A
t night in the dormitory, the students quietly used their own language. There could be trouble if they were caught, but the supervisor, who lived in a room at the end of the barrackslike hall was a little hard of hearing. After “lights out,” when the supervisor's snores told that he was asleep, there was usually quiet conversation. John just listened, mostly.
“What will they do to the ones who escaped?” someone asked.
“Bring them back. Let old White Horse whack 'em with her stick!”
There was muffled laughter.
“Shh ⦠Don't wake the Bear.”
The supervisor had earned this name because he was grumpy, a bit pudgy, short, and walked with a sort of swaying motion like a bear on its hind legs.
“He's out for the night.”
“Hibernating?”
More laughter, more shushing, and a short period of silence.
“I don't think they'll try to catch them. Who would go after them?”
“I don't know. The army, maybe.”
More laughter ⦠There was a break in the even snoring from Bear's room. This brought instant quiet until the regular rhythm resumed. Finally, very cautiously â¦
“What do you think is the matter with old White Horse?”
“She needs a man.”
The giggles could barely be suppressed.
“What man would want to bed
her
?”
“I don't know. Bear, maybe.”
The laughter could hardly be controlled, now, but was finally stifled. Even John was amused at the thought of those two in such a situation. Some of the others apparently had the same mental image.
“He'd barely come up to her chest!”
“No matter. There's nothin' there anyway.”
“Maybe she's a man!” another suggested.
“Aiee
! You think so?”
“I don't know. I don't even want to know.”
“Me, neither.”
“Quiet down in there!” came a command from the Bear. “It's past lights out!”
After a long moment of silence, Charlie Hand spoke to John in a whisper.
“Do you think he heard?”
“Doesn't matter,” observed John. “He doesn't know our tongue.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, no. But you're right. We have to be careful, Charlie. Let's try to learn their ways. If we learn enough, we can use it against them.”
“How, Bull? I mean, John.”
“I don't know yet, Charlie. But the more we know ⦔
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In the next week or so, Miss Whitehurst noted that certain of her pupils seemed to be working harder. It was difficult to determine their attitude because of the flat, expressionless looks on each face.
Have these savages no emotion?
she wondered to herself.
No joy or sorrow, pleasure or pain
?
She did not even suspect that this was a deliberate, conditioned defense. If a person shows no hurt, it is harder to hurt him.
Regardless, she was pleased at the progress of some of her pupils in the area of reading, writing, and language skills. One of her best was the strange, quiet boy who had called himself Little Bull. A disgusting name, but one which had actually seemed a matter of pride for the boy.
Ah, well,
she thought,
such is the savage nature
.
But she never had to punish John Buffalo again. She must admit, the boy was a quick learner.
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John found the use of marks on his slate to express sounds intriguing. It was not long before the idea of letters and words to transmit messages to others was firmly established in his understanding. He pored over the blue book and began to find familiar words and phrases. Suddenly it came to him.
I can read
! He was quiet about it, not letting the others know too much. His heart was heavy for some of them, who struggled hard with the unfamiliar sounds. At times in his
own recitation, he would pretend to stumble, so that the others would not think he considered himself superior. Besides, it seemed prudent not to reveal how much he was actually learning. Let there be something that he could keep secret. Someday it might be useful. He could not actually justify this feeling. It was only a dimly formed idea, perhaps stemming from his need for privacy.
In one area, he did not mind showing what he could do. When the class was turned over to the Bear each day for a period of exercise and games, John was in his element. As a small child in the Rabbit Society, the educational system of the People, he had excelled. He could outrun most of the children his own age, and some of the older ones. He was a better swimmer, could throw with greater accuracy and distance, and could best the others at wrestling. These skills were easily adapted to the games and contests of the white man. The hard, round ball, white with red stitches, was a handy weight to throw, and he could do so with accuracy. It was equally exciting to try to hit that same ball, thrown by someone else. A special club, long and smooth, was provided for the purpose. It was a game he enjoyed.
However, his favorite was a game called football. It reminded him of one time when the People had a good buffalo kill. One of the old men had shown the boys how to carefully remove the bladder of a large bull and fill it with air by blowing through a hollow reed. It was then tied, and the air-filled ball was great fun to kick and toss. Little Bull and the other boys had had a wonderful time with the toy, until a errant kick sent it into the fire, to end the fun. They were admonished to return to work, carrying meat to the area where the women were slicing it into thin strips to place on the drying racks.
The football was a more durable form of the inflated bladder. It was oblong, made of leather, and could withstand endless kicking. There were rules, Bear told them: an organized game between two teams who would try to carry or kick this ball to a goal. It was a more physical game than baseball. John Buffalo enjoyed them both. He was always among the first to be picked when it came time to choose sides for a competition, often ahead of older boys.
