Man on Two Ponies by Don Worcester Read Free Book Online Page A

says.” Billy’s frown deepened.
    â€œI want to see him. I must see him.”
    â€œWell, in that case, don’t expect him to ask you to stay. You’ll take some gettin’ used to, Billy. Not only by the others, but by your own parents, especially your father. There are some pretty wild warriors in that camp, and if they didn’t run you off, they’d make life miserable for you. I don’t even send the police to those camps if I can help it.”
    â€œThey couldn’t make it much worse than it was when I went away. I must see my father. Seeing him again is what I’ve lived for.” Billy shuffled his feet. Wright stroked his beard again.
    â€œI understand,” he said softly, leaning forward on his elbows. “I hope it works out for you.” He pointed to a map of the reservation tacked to the log wall, and circled his stubby finger. “They’re usually somewhere in this area, but they move whenever they need fresh grass for their ponies. The trader, John Culver, can find out where they are through his wife’s kinfolk. She’s Brulé.”
    On his way to the trading post Billy saw a familiar-looking youth approaching, but at first he didn’t recognize him. Then he knew it was his friend Julian Whistler. He’d let his hair grow into two short, pathetic-looking braids that dangled to just below his ears on each side of his round face, and he wore a red and white striped blanket uncomfortably over his bare shoulder. His expression was solemn, but he still didn’t look like a typical young Brulé fullblood. Even with blanket and braids he appeared different, like a Wasicun trying to pass for an Indian.
    â€œBilly!” Julian exclaimed. “You’re back. Pratt must have run out of excuses for keeping you.”
    â€œYou were lucky, my friend. You left after four years.”
    â€œFour were too many. Nobody here has any use for us now, and if we do anything different, like shaking hands or sleeping in cabins, they jeer and call us Wasicuns. Even our own families,” he said, curling his lip. “They act like we changed because we wanted to become make-believe Wasicuns, not because we were forced to. Pratt always bragged that he’d kill the Indian in us and leave the man. He should have killed both instead of sending us home the misfits he made us.”
    â€œHave you done any carpenter work?”
    Julian laughed bitterly, toeing the dirt with his moccasin, the short braids skipping back and forth on each side of his unhappy face. “Not one of us has worked a single day at what they made us learn. Either there’s nothing for us to do or the Wasicuns say we’re trying to take their jobs. ’We don’t need Injun carpenters,’ they say. Those years were wasted—worse than wasted.” He waved his arms violently, and the blanket slipped from his shoulder. “Where will you live?” he asked, pulling the blanket around his waist with both hands.
    â€œI want to live with my father, but the agent thinks he’ll throw me away when he sees how I look.”
    â€œEven if he doesn’t, you’d be going straight from Carlisle to one of the wildest camps on the Reserve.” Julian shook his head, and his braids flew. “You’ve been away so long you can’t have any idea what that would be like. I know I couldn’t stand it, and I doubt that you could for long. After living like we did and being busy all the time, the hardest part is having nothing to do but feel sorry for yourself and wish you were dead. I’d gladly work as a carpenter just to have something to do.”
    â€œLiving with my father is the only way I can become a Brulé again. I’ve got to, if he’ll let me.”
    â€œHah! Look at me! Too late for that, my friend. I don’t know which is worse, an imitation Wasicun or an imitation Brulé, but those are your choices.” Shaking his