by Andy Conway
Little Star roared his glee and fanned his face with turkey feathers. “And that time he sat outside and serenaded you with his courting flute.”
“He was playing for me?”
“Were you not driven to lust by his best imitation of a bull elk? I think he was wearing a bull elk horn too. Just for you.”
He laughed and laughed while I thought about the women around the camp. Sometimes I envied them their sense of belonging. But most times I resented them that they walked in the shadows of their men.
Surrounded might make my life easier, but I could never walk in his shadow.
“I need no husband,” I said.
“I’m glad to hear it. Especially as he’d have to come and live with your family, and that means me, and he’s the last man I’d want to share a tipi with. Besides, he has a squashed nose and eyes that are too close together, and his breechcloth looks like a reservation for lice. I’ve not seen them, but I’m sure I’ve smelt them.”
We were in the shade of the Black Mountain when we found a beehive in the broken stump of a fallen lodgepole pine. Little Star jumped from his horse and crept in close, signalling me to follow at his shoulder. The air hummed with the angry buzz of the hive and it was only when I was close enough to smell the wax that I saw the hive seemed to be moving, swarming, a liquid mass. But the movement was not the bees.
I stared breathless, almost forgetting the angry bees that flitted about our faces, trying to decipher what I was seeing, until it became clear to me.
Ants.
The hive was overrun by a colony of ants. They were swarming all over it till they covered its entire surface, the desperate bees trying to fight them off.
We watched, hypnotized.
Little Star was totally still and did not even breathe, his hand held out, ready to snatch the first bee.
Though the fat bees were bigger and had their venomous tails, the ants cared not. They kept on coming, overrunning them: a black river of death that ran upstream and downstream at the same time.
Little Star breathed again, the magic spell broken, and he swiftly snatched a handful of bees and gave a prayer for their magic, shoving them into an amulet bag where they droned angrily. They would be dead before we returned them to Surrounded by the Enemy, but it would not matter. He would believe in their magic whether they were dead or alive.
As we turned from the hive that was teeming with ants, I wondered if the bees who would die in our amulet bag were the lucky ones.
We rode back and said nothing the whole way till we found the enormous camp at the White River, and I wondered if Little Star had the same nagging doubt about what we’d seen. The hive had felt like a message, scrawled in code.
We said nothing about it, but the moment we returned to the camp, we saw for ourselves what shape the swarm of killer ants would take for us.
The hills have eyes
WHITE RIVER, 1875. The camp was the largest I’d seen. It was midsummer and the sage was in bloom, so most of the Lakota had banded together for the annual sun dance. More and more now, the different tribes of the Lakota were huddling close, as if they sensed there was safety in numbers, as if they knew that these were the last days.
The Men who are Talked About were all there —Sitting Bull and Black Moon from our Hunkpapa clan; Crazy Horse and Black Twin of the Oglala, Lone Horn of the Miniconjou, Spotted Eagle of the Sans Arc.
Missing from the Oglala was that band that had made peace with the whites and now lived on a reservation. They talked often in camp of this split and how much it pained those Oglala who were with us, siding with Crazy Horse, that so many others siding with the great Red Cloud now lived off the white man’s scraps and were warriors no more.
So when we rode into camp with our pouch of magic bees, we were shocked when Surrounded ran to us and told us that They Fear Even His Horse had come with a delegation from the white man.
He spat on the ground as he said his name.
“Who is They Fear Even His Horse?” I asked.
“He went to the white man’s reservation, even though he was of the Oglala clan, even though he was Crazy Horse’s friend.”
Surrounded took his pouch of dead bees and opened it, eagerly inspecting each one for signs of damage that might dilute his magic.
“Tell us what is happening,” Little Star begged.
Surrounded did not care. “Something about the wasichu wanting to buy the Black Hills from us,” he said, waving a hand in the direction of the great lodge.
“To buy them?” laughed Little Star. “Like a necklace or a new dress?”