Even with all of this, however, the pleasures of learning and of competition in athletics could not compensate for the freedom he had lost. Many an hour he spent gazing out the window of the schoolroom at the distant hills. He dreamed of the days when he was small, of the sound of the patter of rain on the lodge cover ⦠. Or the feel of a cool breeze as it drifted through the shaded interior of the lodge with the cover rolled part way up on a hot summer day. His parents' lodge, like most in recent years, had been of canvas, not skins. There was a unique smell of hot sun on canvas ⦠. These were the things that he missed ⦠.
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There came a day the following autumn when everyone was admonished to look his best. An important visitor would be coming to the school. John was unsure as to the exact status of this visitor, but judging from the reaction of the Bear and old Miss Whitehurst, this was a man of considerable status. A chief, perhaps, a representative of the White Father in Washington. The teacher referred to him as “the Senator,” whatever that might be. John gathered that this chief might have great influence over what was extended to the school in the way of food and supplies. The students were cautioned to be on their best behavior and to present themselves as clean, well fed, and happy. This struck young John as humorous, that one could be expected to have his heart soar with joy when requested. A bit ironic, actually.
His suspicions were confirmed as they lined up to greet the Senator. The Bear always marched them to other parts of the compound for meals, classroom instruction, the dormitory, or athletics. Today, all students were brought together at the parade ground, where athletics and games were held. Supervisors scurried to make sure their lines were straight as they stood at attention.
There was a troop of soldiers in their blue uniforms with yellow stripes on the trousers, impressive on their horses as they maneuvered into position for the inspection. John Buffalo smiled to himself in the knowledge that his father, Yellow Bull, had helped to defeat such units at the Greasy Grass.
They ran like
rabbits. Yellow Bull had always chuckled as he told the story.
The Senator and his party arrived in an Army ambulance, chosen because it was enclosed. There was a chill wind in the air, suggesting that winter might not be far off. The Senator stepped down, and greeted the officers in charge of the military detachment. He was a tall man, wearing a dark suit, white shirt, and string tie. One of his helpers carried a buffalo coat over his arm, ready in case his leader had need of it.
The inspection did not take long. There was a brisk walk along the side of the parade ground where the pupils were arrayed. The Senator paused from time to time to take a second look or to speak to one of the youngsters. John hoped that the man would not single him out, but he did.
“What is your name, son?”
“John Buffalo, sir.”
The man nodded. “Your father?”
Here was a dilemma. Miss Whitehurst had forbidden the use of the word “bull” as indelicate, not to be used in polite society. But here, a greater authority figure was demanding it.
John Buffalo took a deep breath.
“Yellow Bull, sir. He was a great man. He was at the Greasy Grass.”
“Greasy Grass?”
“The Little Bighorn, sir,” blurted the aide.
“Is this true?” asked the Senator.
“Probably, sir. Warriors from this areaâ”
“Buffalo,” snapped the Bear, “hold your tongue. The Senator does not want to hear such things!”
“On the contrary.” The Senator smiled. “This young man speaks well for himself. Are you treated well here, John Buffalo?”
“Yes, sir,” John said stiffly.
“Good. Keep up the good work!”
With that, he moved on.
John was confused. The visiting chief had spoken to him with approval, but he still might be in trouble with the Bear, White Horse, or any others with authority here. He doubted that he would ever understand the ways of the white man.
The inspection was finished, and at dinner it was announced that there would be a football game in the afternoon for the visiting dignitaries to watch. John Buffalo was proud to be chosen as one of the players for the demonstration. The wind had died somewhat, and the sun had emerged from behind the clouds. Maybe it would be a good day after all.
John's team had several good runs, but the height of the day came when he was able to place a dropkick squarely between the uprights. The opposing team had expected a run.
Later, he was summoned to talk to the Senator.
“Buffalo, is it? John Buffalo?”
“Yes, sir.”
John noticed that one of the aides was scribbling in a notebook.
“And how old are you, John?” the Senator asked.
“About eleven winters, I think, sir.”
“Mmm ⦠Yes. Well, you are quite an athlete, boy. Good work. You have a talent. When you are a little older ⦠Study hard ⦠. You will hear from me.” He turned to the aide with the notebook. “You have all of this, Tom?”
“Yes, sir.”
John assumed that he was dismissed. He was a bit puzzled. He did not know for certain the meaning of “athlete” or “talent,” but the context of the conversation had seemed good. At least, it appeared that he was in no trouble. In fact, the attitude of the Bear was almost respectful. John Buffalo was made to think that he had acquired a friend who had great influence. He wasn't sure just what it could mean, but he had a good feeling about it. And hadn't the Senator emphasized,
you will hear from me
?
