Lakota

by G. Clifton Wisler

  "Hau!" Tacante screamed, charging to intercept the wasicun. The bluecoat heard Tacante's galloping horse and managed to fire a shot. The bullet sliced a path through Buffalo Heart's ankle, but the young man swallowed his pain and raised his captured pistol. He fired at the wasicun, and the bluecoat's head snapped back. For a moment powder smoke obscured the scene. When Tacante broke through the sulfuric haze, he saw the soldier lying on the ground, his face bloody and his eyes frozen in death.

  "Hau!" Tacante's companions shouted as he jumped to the ground and counted coup on the corpse.

  "Take his scalp," Hokala advised, holding up the scalp lock of the first dead soldier.

  "Hau, mark him in the Lakota way!" Sunka Sapa added.

  Tacante gazed down at the lifeless soldier. He wasn't old and hairy-faced like the ones at Fort Laramie. His glazed eyes were blue like summer sky, and his hair was almost yellow. Two medicine stripes marked his shirt. Ah, he was a minor chief, and yet so young! Hau, it was a brave heart who could kill such a wasicun.

  Tacante knew what he now must do, but the cutting didn't come easily to him. The anger in his heart born at Blue Creek wasn't strong now. He found himself wondering about the dead wasicun. Was there a wife and children? Perhaps he had a young brother to show the manhood ways.

  "More are coming!" Waawanyanka cried. Watcher was always the keen-eyed one, and he'd spotted a column of bluecoats riding hard from the fort. Tacante swallowed hard, drove his knife below the hairline, and cut the small square of scalp from the bluecoat's head. He then held the yellow hair up for his admiring companions to view. Sunka Sapa pounced upon the corpse and opened a gash on the soldier's thigh. It was the way Lakotas marked their enemies. When such men's shades limped on the other side, all would know it was a brave heart Lakota who made it so.

  "Tacante, Hokala," Sunkawakan Witkotkoke called. "Follow me!"

  The young men scrambled atop their ponies and rode after the Horse. The three of them became decoys now, but the soldiers had chased enough. Two of them were dead, and another was struck in the hip by an arrow. The bluecoats recovered their dead and turned back toward the woodcutters.

  Many would have been satisfied with the victory, but Crazy Horse turned his attention again to the woodcutters. He left his horse with the boys and led the young men up the hill where the soldiers were chopping cottonwoods. Soon a cutter howled out in pain as an arrow bit into his neck. Another cutter was pierced through the heart and fell dead. It was as if the hillside had come alive with silent death. Lakotas could stand, fire an arrow, and hide again before the dull-eyed wasicuns took notice. Silent death struck again and again until the woodcutters threw down their axes and fled.

  Hokala and Cehupa Maza hurled insults at the escaping cowards. Sunkawakan Witkotkoke knelt beside Tacante's foot and examined the wound, which was now bleeding freely.

  "Little brother, there are few brave hearts. It's not good to count coup and bleed to death the same instant!"

  It was Crazy Horse's way to make light of a wound, to scold in a friendly manner. The Horse cut a slice of fresh elk meat he carried in his food bag and placed it over the gash. Then he bound the wound with rawhide strips.

  "See it is tended," Sunkawakan Witkotkoke advised. "Soon we'll teach the wasicuns another trick."

  "Hau!" Tacante responded. He mounted his horse and headed toward the distant lodge of his father. Waawanyanka and Sunka Sapa returned to their watching hill. Hokala and Cehupa Maza accompanied their wounded friend homeward.

  "We've become great warriors today," Hokala sang, waving his scalp.

  Tacante tried to smile in agreement, but it wasn't possible. He felt only hollowness, for killing weighed heavily on some. Tacante's friends thought him weak from pain, but the ankle barely throbbed now. It was the haunting eyes of the yellow-haired wasicun that plagued him. And the knowledge that other bluecoats must die before the Lakotas regained their lands.

  Their return to the camp brought cries of thanksgiving and shouts of triumph. Hokala rushed off to present his scalp to his eldest sister, leaving Cehupa Maza to assist Tacante to his father's lodge. Hinhan Hota received his son with a stern but approving gaze. Little Itunkala examined the clump of yellow hair and set off to boast to the other boys of his brother's triumph.

  "This is for my sister, Wicatankala," Tacante said when the Gull appeared. She took the scalp reverently, then gazed at Tacante's bound ankle.

