by Andy Conway
“Why?” I asked. “We’re beating them!”
Little Star laughed. “Listen to my blood-shy little sister now. You have become such a warrior girl, like Buffalo Calf Road Woman!”
“But we can win! I don’t understand.”
“It is good enough that we have killed many soldiers and scared them for many hours. We have shown them what a fight with the Lakota truly means. They will not come for us again so eagerly.”
I looked back at the field, the braves withdrawing, whooping in victory.
“Besides, Sitting Bull’s vision promised an attack from the east, not the south, so this is not the promised great victory against the blueshirts. Perhaps, in scaring them away, it will mean our victory against those coming from the east will be even greater?”
Little Big Horn, I remembered. That must be the place. Not here, by the Rosebud.
I got ready to go with everyone else, suddenly feeling immense hunger and thirst. We had not eaten or drunk since morning.
“No,” said Little Star. “We stay. We have something else to do.”
The braves retreated and the blueshirts did not chase them as they always did. They had had enough.
I stayed close by with Little Star, hidden in the rocks on a bluff overlooking the field. Soon we were alone. We could see the soldiers down there licking their wounds, and if any came close, we could ride away. But none came.
We watched them all evening, collecting their dead from the field. The Crow scouts found an Indian still breathing and set to him with their knives, cutting him to pieces. Even though it was too far to see properly, I looked away feeling sick. It was worse than before. One of our own mutilated.
I sank into a sleep but Little Star must have stayed awake all night, for he nudged me in the morning and pointed to the soldiers riding away. They did not ride like a victorious army, but like dogs that had been whipped, slinking away with their tails between their legs.
Once they were gone, we climbed back down to the field of battle, where the sagebrush was still stained with blood, and a hundred or more dead ponies lay buzzing with flies, the vultures already swooping down to feast.
Little Star instructed me on how to make rock piles and we constructed them all over the battlefield to mark the events that we had seen. I made the pile of stones that showed where the girl saved her brother. We worked on our monument all that day and in the evening took shelter on the bluffs.
The night was warm so we slept under the stars and needed no fire. The only risk we took was singing a Lakota mourning song to ourselves, knowing that no one would hear us across the plain, and the longknives and their scouts were long gone.
It is the tradition for the women to sing an octave above the men, and the women must not sing the first iteration of the song. They could only join in once the men had established its pattern, forbidden to ever sing the lead line. But Little Star and I had our own rules. So I sang the lead and he joined in an octave above on the second verse.
That was how it was, and it was beautiful to hear, though none heard it but us and our ponies, and the stars after which we were named.
The Battle Where the Winkte Saved his Sister
IN THE MORNING WE SET off to ride north, back the way we’d come, and it took us a day to reach our tipi at Ash Creek. The camp had moved on once more. We packed and followed the trail west.
“Do you see how big the trail is?” Little Star pointed out.
I hadn’t noticed.
“It looks like the camp has grown so much in just a day.”
He guessed it was heading for a place called the Greasy Grass and my heart relaxed. This was not the place called Little Bighorn that I had seen in my vision, so the great battle would not be so soon.
Behind us, to the east, we could see clouds in the hot sun across the plains. The kind of clouds sent up by a large moving force of soldiers. Not the ones we had defeated at the Rosebud, we knew that. This was another army.
I knew in my heart who it was.
Custer was in that cloud.
After riding some way west, Little Star suggested we stop.
“Let’s camp here and see what this cloud holds,” he said.
“I don’t want to see what’s in that cloud,” I said.
“Is my Bright Star Falling so scared? I thought you were turning into a warrior, finally?”
He was right. I felt like a coward. I wanted to run on ahead to the safety of the camp.
“I know what’s in that cloud,” I said. “It’s full of soldiers without ears who will ride upside down and fall into our camp.”
His smile fell. Her stared at the cloud for a while, nodding. It was bringing death.
“It has stopped. Look,” he said, pointing to the horizon.
The cloud had dissipated and there were unmistakable threads of smoke climbing to the sky.
“Campfires,” he said. “Let’s go.”
We rode on and did not rest. Their scouts would be moving on ahead soon enough and we knew we must reach our camp and warn our people.
A small party of Indians surprised us. We reared up in panic, looking for an escape route. Surely, these were Crow scouts who would kill us.
Little Star held up his palm. They did the same.
“Where are you from?” Little Star asked.
Their leader inched forward, still holding up his palm, and I noticed his eyes kept wandering from us to that cloud behind us.
“You are Hunkpapa?” he asked.
“We are returning to our camp. Sitting Bull’s camp.”
They both now smiled.
“Forgive me,” said the leader. “We are Wagluhe. We have just come from there.”
Everyone relaxed and took their hands from their rifles.
Little Star told them of the Rosebud battle, and the Wagluhe brother said they were returning to their reservation, fearful of a coming battle.
“The village is camped by the banks of the Greasy Grass,” he said. “It’s the greatest gathering of Indians I’ve ever seen on the plains.”
Could it have grown so much in the past few days?