J
ohn worked hard and studied well. Once he had learned what was wanted, he could produce satisfactory results. “Satisfactory,” of course, was a relative term. By appearing cooperative, he avoided penalties. Others, more stubborn than he, still had their knuckles rapped with the ever-present ruler in the bony hand of the teacher. Sometimes it was a tweaked ear instead. Old White Horse seemed to delight in sneaking up behind a pupil who was involved in some minor infraction and twisting his ear painfully.
But Little Bull, son of Yellow Bull, was a quick learner. A whack with the ruler, only one twist of the ear, was all that was required. At the same time, he had developed the technique of presenting the flat, emotionless facial expression which had been noticed by Miss Whitehurst. There was never a lack of emotion in him, but it had quickly become apparent that it was safest not to express it. The ways of the whites were so different ⦠. A moment of joy or laughter or even despair must not be acted on, at least openly. It might be misinterpreted by the Bear or Miss Whitehurst. They seemed to take little pleasure in anything, most of the time. The rare words of praise or encouragement they uttered were as a result of behavior that was exactly as they thought a student should behave. Any deviation always brought frowns and ear tweaks. Since it was hard to tell what might be expected, the safest way was to show no emotion at all. A flat, stone-faced appearance was usually acceptable. At least, it avoided pain.
There was another problem, too, one he had not anticipated. If he appeared too cooperative, he was resented by the other boys. More than once during recitation, he would make an error intentionally, to stay in the good graces of
his fellow students. This sometimes brought frowns and mild criticism from Old White Horse, but avoided resentment from his classmates. Very quickly, John Buffalo, né Little Bull, was learning survival skills in this new world into which he had been thrust.
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The holiday season came, with the celebration of Christ's birth to a virgin. Of course, a part of their instruction was religious. That, perhaps, was the strangest of all the white man's strange customs. Everyone was expected to think exactly alike, it appeared, ridiculous as that seemed to John Buffalo. How could anyone tell another what he must think? There was no room at all for the fact that it might conflict with the advice of one's own spirit-guide. In fact, the teachers seemed to have no guides of their own. Their thinking was based only on the secondhand telling by the missionary of what had been told to him. How sad, he thought, for one not to have his own guide. He considered that perhaps the relationship of the whites with the spirits was not as well formed as among the People.
He made the mistake of asking Miss Whitehurst about it, and was astonished at the reaction. He had expected almost anything but this ⦠.
Anger
, in return for a mild suggestion about how to please and attract the help of the spirits! All he had suggested was that the spirits might welcome the scent of a pinch of burning tobacco.
“Blasphemy!” snorted the woman. “You were sent here to
overcome
such savage heathen notions. Now you must pray to be forgiven!”
But John Buffalo had learned an important lesson. The whitesâat least, theseâdid not
want
to hear more about the realm of the spirit. This, too, brought a feeling of sadness to him: that anyone would feel that there was nothing more to
learn
about the Creator and the grandfathers of the spiritworld.
But having been rebuked severely added to his determination. He would not attempt to discuss such things as one's relationship to God. In such situations, he could always retreat into the emotionless stoicism that was becoming easier with each use. The other students, too, found it useful in many situations. If in doubt, it was always safe to show no feeling at all. It was becoming a trademark in dealing with whites, and was now almost expected by the teachers. It was a safe barrier behind which one could retreat at any time.
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The students were allowed a short visit at home during the holiday season. It was given grudgingly, and with the admonition that they must not backslide into the old uncivilized ways of the heathen while with their parents.
“That is a life which you must rise above,” Miss Whitehurst warned, shaking a forefinger in warning.
She was met with the emotionless stoicism that she had come to expect. Sometimes she scolded, doubting that any of her charges might be able to rise above the handicap of their savage heritage.
John Buffalo, his friend Charlie, and another boy, now called “Thomas Evans” for no reason that the boys could see, walked home together. It required a full day. Tom's name, like John's own, should have been good enough. The family of Wolf Dung, Tom's father, had a proud tradition, like that of Yellow Bull. Somehow the whites did not seem to appreciate the pride in family that was expressed in the heritage of the Wolf Dungs.
The day was cold and snowy, and the trip took most of the day. John's feet were numb when he reached his mother's lodge. She insisted that Thomas and Charlie come in, too, to warm themselves before traveling on. It was found that all three boys had frostbitten toes, and Pretty Robe decreed that they thaw by her lodge fire before traveling on. Charlie was later to lose a toe and the tips of both ears from the exposure.
They were a day late in returning, for which they were severely reprimanded.
“You know you were due to return yesterday â¦
Monday
, not Tuesday!” scolded White Horse. “Have you not enough fingers to count a week?”
