Reason To Believe (21 page)

She shrugged the whole notion off with a smile. "Because you're no tenderfoot, Ben Pipestone. You never were."

Twenty-three riders converged in a circle. Dewey took the feathered hoop into the center and offered a prayer in Lakota. Then in silence the riders formed a single file and headed for the fording place in the river.

Waiting her turn, Clara watched as one horse after another balked at the crossing. Some slipped as they broke through the thin crust of ice at the water's edge. Others churned and pawed or simply refused to take the plunge. Ben and Elliot Plume took turns leading the riders who needed help, while supporters stood on the bluff, the women trilling to lend encouragement in the traditional way.

When her mare met the first challenge without a fuss, Clara looked across the sparkling water at Ben, who had just led the woman from Oklahoma across. "I have a name for her," she announced as she rode triumphantly past him.

He tipped his chin, inviting her to elaborate. "She's Misty Too."

He gave a brief nod, a pleasured smile, then turned his attention to another floundering rider. And it occurred to

Clara that it didn't matter who was in charge, where they were going, or what lay beyond the next hill. Ben was in his element now. She could trust him to handle the rough spots.

Clara followed Anna and Billie as the string of riders made its way through the river-bottom thicket and up the first ridge. When the leaders reached the high ground, she was struck by the breathtaking picture they made riding into the waning afternoon's western sky. The staff and the hoop were etched against the horizon, the sun's rays striking them on a slant, the eagle feathers fluttering in the breeze. Elliot Plume, the founder of the ride, carried the staff. Dewey, splendidly outfitted in a red and black blanket coat, carried the hoop. At the first campsite they would be met by the support vehicles carrying gear for many of the riders, pulling horse trailers, and leading the way for those journalists who were determined to follow. But for now there were only the riders and their horses crossing the brown and gold plains.

Ben had stationed himself at the rear of the procession after the river crossing. There were those beginner horsemen for whom the first few days were bound to be a trial by fire. The chubby little boy on the choppy-gaited Shetland was a good example. "Somebody trade horses with meee," the boy whined, his ruddy round cheeks bouncing along at the trot. "This horse wants to run. I don't wanna run yet."

It was a wonder the pony hadn't bucked the boy off, the way he was hauling on the reins. Ben rode up beside him and asked his name.

"Toby Two Bear."

"Mickey Two Bear's boy?"

"Yeah."

Ben braced his right hand on the cantle and swiveled in the saddle, checking the riders strung out behind them. He figured the boy to be about eleven or twelve. Too young to be on his own. "Where's your dad? I didn't see him when we started out."

"I haven't seen him for almost a year. My m-mom brought me, but she's drivin' the pickup." The boy's cheeks bounced like two rubber balls, marking the choppy rhythm for his singsong tale. He was pouring everything else he had into staying in the saddle. He couldn't afford to spare Ben a glance. "Can you make this horse stop running?"

"No, I can't. I'm not the one ridin' him."

"Yeah, b-but I can't either, and he's gonna m-make me fall off."

"He's fightin' the bit, Toby. You would, too, if he was pullin' on
your
mouth like that. You pull him up to stop him, then you ease off. Tell you what, though, you're gonna have to get used to that trot, or you're gonna get left in the dust. Where'd you get the pony?"

"M-M-My cousin."

"When you get tired of bouncin' around like that, stand up in your stirrups, like this." It wasn't going to be easy. Toby's belly and his butt were just as round as his cheeks. He tried to imitate Ben, but he had to grab the saddle horn to pull himself up. He held the position for a few seconds, then started bouncing again.

"Keep workin' on it, Toby."

"But I don't wanna run yet," Toby wailed. "I gotta get used to walking first."

"Your pony's got other ideas. Looks like you're just along for the ride."

