policeman grabbed him by the biceps and pushed him toward a street that led away from the square.
Charging Elk sat for a long time under a single yellow wire in a small room in a place of many rooms. He sat on a hard chair with his coat buttoned to his neck and his beret pushed back so that it perched on the crown of his head. His long hair fell over the coat collar to his shoulders and his eyes were slitted and without expression.
Many policemen came to look at him, in twos and threes, chatting among themselves, gesturing toward him, then going away. None of them addressed him, but one was bold enough to offer him his tobacco and papers, which Charging Elk took. He rolled a cigarette, accepted a light, then nodded at the man, and the man shrugged and almost smiled as he left. A moment later, Charging Elk could hear much shouting and laughter in the passageway outside the room.
As he smoked, Charging Elk looked at the table before him, with its neat stacks of papers and a jar filled with writing instruments. On the wall behind the table, he saw a photograph of a white-bearded man in a dark suit with a sash draped over one shoulder and thought he must be the boss of these police. He studied the three-colored flag which hung from a pole in the corner. He knew it was the flag of France. During the grand entry to begin the daily Buffalo Bill shows, soldiers carried it along with the American flag. Then after the troupe circled the arena a few times on their horses, the Cowboy Band would play the power songs of the two countries and the audiences would rise and put their hands over their hearts. Charging Elk had grown to like these songs because afterward the crowds would cheer and clap their hands. Then they would be ready for the Wild West show. And the Indians would be ready to accommodate them. Wearing only breechcloths and moccasins and headdresses, they chased the buffalo, then the Deadwood stage, attempted to burn down a settler’s cabin, performed a scalp dance, and charged the 7th Cavalry at the Greasy Grass. Buffalo Bill always rescued the wadichud—the settlers, the women and children, the people who rode in the stagecoach—from the Indians, but he couldn’t rescue the longknives. They died every time before Buffalo Bill got there. And when he came on the scene of the dead bodies, he took off his hat and hung his head and his horse bowed. By then, the warriors were behind the long canvas backdrop, which was painted with rolling yellow hills and the many lodges beside the wooded river. They were hidden from the audience and so they smoked and drank water and told jokes.
It had been good in Paris. The days had been too hot sometimes, but the women were handsome, and there was much excitement all the time. Except for a few bouts of longing for the peaceful seclusion of the Stronghold, Charging Elk had enjoyed the whole experience. He had even come to know and make friends with some of the reservation Indians, who didn’t seem so weak after all. And after all the daily riding, they could sit a galloping horse almost as well as Charging Elk. But he still took the most chances, counting coup on the buffaloes, taking a fall from his horse after being “shot” with more vigor, fighting hand to hand with the soldiers with more spirit. He took pride in his performances, sometimes too much pride, and the others, led by Featherman, would tease him without mercy, calling him a black Indian because of his dark color, or a scabby tatanka because he lived in the badlands like an old bull. They played jokes on him, putting scratchy grass in his sleeping robe or the strong sand that goes on meat in his pejuta dapa.
Charging Elk smiled for a moment as he recalled the jokes, but the reality of where he was abruptly jarred his consciousness. Except for the table and the chair Charging Elk sat upon, there was one other chair and a tall box with many drawers in a corner. The single yellow wire in its glass globe and a window which looked out into the corridor provided a harsh light but the corners of the room were shadowed. He had been sitting in the chair, almost without moving, for two hours and now he had to piss. He had not seen the akecita who had brought him here since their arrival.
The tobacco he had smoked had made him dizzy and his guts were rumbling because he had not eaten for many hours. He closed his eyes and made himself think again of Paris and he saw the young woman who had come to look at the Indians in the village. That first time she was dressed in a long metal-gray dress which did not have the big butt and which was tight around the middle, almost like shiny skin. She was slender and her small breasts only slightly interrupted the smooth line of the tight material. She had come with an older man and another man about her age. At first, Charging Elk didn’t pay much attention to her. Many people, many handsome young women, came to the village to look at the Indians. If there was anything interesting about this one, it was her hat; or rather, the shiny green and blue and yellow feathers that surrounded the crown of it. It looked as though a strangely beautiful duck was sleeping on her head, its own head tucked under a wing. Charging Elk stared at the hat, then looked at her face and was a little surprised to see such a clean simple face framed by vermilion upswept hair. Her lips were pale and her eyes were the green of ice in the wind caves of Paha Sapa. He looked at her for some time and decided that she was nice to look at. Then he went back to playing dominoes.
She returned the next day, just before the afternoon performance. Charging Elk was on the verge of entering the lodge he shared with five other young men to change into his buckskins and the long headdress he was given by the man in charge of costumes, which he wore during the grand entry and during the dance scenes. She was standing on the worn earth path between his lodge and Rocky Bear’s, looking at him. Although, like most of the other Indians, he didn’t like to look at the eyes of these wasichus, he did look directly at her, at her clean face, then into her icy-green eyes. She smiled at him and his heart jumped up and he ducked into the lodge. When he came out, adjusting the feathers of the headdress, she was gone.
She came one more time after that—four sleeps later. Charging Elk had been counting because he had come to realize that he liked the attention that seemed beyond the bare curiosity of the other French women. He liked the way she had looked at him and he liked the smile that he saw many times after that, if only in his mind. For three sleeps he had worn his black sateen blouse with the brass arm and wrist bands, his father’s breastplate, a beaded vest, and the silver earrings he had taken from Cuts No Rope in a poker game. He carefully braided his hair with otter skin and red yarn. Then he waited in a variety of poses designed to show he didn’t care if he saw her again.
The fourth sleep he decided she would not return, so he wore his worn calico shirt, a pair of baggy-kneed white mans pant’s, and a black vest. His braided hair was tied off with bits of rawhide. The day had been hot in that close damp way that made Charging Elk wish for the open air of the plains. He was tired and his young bones ached from all the riding and fake fighting he had done over the three moons since their arrival in Paris.
He was playing dominoes with Featherman. It was just after the daytime performance and there would be no evening performance because this was the day the wasichus went to their holy houses and rested and ate long meals at home. Several of the performers were going to town to see the sights with Broncho Billy that evening. As tired as he was, he looked forward to eating a big meal in a brasserie that Broncho Billy had been told had plenty of American beef.
As he studied his next move, he felt more than saw a shadow that covered his face and hand. He thought it might be one of the other show Indians come to watch the game, but when he looked up with mild annoyance at the closeness of the shadow caster, he saw the clean face of the young woman looking down at him from beneath a simple white bonnet.
He stood quickly, all thoughts of his aching bones a thing of the past, and she involuntarily took a step back and made a noise that he knew was not a word. He was a head taller than she was and she seemed almost frightened at his size. But she recovered in the time it took for him to realize this and she stepped forward and offered her hand. It was a small hand in a white lace glove without finger pockets. Her nails were small and shiny, the skin unlined, even around the knuckles. Charging Elk didn’t know what to do with the pale hand. He had seen men kiss their women’s hands, or take the hand and bow. Both gestures
