“How did you get away?” Black Bear knew the reservation agency required Lakota to seek permission to leave their lands, and didn’t often grant it.
“A trapper hired me. He told me about Buffalo Bill’s Wild West. When I told Cody my story, he said he’d give me a job.”
Black Bear wondered if he could hire a supplier to take food rations there. More likely, the supplier would take his money and never deliver anything.
Dog Looks Back asked, “How did you get away from the school?”
“I grew tired of their guard house, so I ran away.”
The sky darkened, and they followed a stream of people outside. A black shadow moved across the sun.
“The sun is dying!” someone said.
“It’s a sign the world will end soon,” said another.
Some fell to their knees in prayer. A few Cherokee and Lakota chanted.
Black Bear knew none of these things were true. “It’s an eclipse. Soon it will be over.” Looking into the sky burned his eyes, so he turned away.
“Is that what the school taught you? Do you believe everything they say?” asked Dog Looks Back.
“No. Their books lie about us. They teach the young ones our tribal ways are filthy and meaningless. They tell us we must be civilized, when what they mean is we should be like them. No, I believe none of that. But I know the sun is not dying. See? It comes back from behind the shadow. It lives, and the world will live.” Sometimes he wished it weren’t so, but he wished he could be with his family to reassure them.
As beams of sun lit the clouds with a brilliance contrasting the departing shadow, Black Bear knew. The time had come to share what he’d learned with his tribe. The time had come to go home.
****
The literary society held play practice every afternoon. After hurrying through the piano lesson, Rose rushed across the school grounds and into the room.
“Finally.” Bertha stood. “We can get started now.”
“I’m sorry for being tardy. The piano student arrived late.”
Bertha’s arched brow silenced Rose. As president of the literary society, Bertha liked to exert her power whenever the occasion allowed.
“We’ll run through the entire program today. Take your places.”
Clearing her head, Rose skimmed through the pages of the skit.
“Can we begin? Or do you need more time, Rose?”
“Yes, let’s begin.”
Darkness overshadowed the sun. A girl gasped, and Rose followed a few to the window.
Bertha snorted, “It’s the eclipse. The teachers said it would happen.” Nervousness edged her tone when the darkness thickened.
Rose knew the scientists predicted it, knew it had no devastating significance. Her parents wouldn’t. They would be afraid, and cling to each other, fearful the world would come to an end. If only she could be there to comfort them!
Within a few minutes, as the teachers had foretold, the sun re-emerged. Bertha rapped on the desk top and called for practice to continue.
The play lost its appeal for Rose. She wanted only to be with her family.
Chapter Thirteen
Spring, 1885
Rose scrawled across the page:
Dear Mother and Father:
Soon I will leave the Indian Industrial School. Captain Pratt congratulated me for ranking in the top five of my class. He encouraged me to stay until graduation, but I cannot continue here. School regulations require students to earn complete credits. By my estimation, it would take another four years. Instead, Pratt will confer on me Industrial Certificates in English and music.
I have been offered a teaching job, but turned it down. I wish to return home. I long for the day I see you again.
Your daughter,
Rose Quiet Thunder
Sealing the envelope, her hands lingered, thinking of the hands that would open it. Would they welcome her home? Or wish her to stay? She hadn’t seen them in almost six years.
As she made her way to the mailroom, William fell in step with her.
“Rose, I’ve been looking for you.”
“Why? Is everything all right?”
“Someone said you were leaving school.”
“Yes. I’m going home.”
He grasped her arm. “I wish you’d reconsider.”
“I see no point in staying here.”
“It’s not the only option.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come with me.”
“What? Where?”
“Pratt’s recommending me for a position in Washington. It won’t pay well right away, but I know I’ll be promoted soon.”
Holding back a smile at his boastfulness, she ducked her chin. “Washington. I had no idea.”
“I’ll work for the government. On behalf of all Indians.” His voice faltered. “You could come with me.”
“What, and live among the whites?”
“Only for the betterment of our own people.”
“No. I have no wish to live in the wasichu’s world.”
“But there’s no point going back to the Plains. Our tribe needs us here so we can make conditions better for them.”
Rose’s insides twisted with doubt. Could she help her people more if she stayed?
William’s shoulder brushed hers. “Together, we could do much good.”
Halting, she stammered, “Together?” Did he think her his equal? Able to work beside him?
His voice softened. “Yes, Rose. I’ve loved you for years. We could marry, have a family.”
Of course. He’d never consider her an equal. Nor would any man. She strode off. “I’m sorry, William. I’m going home.” Long ago, she’d promised Black Bear. If she couldn’t share her life with him, she’d remain on her own. Live with her tribe.
Following, William’s brows furrowed. “Why? Samuel will not be there, you know.”
At those words, she flinched. The sting of his abandonment came back stronger with each reminder.
“I have to go.”