This was very confusing. Why should one day be better than another? They had returned, and at about the prescribed time. Is not one day much like another ? Maybe it had something to do with the strange preoccupation of the whites over every seventh day. “Sun Day.” It was to be devoted to God. On the rest, presumably, God was omitted or, at least, ignored. It was fitting to worship and give prayers of thanks for the Sun, the grass, and the buffalo. In fact, the annual Sun Dance was dedicated to that very concept. But should not every day begin with prayers of thanks and worship for those very things, not merely one in seven? Sometimes he thought he would never understand the whites and their approach to religion.
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John began to grow rapidly during the next year. Hair sprouted on parts of his body where there had been none. His voice would break unexpectedly during recitation, which was embarrassing to him. The other boys giggled, but not very much. They were subject to the same affliction, or would be soon. Charlie was a little slower in his bodily changes, but Tom (Wolf Dung) Evans was already taller than John by a hand's span.
If they had been among their own people, this achieving of manhood would have been a time of recognition. In these surroundings, there was little recognition of that fact of life.
Except ⦠With greater size and strength came increased athletic ability. It was clumsy at first, and his coordination was off just a trifle. One has to relearn the use of arms and legs that have suddenly become inches longer. However, it
did not take long to realize that he could utilize the increased mechanical advantage. He could run, throw, kick, and tackle better, in the various sports which they were being taught. Now he enjoyed such activities even more. In a way, this was a mark in time. He was simply going through the manhood rituals of the whites instead of those of the People.
As John began to gain weight, filling out muscle on the lanky frame that he was developing, the Bear began to take an even greater interest in him. Mr. “Bear,” they had learned, was actually the name of the boys' supervisor, though it was spelled differently than the animal. George Baehr ⦠To the students, he would always be “The Bear,” no matter what. John spent many extra hours of practice on the athletic field, and this impressed the coach. Anyone willing to put forth extra effort will very likely receive extra attention, especially if he shows talent.
The boy finally realized that the gruff exterior and the Bear nickname covered a sensitive, caring instructor.
“Try it this way, John ⦠. That's it ⦠. Left elbow a little higher as you swing the bat ⦠.” Or, “Follow through with the foot
after
your toe strikes the ball.”
Once, the Bear was able to procure a special pair of athletic shoes for the growing feet of John Buffalo. They were of harder leather than his moccasins, even more solid than the traditional moccasin of his people, which had a thick rawhide sole. These white man's shoes had uppers also made of heavy leather, and tight laces. At first, John was uncomfortable with the tight construction around the ankle, but the Bear explained.
“They will protect your ankles. Less injury, more winning football games.”
John found that he could also kick considerably better and with more accuracy, and was quickly convinced.
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By the middle of his third year in the government school of the white man, he was big, well-developed, and his coordination was improving all the time. His mother was proud when he was allowed to visit home for the holidays.
“You are so like your father,” she said, a sad smile on her still-handsome face. “Yellow Bull would be proud, Little Bull.”
John had a feeling of remorse, as if he were betraying the memory of his father. His mother's use of “Little Bull” was a twist of the knife, though she probably did not realize it. He was not only abandoning his father's heritage for the ways of the white man, but even his
name
.
John said nothing, and managed to enjoy the visit with family friends. His only sisterâseveral years older than heâhad married and had a baby of her own. This, too, weighed heavily on his conscience. Under the system of the old ways, it would have been the responsibility of Little Bull to teach that nephew. Now, he could not, because he would not be with the People, but
away at the government school. He mentioned this to his mother, rather shamefaced and apologetic.
“No, you must not think so, Bull. It is important that you
learn
, because times are changing. You will have to learn the new ways, and
then
you can teach your nephew.”
Sadly, he had to accept the fact that she was right. Yet there was another hurt which he did not mention. He found himself
enjoying
the ways of the white man, the athletic competition, the encouragement of the Bear, the special treatment he received as the school's star athlete. Sometimes even Miss Whitehurst smiled at him, and she was known to smile at hardly anyone. Practically no one, except Mr. Baehr, in fact. The boys' early speculation may have been fairly close. He had come to realize that “old White Horse” was not really old. Probably younger than his mother, who now seemed considerably younger than he had once supposed.
He managed to relax enough to enjoy the holiday visit, and talked more with his mother than he ever had. There was a new closeness, and she really seemed to understand his doubts and fears. She had done well to raise her children alone after the death of Yellow Bull. John left to return to school feeling somewhat better, supported by the understanding of his mother.
It was the last time he was to see her. A few weeks later, a message carried by his sister's husband informed him that their mother, Pretty Robe had died during the influenza epidemic that had struck after the holiday visit.
The heart of Little Bull was very heavy.