The door of the school banged shut behind her, caught in the rising Dakota wind, and she jumped.
I’m behaving like a little girl, she thought. And how abominably I acted in the schoolroom. I shall not allow myself to be frightened again. That rude Mr. Drum must be reported to the agent.
Then she cried out with fear. “Joseph!” she cried. “Joseph, come back!”
But Joseph Running Horse had disappeared, and Lucia was alone, and the wind suddenly seemed not only swift, but cold, very cold.
Winter, she thought.
“Joseph,” she called again.
But again only the wind responded.
I will dance, he had said, until I know the truth.
I will not stay another winter, said Lucia to herself, I will leave now.
Calmly she re-entered the school, arranged the benches in proper order, took the heavy metal key from the desk, and closed the desk, making sure each of the drawers was shut.
She left the school, and turned the key in the lock, and dropped it into the pocket of her dress.
She picked up Joseph Running Horse’s hat from the dust where he had dropped it.
She dusted off the hat and placed it on the small bench near the door of the school.
She saw the broomstick that she had carried that morning, to sweep the grass for rattlers.
She turned and looked out over the bleak prairie, over the brown grass bending under the huge, gray sky, and looked toward the Grand River, and listened for a long time to the desolate, persistent wind.
Then not fully understanding why Lucia Turner turned and began to run, her broomstick leaning forgotten against the wall of the school, began to run stumbling and falling under the windy, gray sky of Standing Rock toward the soddy, afraid, more afraid than she had ever been in her life.
Chapter Four
Corporal Jake Totter was goddam mad.
He leaned on the bar in the one saloon in Good Promise, South Dakota, his heavy face in his stubby fingered hands, and glared into the bottom of the small, heavy glass that sat before him.
He cheated me, said Totter to himself. He had to of.
The squat glass, the inch of muddy amber fluid, the puddled rings on the mahogany bar from Chicago, all blurred and snapped back into focus with a fierce snort and shake of Totters yellow-haired, close-cropped head.
His heavy fist, yellow hairs bristling from the vague, freckled patches, closed on the small glass, hiding it, and he chucked down the last of the drink, bourbon from the bottle’s label, though what-in-hell it might really be he hadn’t figured out, and didn’t much care, not any more.
Totter squinted over the bar into the mirror across from him, studying his image over and among the bottles stacked against the glass. He was pretty much satisfied with what he saw. Not perfect, of course, but pretty damn good.
Totter’s blunt, heavy nose had once been broken to the left and never set. His face as a whole was squarish and freckled. The eyes were gray and narrow, the mouth big and loose. Two of his tobacco-stained teeth were missing on the left side of his face. That from the same barrack-room fight that had broken his nose, and cost him his sergeant’s stripes, for the third time.
Not perfect, Totter admitted, but pretty damn good. And nobody could deny he had a way with women. Nancy upstairs had admitted that.
It wasn’t right that a man like him should be done wrong to.
Goddam Southerner, he was, thought Totter.
Should’ve beat the hell outa him.
Will beat the hell outa him, thought Totter, the living tar.
Totter wiped his mouth with his sleeve, the blue of the army jacket scratching across the unshaven face, and turned to put his back to the bar, and look to the third table to his left, about ten yards from where he stood.
He cheated me, said Totter to himself.
He had to of, he thought.
The bland, nondescript gentleman in his wide-brimmed hat, string tie and white suit, sitting at the table, dealing the cards, happened to look up about the time Totter turned to face him. The gentleman’s noncommittal, smooth face read the signs aright, perhaps from long experience of such matters.
Payday, said Totter to himself, already broke, cheated me, had to of.
The gentleman signaled the bartender expertly, and Totter heard liquid sloshing into his glass behind him.
Totter wavered at the bar, and took one step toward the table, and stopped, and shook his head, and unbuttoned his holster, and took another step, and then turned back to the bar to seize the glass again.
I’ll beat the living tar outa him, said Totter to himself, the living tar.
He chucked the drink down, wiped his mouth again and turned to the table.
He squinted, and waited for the room to come back to something that looked possible.
The gentleman in the broad-brimmed hat was gone.
Totter fumbled his way across the sawdust on the boards of the floor and leaned on the table, spilling chips, planting his hands in cards, spilling a drink.
The gentleman’s chair was empty, clearly.
“He cheated me,” yelled Totter, and slammed both fists on the table.
Chips jumped and glasses shook, and nobody at the table said anything.
Payday, said Totter to himself, and it’s all gone, all gone.
Totter could’ve cried, but he was too goddam mad to cry.
He kicked a brass spittoon halfway across the room, a long swirl of brown water flying out of it, leaving a trail of puddles and spots across the floor.
“Take it easy, Soldier,” said the bartender.
Totter knew there was a shotgun under the bar, but he didn’t see it yet, and so he knew he didn’t have to pull out, not yet at any rate.
“He cheated me,” said Totter.
“Have another drink, Corporal,” said the bartender. “On the house.”
Totter, being a man of principle, did not immediately take the drink, but waited an amount of time appropriate to a man of principle, and then stomped to the bar and took the drink.
Goddam Southerner, he was, said Corporal Jake Totter to himself. Goddam soft-talking Southerner. We whipped ’em, we whipped ’em good. Whipped ’em.
Should of beat the living tar outa him. Should of.
Beat the hell outa him. Should of. Should of.
Should of.
It had been another hot, dry summer, that summer of 1890.
Homesteaders claimed that the rain graphs prepared in Washington were forgeries, to dupe people into settling desert lands.
The maps of General Fremont had been honest.
He called it the Great American Desert, from the Rockies to the Missouri Basin.
And now it was fall again, and once more the crops had burned and the grasshoppers had come, and the trains and wagon trails were filled with the predictable exodus of homesteaders and settlers, broken and impoverished, their dreams vanished in the dust and rainless skies.
Thousands upon thousands, this year like last, and the year before, picked up their stakes and moved out.
You could ride through the land, for hours, without seeing a human being, though the abandoned sites of their habitations might be in evidence, the soddies with their fallen roofs, the furrowed, barren fields, the dry, cracked boards of empty corncribs, the miles of sagging wire, swaying in the dusty wind.
The town of Good Promise, South Dakota, population 407, no railroad, lay pretty well within a network of Indian reservations, of which Standing Rock was only one.
There were more than thirty thousand Indians in the Department of the Dakotas.
The Ghost Dance had swept through the reservations, an Indian Pentecost carried by seers and prophets, men like the Minneconjou, Kicking Bear. The powerful medicine of these men shirts that could turn bullets, chunks of meat brought fresh and hot from the spirit world, their signs and miracles, breathed into the plains nations, mostly Cheyenne and Sioux, the vision of the apocalyptic destruction of the white race, the return of the buffalo, the restoration of the days of the eagle feather. Once more the grass would grow waist high, and green, and the brown humps of the buffalo would bend northward again in the now almost forgotten flowing rivers of hide and meat. The Son of Wakan-Tonka, the Christ, rejected by the white man, would return to His true children, and they would accept Him, and give Him robes and ponies, and meat and beads, and smoke with Him the pipe of friendship and of peace.