  "My brother's done a great thing," she declared, holding the scalp high so all the assembled Sicangus could see it. "Now is the time for rest and food. Surely He Hopa's medicine will bring a fast healing."

  He Hopa, hearing his name, hobbled through the crowd. Seeing Tacante and the bloodstained wrapping, he waved his hands to disperse the crowd, then motioned for Cehupa Maza and Hinhan Hota to bring the wounded young man along. He Hopa limped back to his lodge and ducked inside. Tacante, resting now in the firm hands of father and friend, was brought along inside.

  He Hopa was already chanting and throwing bits of powder upon a small flame. The fire changed from red to blue to white as it devoured the mystic fuel. He Hopa chanted, then sourly turned his attention to the foot.

  "Ah, it's often spoken that pain is a great teacher," the old man muttered as he cut the rawhide straps and exposed the wound. "A man lives longer who doesn't rush toward wasicun bullets."

  "Yes," Hinhan Hota agreed as he sternly held his son down while He Hopa drew a knife and cut along the edge of a blackish section of flesh. The skin bled as he scraped particles of lead and powder from the swollen tissues. Then he cut the misshapen ball from where it rested against the tip of the lower leg bone.

  "Tell the girl to bring water," He Hopa bellowed, and Cehupa Maza rushed out to do it. Moments later a young woman appeared with a water skin, and He Hopa bathed the wound.

  "It smells good, and the blood is very red," He Hopa announced, peppering yellow powder over the wound. "Now I will bind it."

  Tacante winced as He Hopa applied a section of deerhide over the ankle and then laced it tight with sinew. The ankle rebelled against the binding, and pain shot up Tacante's leg.

  "Yes, pain is a good teacher," He Hopa said, laughing at his young companion's discomfort. "Girl, bring food," he barked, and the young woman rushed out to the cook fire.

  Tacante gazed through the oval entrance to the tipi and watched as she bent over a kettie. She was rather skinny, and very shy. Even so, her eyes seemed to sparkle a bit when she noticed him watching.

  "My Oglala granddaughter," He Hopa explained, grinning. "She's called Hehaka."

  Deer woman? Tacante took another long look. Her bare legs were lean and powerful, and she seemed at ease stirring the ketde.

  "Her father's lodge is full of young women," He Hopa said, turning Tacante's head away. "Too many for the old women to watch. He sends me this one to learn the healing herbs, not to waste her time on the water path or wrapped in your blanket."

  "She's too skinny," Tacante said, laughing. "And I'm too young,"

  "Ah, I read your thoughts, Heart of the People," He Hopa answered. "Keep your eyes to the warrior path. I'll look after Hehaka."

  "Han, Leksi," Tacante said, knowing the old man knew what was best.

  Still, as the healing days continued, and the ankle grew whole again, Tacante had much time for thought. Hehaka avoided his eyes whenever her grandfather was near, but when with the other maidens, she often flashed a shy smile in Tacante's direction.

  "Take care, my son," Hinhan Hota warned. "Her father is Wanbli Cannunpa."

  "Ah," Tacante said, digesting the news. Eagle Pipe was a feared warrior and a well-known chief among the Oglalas. He would tolerate no foolishness from his daughters, or from others, either. Still, the daughter of the Pipe would bring brave heart sons into the world. Tacante admired Hehaka all the more.

  It was not a time for courting young women or dreaming of the future, though. The wasicuns continued to send wood gatherers out into the distant hills, or parties to shoo
t fresh meat, and Mahpiya Luta was determined to make them bleed. Once Tacante was able to walk without opening his wound, Hokala urged him to return to the ridge.

  "Han!" Tacante said eagerly. Yes, it was time to be a watcher again. A warrior, after all, had obligations.

  Mostly the woodcutters traveled in large bands now, and their guards kept together. Oh, sometimes a wasicun strayed. Perhaps he went off to relieve himself behind a cottonwood or to fetch water from a spring. Often the wasicuns did so rapidly and returned long before a watcher could sneak among the trees and take his life. If the bluecoats were lazy or wandered a little, they died.

  Still, the best way to win a victory was to decoy a large band of the soldiers into a trap. Sunkawakan Witkotkoke invited Tacante and Hokala to join the decoys again and again. There were many hot bloods among the soldiers, and often their voices called upon the bluecoat chiefs to charge. Among the wasicuns there was a wary-eyed one, though, and even the best traps couldn't tempt him to chase.

