Man on Two Ponies (10 page)

Billy felt the ends of his hair tied together by a string at the back of his neck, wondering if he would look even sillier with short braids like Julian's. He thought of watching Pratt browbeating the Hunkpapas into selling their land and then gloating about it, and shook his head. “I couldn't stand seeing
him
make them do what he wants. I saw enough of that.” He put his hand on his stomach. “Just the thought of it makes my stomach churn.”

Culver drew on his pipe. “If the Hunkpapas hang together and follow Grass that's not likely to happen even if Pratt harangues them for a month. You saw Grass when he was here. He's the Hunkpapas' leading progressive, and he's plenty smart, not one who can be stampeded by loud
talk.
I'd bet on
him
over Pratt.”

Billy wasn't entirely convinced.
“If
you think so, I'll take the chance. I wouldn't want to miss seeing them
turn
Pratt down.”

When the time came, he and
three
mixed bloods who'd been to school in Nebraska traveled by train from Valentine to the Missouri, then boarded a riverboat for Standing Rock Agency
upriver. Billy's thoughts went back to the time they
had
sailed from Black Pole, while everybody wailed. A dozen reporters were
also
on their way to cover what they called the Great Sioux Land Cession. They were of
all
shapes and sizes, and they prattled on incessantly. One of them, a freckle-faced
redhead
who was chewing on the stub of a cigar, saw Billy and stopped
him.

“You look
like
an honest to
God
Indian,” he said, removing the cigar with tobacco stained fingers. “Can you speak English?”

“Yes. I'm one of the intetpreters.”

“Where'd you learn it?”

“Six years at Carlisle.” The redhead's face brightened and his freckles seemed to dance.

“Carlisle! Then you must know Captain Pratt.” Billy glumly
nodded.

“I wish I'd never heard of him.”

The freckled reporter
slapped
his
thigh. “You can't mean he ain't the
great
humanitarian, the friend of the Sioux,
like
they say? That's funny. I've had my doubts about that turkey
all
along, just from what I've heard about the way he runs his school. Kinda like a prisoner of war center, I hear. Fill me in on
him.”
Billy did.

When he finished the redhead introduced himself. “I'm Bud Jones of the
Epigraph.
I need an intetpreter, and you're the man for me. The paper'll pay you two dollars a day. Agreed?”

Pleased, Billy shook hands with him.

Captain Pratt, looking more important
than
ever, arrived with the commission and several aides a few days later. Billy recognized the Reverend William J. Cleveland, the mild-mannered Episcopalian missionary at Rosebud who was well-acquainted with the Brulés and fluent in Lakota. The third commissioner was James V. Wright.

“He's a treaty maker for the Indian Service,” Jones explained. “Knows treaties but not Indians. This looks to
be
Pratt's show. I think I'm goin' to enjoy it.”

“I hope we both do.” Billy was still worried.

Agent James McLaughlin, a heavyset, white-haired man who was acknowledged the most experienced and ablest Sioux agent, didn't conceal the fact that he opposed the sale. “But my orders are to assist the commission,” he told the reporters. He assembled
the Hunkpapas the following day, and they set up canvas tipis in a big area near the agency. Then they squatted in a half-circle facing a table
set
up for the commissioners in front of agency headquarters. Billy saw chief Grass sitting on a stump and looking solemn. Sitting Bull, whose camp was forty miles away, had refused to come.

Before the talks started, Pratt, exuding confidence, had copies of the sale agreement distributed among the Hunkpapas, but they refused to touch them. Pratt smiled grimly, then began talking through his intetpreter.

“First,” he said, trying to make his voice sound pleasant, “I want to assure you that no character of threat, menace, or force
will be
used to
influence your votes.” He
paused
for the
interpreter.
“It is a matter that will
be
left entirely to your free will,” he added, still smiling. Then the smile faded and
his
face darkened. “Of course I should warn you that failure to approve the agreement will make further action which will be taken in regard to the reservation problematical.” Then he straightened up to full height and looked down at the faces of the Hunkpapa men seated on the ground in front of
him.

Jones snorted and wrote something on his notepad. “If that's not a threat I don't know what is. He's trying to intimidate them right off.” He lit a match with his thumbnail and lighted his cigar.

The Reverend Cleveland, in his
squeaky
preacher's voice, slowly translated the agreement, explaining the meaning paragraph by paragraph. The Hunkpapas listened in icy silence, moving only to brush flies from their faces. Grass sat with arms folded, his face like carved granite.

When Cleveland finished, Pratt asked if there were any questions. No one responded. Frowning, Pratt dismissed them for the
day
to talk it over among themselves.

“Who do the Hunkpapas listen to?” Jones asked.

“Chief Grass. The whites call
him
John Grass.”

“Let's talk to
him.”
They caught up with Grass as he was heading for his tipi.

“This man would like to ask you a few questions,” Billy told him in Lakota. Grass looked at Billy, then at Jones, who held notepad in one hand, cigar in the other, and apparently decided the reporter was friendly.

“First,” Jones asked, “how do you and your people feel about
selling your surplus
land?”

“We don't have any land that our descendants won't need in the future. Our land is not for sale.
It
was promised to us forever. All Tetons have agreed not even to discuss selling it with these men.”

“Thanks, you've answered all my questions.”

