Reason To Believe (36 page)

It was the best Christmas Ben had had in a long time. Even before he'd gotten himself kicked out, the holidays had often been spoiled by the strain of obligations, the kind that could easily send a guy out looking for a stiff belt. Like shopping. He had no problem with gift giving, but it was the "gift exchange" that seemed a little bogus. The necessity to buy more stuff than you could afford, usually the wrong stuff, which people then took back to the store so they could acquire the right stuff. In his world people didn't treat a gift that way. Visiting was different, too, and so was partying. But the holiday pressure cooker was good for an excuse to grab a drink on the way to the next obligation to socialize, make merry, hurry up or miss out.

Over the years Ben had come to dread this desperate season. He'd spent many a Christmas Eve church service wishing he could just belt out the songs, say the prayers, and look forward to the sack of hard candy and the one small toy with his name on it waiting under the tree in the church basement. It was hard to believe that there had been a time when it had taken so little to satisfy him.

But the time had come again, full circle. This year the season was simpler, but it was so much richer. For two blessed weeks he had his family back. He had his father's charge to finish the ride, carry the pipe, wear the coat and give his own away.

Before he signaled for the circle, he drew Howard White Calf aside and gave him his down-filled jacket. "My dad gave me his coat," Ben said with a wry smile. "Kinda like one of those red convoy flags, huh?"

There was no need to press for acceptance or voice any thanks. Howard was in need of a warmer jacket, and Ben had one to give him, one the giver had used and valued himself. It was a kind of giving ingrained even more deeply than the customary "Merry Christmas" the two men exchanged with a handshake.

Ben called for the morning circle. He belted out his Lakota song and prayed in the way his father had taught him. It was a clean, crisp, cold Christmas morning, and there were no doubts, no conflicts, no disappointments. On this morning, mounted on his chestnut gelding, resting the handle of the hoop on his thigh, he knew exactly what he was about.

"Looks like we might have a white Christmas yet," he announced, gazing at the circle of sky framed by the feathered hoop. "It sure is cold, and it's gettin' colder by the minute. We dedicate this day to the sick. We remember their suffering. But at the same time, we ought to appreciate and preserve our own health, so button up." With a quick chin jerk he puckered his lips out at Toby Two Bear, mounted on his pony. "Zip up your jackets and tie down your hats. You wanna give somebody a gift today, give something to chase away the cold. Bring someone a hot cup of coffee and offer a warm handshake.

"Also I ask you to remember my father today. You can be sure he's thinkin' about us. And remember the people who struggle with addiction, especially alcohol, which takes such a toll on us Indians. People like me. Maybe some of you."

His gelding pranced beneath him, blowing clouds of steam as Ben lifted the hoop toward the sky. "Today we ride for the sick."

There were close to two hundred riders now. During the course of the day the pack was strung out across prairie rangeland, which stood much the way it had a hundred years ago, taking its power from its vastness, the unbroken stretches of rolling grass and the boundless blue canopy of the sky. Ben carried the hoop and led the way. Each time he topped a rise and looked back at the riders, so many of them shivering in their saddles, he wondered how many of them were as uncertain as he was.

The one thing he didn't doubt was his horsemanship, and he felt a strong urge to pass the standard to someone else and ride back among the people. While he was sorely lacking in the qualities of a spiritual man, he did know when to shorten the chin strap on a bridle for better leverage or to offer a broken snaffle bit for better control of a bronky horse. He'd been shepherding some of these people along for days now, and he was uncomfortable with the fact that as long as he was stuck up front, he couldn't keep close track of them. He was glad when his apple-cheeked friend, Toby Two Bear, trotted up beside him.

"Guess what, Ben," Toby said, grinning. "I got a good feeling today. Something tells me I'm really gonna make it all the way."

Ben grinned back. "You're sure, now."

"I'm sure. The ol'
onze
feels like a block of ice," he admitted, patting his own rump. "Purely numb. Can't feel a thing."

"It's just like part of the saddle, huh?"

"Wish I could leave it in the saddle at the end of the day. That's when I start feelin' it again. But heck, who cares? It'll take more than a sore butt to keep me awake after a day of riding this guy."

"Damn straight." Ben felt a surge of patronal pride in the boy. "When this is over, I'd say you've earned yourself a real horse."

"Oh, this one's not so bad. Short as his legs are, he's gotta work twice as hard as your horse. Your dad told me I should personally thank this pony every night for carrying me through the day, so I been doing that. And we've been gettin' along a lot better." Toby raked his gloved fingers through the pony's shaggy mane. "Your dad's a real smart man."

"Yeah, he is."

"What are we dedicating tomorrow for?"

Ben glanced down at the boy, arching an admonishing eyebrow. "Today's not over yet. You been prayin' for the sick today?"

"Yeah, sure." Toby's brown-eyed cherub face turned up anxiously. "Your dad's not really sick, is he? I mean, I know he got hurt, but they said it wasn't too bad."

"Who said?"

"Well, when Dan Medicine came back from driving you guys to the clinic..."

"My father's hurt, and he's sick, and he's old." Ben's gaze drifted across brown tabletop buttes. "Those are the facts we have to face."

Toby nodded solemnly, then eyed the buckskin bag dangling at Ben's hip. "You got the pipe now, huh?"

Ben nodded briefly. "It's real old, ain't it?"

He nodded again. If he were Dewey, he would be jumping at the chance to tell the boy more about it. He knew the stories by heart. They lived in his soul, flowed in his blood. He'd tried, but he couldn't shake them. They wouldn't be hard to tell. Tell them straight from the heart that took its beat from their ancient rhythm. Tell the kid what was behind the pipe and the hoop and give him more reason to believe, both in himself and in the journey. From now on, Ben told himself, any time he had a young person's ear, he ought to launch right into one of the stories he'd inherited from his father instead of some yarn about bucking one out in Mobridge over the Fourth of July.