  "White cowards!" Tacante sometimes shouted at the reluctant cavalrymen. "We are only three, and you are many. Come and fight us!"

  The soldiers cried in anger, but their chief only laughed. He had the far-seeing medicine, it was said, and he wouldn't follow the decoys.

  As the air grew chill, and the leaves yellowed and began falling from the cotton woods, a great impatience rose among the Lakotas. The Big Horn country was not a favored winter camp. Many of the Sicangus and Minikowojus had left the shadow of the wasicun fort to find better water. Other bands sent their women and little ones to shelter, for the heavy snows would come soon. Warriors young and old stayed, for Mahpiya Luta spoke strong words, and many of the young men had counted coup.

  Sunkawakan Witkotkoke was restless. He spoke little to his companions, but all who saw the strange Oglala knew many thoughts crossed his mind. Finally he gathered a band of the young men and rode north along the white man's road.

  "See," the Horse said, pointing to fresh tracks in the muddy path. "Many wagons and horses come and go here. Our watchers on the road don't have the all-seeing eyes."

  "We will watch for the wasicun wagons," Hokala volunteered.

  "Hau, we'll all watch," Sunkawakan Witkotkoke declared. "And we'll make these wasicuns turn away from our country."

  "Or die," a Sahiyela cried, raising his bow high. The Sahiyelas were still mourning the deaths at Sand Creek, and their young men were eager to charge the bluecoats. They trusted the Horse to make good plans, though, and they agreed to be patient.

  Sunkawakan Witkotkoke spaced his watchers carefully, and it wasn't long before Sunka Sapa spotted wagons. The Horse gathered his warriors and rode out to have a look. The Lakotas and their Sahiyela companions were disappointed to see a band of twenty soldiers riding with the five wagons.

  "Brave up!" Sunkawakan Witkotkoke called. "Who rides with me to decoy the bluecoats?"

  Tacante raised his bow, as did many others. Crazy Horse chose two Sahiyelas, Tacante, and an Oglala called Maka. While the others gathered along the road ahead, the five decoys charged the soldiers.

  "Hau! It's a good day to die," Sunkawakan Witkotkoke cried, as he always did. The decoys swept over a hill and were among the soldiers in an instant. The Horse fired his rifle into the face of a three-striped wasicun, then shot another bluecoat with a pistol. A wasicun rifle dropped Maka, the Skunk, but most of the soldiers were too surprised to shoot. Tacante guided his buckskin horse by pressing his knees while he notched one arrow after another and fired into the confused escort. The soldiers scattered a moment, then collected their wits and set out in pursuit of the Lakotas.

  "Upelo!" Tacante yelled to the waiting ambushers. "They're coming!"

  Sunkawakan Witkotkoke couldn't have planned it better. As the cavalrymen hurried toward the waiting ambush, the Horse peeled off into the pines with his companions and raced back toward the wagons. The soldiers thundered on down the road. Even as the former decoys approached the defenseless wagons, wild Lakota war shouts mixed with the cries of dying wasicun soldiers to create an unearthly sound.

  The wagon people looked on anxiously as the Lakotas neared. Tacante searched the faces of the drivers, noted grimly the bundled women and children staring out from beneath the canvas covers, and grew sad. These wasicuns weren't soldiers. They'd been foolish to come, but perhaps they would turn away.

  Sunkawakan Witkotkoke pulled up his horse, and Tacante halted as well. The two Lakotas seemed of one mind. These wasicuns should turn away. The Sahiyelas only wanted blood. They raised their bows and charged. One wagon driver leaped from his seat and fled. The others fought to form a square with their wagons, but the road was narrow there, and time was short. The first Sahiyela flung himself at the second wagon and drove a knife into the heart of its driver. The second cut the horses loose from the back wagon so that the trail was blocked in both directions.

  "Hau, little brother!" the Horse shouted as he slid his rifle into a deer-skin sheath and drew out a buffalo-killing lance. "It's a good day to die."

  For them, Tacante thought as he kicked his horse into a gallop. But this is no brave heart fight. It's only killing.

  As Tacante suspected, there was little fighting to it. The drivers were all dead or dying by the time the Heart reached the wagons. Some of the women fought to protect their young ones, and a few of the older boys and girls tried to load and fire old rifles. They were accustomed to shooting deer or birds, though, not firing on a charging Sahiyela or Lakota warrior.

