T
he train rushed along the track, the monotonous double thump of the flanged wheels on steel rails becoming almost hypnotizing. There was no variation in the rhythm. Each span of track was exactly the same length as the one before, and the thousands before that.
Click-clack ⦠Click-clack ⦠Click-clack.
John had first been alarmed by the sound, but then had reasoned what its cause must be. It was preferable, anyway, to the rush and roar of the engine as they started and stopped at stations or at water tanks far from anywhere.
After a certain amount of time, the rhythm of the rails became a matter of interest. John found that he could tell when the
click-clack
was about to slow as they attacked a steeper grade. Conversely, it accelerated on the downhill slope. He began to liken it to the beat of the drums in the dance rituals of his people. More like the rattles, maybe. He began to imagine that there might be a song or chant appropriate to this odd double click-clack as each joint in the endless track was encountered, passed, and left behind. He began to hum, largely meaningless sounds, in cadence with the rhythm of the wheels.
He was drowsy, half-asleep, a dreamy semiawake state that was at the same time restful and exciting. His eyes were half-closed, his body swaying. In spirit
he was dancing to the heartbeat of the drums with all the quickening of the senses that his ancestors had felt. The flickering of light and shadow through the train windows as they passed trees and hills became the flicker of the firelight at the dance.
“What are ye doin', boy?” asked William, the Senator's aide, with a chuckle. “Pretendin' ye're back on the prairie? Ye'd best get over that. Ye're to be tamed and civilized, ye know.”
John was embarrassed, a little ashamed, maybe. The aide was certainly not one of John's favorite people. There had always been an air of snobbish superiority about him that was puzzling to the boy. He could see nothing admirable in the man. William was a servant to the Senator, hustling to do his bidding, at times almost fawning on the Senator's words. It was demeaning to have such a man belittling his drowsy musings.
“I ⦠I was partly asleep,” he mumbled apologetically.
Instantly, he regretted it. He, son of Yellow Bull, had nothing for which to apologize. Certainly not to such a man as this, who now gave a chuckling snort.
The Senator, who had been dozing in his seat, roused suddenly.
“What is it?”
“Nothing, Senator,” William said quickly. “We should be stopping for water soon.
“Ah, yes ⦔
The Senator shifted his body in the seat as his consciousness returned and he became reoriented. He glanced at John.
“Doing all right, John?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. A tiresome trip. Well, we'll have better accommodations after we reach Chicago. We'll be there for a day. I have meetings and such. Then we'll travel on. But we'll have a Pullman then.”
“Pullman?”
Some sort of contest, John supposed. He'd have to learn the rules.
“I've never played that,” he confessed.
“No, no, John,” explained the Senator. “The Pullman isn't a game, it's a car. A sleeping car on the train. We'll have beds and all. Much more comfortable quarters.”
“Pullman!” snickered the aide, with a sidelong glance that was far from sympathetic.
John's cheeks burned with embarrassment. The Senator noted this and spoke with encouragement.
“You'll learn all these things, my boy, and more. Ah, it's a great, wonderful modern world out there.”
“Pullman!” snorted William.
The Senator seemed irritated.
“Mr. Bagley,” he said sternly, “I'll thank you to treat Mr. Buffalo with respect. He is our guest, and in our charge.”
“Yes, sir,” muttered William.
John could not suppress a sidelong glance of satisfaction.
Â
Chicago was beyond all that John had been able to imagine. Huge buildings, some several layers high, people everywhere, hurrying somewhere else ⦠The “lake” ⦠More like what he had imagined the ocean would be, but fresh water, Senator Langtry said.
The Senator took him shopping to buy clothes more suitable for his introduction to Carlisle.
“But ⦠I have no money, Senator.”
“That's all right,” chuckled the big man. “It'll be taken care of.”
John wasn't sure he understood all of this, but he knew that it is impolite to refuse a gift. His mother had taught him that. He assumed that the Senator must be responsible.
“Thank you, sir,” he said firmly. “But I've done nothing to earn this kindness.
The Senator laughed.
“Not yet, maybe. But you will, John. I expect you to become one of the greatest athletes in the country.”
“Athletes?”
“Yes ⦠You're good at football ⦠baseball.”
“Playin'
games
?”