Ben kept close tabs on the boy as they headed for the first campsite. Clara and Anna seemed to be doing fine, riding well ahead of him as he assumed the position of drag rider. Apparently no one else saw the need. Either that or they were just leaving it to him. When he swung down to close a gate, Toby was the last one to pass by. Once through, the boy dismounted. Gripping his reins, clearly on the verge of tears, he glared up at Ben.

"Go ahead and do your business, Toby. I ain't lookin'."

Wordlessly Toby started walking, leading his pony. Ben followed, leading his big gelding. If they'd been closer to the campsite, or if the boy had been a little older or in better physical shape, Ben would have respected the fact that he hadn't asked for any help and just let him walk. But given the circumstances, he couldn't do that.

"How about if we ride double awhile?"

"Can't."

"Seat givin' out on you?"

"He still wants to run." The boy wasn't about to admit that his legs had turned to jelly, but it showed in his stumbling gait.

"I like the way you hung in there, Toby." The boy looked up, surprised. "I'd trade horses with you, but my feet would drag the ground on your mount."

Toby glanced at the pony, then at Ben's long legs. He gave a little guffaw.

Ben pulled them all up in their tracks and offered the boy a leg up. "You sit in my saddle, I'll sit right behind you and see you don't fall off."

By sunset all of Ben's soft spots—head, possibly heart, definitely upper and inner thighs—had developed the tender makings of hard-earned calluses. It was a relief to join the prayer circle at Ward Jackson's isolated little ranch. Ward was there to see that the horses had plenty of fresh water, grain, and hay. His wife helped the support crew put out the first evening meal. The balmy temperatures had dropped with the sun. Riders took care of their horses, then started heading for the campfire, which burned like a beacon in front of the big canvas tipi that had been set up near the shelter belt. They followed their noses toward the hot coffee and the tailgate supper that awaited them.

"Save me some coffee," Ben told Clara as he took charge of her mare.

"I can help you," she said. But it was dark, and she wasn't sure what to do, where to start.

"Help Toby find something to eat. He's had a hard time of it."

Toby relished the role of hard-time cowboy, especially since it meant a place at the head of the chow line. Clara took two cups of coffee, treasuring the simple warmth in each hand. Her nose was cold. Her legs were wobbly. Her bottom was sore. But hot coffee had never tasted better, nor had a fire ever been more inviting. She liked the notion that at day's end she was doing okay.

Anna complained of absolute starvation and a splinter in her thumb. Clara probed by firelight until Anna decided her hunger was more pressing than the pain. "Dad'll get it out later," she said. First aid had always been one of Ben's roles when he'd lived with them.

When he appeared out of the darkness Clara welcomed him with the coffee and a smile. Small thanks, she thought, because he'd had his share of roles today, and all she'd done was stay on the horse.

"Is that little boy going to make it?"

"He made it today." Ben shoved his gloves in his pockets and took the Styrofoam cup from her hand, sliding his fingers over hers. He smiled, then sipped, then shrugged. "If it had been me forkin' that damn Shetland, I'd 'a been on the ground walkin' before Toby was. I don't know why people always wanna put their kid on a pony."

"Because it's not as far to fall."

"How's the mare workin' for you?" He sipped his coffee, determined not to pin his next breath on her answer.

"Beautifully." Her smile was another small thanks.

Dewey joined them, carrying his bowl carefully, for it was full to the brim with soup. Meat and a few vegetables in a bland broth. "It's good," he said. "Better get some before it's gone. Got some hungry Indians crowdin' around the pot."

"Glad you got your appetite back," Ben said.

"The children have been fed now. Better eat while you can." Dewey plucked a chunk of neck bone from the bowl with his fingers. The broth dripped down his chin as he gnawed on the gristle. Eyeing Clara, he nodded toward the pickup parked at the edge of the circle of firelight, its tailgate serving as the buffet table. "Meat keeps us goin'. Your husband has an appetite, too."

Clara thought it a peculiar thing for her father-in-law to say, but since he'd spoken to her directly, she obliged without question, as though she were bound by a duty that was much older than she was. Ben took the soup from her without
a
word. Duty-bound as well, he ate in silence.