But if he couldn't bring himself to do that, he decided the least he could do was answer the kid's question.

"Tomorrow we ride for the people in prison."

"How come?" Toby's innocent eyes hardened. "They're gettin' what they deserve, ain't they? Gettin' punished for what they done wrong?"

"We all make mistakes. Sooner or later most of us manage to box ourselves into one kind of prison or another." There was a time when Ben might have said that marriage was one of those boxes, but now that he was boxed out, he had other ideas. He now knew isolation to be much worse. It was a prison with invisible walls.

"Did you know that my dad's in prison?"

"Mickey?" The surprising news pulled Ben out of his self-absorbed musings. "Since when?"

Toby shrugged, avoiding Ben's eyes as though he were confessing to his own crime. "Since he stole a car out in Wyoming."

"How come I never heard about it?"

"We didn't make no announcement." Toby's eyes narrowed as he stared between his pony's ears. "My mom says it's the dumbest thing he ever did."

"She's probably right about that," Ben offered quietly. "How do you feel about it?"

"Shitty."

"I know what you mean."

Toby looked up, dumbfounded. "Your dad never did nothin' like that, did he?"

"Nope. But I used to feel shitty about some of the stuff my mom did." Ben's wistful smile was dipped in sympathy and laden with regret. "Now I've lived long enough to feel shitty about stuff I've done myself. When you've done it yourself, you get to feel dumb and shitty both."

"You never got put in jail, did you?"

"Yeah, I did."

"For stealin'?"

"For drinkin' and drivin', which could've ended up a whole lot worse. Just pure dumb luck that I didn't kill somebody."

"Could've gotten killed yourself."

"I could have, easy." Ben sighed. "But I've done worse things, I guess."

"What's worse than that?"

"I broke a promise." He shook his head sadly. "Well, more'n one, but one real important one. And don't ask me what it was, because that's private. Just take my word, it was the most important promise I ever made, and I broke it."

"My dad breaks promises all the time."

"He's probably thinkin' about that a lot now, where he is. You can try to wish it away until you're blue in the face, and it doesn't do a damn bit of good. So you finally come to realize that the only thing you can do is try to be honest with yourself about it. You know, try to look at it with a clear head, see what you've done and look where it's got you. If there's a way to pay for the damage, you try to do that. And then you can do what we're doing now." He would have laid a hand on the boy's shoulder if he'd been within reach. This he would have done in Mickey's stead. "I guess in a way it's what your dad's doing, too. You make a sacrifice. And you pray for..."

"Pray for what?"

"Help. Guidance. You can't make it on your own, no matter how tough you think you are."

"We're pretty tough, hey." Toby's smile spread slowly, and his face reclaimed its rightful innocence. "Look how far we've come."

Clara wasn't sure whether she was drawn to the mystical feathered hoop etched against the pale gray sky or the tall, strong man who carried it, but she followed it, followed him. Now that he carried the hoop, he couldn't trot up and down the ranks as the spirit moved him. Poor cowboy, she thought. Fated to be tied down, one way or another.

But he wasn't without companionship. Elliot Plume, who carried the staff, was usually close by. Young Toby Two Bear rode with him for a while, as did Anna and Billie and Howard White Calf, wearing the black jacket Ben had given him. Tanya Beale took a turn, too, insinuating herself between Ben and Elliot. Her little horse was almost as hot to trot as its rider.

Clara ordered herself to stop wondering what the woman kept laughing about. What difference did it make? Ben had said something funny. Big deal. He could be wonderfully witty on occasion, and Clara was not about to interrupt. But when twangy Tanya finally dropped back, Clara decided to make her move. Actually, it wasn't exactly a decision, more of an impulse to catch up to him and ride by his side.

He welcomed her with a cowboy nod, two fingers touching the brim of his hat. "Did you come to scout for me?"

"I came to tell you that..." That what? She had an excuse just a moment ago. She stretched her stiff lips into a smile. "That coat looks like it was made for you."

"It was made for the keeper of the sacred pipe. For the moment, that's me."

"After Tara Jean comes back, it'll be my turn to go check on him. She and I can take turns so that you can stay with the ride." She sought his eyes. "That's what you need to do, isn't it?"

"What about your own vow? Your commitment?"

"We have a commitment to your father." It was an old habit, she realized, claiming an obligation for both of them. "I won't miss that much. If he's doing well, he'll probably tell me to get back where I belong."

"With your husband?"

"With the ride," she clarified carefully. "But I suppose I should tell you that I'm... very proud of you for taking this on."

"Ho, that was tough." He eyed her speculatively. "I suppose I should thank you."

"It's just awkward, Ben. I see you leading the way, and I feel this sense of pride in the fact that it's you, and I'm your..." She tore her gaze from his face. Her quick shake of the head was almost lost within the hood of her jacket. "And then I think, no, that's not quite right. We're not living together. But I can't help it. I'm impressed with the way you're handling all this."

"You wanna know the truth?" He looked up at the wooden banner he carried, its simple shape etched so compellingly against the prairie sky. "I feel like a big jerk, carrying this thing, riding up front like this, everybody looking at me like I'm some kind of—" he glanced at her, his slight smile suggesting bittersweet irony "—
very spiritual man.
I feel like a fake."

"You're not acting fakey at all."

"Really? That's comforting. Why do I feel like a fake?" He addressed his deliberations to the buttes underpinning the horizon ahead. "Especially when my own wife—who doesn't really wanna call herself my wife because we're not living together, but that's a technicality when all of a sudden she can't help being impressed, even though she's trying hard not to be—
my own wife
chokes out this compliment about my dad's coat and me sitting up here like some holy general. Christ!"