Free Journey by James A. Michener Page B

push from a crippled old woman if it would enable me to complete a difficult journey.” He bowed stiffly and disappeared into the starry night.
    As Luton started back toward his hotel he was diverted by a light in the distance. He moved toward it, hearing a rumble of low voices as if many men were conversing, neither in anger nor in jubilation. When he drew closer he saw a large group of Indians, men and women together, engaged in a midsummer ritual dance, their heads tilted back as if imploring the moon to appear, their feet occupied in a formless shuffle, their arms limp at their sides as if semidetached from their bodies. It was neither an exultant dance, nor one of leaping and shouting, but the number of participants, their steady shuffling movement and their low whispering song was almost narcotic, both to themselves and to those watching.
    For many minutes Luton remained in the shadows, unperceived by the dancers but participating in their quiet dance through the swaying of his own body. Even as he followed the rhythm he thought: Savages! I’ve seen them in Africa. And along the Amazon. Same the world over. Halting his swaying, he brought his right thumbnail to his teeth and gnawed at it as he contemplated the hypnotic scene: How many generations before these savages evolve a decent civilization?
    His reflections were broken by a man who sidled up from the rear, speaking in broken French: “Blackfeet. Most powerful Indians on frontier. Don’t let dancing fool you. Start a fight, two hundred knives at your throat.”
    As a cultured Englishman, Luton, of course, spoke French with only a slight accent, and although he resented the Frenchmen of Montreal, he welcomed this man in the wilderness, where, he thought, it was proper for him to be: “Why are they in Edmonton? The Indians, I mean?”
    “They’ve been coming here for centuries, they claim. You built Fort Edmonton on their dancing ground, they claim.”
    “Are you a Blackfoot?”
    “Métis. Long time ago, maybe grandfather Blackfoot, father Scotch, they claim.”
    “Your name?”
    “Simon MacGregor.”
    “Scotsman.” The two watchers fell silent as they watched the monotonous drag-foot dancing of the Blackfoot braves, then Luton asked: “Does anything happen in the dance? Should I wait, perhaps?”
    “Just same thing, maybe five hours,” the Métis said in English.
    When Luton whistled at this surprising information, two Indianmen heard him, stepped out of the shadows, and almost diffidently asked in broken French: “You like dance? You want to join?” and when he failed to state strongly that he had no desire for such meaningless posturing, they interpreted this as agreement. Politely, almost gravely, they took positions beside him, edging him not toward the shuffling dancers but to a flat area close to where he had been standing, and there they led him in steps which imitated those of the group.
    Since the men were dressed in full Blackfoot regalia—decorated deerskin jackets, tight trousers with brightly colored leather tied below the knee, streaks of red and blue down their cheeks—and since Luton’s magisterial bearing showed to advantage between the two braves, they formed a handsome trio. The light from a central fire cast deep romantic shadows across their aquiline faces, prompting the Métis to break into soft applause:
“Très bien! Les danseurs magnifiques!”
    Luton, astonished at what he had let himself into, attempted a few additional movements, but when the men actually laid hands on him, trying to guide him into other proper steps, he pushed them away and fled the scene. Startled, the Indians stared at his departing figure, interpreted his rejection as one more evidence of white man’s ill will, shrugged, and moved off. Luton, once more alone, again could think only of other savage dancers he had seen, and his unease regarding the Indians of Canada increased. If he did not relish his imaginary view of the United States, he felt a