“Well, this one young jasper I’ve heard of bears watching, just the same. He ain’t trying to stir up his own people. He wanders about, even riding trains, selling medicine shirts.”
“Medicine shirts? What kind of medicine?”
“Bulletproof. Not bulletproof iron shirts. Real old buckskin shirts with strong medicine signs painted on ‘em. I ain’t certain if this young Paiute dream-singer’s a con man or sincere, but, like I said, we’re keeping an eye on him.”
Portia Caldwell asked, “If you know who he is, why can’t you just arrest him, Longarm?”
“On what charge, ma’am? If there was a law against religious notions I’d have to start with arresting Christian missionaries, which just might not be such a bad idea, considering some I’ve met.”
“But this Paiute’s selling crazy charmed shirts he says can stop a bullet!”
“Well, who’s to say they can’t, as long as no Indian does anything to get his fool self shot at? The danger as I see it ain’t in wearing a lucky shirt. It’s in wearing it on the warpath.”
Caldwell shook his head and said, “My Ute are a pragmatic people. Besides, who’d buy medicine made by another tribe?”
“The Pine Ridge Dakota for openers. This Paiute priest, prophet, or whatever has been selling his shirts mail-order.”
“Oh, the damned Sioux can’t be serious about it. They’ve been whipped too many times. And besides, why should they think the magic of another tribe would be any good to them?”
“Don’t know. I ain’t a Dakota. Sitting Bull has said much the same about the crosses and bibles the Catholic mission at Pine Ridge has been distributing.”
“That’s not the same. Christianity is not an Indian superstition.”
“You’re right. It’s what us whites call good medicine.”
“Longarm, if you intend to start another religious argument…”
“I don’t. I’m outnumbered two-to-one, hereabouts. I’ve passed on my information. You folks can do what you’ve a mind to with it.”
“I thank you for it, and I’ll keep an eye peeled for those crazy bulletproof medicine shirts, but I’m certain we’ve seen the last of Indian uprisings in this century.”
“Maybe. ‘Bout thirty, forty years ago another white man collected some information on another kind of Indian. He was an Englishman named Burton, but he was sensible, anyway. He told Queen Victoria’s Indian agents about some odd talk he’d picked up from some heathen informants. They told him they knew better. British India had seen the last of Indian risings, too. Couple of years later the Sepoy Mutiny busted wide open and a couple of thousand whites got killed.”
He excused himself and got up from the table to let them ponder his words of cheer as he left. Outside, the night was filled with the monotonous beat of a dog-skin drum as Longarm sauntered back to where he’d left his “guests.”
A circle of Ho women were around the fire, arms locked, as they shuffled four steps to the left, followed by four steps to the right. Longarm hunkered down by the widow Stover’s blanket and observed, “I told you there wasn’t all that big a shucks to it, ma’am.”
“How long do they keep that up?” she asked.
“Till they get as tired of it as we already are, I reckon. I’ve seen it go on all night.”
“Is that all there is to it? Neither the beat nor the dance step varies. If you could call dragging your feet like that dancing.”
“Indians set great store by repeating things, ma’am. The number four is sacred to the spirits. They think everything either should or does happen in fours.”
“Where’d they get such a fool superstition?”
“Don’t know. Where’d we get the notion of the Trinity and everything happening in threes?”
“I’m not a Roman Catholic, either. You said this was a fertility rite. I expected something… well, more pagan.”
“Oh, they’re pagan enough. But Indians don’t act dirty about what comes natural. That drum beat’s calculated to heat things up, if you’ll listen to it sharp.”
“What is there to listen to? That fool medicine man just keeps whacking it over and over, bump, bump, bump.”
“You missed a beat. He hits it four good licks and starts over. The normal human heart beats just a mite slower than that drum. After a time, though, everybody listening sort of gets their own hearts going with that drum. Hearts beating faster heats the blood and, uh, other things. The fertility part just comes natural, later, in the lodges.”
“You mean we’re likely to see an all-night Indian orgy?”
“Nope. You won’t see or hear a thing. They don’t show off about such matters.”
“Well, if it’s all the same to you, I’m bored as well as tired and I’d like to get some sleep.”
“I figured as much. If you’ll allow me, I’ll take you over to the agent’s home and they’ll bed you in a spare room.”
“Oh? That’s right thoughtful of you and your friends. I was afraid I’d have to spend another night on the ground in my blankets.”
“No need to, ma’am. If you ask her, Portia Caldwell might work out a bath for you, too. Let me help you