It had become clear what she must do: open her own school on the reservation. Teach children every subject the Indian Industrial School taught, but also teach them to keep Lakota traditions and customs vibrant and alive. No more assimilation. She would see that her people’s heritage retained its power, rather than existing as a mockery for whites. From academic studies to crafts. Lakota artistic styles must remain pure, not diluted versions of their former power. Whites could buy their art for trinkets if they liked, but she intended to preserve the authenticity of Lakota crafts. A notebook held tales told while she grew up. She would publish these tales so Lakota legends would live on.
****
The last item Black Bear loaded onto the horse was the bedroll George had given him. George had probably known he’d need it again after finding his spirit.
He led the horse through the barn and halted at the entrance to the arena.
In the middle of the ring, Cody shot while riding at a full gallop, then spun his horse to repeat the act on the opposite direction. He liked to give the audience a great show, he always said, and from what Black Bear could tell, no customer ever left complaining.
Glancing over, Cody slowed his horse and trotted to Black Bear. “Leaving already?”
“Yes. I have much ground to cover.”
Others gathered around to say their goodbyes. Susannah slid through the crowd to kiss his cheek. “You take care. We’ll miss you around here.”
“I will miss you all.”
“If you change your mind, you’re welcome back any time.” Cody smiled. “Especially now you actually look like a Lakota.”
“I’m grateful for all you’ve done.” Cody would never know how much he’d done—his simple belief in Indian traditions bolstered Black Bear’s spirit. But his defense of the Indian lifestyle made him see how wrong the Indian Industrial School had been to teach students their tribes were something to hide from the world, something to be ashamed of. But Bl
ack Bear could no longer pretend to be a Lakota in a show to entertain wasichus. He had to live as one. The past few months, he had repaired his muscles, his hair had grown long again, and his spirit no longer wandered the ghost world, but occupied his body. At night, thoughts of Quiet Thunder still made him ache with loneliness, but he was determined to return to the tribe and live as they had planned, with or without her.
“I’m also grateful you sold me the horse.” Black Bear ran his hand along the paint’s neck, and it shook its head. During their many hours of practice, they’d forged an intimate bond, and come to anticipate what the other wanted. Black Bear had only to touch the rope rein to its neck to turn the horse, or apply the slightest pressure to regulate the paint’s speed.
“I had to. It won’t let anyone else ride him.” Cody clasped his shoulder. “I wish you every happiness.”
“And you.” The tightness in his throat surprised him. Black Bear mounted, gave a wave and clicked to the horse.
He left the Wild West, ready to live the life he’d intended—in the real West. No longer pretending to be a Lakota, but living as one.
****
The campus buzzed with activities until the day arrived. The last day of classes for the year. Tomorrow, Rose would leave here forever.
Having already said goodbye to her piano students, she had only to prepare for the dinner tonight, after which she would receive her certificate accreditation. In the morning, she could pack what few belongings she had.
Her appetite abandoned her, and she could hardly eat. William sat at another table, and the few times she glanced at him, he watched her with anger or sadness. She refused to bear guilt for either.
After dinner, Captain Pratt stood at the podium. “The critics who predicted this school’s failure are silenced by your achievements. I congratulate you, and thank you. You’ve made me very proud.”
Rose clenched her fists. His pride was false. The students had no choice in coming here, or in staying. She pitied the poor young ones whose stay would extend for years. Her brother would be here another five years, if he stayed until graduation. Edward had listened to her farewell with a frown, but tonight seemed less sure of her decision to leave.
Edward followed Rose to the door. “What will you do? Follow William to Washington?”
Her mouth agape, she blurted, “No.”
“But he wants to marry you.”
Indignance left her in a huff. “I have no wish to marry him.” She straightened. “I’m going home. Where I belong.”
“Home? To the plains?”
“Of course.” Where else would home mean? Certainly not here.
Stammering, he appeared confused. “I thought you would marry William.”
“How could you think such a thing?” Her brother knew she loved Black Bear.
“Because you fit in here so well. You took every class possible, helped make the newspaper a success. You taught piano to white children, joined the literary society...” He faltered.
“I only occupied my time with activities because Black Bear left me behind. I had to keep busy, or I’d have gone mad.”
Speechless, he stared at her.
“Our people could use your talents at home, also.” Although if he stayed long enough to graduate, any top university would accept him, she knew.
“I don’t know. I’ve thought of going back, but...” He shrugged.
“But what?”
“I don’t know if I belong there now.”
“Of course you do. It’s where we all belong.” Horrified her brother had accepted Pratt’s denial of their heritage, guilt overtook her. She should have sought him out more, told him it was no shame to be a Lakota. But he’d taken so easily to the school, and had been proud of his accomplishments, she hadn’t wanted to discourage him from that, either.
“To do what?” Edward challenged, but something like a desperate hope hid in his eyes.
“To live with our tribe as a Lakota.”
The uncertainty in his face made her wonder if he could. Younger than her, he’d missed his Sun Dance ceremony. He’d grown up in this school instead.
“Will you be able to?”