“Of course, John. There's a great deal of interest in athletic competition between colleges now, and it's growing. I want to see some of the Indian schools on the cutting edge of this trend. As I've told you, the school at Carlisle is one of my pet projects. With well-chosen players, we can field a great team at football or baseball. They could compete favorably with Yale or Princeton ⦠.”
The man rambled on, and John's mind began to wander. He had no knowledge of the names and places of which the Senator spoke, and it was easy to lose interest. He was gaining a general idea, though, one which intrigued him. It nested neatly with the basic premise which he had gradually adopted:
To be successful with the white man, one must know his ways
. There had been times when he had fought this, but during the years in the Indian school, things had always been better when he had fallen back on that assumption.
He had always enjoyed competition, from the earliest days of his memory. - Running, swimming, throwing, races of all kinds. It was part of the schooling of a young man of his people. The competition was for the purpose of producing strong, capable men for hunting and for war. As the son of Yellow Bull, and
because of his family's pride, it was appropriate to do his very best. Above all this, however, was the fact that he
liked
it. The thrill of a well-placed throw or shot, farther or straighter or more accurately, sent his heart to pumping with satisfaction and joy. be in front at the finish line of a race, ahead of everyone else, the wind in his face, was a special thrill.
There was now to be no more war, it appeared. The white man had won. Even Red Cloud, who had humbled the white man's whole army, had now conceded that it was over. For a while, there had seemed no purpose in the development of the skills of manhood, and his heart had been heavy. Even the hunting was over, the buffalo gone, and there had seemed no purpose to life.
He could forget, when he was involved in the very physical sports, that it was temporary. In the end, meaningless. But, for the time that he was so engaged, his blood raced and his heart was good. That had gotten him through some of the hard times.
Now ⦠He was just barely beginning to grasp a new revelation about the white man: They, too, admired physical prowess in anyone, and respected it greatly. If he were able to show ability, strength, and staminaâ
manhood
âthey, too, would respect him. He was already respected by the Senator. The man had said so. How fortunate, thought John, to have found a white man who understood.
Â
The first night on the Pullman car was a startling experience. The Senator had seemed greatly impressed with such convenience, but until after the sun set and the reporter began to ready the car for the night, John had had no idea why. It had seemed more dignified not to ask any questions. Actually, it was a part of the stony, emotionless facade that he had developed for use in the presence of whites. His fellow students had done much the same: If in doubt as to what reaction is expected,
show none
.
Now he was amazed to see the Negro pull, push, and fold the seats in the Pullman car to create beds. Beds with white sheets and coverlets, and soft pillows to place under one's head. John wondered if the pulling of the beds into position was the reason for the term “Pullman,” or whether the black man was the pull-man. He did not want to reveal his ignorance by asking.
He was assigned an upper bunk while the Senator and his aide took the lowers.
“Good night, my boy,” said the Senator genially. “In another day, we reach our destination.”
The porter had showed him how to close the curtains that concealed his bunk, and John did so. In a way, sleeping in close proximity to others reminded him of his childhood and the lodge of his parents. He fell asleep, dreaming of his mother, drawing the doorskin closed for the night. The click-clack of the wheels became the sound of the clicking deer-hoof rattles that had hung beside
the door ⦠Their purpose was for the use of any visitor, who could signal his presence by rattling the hoofs and calling out his name.
John's memory was playing strange tricks, pulling him back and forth, asleep as well as awake. He awoke once, started to roll over, and nearly fell from the bed. He lay there in the darkness, trying to remember what he was doing here, and why. He had been dreaming of a massive herd of buffalo, stampeding across open prairie. He was a child, in the lodge of his parents, and someone was trying to waken the family ⦠.
Then the rumble of the herd became the trembling shudder of the train, and the clicking of the deer-hoof door rattle was the click-clack of the rails.
What am I doing here?
he thought.
This is no place for the son of Yellow Bull
!
E
ventually, the train trip came to an end. It was a pleasure to stand on solid ground again. John had lost track of time, the days and nights blurring together in a maze of swaying cars, clicking rails, the rush of the engine, and the wailing notes of the steam whistle. The blur of passing cities, grassland, forests and farms fell behind in a similar confused array in his memory.
Back on solid ground, he felt that it, too, had been affected by the long trip. The ground would not stay steady, but seemed to be swaying, causing him to plant each step carefully as he walked across the platform toward the packed cinders of the street.