“They have found something there,” said Surrounded, holding a bee up to the light and examining it. “Gold.”
I felt sick suddenly and slid off my horse, pressing my forehead against its warm flank.
Surrounded laughed and said, “These are good. I feel their power. I shall bring you your two horses.”
“And two rifles,” said Little Star.
Surrounded ran off, singing to himself, like the richest man on the plains.
“What is it?” asked Little Star. “You have turned whiter than the star I saw fall from the sky, the night you came to us.”
“Don’t you remember?” I said. “Last summer, in the Black Hills. Long Hair?”
“Oh, that general with the blue eyes. The one I said was a white winkte,” he giggled.
“That was what he was looking for. Gold.”
“Well, he’s found it. He can decorate his pretty hair with it.”
“No,” I said, trying not to puke up my heart. “It means they’re coming. They’re coming to take everything from us.”
“Don’t you worry, Bright Star Falling,” he sighed, stroking my red hair. “The Black Hills belong to us. The wasichu signed a treaty giving them to us forever. As long as the buffalo shall roam. Our chiefs will refuse to sell.”
I shook my head. “They will take the Black Hills anyway.”
I knew it as well as if I’d read it in a history book. The white man would tear up his treaty and the scraps would be trampled in the stampede of greed. They would come and kill any Indian who stood between them and their gold. It was as if I had always known it, like a story heard from one’s mother.
“Let’s go and see what the chiefs decide,” he said, taking my hand in his. “You’ll see. Our brave men will spit in their faces.”
“It’s like the ants,” I said. “Don’t you see that was a sign?”
He frowned and smiled and shook his head. “What do you mean, sister?”
“The ants that were attacking the beehive,” I said.
“What ants?” he answered.
“They were swarming all over the hive,” I said. “You saw it too.”
He shook his head and the smile fell from his face. “I saw no ants.” He looked from my pale face to the council lodge and back again, and his hand went to his open mouth in shock. “My sweet sister,” he said. “You’ve had a vision!”
“It wasn’t a dream. I saw it. Like I see you now.”
“Yes,” he said. “A vision. We must tell the chiefs.”
He tucked my limp arm in his and walked me across camp, heading for the council lodge, but long before we got there I threw up everything that was inside me.
Spotted buffalo
WAGLULA, THE FATHER of Crazy Horse, was walking through the camp calling out the news. “Come hear! Come hear! Come to the council lodge and hear what our former brothers say on behalf of the Great White Chief!”
As we rushed to the council lodge at the centre of the giant camp, we learned that the delegation had arrived the day before. My heart froze over. It was at the moment we had found the beehive and I had experienced my vision of the ants.
All of the leaders were gathering to hear this special message from the Great White Father, delivered by his Indian emissary.
The whites called him Young Man Afraid of His Horse, and that name made him seem like a foolish coward, but in Lakota his name was The
y Fear Even His Horse.
The camp was abuzz with the rumours of the gold and the offer to buy the Black Hills, and that They Fear Even His Horse had brought tobacco and fifty ponies as a gift from the president.
I watched him cross the river from where his followers had set up their tipis and was struck by the kindness in his face, and the large white cross that he wore on his chest. He showed no fear, even though there were many there that would kill him sooner than hear him speak.
“He lives on the Red Cloud reservation now,” said Little Star. “They have already moved it once. They will move it again.”
Walking with him were a group of braves, most of them the Payabye band that had split from the Hunkpatila, but there were others there from different Oglala bands that had made their peace with the whites.
Little Star was explaining how many Oglala bands there were when my eyes met those of a young man crossing the river with the visitors.
He was the youngest of their band but stood tall, his back straight, showing no fear, a proud bearing — and his eyes were burning into mine.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“Oh him. He’s only a Wagluhe. One of the loafers that hang around Fort Laramie living off the white man’s scraps. They’re so lazy that bunch, and they’ve never had a brave among them.”