The wives, mothers, and friends of the riders who made up the support crew were in charge of food and shelter. After supper they cleaned up, put out water for washing, and made sure everyone had a place to sleep. The tipi would accommodate some of the men who were leading the expedition, along with those who'd brought nothing but a horse and a bedroll. Towering above the assortment of more contemporary-looking tents, the pine poles and pale canvas were reminiscent of many of the lodges Big Foot's people used as the nineteenth century drew to a close, when government-issue canvas had largely replaced scarce buffalo hide.

Tanya Beale, the adventurous woman from Oklahoma, made the claim that she wouldn't mind sleeping in a tipi, but Ben laughed and told her the snoring would drive her crazy. She accepted the offer of a piece of living room floor in the Jacksons' trailer, where the younger riders headed at the mention of rented videos.

It was a pleasant night to linger around the campfire. Not too cold. Not too windy. A good time to get acquainted, get reacquainted, share a few chuckles and a belly laugh or two in the warm glow of a good fire. The ground was frozen, but there were saddles and blankets and a few rickety old lawn chairs for seating.

"So where's all the shutterbugs?" Ben wondered aloud.

He and Clara shared a folded tarp. She was bundled up in the wool blanket they'd always kept in the car. He wished she'd open up one side and invite him to cuddle up next to her, the way old Marvin Cutler's wife had just done.

"Most of 'em went back to McLaughlin, where they could rent a bed," Marvin said.

"They'll quit following us pretty soon. Good stiff wind'll blow 'em back into their dens," Howard predicted, smiling.

"'Til we get to Wounded Knee." Ben snapped a twig in two and fed a piece to the flames. "Then they'll be out in force again."

"We want them to take their pictures and get us our half a minute on the news," Marvin said. "Nobody wants to remember Wounded Knee. Too goddamned embarrassing."

Ben had always called Marvin's wife Auntie Mary, even though he didn't know exactly how the relationship worked. She wasn't his father's sister. For as much as he knew about his mother, she could have been hatched from an egg. But Auntie Mary was related to him somehow. As for Marvin, he didn't look much like an Indian, but he talked like one. Acted like one. Belonged to the family and always had, as far back as Ben could remember. Part of the never-ending system of relations. Marvin and Mary had always been a pair.

"I don't care if they forget what happened
then
if they'd just think about what's goin' on
now"
Sheila Bird contributed from the far side of the circle.

"You can't separate one from the other. It's cause and effect, man. Cause and effect," Howard said, punching a finger into the spark-salted night air. With the firelight reflected in the lens of his glasses, his face seemed to leap into flame as he turned to Clara. "Right, Mrs. Pipestone? Ain't that what history's all about? You told us that, remember?"

"What pleases me is that
you
remember."

"Eeez, she always used to say stuff like that." Howard chuckled. "Like she'd get all excited about that map stuff, if you could remember state capitols and all those little countries in South America and Africa, places that keep turning into new countries every other week."

"And, of course, that's the effect, so we learn by looking at the causes of the instability that led to—" she glanced at Ben "—the insurrection... or the overthr—" He smiled and shook his head, and she felt the fire in her own face. "Okay, okay. Sorry. I lost my head for a moment."

"How many years you guys been married?" Marvin asked Ben. "You must be a walking encyclopedia by now."

"I've learned a lot."

"So have I," Clara said softly. "I guess that's what marriage is all about."

Ben tossed the other half of the twig into the fire.

"How's your dad doin'?" Howard asked. "Did he hit the sack already?"

Ben nodded. "Jackson's wife offered him a bed in the house, but he wouldn't take it. He told her this was good sleepin' weather. So he goes in the tent, and I hear him singin' Indian, you know, real quiet, and then he's talkin' in Indian. Lot of times he prays like that, but lately it's Sitanka this and Maziyapa that. Like he thinks they're right there."

"Big Foot?"