“The earth won't hold still, eh?” chuckled the Senator. “Don't worry, it won't last long. I'm told that sailors have the same problem after a long voyage, with the rocking of the ship.”
There was a carriage waiting, and a polite driver who helped stow their luggage in the rear. It was a short drive to the school.
There, the Senator took John to an office in one of the buildings, where he was introduced to a man behind a desk.
“Welcome, my boy,” gushed the man.
It was plain to John that the motive in the profuse welcome was not really genuine. It appeared to be an effort on the part of the administrator to ingratiate himself with Senator Langtry. The Senator appeared not to notice, in his own effort to impress the school's administrator with the importance of his own prodigy. It was a very uncomfortable time, and John made full use of his stoic, expressionless face as the men visited briefly.
“How was the trip, Senator?”
“Not bad ⦠Usual inconveniences, of course. Interesting to John, here. He'd never seen a train until now.”
“Yes ⦠Well, we'll certainly treat him well, Senator,” said the other, with a laugh that was just a little too forced. “I've sent for the coach. He'llâOh, here he is now!”
A burly man in trousers, a sweater, and a billed cap entered the room and glanced around curiously. A silver whistle hung around his neck on a black string that might have been a shoelace.
“Senator Langtry, Coach McGregor,” introduced the administrator.
The two men shook hands enthusiastically. A bit too much so, John thought.
“And this,” said the Senator proudly, “is John Buffalo, the student athlete I had written of.”
“Yes,” said the coach. “I recall ⦠Football?”
“Yes, sir,” said John modestly. “Or baseball. Anything ⦔
His voice trailed off, and he had an uncomfortable feeling that he'd said too much. Better to have stopped with “Yes, sir.” He'd remember that.
However, the men seemed not to notice. They were busy talking about the weather, the political situation, and the program of the school.
“Yes, we're graduating skilled workers,” said the administrator proudly. “They're easily employed. We have working arrangements with several factories in the area. Shoes, mostly. But, there's some demand for machinists, other light industry. And of course we can't forget the three Rs ⦠. Readin', writin', and 'rithmetic!”
The three men laughed, though John didn't see anything very funny. Of the three subjects mentioned, only “Reading” began with an R. Maybe he'd missed the joke. Or, maybe that was the joke. White men, he thought, don't have much of a sense of humor. As always, his best course of action seemed to be to assume his defensive stoicism.
“Don't forget athletics!” reminded the coach. “We have a very progressive program.”
“Yes, I know.” The Senator smiled. “That's my purpose in bringing this young man. Your teams are competing well?”
“Yes, sir. We're traveling quite a bit for baseball, football, track and field. Other teams come here, too. Rail travel is making it easier all the time. We're considering a trip to Springfield College up in Massachusetts. Great athletic program there ⦠. We'll play Harvard at football, soon.”
“Very good!” Senator Langtry agreed. “I see a few female students on the campus. What is their course of study?”
“Home economics, mostly,” the administrator answered. “Kitchen skills, serving ⦠Our own dining hall is staffed largely by students. We're considering a nursing program. Possibly, even secretarial skills.”
“Really?” asked the Senator. “They're that teachable?”
“Oh, yes. Actually, we think that many of our students approach the intelligence of whites.”
“Yes, that's been my premise,” said the Senator quickly, almost irritably. “But, the
females
?”
“Quite capable, sir,” answered the administrator. “Accustomed to hard work, you know. Some, quite capable.”
Here was a very puzzling thing. John found it hard to understand. Whites, he had learned, professed to hold women in high regard, and offered respect from a distance. He wondered whether any of these men realized that among John's people, women could speak in Council, vote, hold office, and own property. He had only learned in the past few years that white women had
none
of these privileges. Lakota women would surely not stand for such treatment.
Now, here were three white men, uncomfortably discussing whether women as a group were intelligent enough to learn ⦠Another of the jokes that whites would not understand. John smiled to himself.
“Yes, yes ⦠Quite true, undoubtedly,” the Senator was saying. “But ⦠I must depart now. I've been away from my family for some time on this trip to the reservation school.”
He turned to John and spoke, a little more slowly and a little louder.
