.
“You know where the school is?”
“The one where I went? Sure.”
“Try there, then. The principal’s name is Ranier. Mrs. Ranier.”
“Thank you.”
The buildings hadn’t changed much. Some repairs were needed, but he knew that the Depression was being felt everywhere.
He walked down the hall to the principal’s office, feeling the dread he had felt as a child. Any reason for a trip here must be bad.
A woman was bending over a file cabinet, searching in a lower drawer. He could see that she held a yellow pencil in her teeth as she used both hands to aid her task.
“Mrs. Ranier, I’d like to apply for a teaching job if you have one. Phys ed or athletics.”
“Yes, yes,” she said, her voice muffled by talking around the pencil. “Just a moment, here.”
This was a far cry from Old White Horse, he thought with amusement. Hers was a trim figure, with well-shaped hips. Well-turned calves and slim ankles were visible beneath a skirt that came a few inches below the knee. She’d have to be his own age or older, he figured, but certainly well shaped. Maybe she’d have a face like a horse … . That would be a pity!
The silence was uncomfortable. He felt a need to say something.
“My name is John,” he began, then hesitated. If he wanted to be Little Bull, now was the time. “John Little Bull,” he said.
The woman straightened and turned, a stack of papers in her arms. She looked toward him and gasped. The yellow pencil dropped unnoticed to the floor.
“John Buffalo!” she said.
John was equally astonished. Could it be?
“Jane? But they said ‘Ranier.’”
“Yes … My married name. Jane Langtry, when you knew me.”
She hadn’t changed much. The blue eyes, the golden curls …
“So you’re married?” He tried to remain calm.
“I was. A disaster. I was too young. Divorce.”
“You kept the name—”
“So my father couldn’t find me.”
“I saw your brother once.”
She laughed. “He didn’t know where I was, either. But … I did look for you, John. That’s how I landed here. They didn’t know where you were after you left school, but offered me a teaching job. I figured if you ever turned up …”
Now she was embarrassed.
John smiled. This was possibly the best day of his life. So far, anyway.
“Jane,” he said, “we have a lot of catching up to do.”