“I’ve heard the same things and questioned him carefully about it. He gave me his word this isn’t true, and I believe him.”
“You know very well that alliances are kept in secret and only announced when the time is fortuitous. If he is content to sit in your pocket now it is because it affords him some benefit and protection. But I suspect the time will come when he won’t find it so comfortable there. When it does, he will have no scruples about doing whatever he needs to do to advance his cause.”
Walsh’s answer is sharp. “Not at my expense. He would never do anything to harm me personally. I’m not as bad a judge of character as you seem to think. I’ve had plenty of time to take the measure of the man. I’ve eaten with him, slept in his lodge. And I’ll tell you this, I’ve never met a straighter, more upright fellow.” The Major hesitates. “And I’m the one who has put him squarely in my pocket, in spite of what the costs may be to him.”
Case feels a surge of impatience. “It’s the way of the world. If it became a choice between survival and friendship, which do you think Sitting Bull would choose? Which would you choose?”
The Major snaps, “Way of the world? Don’t patronize me, my boy. And what business do you have, pronouncing on the character of a man you haven’t met?”
Case says, “Then rectify my ignorance. Introduce us. I’d like to meet him.” As an afterthought he adds, “And interview him for my paper.”
Walsh stands, pulling at his bottom lip. “You know that might be a worthwhile thing. Canadians ought to have a chance to see matters from Bull’s side of the fence. The government is in such a damned fever to pitch him out the door. It’s all Colonel Macleod and his henchmen can think of, earning credit with Ottawa for evicting Bull from the property. How happy they would be to see him plunked down on some American reservation to grow potatoes and polish a missionary’s pew with his arse for the rest of his days.” He gives Case a sidelong glance. “Somebody ought to tell the truth about how things stand here at present, set the record straight for the public.”
Feeling a twinge of conscience, Case hastily says, “There’s no assurance an interview that presents the truth would be published. I can make no promises on that score.”
Walsh turns a deaf ear to Case’s qualification. “I’ll get Louis Léveillé to translate for us. Terry has asked the Sioux to dance for the commission tonight. He thinks that gesture will please them, set a good atmosphere for the talks tomorrow. Maybe we can meet after the Sioux perform.” He stands a moment, thinking, then says, “I must be off now. I have an appointment with Colonel Macleod. I’ll get a message to you when I have the interview arranged. Give careful thought to your questions for Bull. You have a lot to learn about the man.”
Case watches as Walsh crosses the parade ground, his gait tentative, his eyes contemplating the ground. Case has never seen the man in this light before. The lion is limping because he believes he has betrayed a man whose loyalty he owns. That is the thorn in his paw and it needs to be drawn.
The air is filled with the shriek of eagle-bone whistles, the heartbeat of rawhide hand drums, the shrill, quavering voices of the Indian singers. A huge bonfire roars in the fort’s square, pine knots crack, greasy billows of smoke churn and spit sparks, the whitewashed palisades of the fort are smeared with the violent red and yellow brushstrokes of the fire.
The night is crisp and clear; a blue moon stares down on the dancers. The breath of the Police and Americans, bundled up in heavy coats, smokes as they gaze at the breech-clouted warriors weaving and stamping, sweat steaming from their naked skin. Bodies are slashed, blazed, dotted, and zigzagged with paint. A yellow face, a vermilion mouth. One eye, rimmed in white, stares out of a coal-black countenance. A blue mask spotted with white raindrops pecks at onlookers. Heavy braids whip and jerk as warriors stalk and lunge, re-enacting old war deeds, their moccasins kicking up clouds of dust that shimmer and glow in the light of the flames.
Rain in the Face wears an eagle-feather bonnet capped with curved and menacing buffalo horns. His body is completely covered in charcoal, except for his ribs, which are marked with bone-white streaks of paint. The skeleton gyrates, singing his battle exploits to Macleod and Terry. An interpreter leans down between their chairs, mumbling Rain in the Face’s words in their ears.
