Man on Two Ponies by Don Worcester Read Free Book Online

bitter coffee. He forced himself to eat it, trying not to think of the ham and eggs, biscuits and honey, and coffee with cream that Mrs. Purvis had served.
    â€œReckon you should let the agent know you’re back so he can put you on the ration roll. You don’t want to miss gettin’ all this good grub.” Smith grinned, showing his broken tooth while wiping his greasy hands on his pants. Billy nodded, then went outside to see Rosebud by daylight.
    The setting was as he remembered it. Bathed in early morning sunlight under a cloudless sky, the agency’s brown log buildings were nestled in a bowl of hills dotted with dark green pines against a background of yellowing grass. Just seeing it and breathing the pine-scented breeze made him proud to be a Brulé. In the old days it had been a favorite camping place of his people. That was why Spotted Tail had insisted on locating the agency there, that and the fact little land near it was suitable for farming. Although he knew the old life was gone, Spotted Tail had resisted the government’s efforts to force the Brulés to take up farming.
    Now, however, most of the tipi camps that had clustered around the agency in all directions when Billy had last seen it were gone. The tipis that remained were of white canvas, not those of mellowed buffalo hide with paintings of warriors and soldiers on them. Somehow Agent James Wright had persuaded the families to move to areas where they could plant an acre or two of corn and build cabins. There were now many cabin settlements scattered over the land, some of them thirty miles or more from the agency.
    Later, not knowing what to expect, Billy set out for the agent’s office next to the council room, carrying suitcase and toolbox. Some of the Brulé men he saw wore government issue shirts and pants along with moccasins. A few had cut the seats out of their pants and wore what was left as leggings; they also wore breechcloths and had trade blankets or worn buffalo robes over their bare shoulders. Even the ones who dress like whites still keep their hair long. But it’s clear some have changed and some have not.
    Feeling self-conscious in his outgrown blue uniform, Billy knocked on Wright’s door and was told to come in. The office contained only a few chairs, a deerskin on the floor, a filing cabinet with a buffalo skull on it, and a scarred oak table Wright was using as a desk. A stocky, broad-shouldered man with a brown beard, Wright reminded him of Henry Purvis, and he felt at ease.
    â€œI’m Billy Pawnee Killer, just back from Carlisle.”
    â€œBeen expectin’ you, Billy,” Wright said, holding out a gnarled hand. “Tackett wrote you’d be coming.” He glanced at the tool-box. “I see they trained you to be a carpenter.”
    Billy nodded. “Summers I worked on a farm.”
    â€œGood. I’m a farmer, you know. There isn’t likely to be much carpenter work here, outside what the staff does, but when you’re eighteen we’ll set you up on a farm. What will you do in the meantime?”
    â€œI haven’t seen my mother for six years, my father for longer than that, and I’m anxious to get acquainted with them again.” Wright stroked his beard.
    â€œI think you should know that few of those men who were with Sitting Bull or Crazy Horse have adjusted to reservation life, and some of them likely never will. They’re like caged tigers tom from the jungle. They camp as far from here as they can and still draw rations every ten days. They hate white men and avoid them, but they hate even worse any Sioux who looks or acts like a white. I doubt that they’d let you, with your short hair and uniform, even spend a night in their camp.”
    Billy frowned. “But surely, if my father wants me there... ?”
    â€œYou should let him know you’re back, of course, but it would be better for me to send him word and see what he