I
n a few days a fourth roommate arrived, a quiet, intelligent young man who was introduced as Will Clark, a Chippewa. It was some time later that he referred to himself as “Ojibway,” and was questioned about it.
“I thought they said âChippewa,'” observed Charlie Smith.
Will smiled his shy, likable smile, and explained.
“My people say âOjibway.' Whites call us âChippewa.'”
“Then they're the same?” asked Little Horse. “I had heard both, too.”
Charlie chuckled. “Maybe it's too hard for a white tongue to say âOjibway,'” he observed.
Â
Autumn was approaching, and it was wonderful to be outside. By shortly after daylight each morning, John was up, out, and running on the cinder track or across country. He sat through classes, impatiently waiting for the daily opportunity to take to the athletic field again. Coach McGregor worked with him closely, making helpful suggestions now and then. John particularly enjoyed some of the track-and-field events. He could throw the javelin farther than anyone on the campus. It was simply a matter of concentration. With the shaft in his hand and his arm ready, he became again Little Bull, son of Yellow Bull, and the polished javelin a spear or lance. He longed to try a real lance on buffalo. It was somewhat puzzling to him that the javelin contest was for distance only, not accuracy. What good is distance if the lance finds no target?
“You're doing well, John,” Coach McGregor told him one day, “but now,
let's plan a little. Most of our track-and-field events are in the spring. It's good to stay in practice, but fall is usually for football. And since your sponsor, the Senator, is a football fan, we should work on that.”
“What about baseball?”
“Spring and summer, mostly. For now, let's concentrate on football. Senator Langtry told me that your dropkick is pretty good. Actually, I think he said âmarvelous.' Come, show me.”
They went to the field, and John practiced by the hour ⦠Hold the ball, drop it at the exact moment as he took the step forward ⦠. The idea, he had long ago realized, was to make the step a long one, with the right leg already swinging when the ball hit the ground.
“They used to play football with a soccer ball,” the coach explained. “It's round, of course, and could be kicked from any angle. Now, with the pointed ball ⦠Yes, that's it ⦠. The ball should hit the ground just a heartbeat before your toe touches it. Good kick! Try it again! Now ⦠Drop it with a little more tilt toward you. That's it!”
With John's natural instinct and the coach's skill at understanding the mechanism involved, he improved rapidly, both in accuracy and distance. By the time the season was ready to start, he could split the uprights neatly from any angle, and was improving considerably in distance. Part of that was undoubtedly the fact that he was gaining weight. Lean, hard muscle was filling out a frame that had once been lanky. John gloried in this strength and he could feel his blood race with the excitement of competition. The thump and shock of body contact felt good, and allowed him to work out a lot of the frustration he sometimes felt. He longed to ride a good horse on open prairie with the wind in his hair, to hunt as his father and grandfather had, and generations before them. To count coup on an enemy, even. He had a few confused emotions about that, but now it seemed unlikely that his lifetime would ever involve that.
Â
There came a day when Senator Langtry again visited the campus. It was a total surprise to John, because no one had told him. It was a Saturday, the day of Carlisle's first football game of the season. This was not a major game, merely a friendly scrimmage with nearby Lakesburg College. Later in the season, the team would travel to Albright College at Reading, Beaver College at Glenside, and would also play Princeton, Harvard, and the U.S. Military Academy at West Point.
The squad was still warming up as Coach McGregor motioned John aside.
“Your friend the Senator's here.” He motioned toward the stands with a nod of his head. “Better look sharp today.”
“But he's notâ,” John began in protest, but the coach held up a hand to stop him.
“Never mind, John,” McGregor said with a wide grin. “I know. Not your âfriend.' But he's taken a liking to you. He can be a big help. Don't look now, but when you get a chance, look for him. About a third of the way up, in the middle section. Box seats.”
John took a quick glance at the crowd, and his eyes fell on the loveliest face he had ever seen. Even at this distance he was struck by the pure beauty of the young woman. Her face was flushed with excitement, and her smile was for the occasion, for the events of the day. But to him, it could only appear that it was for him, personally. For him only â¦
“Pretty, isn't she?” said the coach, seemingly from a far distance. “That, my boy, is the Senator's daughter.”
“His ⦠daughter?”
“Yes. They seldom miss a game.”
“I ⦠I guess I never wondered if he had a family.”
“Oh, yes. That's his wife on the left, there. They have a son, too. At West Point, I understand.”
“I see.”
But John did not elaborate as to
what
he saw. Anyway, he could not have described his reaction. He only knew that up there in the stands, a young woman was watching his every move. Therefore, every move must be as nearly perfect as he could make it. He could not recall a time in his life when he had felt a stronger motive. On this important day, it was essential that he show his prowess. In the space of a few heartbeats, he had reverted to the young hunter-warrior ⦠. He was ready to demonstrate his skill at combat to win the attention of the maiden who waited. In his mind's eye, he could already visualize this lovely creature as she participated in the traditional victory dances of his people. A woman, honoring her warrior as she reenacted his deeds of valor â¦
It had been a long time since he had experienced such thoughts of the People. Now, there seemed no other way in which he could have felt it. The pride and glory of the strength of his youth was matched by the sheer animal attraction to the beautiful creature in the box seat. He must be careful now. Must not be distracted ⦠Not yet ⦠First there was a battle to win.