“Yes.” Until he’d asked, she had never questioned it. Would her tribe accept her? Would she remember how to search for wild turnips? Make parfleche? Live in a tipi, rather than a building with sturdy walls and a roof that kept out the harsh winters?
One thing she understood: she would live alone. Even if Black Bear had returned, he would have married some beautiful young girl by now. They would live separate lives in plain view of one another. It would be a daily nightmare.
Teaching piano lessons provided enough money to buy a train ticket. During the ride, men and women stared at her. She raised her chin and gazed out the window. Buildings thinned out, became sparse.
The last few days, she traveled by stagecoach, then hired a wagon to bring her to the Rosebud Agency. There, she could learn where her tribe currently made camp, and set out to find them.
At the agency, she changed from her grey dress into her old doeskin shift. Slipping into her moccasins brought back vivid memories of her and Black Bear under the stars, and by the stream. Had he returned to the tribe? She had had no news, and had no idea what to expect. If he had, would he be indifferent to her homecoming? The hurt of his abandonment rushed back anew, and her nerves fluttered at the thought she might see him again. Neither of them were the person who’d left here six years ago. If he could leave her alone in Carlisle, he probably had no feelings for her. Those cherished memories of their life before would help sustain her throughout her lonely life ahead.
The Rosebud agent agreed to take her there.
The camp appeared scattered, haphazard. At her approach, people wandered from within to gather, the wariness in their eyes replaced with happiness when they recognized her. She climbed down, took her bag and thanked the agent, who never left his seat. He slapped the reins and the wagon lurched away.
Unsure where to go, she searched the crowd of mostly older faces. A woman held an infant, and another a boy of no more than one, but otherwise, no children were left in the tribe.
She saw Black Bear’s father and mother, but not him. She’d been a fool. Why would he come back?
“Where is Flying Horse and Pretty Eagle?” she asked, the Lakota words halting on her tongue from disuse.
No sooner had she spoken than her father walked toward her. Silver streaked his hair, the lines in his face like craggy rock. With tears in his eyes, he waited to embrace her.
She ran to his open arms. “Did you get my letter? Where is Pretty Eagle?”
A tear stained his cheek, and he cast his gaze to the ground.
She gasped. “Is she…”
With a nod, her father sank to the ground as if the thought grew too heavy. “Last year. A wasichu illness. And Standing Horse.”
“Grandfather too?” she choked out.
Whites tainted everything they touched, she wanted to say, but sat beside him, sadness filling their silence.
He led her through the camp.
She asked, “May I return to your tipi? Until I can make my own?”
“It would make my heart glad.”
Returning home didn’t bring her the immediate peace she’d thought. Her place in the tribe seemed unclear, especially with Pretty Eagle gone. Much work awaited her in making her physical dwelling, but also in re-learning her tribe’s ways. Three years had erased the natural rhythm of Lakota days. She’d never imagined herself an outcast among her own people. Pratt had done too thorough a job of assimilating them, and shedding the wasichu layers would take time.
****
A wagon creaked over the plains as Black Bear returned from hunting. Another near-fruitless excursion, yielding only two rabbits. In passing, he nodded to the Rosebud agent, wary of his presence. Never a good sign. His father had warned him of this new agent, who claimed rations fell short of what had been promised. The tribe knew he had made deals wi
th the supplier, and they profited from selling the rations. If any wasichu could not be trusted, it was this man. He represented the worst of the whites, the extreme opposite of William Cody, or even Pratt.
With a squeeze of his knees and touch of the rope to the horse’s neck, the paint turned toward camp. Black Bear had set up a tipi on the far edge, within sight of his aging parents’ but at enough of a distance he could feel uninhibited.
He slid from the horse and carried the rabbits to his tipi, leaving one and bringing the second to his mother.
“It’s all I could find today, but I’ll go again tomorrow. The fish should run soon.” His mother’s bright eyes made him pause. “What?”
“Another has returned while you were gone.”
“Who?”
She arched a brow. “Has your heart not told you she would come?”
Quiet Thunder. Speech failed him. “Where?” was all he could manage.
Smiling, she took the rabbit he held. “Where else?”
Instinctively, he turned toward her father’s tipi.
“Maybe she would like a rabbit too.”
A nervous breath escaped. Would she? Or would she scoff at the meager offering? Surely she’d turn him away in bitterness. He had no right to seek her forgiveness. Her anger could take years to dissolve.
His thoughts jumped from one possibility to the next: she would hate him, she would forgive him, she would ignore him, she would marry another for spite.
The last made him wince. He turned without another word, his mother’s thank you hardly registering. If he awoke with a knife in his heart, he wouldn’t blame Quiet Thunder. She must have carried such a wound since he’d left. Could he repair such damage? Would she want him to try?
He would have to wait for some signal from her.
After a restless night, he arose at first light and readied to hunt. Twice he had to go back to his tipi, forgetting first his bow, of all things, then his knife. He had to clear his head, and hoped putting some distance between him and the camp would help.
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