“Hundreds of Indians are pouring out from the reservations to join it every day. But we only went to recover some stolen horses. We’re going home now.”
“You’ve seen that cloud behind us?” said Little Star.
“We thought you were Crow scouts.”
“We thought you were too.”
We laughed, but it was hollow. Laughter in the face of death.
“Be careful,” said Little Star. “Give them a wide berth.”
They crossed themselves in the Christian manner and hurried on, veering northwards to avoid the coming cloud.
As we rode towards the Greasy Grass, the fierce sun burning down on us, Little Star told me the dream he’d had that night.
“It must be a vision, like yours and like Sitting Bull’s. Perhaps I am a medicine man after all, and the tribe will worship me as a great man whose magic is powerful.”
He saw that I didn’t think this likely, but continued. Little Star’s dreams were always elaborate scenarios where one of the Oglala braves – it was usually Crazy Horse – was wounded in battle and needed Little Star to save him. Or a handsome brave would stumble mortally wounded into Little Star’s lodge and Little Star would take all his clothes off and bathe him and tend to his wounds and nurse the poor warrior back to health. Sometimes it was the other way round, with Little Star bravely injured in battle and one of The Men who are Talked About nursing him.
I had heard his dreams a thousand times. But this one was different.
“I was falling through stars,” he said. “Through the night sky, and I fell down to what looked like a great plain. But the closer I fell to the ground, the more I could see it was a white man’s town with lamps glowing along rough streets and so many houses. I had never seen a village as big as this one. I fell down and down and down to a building that was shaped like a totem pole.
“I flew like
a swooping bird straight through a hole in the roof and I was inside it.
“It was as tall as a tipi, but so dark inside. A round room. Like being inside a beehive. And you were there, wearing the dress and bonnet of a white woman, and there was a white man and a white woman there too. The man pointed a gun at you and he made to kill you, but I flew through the hole in the roof and descended on him like a hawk. Hoka hey!
“The bad man cried out in terror. I struck him and counted coup like a warrior and did not let him shoot my Bright Star Falling. I saved my sister, just as Buffalo Calf Road Woman saved her brother.
“And I felt they would name this The Battle Where the Winkte Saved His Sister. Do you think they will name it that?”
I nodded and said yes to his nonsense, wondering why this time his fantasies had led him to save me instead of a handsome young brave.
He hugged me with sudden ferocity. “My sweet sister. You looked so scared and lost and afraid. I was happy to save you.”
When he let me go there were tears streaming down his face, and I understood that, even though it was a dream, the dream world was as real as this world. To him it had happened and was worth his tears.
The Greasy Grass
THE CAMP HAD INDEED grown when we found it by the river they called the Greasy Grass. It had almost doubled in size. They had been right when they told us Indians were pouring in from the reservations every day.
It was the last chance to hunt the buffalo. It was the end of it all, but if they knew it, it did not show on their faces. The camp was a haven of peace and light and there was dancing every night.
As we followed the river we came across the Hunkpapa camp first at the southernmost tip of the great gathering. It was tradition for the Hunkpapa to take this place at the entrance to the great circle. That is the meaning of their name.
We pitched our lodge at the edge of camp and fell into it with gratitude, tumbling into sleep almost as our faces hit our buffalo blankets. We had, of course, reported our sighting of the advancing soldiers but our words were greeted with no great surprise. Soldiers had been sighted in all directions, all around. Many thought they would leave us alone if we left them alone.
Our news held no excitement for anyone, they were more excited by the story of the Suicide Boys. About twenty Lakota and four Cheyenne braves had taken a vow to fight to the death in the next battle and in the space of a day, without ever having distinguished themselves in battle, they had become Men who are Talked About.
Little Star sulked. “I should be one of the Suicide Boys too.”
“Why would you want to do something so stupid?” I asked.
“To be a great warrior! To die with glory and have Crazy Horse lift my poor broken body from the battlefield and carry me to a burial scaffold and announce to the Lakota nation that Little Star is the bravest man he’s ever seen. If I hadn’t spent so much time making markers with you, I would have had my chance!”
I just laughed and drifted into sleep.
At the dawn, we walked around the camp to get a sense of its breadth, and it took us most of the morning to circle it.
Next to the Hunkpapa were the Sans Arc, camped along the riverbank, which was screened by trees. All along this bank were over two hundred wickiups, where those coming from the reservations had camped on the fringes.
When we came to the Miniconjou camp, the trees gave way to a view across the river where a coulee snaked down from the bluffs to the north that overlooked that part of the camp.
As I stared across the river at this coulee, I had a strange sense of something. I imagined a giant yellow serpent coiling down its ravine, slithering from the mouth of the coulee, its fat green eyes wide with greed, red tongue flicking in and out.
This was where the soldiers would attack. They could approach hidden by the bluffs on the other side and ride down this coulee and ford the river here, riding straight into the camp.
But here it would be dangerous. It was the middle of the camp. They might be instantly surrounded because the giant camp continued along the riverbank.
And yet this was a place called the Greasy Grass, not the Little Bighorn, so it would not happen till we moved once more. No one would attack from here.