Â
The grassy field had been mowed and tended, and was now marked in squares with narrow stripes of whitewash ⦠. The “gridiron.” Now he must concentrate on the visiting team. For this afternoon, the enemy. Some of the students from Lakesburg were big, but no bigger than he. Besides, there was more than size at stake here. Agility, quickness, and intelligence, too, must all play a part. And for the moment, he must try to forget that the startling beauty in the center stands would be watching. Even so, he could almost feel those eyes on his shoulders as he went through the warm-up drills. At least, he thought he could. The eyes would be large and dark, as deep as the liquid eyes of a fawn. But
no ⦠the young woman was white, with hair the color of corn silk. Maybe her eyes would be blue. Maybe even green, like those of a Mandan girl he had met here at Carlisle. She claimed to be pureblood, but who knows? He tried to remember the color of the Senator's eyes. That might be a way to guess ⦠. Light, as nearly as he could recall. A “white-eyes.” Were they light brown or gray?
He missed the kick, and realized that he had lost his concentration. Damn! It was only practice, but he'd made that kick, from that angle and distance, dozens of times without a miss.
“Come on, John,” said the coach, a little irritably. “You can't let the crowd bother you. Settle down.”
John wanted to tell Mac that it wasn't the crowd, just one stunningly beautiful woman that was bothering him. But that would be no better in the eyes of the coach. Worse, maybe. And the thought of competing for a woman's attention should help, not detract, should it not? He was confused.
But now the whistle blew and both teams returned to the sidelines to huddle for last-minute instructions.
As an underclassman, John Buffalo would not start the game. Substitutions would take place only in the event of injury or exhaustion. John was torn by mixed emotions. He longed to get into the game, but would not want to do so because of injury to a teammate.
Â
Lakesburg won the toss and would receive the kick. They drove down the field, mostly by brute strength, and were threatening to score when their halfback fumbled. The Carlisle players pounced on the ball and recovered. The stands went wild.
The players on the bench jumped to their feet to join the exultant cheering. As the noise subsided and they began to return to their seats, John turned a glance up behind him to the rows of spectators.
He wasn't certain that he could even locate the face that he sought, in the mass of humanity ranked there. He need not have worried. From the myriad of excited faces, one stood out. The eyes ⦠Yes, they were blue ⦠. Deep, clear blue, darker than sky, but lighter than night ⦠. They were alight with excitement. Her lips were parted slightly as she leaned forward with anticipation, waiting for the next play. Such excitement and enthusiasm on the part of a woman, particularly a white woman, was probably considered unladylike. To John, it was charming and desirable. He had never been particularly attracted to white women. They often reminded him of Old White Horse, back in the reservation school.
When he thought of romance, he had always held, in his mind's eye, the image of one of his own: an Indian girl, probably Lakota. All of that was forgotten now. Here, up in the box seats behind him, sat a new ideal. The
Senator's daughter seemed to embody all that he wanted. She represented his goal, to make good in the white man's world, by the white man's rules. And, even though the white man's woman often seemed pale and helpless, here was an exception. He could tell by the look in her eye that here was a woman who could stand shoulder to shoulder with her man, to fight the world, if necessary.
“Play's startin',” said Little Horse on the bench beside him.
In the space of a heartbeat, John was back in the world of reality. Dirt, sweat, hard work ⦠The effort of the game in front of him. For a moment, he had let a fantasy overcome him. He realized now that in all probability his thoughts had been completely ridiculous. He did not even know the girl's name.
He turned his attention back to the game. Carlisle had taken over the ball, and now began the drive back up the field. Play by play, dig in, shove, pull, block, grinding square by square up the field ⦠A change here and there ⦠A lateral toss from the quarterback to the left halfback caught the defenders off guard and proved effective for a gain of some twenty yards. Later, there was a fumble on the snap: but when the pile of players was untangled, the ball was clasped tightly to the stomach of Carlisle's right guard.
The momentum of emotion carried the team the length of the field, yard by painful yard, and led to the first touchdown of the day. The kick for extra point was blocked, but no matter. Carlisle had drawn first blood, and now held the momentum.
Not for long ⦠Lakesburg made an adjustment in their lineup. A giant of a young man who had been playing at left tackle was shifted to right halfback for the offensive drive. The quarterback would take the snap from center and hand it to the big halfback as he charged forward. It proved impossible to stop the momentum of well over two hundred pounds of bone and muscle in less than three or four yards beyond the line of scrimmage. Carlisle shifted their bigger linemen to defend the crushing onslaught, but this weakened other sections of the line, and allowed other plays. Lakesburg scored, and their kick for extra point was good: 7-6, in favor of Lakesburg.
The game now settled into a tough grinding, punishing duel. Neither team could completely stop the other, and the afternoon ground on slowly.
On the bench, John fidgeted impatiently. He longed to join the battle, to feel the shock of body contact, to match his own bulk against that of the big halfback from Lakesburg. There were a few substitutions for minor injuries and for heat exhaustion, but the coach did not even look toward John Buffalo. He had made quite plain from the beginning that no one must
ask
to play. The upperclassmen had warned newcomers that to make such a request would insure that they would
never
be put in the game. It was the way of McGregor, and of any good coach, it was said.
So John said nothing, but sat and gritted his teeth, and watched the game grind its painful way toward the end.
Carlisle was ahead, 20-14, and shadows were growing long, when it happened.
There were only two minutes to play, and Carlisle held the ball. Victory was in sight ⦠but everyone was exhausted. The pass came from the centerâa a poor snap. The quarterback juggled the ball, and as he was hit by a smashing tackle, the ball popped high into the air. An alert Lakesburg guard caught it as it hung there and sprinted around the end and down the field. Perhaps “lumbered” would have been a better description, but the lineman was deceptively fast. There was no one near him as he crossed into the end zone. Lakesburg's kick was true, and suddenly the game had changed: 21-20, Lakesburg, with scarcely a minute left.