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but useless. They could not be warriors; the army protected the People from their enemies. They could not be providers; the agency dole of flour and sugar and coffee and occasional blankets sufficed to sustain life. And that was what burned in the bosoms of the Dreamers, who wanted nothing but to restore the Ways of the People.
    Dirk drove the trap to the edge of the encampment and waited. It was a courtesy to wait to be invited in, and even the chief of the People needed an invitation. It was granted by an old headman Dirk knew as Last Dog. Slowly, he steered the trap toward a shady place where these people would congregate. Washakie studied the camp with knowing eyes, and the tableau was not heartening. Still, the males bestirred themselves and gathered around the carriage. They wore rags, their hair was not groomed—the usual insignias of honor, a feather in the hair, a painted emblem on their brown flesh, were absent. They were a sorry lot, and their demoralization hurt Dirk.
    Washakie waited leisurely. Haste simply was not part of Shoshone life, except in dire circumstances. But in good time, the encampment drew around the trap, making the dray horse restless.
    Washakie stood, eyed them calmly.
    â€œI greet you, my People,” the chief said. “I see my friend Walks at Night here. I see Rabbit, a man of great courage. I see Nighthawk, and Mare. All good People. I see my beloved ones. I see my brave women. I see my beloved children. I see the People, and I have come to listen.”
    â€œWhat brings you and the old Crow woman and the half-blood to us?” asked Walks at Night.
    Dirk knew that was not a friendly greeting, and it placed the chief among those who were not full-bloods.
    â€œYou know our son Dirk Skye, and his honored Absaroka mother, Many Quill Woman, who live in peace among us. They were kind enough to hitch the wagon and come with me, and I honor them now with the best wishes of all the People.”
    Dirk saw no change in the faces gathered around him. Always before, Chief Washakie had warmed his people, won smiles and assent and loyalty. But now he was facing a crowd whose thoughts were hidden deep.
    â€œWe are not receiving from the white man what was promised to us,” Washakie said, suddenly shifting ground. “We have been protected from our enemies, and that is good. But we have not received what was promised. Our young friend here, Dirk Skye, was hired to teach us the new ways, so that we might possess the skills of the Americans, but the promised school is unfinished. And we have not been taught what we need to learn about planting crops and keeping cattle and learning to read and write and do numbers. This is a great sorrow to me. I am saddened to see you here, digging roots to live, catching snakes for meat, when we were promised so much more. So I have come to listen; tell me what troubles you and what you are doing. I will take these things to the agent and make life better for us.”
    Dirk saw disbelief in the faces around the trap, and knew the chief was making no progress. No one, not Washakie, not Dirk’s father, not any Indian agent or government official, had succeeded in any of it.
    Washakie saw how it was, even without hearing from any of the crowd.
    â€œThere are things to learn. We need to grow foods. We need to raise beef. That requires work and patience. We could do these things without help, if we try. We are a wise people, and we can do these things.”
    The male Shoshones looked pained. Women’s work. They would die first.
    Washakie gauged the mood of his listeners very well. These people were not receptive to any arguments, nor did they believe the chief could accomplish anything.
    Washakie stood quietly, and then addressed them in a new tone.
    â€œSome of you are Dreamers. Come, tell me who you are. Are you a Dreamer, Walks at Night?”
    The old headman stood straighter and met Washakie’s powerful gaze with his own. “I am