Lakota

by G. Clifton Wisler

  He Hopa called it the bad heart winter and painted it so on his winter count.

  "Ah, that's work for the old ones," Tacante told the medicine man when he saw He Hopa scratching pigment on the smooth side of a buffalo hide. "You have many winters yet to remember."

  "Not many," the old man argued. "The cold eats at my marrow, and the power escapes my dreams. Already others make the cures. Soon I, too, will be dust."

  It saddened Tacante to think of a world without He Hopa, the Four Horns. The Heart knew no grandfather, for his was a warrior line, and the men too often fell in the hard fights against the Crows or to wasicun treachery.

  Tacante watched He Hopa's step slow as the wind whined and the snows fell. And each time the trilling of the women announced a death in the camp, the Heart of the People prayed it to be someone else.

  "What will come of us if you go away?" Tacante asked one afternoon as the sun briefly chased off the clouds and warmed the earth.

  "I no longer see what will come," He Hopa answered. "It's for the young men with power, those like you, Heart of the People, to search their dreams. Mine are clouded by creeping death."

  Tacante somberly accepted that word. When night fell, he ate nothing but a few strips of wasna, dried buffalo meat, wrapped himself in his thickest elk robe, and set out alone on the snow-covered ground. When his legs began to grow numb, he stopped and stared overhead. The sky was clear for a time, and stars gazed down upon the earth.

  "Hear me, Sky Father," Tacante pleaded as he discarded his robe. He then slipped his shirt over his shoulders so that flakes of drifting snow danced across his bare chest. "Send me a vision that I may look to the welfare of the people." The cold ate at him, numbing his fingers and then his arms. It was all he could manage to stand. Tacante knew cold could induce fever, though, and a fever often brought on a dreaming. If death came first, then still his plea would have had an answer.

  Again and again he called out to the dim lights above. Sky Father, who had joined with Mother Earth in the beginning to make the first creatures, was generous. Often he took men to the other side, among those who had passed over, so that what was to come could be seen. But as Tacante's sight blurred and frost whitened his face, no hand reached out to draw him to the other side.

  Finally there was an immense nothingness. Tacante felt himself floating, and he wondered if this was death. A voice whispered to him in an unknown tongue. And then the dream came.

  There was a long, flat hill beside the wasicun road, but where usually the pines and cotton woods grew, a forest of feathers now bloomed. These feathers grew arms, and each arm held a killing lance.

  "These I give to you," a voice called out, and a massive hand opened up. One by one a hundred naked wasicuns fell like snowflakes onto the hill. They lay there, side by side. Then a delicate white blanket fell over them, and their eyes were closed as in death.

  When Tacante awoke, the vision still flooded his mind. He tried to rise, but a firm hand pressed him flat against a stack of buffalo robes.

  "No!" a young feminine face ordered. "You must rest."

  He blinked away confusion and fatigue. As his eyes focused, he recognized Hehaka, the Deer Woman.

  "I . . . I. . ." Tacante began.

  "You were lost in the snows," He Hopa said, joining them. "Fool of a boy, winter can swallow the young as well as the old."

  "I sought a vision," Tacante explained.

  "Ah, bringing death close is a way," the old man said, laughing to himself. "Better to call Wakan Tanka to give you power."

  "The dreaming came," Tacante said then, and He Hopa grew solemn.

  "Leave us," the medicine man bellowed, and Hehaka scurried to the far side of the snowbound lodge. "What did you see?" he asked Tacante.

  "Much, Leksi," Tacante explained. The young warrior then recounted the dream exactly as it had come. He Hopa scowled for a moment, then nodded.

  "It tells much," the medicine man said. "There comes a fight. The feathers are warriors lying in ambush. The wasicuns are dead soldiers slain on this hill. Wakan Tanka sends the people a victory over our enemies. A hundred slain! Never have the wasicuns suffered so!"

  "Then I must return to the fort," Tacante said, feeling still the effects of his exposure. "It will take many warriors to fight and kill so many bluecoats."

  "You must go, as must the other young men," He Hopa agreed. "But first you will rest and make your body whole once more."