“He looks brave to me.”
“And handsome,” said Little Star. “He’s just about the most handsome Wagluhe I’ve ever seen. I spotted him first.”
“For your information, he’s still looking at me.”
“You’re such a witkowin, Bright Star Falling. Surrounded’s not enough for you.”
“You can have him.”
The Wagluhe brave had still not taken his eyes from me and I began to wonder if there was a beautiful Hunkpapa princess standing right behind me. I almost looked to check but did not want to shift my gaze from his. My belly felt all warm and I knew a blush was radiating out and would spread across my face.
Others around us were gossiping about who was who and we heard them say this man was an up and coming Wagluhe chief called Red Shirt.
They argued over whether he was the son of Red Cloud or not. Someone said he was the son of a squawman and a Wagluhe mother, others said some great warrior chief that wasn’t Red Cloud, or the son of Red Dog of the Oyuhpe band.
His eyes left mine and he took his place in the gathering.
Little Star held me close, his arm in mine, and explained everything that was happening, every morsel of gossip, every rumour, while passing comment on the dress of everyone that passed.
The Kangi Yuha paraded past us, holding their spears with dried crow skins hanging from them. These were the Crow Owners Society and their spears were hundreds of years old, passed down through generations of Kangi Yuha and given to those who had best lived the life of a warrior. Crazy Horse had been one, until he’d chased a woman and been shot in the face. He might have been the war chief of the entire Oglala, but he could never be a Kangi Yuha.
I noticed their lances were decorated with fur and feathers. Little Star explained that in battle a Kangi Yuha must ride into the midst of the enemy and plant his spear in the ground, where he must stand fast until death or a friend released him.
They paraded into the council lodge and I saw that three giant tipis had been raised together to create one long meeting space, with the hide flaps raised along the sides so that everyone could surround the council and observe.
Sitting Bull strode up to the council lodge, his sons and closest allies surrounding him. Little Star tried to push through, calling out, “We must speak to Sitting Bull! We have seen a vision!”
But he was pushed back. One of the great medicine man’s retinue laughed to imagine Sitting Bull would listen to the vision of a winkte and a white woman.
So we stood back and watched with the other women and youths as The Men who are Talked About gathered in a great circle, almost a hundred of them, and Little Star quickly forgot about my vision and took to enjoying the show.
He told me breathlessly that Crazy Horse never spoke at any gathering, so it was a great thing that he had come. I couldn’t make him out at first, until Little Star pointed at him. He looked lighter than I expected, his hair almost the colour of sand and his face was boyish. I couldn’t imagine him being such a feared warrior. As he turned his head to listen to the man by his side, I could make out the powder marks on the side of his face, where he’d been shot in that fight over a woman.
The man by his side was Little Hawk, Crazy Horse’s uncle, only four years older than him but looking much older. It was he who always spoke for Crazy Horse. Except on the battlefield.
Though he said nothing, everyone stared at Crazy Horse and him alone. He embraced They Fear Even His Horse as an old comrade, even though they had fallen on different sides of a war.
Before anyone talked there was a pipe ceremony which seemed to go on for hours. Little Star explained this was so that everyone talked with due care and decisions would not be made in anger.
But eventually They Fear Even His Horse spoke.
“I have here a letter from the Great White Chief in Washington, which says he wants the agreement of three-quarters of all the Lakota men before buying the Black Hills from you. The Great White Chief respectfully requests that all the Lakota leaders travel to the Red Cloud reservation for a treaty meeting where they might lay their hands on the pen and agree the sale.”
At the mention of Red Cloud’s name, a growl flared through the gathering. The Oglala chief who had once been the scourge of the white man had chosen to surrender to him and live on a reservation, while the rest of the Oglala had vowed to stay on the Plains and hunt the buffalo.