Although the Tetons had agreed not to take part
in
the talks, the Hunkpapas finally decided that Grass should reply to Pratt. Speaking with great dignity, he brought up the Treaty of 1868, going over its provisions point by point, while Pratt glared at him. Then Grass went over the government's unfulfilled promises one by one.
“In
every treaty we have made with the Great Father we have had to give up more land,” he said. “Now we have no more land than we and our children will need. Half of our land is unfit for farming anyway, and whites wouldn't buy it.” He
paused,
while Pratt glowered at him.

“I think it is wrong for the government to offer us only fifty cents an acre,” he continued, “when it plans to sell it for $1.25. Go back to Washington and tell the Great Father that the government should fulfill its promises in the old treaty. After that we may be willing to talk, not before.
If
the government hasn't kept its
old promises, why should we expect it to keep its
new ones?”

The Reverend Cleveland looked shocked. “Bless my soul!” he said.

“I know nothing about old treaties,” Pratt said testily. “We're here to make a new agreement, not waste time talking about what's over and done. Stick to the subject.” The stony faced Hunkpapas gave no sign of being persuaded.

Red-faced, Pratt leaned forward, both hands on the table. “You had better
talk
about this some more, until you come to your senses,” he said. “You can be making serious trouble for yourselves.” Then he picked up the agreement and stalked away. Billy looked out over the Hunkpapas, fearful he'd see signs that they were weakening. He saw none, and exhaled deeply.

The same process was repeated day after day for two weeks, with the Hunkpapas listening to Cleveland explaining the terms of the agreement and Pratt assuring them that it was favorable to
the Sioux and hinting that dire things would happen to them if they failed to approve it. Cleveland was getting hoarse, while Pratt appeared increasingly impatient.

Jones and other reporters had quickly realized that they were unlikely to write about the Great Sioux Land Cession after all and they began calling Pratt a bungler and worse. The man from the New York
Tribune
called his methods “bulldozing.” Jones
described
Pratt
as heavy-handed, incompetent, conceited, and tyrannical. Toward the end of the second week someone sent Pratt a clipping of Jones' remarks.

Clutching it in his hand, Pratt charged up to McLaughlin, his face livid, his oversize nose
red.
“I demand that you have the Indian police eject this man from the reservation,” he almost shouted, shoving the clippings in McLaughlin's face. The agent shrugged.

An
Indian policeman rowed Jones across the Missouri, off the reservation, where he set up his tent. “Don't miss a word he says,” he told Billy. “When they finish for the day, come over and tell me.
If
that SOB
thinks
he can silence me, he's in for a surprise.”

Finally Pratt could stand no more. “Unless you're simpleminded,” he said, “all of you understand this agreement and its advantages. It has been explained often enough. The time has come to vote. This ballot means in favor.” He held up a paper that was printed in
red
ink.
That
was Cleveland's idea. He knows red means life
and
happiness.
Pratt held up a ballot printed in black ink. “This one means against.” Black was a bad color. “Come forward and choose one or the other.”

Chief Grass sat with arms folded, his face expressionless, his eyes fixed on Pratt. All of the Hunkpapas silently watched Grass, to see what he would do.

“Come forward and vote!” Pratt repeated hoarsly. “Now!” No one stirred, while Pratt's face turned crimson. “You will vote, and you will vote right!” His voice was shrill.

At that twenty-two squawmen and mixed bloods arose and walked to the table. There they chose ballots in favor of the agreement, while the Hunkpapas frowned at them. Pratt glared at the silent men, looking like he wanted to
kill
them. When Grass finally arose, Pratt smiled nervously and mopped his
red
face with his handkerchief.

But Grass didn't come forward. “We have listened to your talk long
enough,” he said. “We are going home to tend to our
fanns.”
He turned and walked majestically away, the others following. Pratt made a strangling sound while the Reverend Cleveland looked like he had been caught worshipping false idols.

Elated, Billy glanced at Agent McLaughlin and saw him put his hand over his white handlebar mustache to conceal his smile. The Hunkpapas had remained united, and Pratt had been humiliated.
It
was enough to make Billy feel like singing and dancing. Now, if the others followed the Hunkpapas' lead, the land agreement was dead. He watched the Hunkpapa women strike the tipis and load the wagons. Pratt remained seated at the table, face in hands, but Billy couldn't feel sorry for him. When McLaughlin approached Pratt, Billy sidled closer to hear what was said, wondering if Pratt had recognized him. If he had, he'd given no sign.

“I hear that the Indians at all the big agencies are also united against selling any land,” McLaughlin told Pratt. “That means there's no use going to Cheyenne River, Rosebud, or Pine Ridge.” Pratt looked at him blankly, as if he hadn't heard or understood.

“My friends at Crow Creek and Lower Brulé tell me they're not opposed,” the Reverend Cleveland said timidly.

“You're sure?” Pratt asked, clearing his throat.

Cleveland nodded, but his face didn't reflect confidence.
“That's what they told me,” he hedged.

“We'll go there then.”

Billy hurried to tell Jones. “We'll just tag along,” the freckle-faced Jones said, throwing away a soggy cigar butt. “Pratt doesn't know for sure who I am, and he's got no right to stop me anyway.” When the riverboat paddled south the next day, he was with the other reporters. Pratt stayed in his room, out of sight.

At Crow Creek, which was east of the Missouri, Billy talked to some of the fullbloods and quickly learned that most were opposed to the land sale and fearful over the possibility of losing their farms. The agent assembled the Indians, and before Pratt had a chance to talk Chiefs White Ghost and Drifting Goose informed him that they wanted him to send word to Washington for them. “Tell the Great Father,” they said, “that we want to see him and tell him about our problems.” Pratt brushed them aside.