  "No, He Hopa. I must hurry."

  "Wakan Tanka gives the people a victory, Heart of the People. It is not won by you and your brothers alone. Trust in your dreaming, Nephew. All will be as the dream foretold."

  So it was that Tacante and the other young men waited a week before riding back across Powder River and up the stolen road into the Big Horns. Nights were bitter cold, and grass was scarce. The horses were hungry most of the time. In the end, though, Tacante's small band joined a growing mass that had gathered to fight the wasicuns.

  "I've had a dream," Tacante explained to Sunkawakan Witkotkoke when the strange one greeted him.

  "As have others," the Horse said, pointing to the hundreds of warriors. "You will ride with the decoys?"

  "Always," Tacante volunteered.

  The plan was an old one. Lead the soldiers to a place from which there was no escaping, and fall upon them without mercy. Always before the bluecoat chiefs had ignored the bait. Decoys taunted and insulted, but the soldiers refused to give chase.

  A different wasicun chief commanded the bluecoats this time, though. Afterward it was learned this wasicun, who had fought in the war against the graycoats as an eagle chief, boasted he and eighty soldiers could ride down all the Lakotas if given the chance. Now the chance came, but the spirits never favor the boastful.

  Tacante followed Sunkawakan Witkotkoke that eventful day. Hokala was at one side, and Cehupa Maza rode at the other. Loud was the howling as the Lakotas taunted the soldiers. Finally the bluecoat chief ordered his horns to blow. The soldiers formed a line and galloped off after the decoys.

  The trap was well laid, on the long hill Tacante had seen in his dream. It was a long way, and the decoys risked much as they slowed to let the bluecoats come close. One band of soldiers rode poor mules, and few of their horses were as good as Tacante's. Shots often whizzed through the air. One hit Cehupa Maza in the leg, but he who was called Iron Jaw had an iron will, too. The bleeding Sicangu kept pace in spite of his pain.

  Finally the decoys passed the watching ridge and headed toward the long hill. They climbed the slope with fresh spirit, for here waited their brothers. "Upelo! Upelo!" the decoys shouted again and again. They come!

  Along came the great column of bluecoats. Their horses struggled to climb the hill. Onward and onward they came. Then, atop the hill, the decoys stopped. Again came the taunts, but this time the words were spoken as to a foolish child.

  "You who would spoil the world with your stolen roads and wood-walled forts, sing a death song. For here the Lakotas will kill you!"

  The decoys charged down the slope, leaving the foolish wasicuns encircled by a great host of Lakotas.

  At first the bluecoats stumbled about in confusion. One part rode onward toward the far end of the hill. They were soon halted by a wave of charging Lakotas. The second group, most of them unmounted now, formed a circle of sorts and tried to hold back the surging bands of Lakotas and Sahiyelas. Even one bunch of Arapahos was there, eager to avenge their brothers slain on Powder River.

  For a time the snow-covered countryside was painted black by powder smoke. Among the soldiers were wasicuns with new, rapid-firing rifles. These guns cut down many warriors until there were no more bullets for them. The Lakota chiefs then drew their bands back from the hill. Most were used to fighting man against man on horseback, and charging a solid blue line was confusing. Now they sent great showers of arrows high up into the air so that they fell upon the wasicuns without mercy. Unfortunately, many arrows also fell among those warriors who rushed ah
ead of their brothers.

  Finally, as the arrows thinned the ranks of the enemy, Hokala gave a shout.

  "It's a good day to die!" he cried. "Who will follow me and kill the wasicuns?"

  "No!" Tacante screamed even as he followed his friend up the hillside. Bullets split the air, splintered the branches of the nearby trees, kicked up fragments of rock, and smashed into bone, muscle, and vitals. Hokala stumbled as a bullet smashed his knee. A nearby Oglala was struck twice in the neck, and his head sagged to one side as he rolled down the hillside. Tacante felt a bullet tear through his war shirt. Another nicked the buffalo shield. Then the first wave of Lakotas was upon the soldiers.