Many of the men took turns to speak. Most of them angrily rejected the offer, but some pointed out that a treaty meeting would involve a great deal of food donated by the whites, and that was something we could ill afford to turn our faces from.
Some spoke out against the betrayal of Red Cloud, others were afraid that the Government Issue food, which they called wakpamni, had a foreign smell which would scare away the buffalo. Some just did not want the white people coming in.
A brave stood in anger and snatched the letter from the president and threw it into the fire. Everyone gasped, but some cried out in delight. Another brave snatched it from the flame, crying, “Don’t be hasty. We must give this letter our consideration!”
Sitting Bull spoke and stilled the commotion.
“The white man wants me to scratch in the ground for food,” he said. “But I will not hook up my pony to a plough. We are hunters and warriors! I will not go to the reservation to be a slave, with bad flour and rotten meat and starvation. I will stay and hunt the last of the buffalo!”
He pointed a finger at They Fear Even His Horse and said, “I want you to go and tell the Great Father that I do not want to sell or lease any land to the government.”
He grabbed a handful of earth and held it up so all could see.
“Not even as much as this.”
A great cry went up, as when the braves would charge into battle, and only when it died down did Crazy Horse whisper into the ear of his uncle.
Little Hawk raised a hand and said, “My friends. The other tribes have concluded not to go in, and I will have to say the same thing.”
If They Fear Even His Horse felt he had lost the battle, he did not show it. He only nodded, his face calm and serene, as if he had learned it might rain tomorrow.
Gall spoke and told a story he’d heard of the spotted buffalo that the white man had sent to the Indians on the Spotted Tail Agency. I didn’t know what he meant by ‘spotted buffalo’ until he said they were the buffalo that the white men ate.
“Cows,” I said. “He means cows.”
“What a terrible smell they had!” Gall continued. “The Indians had to hold their noses. They looked at the white men who ate the spotted buffalo, and many of them were bald. As bald as the buzzards that live off carri
on. If we eat the spotted buffalo, we will be bald too, like the white men and the buzzards.”
Many laughed at this, and some made a scalping gesture too, to show why the white men lose their hair.
But in the end it was Short Bull who had the last word. “It is late and we have to shoot for tipis,” he said. “We will come to the reservation next spring and discuss the white man’s proposal.”
At this time of year, midsummer, the buffalo had shed all their fur, which made their tanned hides perfect for making lodge covers. We did this every year, and no one wanted to think about anything else. It was therefore easy to delay the decision to talk to the president.
They Fear Even His Horse went back to his tipi across the river, and Red Shirt, the young Wagluhe with the piercing eyes, went with him, and over the next few days those who wanted to go back with them crossed the river to join them.
Some of the younger braves wanted to kill them, but we heard that Crazy Horse stepped in and said, “Whoever tries to murder these people will have to fight me too.”
When they left, I saw Red Shirt again. His eyes sought out mine as he rode away. Little Star told me that Surrounded noticed it and stormed off, kicking up dirt.
I was not in love with Red Shirt, whom I never thought I’d see again, yet I felt we were connected somehow. But he rode away and soon there was nothing but a cloud of dust on the plain to mark his passing.
The horse thief
HANGING WOMAN CREEK. JANUARY, 1876. We went to shoot for tipis and everyone forgot about the white man’s offer to buy the Black Hills, and no one heard my vision of a beehive destroyed by ants. It was a beautiful summer, the hunting was good, and it was a joy to be alive and free on the Plains.
The winter came and with it the snow. The camp drifted north, following the buffalo, and we came to a place that fills my heart with dread, even now.
We were camped by the Upper Tongue river, at a stream called Hanging Woman Creek.
It had been Crow country some time past, but I’d learned, through many camp fire tales, that the Lakota had pushed the Crow out of their lands. I wondered for a time if that had been the meaning behind my beehive vision, but I knew that it was about the future, not the past, and I had seen what the white men would do to the Indians, not what the Lakota had done to the Crow.