The dance, intended as a conciliatory gesture before the opening of negotiations, has taken an unfortunate turn. It is known that Terry is well aware there is no greater hater of the Custer family among the Sioux than Rain in the Face. Once arrested by Tom Custer, the General’s brother, the Sioux warrior spent three months in the Fort Lincoln jail before he made his escape. Now he describes to General Terry how he revenged himself on the Custer brothers at Little Bighorn. Shaking a scalp-decorated coup stick in Terry’s face, he points out which of his trophies he peeled from Long Knives’ heads, demonstrates how he rode among the soldiers at Little Bighorn, caving in their skulls with his stone hammer. Terry sits, lockjawed, one hand pulling at his beard while Rain in the Face taunts him with the carnage he wreaked.
Leaning against a palisade wall, Case fastens his eyes on a figure huddled up in a blanket in a dark corner of the fort. Earlier that evening, Louis Léveillé had pointed him out to Case and identified him as Sitting Bull. Seemingly oblivious to the proceedings, the chieftain keeps to his corner, praying, mourning the recent death of his little son.
Case turns his gaze to Walsh, positioned directly behind Terry and Macleod, standing with his arms folded across his chest. The Major may have been relegated to the second rank of luminaries, but he is not a man to let himself pass unnoticed. He has exchanged his uniform for a fringed buckskin jacket and a slouch hat decorated with an eagle feather and long silk scarf. Has Terry remarked that Walsh shares Custer’s taste for strutting about in fancy dress? Has he noted the scarcely disguised amusement with which the Major is watching Rain in the Face’s performance?
Earlier that afternoon, when Léveillé had brought news from Walsh confirming that an appointment had been set with Sitting Bull, Case had seized the opportunity to enlist the Métis scout’s services, have him introduce him to some of the chief’s lieutenants and translate certain questions he had concerning their leader. The answers he received had been most informative. But as the hours passed, and the interrogation of Sitting Bull grew nearer, Case had felt a growing trepidation that soon turned into a bad-tempered disquiet. Perhaps Walsh was right. What business did he have judging the Sioux chief, or anyone else for that matter? What was he risking, proceeding with this interview? What had he risked by leaving Ada and coming here at all?
All afternoon, agitated thoughts had raced through his mind until he sought to banish them with a bottle. The whiskey hasn’t smoothed him out as he thought it would; it has done the opposite. Now he is full of Dutch courage, and ready to let the cards fall where they may.
The dancing ends a little before ten o’clock. Case lingers outside the gate of the fort, wondering why it is taking Walsh so long to scare up Léveillé. A short distance away, soldiers and Police are fraternizing in the American camp. The tents are tinted powder blue by the moonlight. Coffee pots are on the boil and a brisk trade in souvenirs is under way between Police and soldiers: insignia, badges, uniform buttons, even the odd lance pennant and regimental guidon change hands. Loud raconteurs hold forth, a game of craps is being played on a blanket spread on the grass, a policeman and a soldier arm-wrestle on a packing case, strain mightily for the honour of their respective nations as their compatriots lay wagers and cheer them on.
As he watches all this, Case takes an occasional pull from a hip flask, reinforcing his resolve. Walsh finally appears, Léveillé in tow. Louis is looking chastised and penitent, and Case wonders if the scout hasn’t been dressed down by Walsh for taking him to meet the Sioux headmen. The Major likes to run things his way.
“Case,” says Walsh abruptly, “are you ready? I don’t see you carrying a notebook.”
“What is writ in my impeccable me
mory is never lost.”
Walsh must have caught a whiff of his breath. He gives him a suspicious look. “Are you drunk?”
“No. But I have had a few drops.”
Walsh frowns. “Well, come along then.”
Sitting Bull’s travelling lodge is set apart from the rest of the Sioux tipis to afford the grieving father privacy. A fire burning inside plays on the skins and flickers in the doorway. The entry flap is pinned open; Bull is expecting them.
Léveillé calls out a greeting; the trio stoops and enters. Walsh presents the chief a rope of tobacco wrapped in red flannel. Hands are shaken all around. Léveillé introduces Case at length, which leads Case to surmise that the guide has been given instructions by Walsh to inflate his stature and importance. Sitting Bull solemnly nods, regarding him with a shrewd eye throughout Léveillé’s peroration.