  Tacante contented himself at first with running down the lead driver. Here, after all, was a coward that earned death. An arrow through the back felled the fugitive. Tacante refused to touch the scalp of such a weak-hearted man.

  When he returned to the wagons, the Horse motioned toward a pair of fleeing figures on the far side of the road. One stumbled and fell, but the other ran on. Tacante judged the wasicun to be a boy of fourteen summers. The Heart would have let him escape had not the wasicun produced a pistol and fired.

  "Ayyy!" Tacante shouted as he whipped his horse onward. The boy turned and ran, but there was no escaping. Tacante swung his bow, tripping the young man so that he fell hard against the rocky ground. The young Sicangu jumped down, drew a knife, and pounced on his victim.

  "God, no," the young man pleaded as Tacante grabbed a handful of light brown hair. "Mama? Papa?"

  Tacante hesitated. His heart seemed to empty as he beheld a weeping face. The boy wore spectacles. Eyeglasses!

  "Istamaza?" Tacante muttered, recalling the Lakota name given to Hinkpila's younger brother.

  The young wasicun tried to stop his tears. He managed a faint grin.

  "Plllease, lllet me . . . go," he stammered. "I, uh, nnnever, uh, oh, God!"

  The boy looked behind him, and Tacante glanced in time to see one of the Sahiyelas tear a yellow dress from the shoulders of a young girl, the same one who had followed the boy down the road.

  "Katie!" the boy cried as he groped under his knee for something. The pistol! The gun's barrel suddenly exploded, sending a projectile slicing past Tacante's head. The boy tried to fire again, but Tacante turned the barrel, and the bullet struck instead the young wasicun low in the belly. The boy grunted as he dropped the gun and gazed at the wide hole in his abdomen.

  "God, I'm kilt," he said, falling back.

  Tacante angrily gripped the wasicun's forelock and cut it away. He barely heard the resulting howl.

  "Hau, Tacante!" Hokala shouted as he rode by holding the scalp of a wasicun soldier. The Badger wore a blue soldier shirt loosely about his otherwise bare shoulders.

  A band of Sahiyelas now hurried over the scene, gazing at the corpses.

  "Ah, he'll soon die," one said as he looked upon the spectacled boy.

  "Not so quickly as he'll wish," another added as he drew a knife. The other Sahiyela began stripping the bleeding wasicun's clothes. Then two knives set to work, severing fingers, opening new wounds on the trunk, slicing an ear. . . .

  Tacan
te could stand to watch no longer. He got to his feet and hurried toward his horse. Back where the wagons stood, Cehupa Maza and Sunka Sapa kindled a fire that would soon swallow the vehicles. Waawanyanka, as was his habit, sat atop his horse and watched the distant horizon for sign of the enemy.

  Tacante joined him.

  "You've counted coup," the Watcher observed.

  Tacante stared at the bloody thing in his hand, then glanced back to where the Sahiyelas continued to cut other pieces off its owner. The wasicuns at Sand Creek had performed terrible, sickening acts upon the Sahiyelas, Tacante had learned. Women were cut open, and men's parts were cut off to be displayed as trophies. This was not war the way the old men sang of it. Where was respect for a brave heart enemy?

  "He was no older than my sister," Tacante muttered. "He fought as he could, but he was young. Now the Sahiyelas cut him apart."

  "They have bad hearts from Sand Creek," Watcher said, and Tacante nodded. "We fought the bluecoats hard, but half got away. More may come soon from the fort."

  "Then we must go," Tacante said, gazing at the madness all around him. "We're few now to fight many."

  "So talks the Horse, but the Sahiyelas will not leave, and his medicine won't let him go if they stay."

  Yes, it was a leader's way to see his warriors safely away. But to risk death for the sake of such doings was crazy! It was why so many followed Sunkawakan Witkotkoke, though, Tacante decided. For none among them would ever be left behind.

  Chapter Ten

  There was little time to celebrate the victory over the wagon train people and the soldiers. Even as Tacante joined in the scalp dance, dark clouds choked the heavens, and the first icy winds of winter descended upon the plains.

  Ah, it's right for winter to come, Tacante told himself. For surely a season of death had come to the Big Horn country. Hardly a day passed now when the woodcutters weren't attacked or wasicuns were killed on the road. There would be no more parleys, no warnings given, either, for three Oglala boys fishing Powder River had been shot by wagon people. Now any wasicun daring to cross Lakota land was killed at the first chance.