That was another odd thing he'd noticed about whites as they talked to someone who did not speak English well. Somehow they seemed to think that speaking more loudly and more slowly would overcome the language barrier. John was somewhat offended by the Senator's use of this technique at this time. He was rather proud of his use of English. He had come a long way under the tutelage of Miss Whitehurst. He realized also that these men had been talking as if he were not even present. Almost as if he did not exist. It was a demeaning thing, a reminder that they considered him a lesser person.
But now he must try to concentrate on the Senator's words.
“John, I must leave you for now. These folks will help you get settled. Now, I'll be back soon to see about how you're getting on. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Work hard, now!”
“Yes, sir.”
“We'll take good care of him, Senator,” assured the coach.
“I know you will, Mac, and I thank you.”
They shook hands all around, and the Senator rejoined his aide in the anteroom. The office had been too crowded.
For John, it was almost a moment of panic. In a way, the Senator had been his last link to home. His uneasiness was based on the fact that this great and powerful man seemed different, here among his own kind.
But he
had
promised to return soon.
Â
Â
The Carlisle Indian Industrial School was considerably different from the government school where Little Bull had become John Buffalo. The students here were older and, in most cases, had a good command of the English language. All had already attended primary schools, and Carlisle was directed more toward the preparing of a young adult to enter the world of the white man in the job market. However, it seemed that there was a great emphasis on physical fitness. Competitive athletics played an important part at this secondary level.
The track-and-field facilities were like none he had ever seen. A long oval running track of hard-packed cinders circled a smooth green area that formed the football field. There was a grandstand large enough to seat hundreds of people. A number of young men were running, jumping hurdles, tossing a discus, and putting the shot. Some of these were events that were completely unfamiliar to him.
He was especially interested in one area, where two or three young men were throwing a long pole that looked like a spear or buffalo lance.
“What's that spear throwing?” he asked the student who had been assigned to show him around.
“The javelin? You've never seen that, I guess. Looks like a buffalo lance, don't it?”
Both laughed.
“There are other things you'll like here,” said Little Horse. “The shot put ⦠Like throwing a big rock. Races, of course.”
Such competition was only for the young men, it seemed. Another of the mysteries of the white man's way, to John. Why should women not be as physically fit as men? Among his people, girls were taught the use of weapons for self-defense in case of enemy attack. Their work, too, was as hard as that of men. In addition, they must bear and nurture the children. How could white women be relegated to a lesser role by their own people?
The living facilities were a great improvement over those at the reservation school. There were dormitory rooms, to which usually four young men were assigned for sleeping quarters. There was a library and study hall, as well as a dining hall. In a different area of the campus were living quarters for the young women, strictly off-limits to male students, and vice versa, of course.
Little Horse was one of John's roommates. For some reason he had been allowed to keep his own name.
“What's your tribe?” Horse had asked at their first meeting.
“Lakota. What's yours?”
“Ah! My old enemy! I am Crow.”
It could have been an uncomfortable moment, but it passed without further comment. By simple understanding, these two had more in common that either had with the white man.
“We have another roommate,” Horse explained. “He's working today. Charlie Smith ⦠He's Cherokee.”
“âSmith'?” They gave him a white man's name?” asked John.
“No, he says it's a family name, from way back. I guess they've been in touch with whites a long time.”
“There are four beds,” John observed.
“Yes ⦠We may get another roommate, I guess.”
“You said this Smith is working?” asked John.
“Yes. We're all expected to help with maintenance, things like that. You'll see. It's easy work, mostly. But come on, now. It's nearly time for supper. They'll ring a bell pretty soon. You know how whites are about time.”
There was a sound of footsteps in the hall, and a young man entered the room, looking curiously at John.
“Charlie,” said Little Horse, “this is John Buffalo, our new roommate.”
“â
Siyo
!” said Charlie Smith, extending a hand.
“Hello,” said John, a little puzzled at the unfamiliar word of greeting. “You use your own tongue?”
Little Horse laughed. “We're not supposed to. Charlie's just showin' off. That means âhello.'”
“I figured that,” said John. “But, I got my knuckles rapped, once, for saying âthank you' in Lakota.”
The others chuckled.
“It's not so bad here,” said Smith. “They don't push it. But ⦠You're Lakota?”
“Yes. My father was Yellow Bull. You know Lakotas?”
“No ⦠I just wondered. Aren't you and Horse supposed to be enemies?”
“Once ⦠Not now,” said Little Horse.
“I guess we're all in this together,” said Charlie Smith.