This is the first time Case has seen the famous chief at close range. He is a formidable-looking man, barrel chested, the head monumental, face broad, deeply creased, thin lipped. But it is Bull’s sharp, penetrating black eyes that rivet his attention, so much so that when Léveillé finally concludes his lengthy introduction, and Bull gestures to his guests to seat themselves on the mountain sheep fleeces he has spread for them, Case hovers awkwardly on his feet for several seconds before sinking down next to Walsh.
Bull lights a pipe, a polished red stone bowl with a stem sheathed in bird skins and hung with eagle feathers. He prays before passing it round. When the pipe is finished and reverently cleaned, Bull leans back against a willow backrest under a medicine bundle suspended from a lodge pole, and begins to knead one of his legs with big sinewy hands.
Suddenly, Case says, “I am sorry to see that your leg troubles you.”
Sitting Bull gives Léveillé a questioning glance and Louis interprets what Case has said. The chief nods slowly and then, in a sonorous bass, begins to speak, Léveillé’s translation singing accompaniment. “Many years ago when I was a young warrior a Crow challenged me to fight him, man to man. I put on my Strong Heart bonnet and sash and went out to face him. I killed that Crow but I took a ball from his musket in my foot. It has troubled me for a long time, but it is a small trouble.” He pauses, perhaps to lend weight to the implication that he now faces larger concerns. Then he says, “But let us speak of why you have come to me.” Pointing to Walsh and using the name the Sioux have given him, Bull says, “Long Lance told me you were once one of the Old Woman’s pony soldiers, but that now you cry the news all over her country. He says that is why we must talk. That you can speak the truth about Sitting Bull and his people so that all of the Old Woman’s white children will understand how the Americans made us suffer. Then they will have pity on us.” Sitting Bull smiles. “And Long Lance tells me you are a great friend of his. I am a friend of Long Lance too, and I would like his friend to be mine also.”
“Yes,” says Case, “Walsh and I are very good friends. Such good friends that when he is puzzled he comes to me for counsel and I point the way to him.”
Walsh remarks, “That’s pretty damn thick, Case.”
Léveillé’s eyes flit uncomfortably from Walsh to Case, uncertain whether he should translate what has been said. There is a moment of silence. The Major gives a grudging bob of the head. “All right, Louis, get on with it.”
The Métis passes on Case’s claim to be Walsh’s adviser. The chief studies Case for a moment, then leans forward and taps him on the knee with his forefinger. “What you say surprises me. Why does Long Lance need your wisdom? Why does the Old Woman give him her pony soldiers to lead if he does not know the way to go?”
“Sometimes the horse with the biggest lungs, the biggest heart, gallops so fast he cannot see the holes that lie ahead that will break his legs. He needs someone to warn him of them.”
“And Long Lance is such a horse?”
“Yes. He is the kind of strong horse that runs as if nothing can bring him down.”
Walsh interjects. “Bull isn’t interested in your half-baked ruminations about my temperament.”
Case ignores him. He sees that the chief is pensively fondling something dangling on his chest. When he looks more closely, he sees it is a crucifix.
“The way you look at me,” Sitting Bull says, “I see you think that I am a horse like Walsh too.”
“Not entirely the same, no. But like Walsh, I believe that once you have decided on the direction you wish to run, you will not quit it.”
“And what is it I should quit? That I do not understand.”
“I believe you would be wise to quit the Old Woman’s country and go back over the Medicine Line.”
Walsh hisses, “Know your place, man. This is not your affair to meddle in.”
“And why should I do that?” says Bull. “I am happy in the Old Woman’s country.”
Case ponders his answer, trying to frame how he will express what he has been turning over in his mind since arriving at Fort Walsh. “You will not like the words I am about to say to you, but I think them to be true. Once I wrote to Long Lance that it was better for you to be here. But now I think it would be better if you and your people wen back over the Medicine Line.”
“And why has your heart changed?”