We paced on, far to the north and recognized many Cheyenne who’d fled to us in the spring. Some of them called out to us as we walked through their camp, and made us sit and eat with them. They had not forgotten our kindness in taking them to our hearts when they had nothing.
We circled back along the edges of the Cheyenne camp and passed the Oglala — the largest camp there — and then the Blackfeet and the Brulé, till we came back finally to our Hunkpapa lodges.
Little Star laughed in amazement. “Truly, there has never been a gathering as great as this!” He cooed at the sight of so many braves, working them out on his fingers. “There must be three thousand, maybe four. There will be so much dancing tonight.”
It was true. We were safe. This place was a sanctuary. I could relax and enjoy the few days of peace before the fighting commenced. But I wondered how long it would be before the criers came walking through the camp to tell us we were moving to a place called the Little Bighorn.
Little Star could see that I was troubled.
“What is wrong? Why do you frown so much?” he asked, stroking my hair and fussing over me in that way he always did.
“Have you ever heard of a place called the Little Bighorn?” I asked.
He laughed and slapped me with the turkey feather fan he’d been flapping around his face all morning. “Bright Star Falling, you’re such a tease.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
He waved his fan at the banks of the winding river. “It’s right here,” he said.
I stared at the river, where children splashed in the water and women picked herbs from the banks.
“But this is the Greasy Grass,” I said.
“Yes it is. In Lakota. But the Crow call this river the Little Bighorn. And the whites too. What is it, my sister? You have turned all pale again.”
I didn’t answer him. I turned and fled, running across camp, heading straight for Sitting Bull’s lodge.
Sitting Bull and White Buffalo Calf Woman
SITTING BULL’S LODGE was easy to find. It was larger than most others and its hide walls were painted with colourful depictions of his famous battles.
As I ran to the lodge door flap a huddle of dogs curled up in the sun jumped to their feet and barked at me.
There were dogs all over the camp and I always wondered why they were so stupid to stay with us when in the winter and meat was scarce they would end up in a pot. But it seemed they had no sense to see beyond the summer months when buffalo meat was plentiful and they could live off our scraps.
They barked their warning and I stood just out of reach, waiting for someone to emerge from the lodge and invite me inside. It was not the dogs who stopped me, a swift kick would dispel them, but it was not right to intrude on a lodge. A visitor always waited to be invited in.
After a minute, my heart thumping as if the soldiers were already riding into the camp, the flap opened and Seen by the Nation came out. She was the elder of Sitting Bull’s two wives. He had married sisters, and though many thought it unwise, no one had ever seen them fight or heard of any jealousy between them. He loved them equally, and they he.
Seen by the Nation looked me up and down in the way that most winyanpi did, as if I were the woman who might steal all their husbands from them.
“Why do you call here and disturb us?” she asked.
I heard the babies crying inside, the twin boys that had been born to her sister, Four Robes, only a fortnight ago.
“I must see chief Sitting Bull,” I said.
“Must?” she asked. “Who is this white mouse that thinks she can demand an audience with the mountain lion?”
I bit back the urge to slap her face. But I knew that if I were to talk to Sitting Bull, I would have to charm her. “Pleas
e forgive me, Seen by the Nation,” I said, bowing my head to her. “I would not disturb you, nor your husband, but I have news that our chief might want to hear. News of soldier movements heading this way that we saw as we rode in yesterday. I respectfully wish to report it. As is my duty.”
She smiled and stood an inch or two taller and nodded, satisfied with my deference. “Wait here and I shall see if our great chief wishes to see you.”
I stood, with the dogs staring and growling for five minutes, all the time expecting to hear the first gunshots as the soldiers arrived.
Eventually, one of Seen by the Nation’s teenage daughters came out and beckoned me inside. It was a calculated insult by her mother. Having been the person to come to the door, she now took her seat inside the lodge and sent a child to fetch me. But the child’s smile was warm and I took it as an encouraging sign that her mother’s iciness had thawed.
The lodge was dark inside and thick with sweet smoke, warm and pleasant and I felt a wave of soothing air waft through me. It was nothing I could see. Perhaps it was simply the presence of the great man himself.
He was reclined, propped up on buffalo hide blankets, topless and wearing no feathers, the cuts all along his arms still raw and his eyes swollen from the Sun Dance he had performed a week ago.
His ancient mother, Her Holy Door, sat and cooed over the twins, with Four Robes, who showed no signs of fatigue from her recent birthing but looked as fresh and vital as a prairie rose. As well as the twin babies, there were plenty of other children inside and I tried not to show too much disgust, but they were quiet, at least, and most people inside the giant lodge were preoccupied with the gurgling twins.
It was a long time before I told Sitting Bull what I knew. It is not the Lakota custom to blurt out information. First a pipe must be smoked and greetings exchanged.
Sitting Bull waved me towards a seat that faced the doorway, from the other side of the fire. The place of honour. I could see Seen by the Nation do a little sick in her mouth at that but I didn’t care how she felt about me. It was only Sitting Bull’s opinion that mattered.