[They sleep, with some leaning on others.
          The Ghost Dance music continues as the stage
          darkens completely. The music breaks off
          abruptly. Pause. Enter Bull Head and policemen,
          carrying torches and rifles.]

                         Bull Head

          Look well among them. He may still be here.

          [He pokes the Chorus Leader.]

          Wake up, old codger.

          [The Chorus Leader stirs.]

                                   Tell us where he is.

                         Chorus Leader (sitting up)

          Oh, holy heaven. What do you want here?

                         Bull Head

          You know the one we want. Did he go home?

                         Chorus Leader

          You wicked men, you will not learn from me.
          No, he...he went down to the lower camp.

                         Bull Head

          More likely we will find him in his lodge.
          Come.

          [Exit with policemen. The stage begins to
          lighten.]

                         Chorus Leader

                    Friends, friends, wake up, quick!

                         Chorus (sundry voices)

          What, what, what, what?

                         Chorus Leader

          The traitors are in camp!

                         Chorus (sundry voices)

                                     What, where, where, where?

                         Chorus Leader

          They're coming for our chief! Oh, quick, get up!

          [They begin to get up.]

                         Chorus (sundry voices)

          What can we do? Oh no. Did they have guns?

                         Chorus Leader

          [Murmur of a crowd offstage.]

                         Chorus Leader

          Hush! What was that?

                         Chorus (sundry voices)

                               Good God, what's happening?

                         Chorus Leader

          Oh, hurry, come, get sticks, rocks, anything!

          [They search confusedly. Gunfire offstage,
          shouts and murmurs. They freeze.]

          Down, heart. No more. All done, all done, I fear.

          [Enter Bull Bear, running,
          in a ghost shirt.]

                         Bull Bear

          Oh, dogs, dogs, reeking red dogs dyed in blue!

                         (seeing them)

          And what have you been doing, sleeping here?

                         Chorus Leader

          Bull Bear, just tell us this: is our chief safe?

                         Bull Bear

          Oh, safe forever, friends. They shot him dead.

                         Chorus (sundry voices)

          Oh.
               No no. They did it.
                                   No.
          How did it happen?
                              Tell us.

                         Bull Bear

          Beyond the big ravine, all through the night
          I had been dancing in the lower camp,
          Feeling not only foolish in this shirt,
          But mean as any agent doling corn
          For keeping old grandmothers on their feet,
          Wincing and stamping off the tug of sleep,
          When far down on that dark snake of a path
          That ties the main camp to the agency,
          We saw it beaded by a string of fires
          That crept up from the lighted cabins there.
          What it was, and who carried them, we knew,
          For who but fools would light their way like that?
          With shouts and crashes through the scratching brush
          We tore like wolves across the dark ravine,
          And reached the edge of camp at early light.
          There, in the dew and red glow round the lodge,
          The still air muttering in angry tongues,
          Stood crowds of dancers from the camps around,
          Old ones and braves, all in their holy shirts,
          And some with rifles underneath their blankets.
          Those dogs had gone inside, and as we neared,
          Were prodding out the door their drowsy chief.
          Old moaning sounds like heaving windblown pines
          Rose up to greet their torchlit traitors' faces,
          Then died away as Catch-the-Bear boomed out:
          "You fools. Do you think we will let you take him?"
          "You pay no heed; keep moving," Bull Head says,
          But our old chief, his fierce drawn face a stone,
          Seemed like a tired bull to deliberate
          Where he might best lay down his weariness,
          Not greatly caring where that spot would be.
          Then as he moved on slowly to their prods,
          His young son burst out of the lodge behind him,
          Crying "Oh father, you have counted coup
          On bluecoats and on warriors in their hundreds,
          But if you let these traitors lead you off,
          You'll never more hear me call you my father!"
          At that the face of Sitting Bull grew dark,
          As if their bayonets had truly stabbed him,
          And from that spot he chose no more to move.
          Their shoves and tugs at him budged him no more
          Than were he some live oak rock-rooted there.
          With curses Catch-the-Bear threw off his blanket;
          Rifles flashed on his side and on theirs,
          And with a sudden brightness round his startled head,
          Our chief, the last one you will ever know,
          Plunged face first in the cold and dreaming dust.
          For theirs -- Bull Head was killed; the others ran.

                         Chorus

          O mightiest light of our nation,
          now do we know the dark you leave,
          blown out by the ficklest shame of your folk,
          as ever your omens told us true!

                         Bull Bear

          What are you moaning at, old idiots?
          Do you not think that you shall see him soon?

                         Chorus (woman)

          Oh Bull Bear, come, we cannot hope for that.

                         Bull Bear

          Who says we can't? Did you not see him dance?
          You who were with him saw him, didn't you?
          And even had he stayed away, you fools,
          Aren't we supposed to see our dead ones live?
          Then why not him, the greatest of them all?
          Oh yes, he knew, and had he stayed away,
          Your God might have a way to pass him over,
          But now He can't: he danced, he danced for you.
          And listen, if you want a clearer sign:

                         (slowly)

          In those last roselit moments of the fight,
          Amidst the crack of guns and falling torches,
          We saw behind the lodge his old show horse,
          That circus stallion given him by whites,
          Rear up in silhouette against the dawn,
          And not, as horses do, fall back again,
          But sway and prance, upright as any brave,
          For what to our eyes seemed eternity,
          As if to show us how the world will dance.

                         Chorus (woman)

          Oh Bull Bear, you make us feel worse than ever.

                         Bull Bear

          Well, better shake it off. We have to move.

                         Chorus Leader

          Yes, trouble will be on us now. But where?

                         Bull Bear

          There is a bigger camp near Wounded Knee,
          Away from any road or agency,
          Where they say this thing goes on unmolested.
          There we can dance until -- whatever comes.

                         Chorus (woman)

          Go then. But we must bury Sitting Bull.

                         Bull Bear

          That I will let you do. I cannot face him.
          I leave you with his son; he knows the way.
          But be there, old ones.

                         Chorus (sundry voices)

                                   We will, we will, Bull Bear.

          [Exit Bull Bear. During their final lines,
          they take up sticks and slowly limp off.]

          The great dream goes
          as the glow from the hills now,
          and who upon the aching earth
          would ache for it back?
          Go we to lay our leader
          in his cold mother's arms, yes,
          and pray for no more fond stir to trouble him.

          Then lay we our old heads,
          with memories too young to bear,
          upon the oldest earth and pray,
          Oh pray for no more fond stir to trouble us!