“Because I lived a long time in the place where the Grandmother’s counsellors have their meeting house. My father was a friend to many of them. I tell you they are not men who think like Walsh. I have a strong feeling that they have already decided that the Sioux will never be British Indians. One day they will send you back over the Medicine Line to the country of the Long Knives. When that day comes you will be in a weaker position than you are now to bargain with the Americans. You have never touched the treaty pen with the Long Knives before. If you do so now, maybe they will be grateful, a little kinder to you.” Case shrugs. “Perhaps this does not please you, but this is what I think now.” He glances at Walsh, who wears a severe and disapproving look.
“No,” says Bull thoughtfully, “this is my country. I was born in the Red River country among these kind of people.” He points to Léveillé. “The half-breeds, the Slotas, taught me to shoot. I was born in the Old Woman’s country.”
“I spoke to some of your people today. They tell me that you were born down on the Missouri, not up here. Why is it you claim to be a British Indian?”
Bull fishes something out of a pouch hanging around his waist. He passes it to Case, who turns it over in his hands. It is a medal with the effigy of George III stamped on it. “Many years ago,” says Sitting Bull, “this Grandfather came to my people and said to us, ‘Let us fight the Americans together.’ And we fought them as he asked. When that war was over, this Grandfather who you hold in your hand gave away our land to the Americans, but we knew nothing of this. For many years we lived free before the Americans came and said to us this land is ours; the red coats gave it to us. Now,” says Bull, “if we were not British Indians, how could the Grandfather give away anything of ours? But he did. So he must have believed we were his Indians, British Indians. Now we have come to the Old Woman’s country and she must make a place for us here. In return for the land her relative gave to the Americans.”
Walsh greets this rebuttal jubilantly. “Bloody well done! The man belongs in Parliament!”
Case turns to the Major. “That is exactly the point I have been trying to impress on you. He will make his case in any way he can.”
Bull murmurs something to Léveillé. The translator says, “Sitting Bull wants to know what you and the Major are talking about.”
“Tell him,” says Case, “that I have told the Major that Sitting Bull makes a clever argument. That he is wily like a fox.”
“Have a care, my boy,” the Major warns him. “You go too far.”
Smiling at Case as if he is a wilful child, Bull says, “You call me a fox, but you do not know me. I will tell you who I am. I am a wichasha wakan, a holy man. Since I was very young I have understood the talk of birds – I do not know the language of foxe
s. I have dreamed the thunderbird dream, whichif hearful dream, a gift that Wakan Tanka gives to very few of his children. That dream gave me the right to paint my face with lightning, which is a great honour.
“Wakan Tanka sends me visions. In the time of the choke-cherries, the time of the Sun Dance – the summer that Custer came – I made sacrifice.” Sitting Bull pushes up both his sleeves and displays pale scars that spot his forearms like drops of melted wax. “Jumping Bull dug fifty pieces of flesh from each of my arms with an awl. I prayed and cried out to Wakan Tanka while he did it. Then I danced around the Sun Dance pole, praying, taking neither food nor water for a long time. I do not remember this, but the people say that suddenly I went still as stone. I stared up at the sun. The people came and laid me on the ground, sprinkled me with water until I came back to this world. That was when I told my good friend Black Moon what I had seen in the place I had gone to.
“A voice had told me to fix my eyes just below the rim of the sun. There I saw, thick as grasshoppers, pony soldiers riding hard and fast towards one of our villages. But the horses and men were upside down, their heads to the earth. The Long Knives’ hats were falling from their heads. The voice said to me, ‘These soldiers have no ears. They are to die, but those who kill them must take nothing of theirs.’ ” Bull has a distant look, as if hearing the voice again. “I saw Custer’s coming in this vision. When Black Moon told the people what I had seen, they were very happy because they knew that if the pony soldiers rode against us we would kill them all.”
“That is a powerful vision,” says Case. “I am sure the people were happy to hear it. But the Sioux did not obey the voice, did they? They took many of the things that belonged to the dead soldiers.”
Case can hear the sorrow in Bull’s voice even before Léveillé translates his words. “That is a thing that troubles me. The people should not have taken the white man’s weapons, clothes, horses, and mules. It was forbidden. I think Wakan Tanka wanted to teach us not to envy the white men’s goods.”
A Good Man Page 39