The Man Who Fell from the Sky by Margaret Coel Read Free Book Online

another camera turned on the dancers starting to line up for the contests.
    Roger must have followed her gaze because he said, “They’re making a documentary film about Butch Cassidy. We talked to one of the producers over at the coffee booth. They want to get the flavor of the rez, put things in context, convey a sense of the life here.”
    â€œButch Cassidy was here a long time ago.”
    â€œHe said there were powwows then.”
    â€œLadies and gentlemen.” The announcer’s voice erupted over the grounds. “Now for the first contest. The traditional dancers.”
    Again the arena burst into color and motion, like fireworks on the Fourth of July, as the dancers came dancing out. Voices of singers rose over the thud of drums like the call of birds in a storm.
    â€œNot like this,” Vicky said. For a minute, the dancers in beaded leggings and bone breastplates and feathered headdresses, dipping and stamping out dance steps, faded into the black-and-white photos in books about the early days on the reservation. Dark shadows of tipis intermixed with log cabins that sloped toward the bare dirt ground, ragged horses with sagging backs in the corrals, and the people—her people—in dusty overalls and calico dresses that hung on thin, bent frames. The men wore cowboy hats, pulled low against the sun. The women with braids wrapped around their heads, holding small children in their arms. Stopped in time, all of them. The photos of powwows had always surprised her. A breakfrom the everyday hardness. The old dances, passed down through time, a memory of life on the plains. In the photos the dancers wore the same overalls and calico dresses. No fancy, jangling regalia and headdresses. All of that had been traded to the white traders for food.
    She gripped the coffee cup and stared at the cameramen, trying to swallow back the anger sparking in her throat. What did they know of the past, these white people looking to fill in the story of Butch Cassidy? What would they show the outside world? The bright, shiny life in Indian country? She wanted to yell:
It wasn’t like this a hundred years ago!
    â€œYou sure you’re all right?” A worried note drummed in Annie’s voice. The traditional dance ended and the dancers were heading back to the sidelines. The grass dancers would dance next, an ancient dance that mimicked the warriors stalking game in the tall prairie grasses.
    â€œIf they want to portray the rez a hundred years ago, they have to show more than this.” The drummers beat out a new song as the grass dancers tapped into the arena, bent over, peering at the ground, hands shielding the brightness from their eyes. The regalia jangled and swayed, feet stomped in rhythm to the drumbeats.
    â€œBut this is nice, isn’t it? All the people together?” A man’s voice, from behind. Vicky glanced around. Behind her was an Indian, tall and slim in a white cowboy shirt that clung to muscular shoulders and chest. Handsome, like a warrior in the old photos, with shoulder-length black hair parted in the middle and black eyes that reflected the sunlight.
    â€œSorry. I didn’t mean to butt into your conversation. Some of my best memories are the powwows. You’re Vicky Holden, right?”
    â€œI don’t believe we’ve met.”
    â€œFifth grade, St. Francis School. I sat behind you and pulled your braids. Jimmy Walking Bear. Go by the name Cutter now.” He stuck out his hand. Brown with long, slim fingers. Vicky hesitated a moment before she shook hands. His palm was rougher than she had expected. He had the confident manner of someone used to giving orders rather than doing the work himself.
    â€œAnnie Bosey and Roger Hurst,” Vicky said, nodding from one to the other.
    â€œSt. Francis?” The man called Cutter was looking at Annie. “I must have been gone by the time you started kindergarten. Good to meet you both.” He