  The wild-eyed warriors slashed with knives and hacked with axes. The terrified bluecoats fell back in disorder, unhinging the whole line. Sahiyelas broke the circle on the other side, and now a fresh mass of Lakotas lent its force to the attack. In such close quarters, rifles and carbines were useless. Knives slashed, rifle butts clubbed, voices cursed in different tongues, and men died.

  Tacante felt as a child, for though he had fought many times, he never knew such desperation. These wasicuns stood and fought with great courage. A few tried to get away, but it was impossible, and most knew it. Tacante drove his knife into one bluecoat's chest. Even as the blade cut the life from the soldier, he struggled to free his own knife from the grip of Tacante's left wrist.

  A second wasicun ran about firing his empty pistol and wailing like a woman. No one would strike him down, for the Lakotas thought him touched. One after another of the soldiers died, but still this one crazy wasicun fired his empty gun. He was the last white face standing, and for a moment it seemed the Lakotas might let him go.

  "You can't hurt me!" the wasicun cried as he flung his pistol aside and hurried to escape down the slope.

  "Now we can kill him," a Sahiyela said, and they fell upon him without mercy. Tacante covered his ears to escape the hideous cries.

  Only the wounded were left, and Tacante gazed at the bleeding soldiers with a heavy heart. These men had fought well. Many Indians were dead or wounded, though.

  "Finish them!" one Lakota called.

  "Leave them to my knife," a Sahiyela pleaded.

  The Arapahos wasted no time. As they stripped bodies, they cut each so no whisper of life could remain.

  Tacante took the scalps of the soldiers he had killed, then descended the hill to where Hokala lay. The Badger's knee was bound already, and he was complaining that he would miss out on the many fine things carried by the wasicuns on the hill.

  "I'll see you have a rifle," Tacante promised. He then joined the others atop the hill.

  Many good rifles and cartridges were there. Tacante collected three carbines and filled a small bag with lead and caps for his pistols. As he reached down to loosen a belt from a fallen wasicun, the soldier's eyes opened.

  "I'll just be a minute dyin'," he said, wearily raising a small silver cross in one hand and mumbling to himself. "Go ahead with your work, friend. Wouldn't want them others to know."

  "You would find my knife as sharp," Tacante growled as he unbuckled the belt.

  "You got no belly for that, son," the wasicun said. "Seen you at the fort, I have. With Le Doux's boy."

  "It makes me no less a Lakota," Tacante said, drawing his knife. But before the blade could strike, the air rushed out of the wasicun's lungs. The soldier's face sank into a soft layer of snow, and it appeared he was smiling.

  "Maybe there is power in your cross," Tacante said as he placed the small bit of silver in the soldier's mouth. It would be hard to find there. Tacante then stripped the body of its heavy wool uniform, for such cloth would be hard to come by now, and Itunkala, his brother, would soon outgrow his shirts.

  As with the wagon people, many of the soldiers were cut up. A man deprived of hands or with his hamstrings cut would be crippled on the other side. Thus many believed. The Sahiyelas cut pieces off men and put them in strange places. It seemed a great game to them. Tacante kept them away from the men he had killed.

  "They fought bravely," Tacante said. "I marked them in the Lakota way. It is enough."

  The Sahiyelas thought to argue, but the fire growing in Tacante's eyes sent them away.

  "Collect the wounded and the dead," Sunkawakan Witkotkoke suggested, and Tacante slung his captured rifles onto one shoulder, hung his bow and shield on the other, and carried his bundle of clothing and cartridges down the hill. Cehupa Maza was waiting with the horses. His leg was bound, but blood continued to seep through the cloth bandages.

  Tacante secured his booty to his horse, then helped Hokala up. Once Badger was mounted, the three young men raised a triumphant howl and bid farewell to the Horse. Sunka Sapa rode by to show the scalp he took, then wished them luck on their return.

  "Watcher and I remain," he explained. "There are bluecoats yet eager to fall upon my knife."

  Tacante gazed back up the hill. He thought of the white blanket that covered the naked wasicuns in his dream. Snow was sure to come soon, but even it could not conceal the terrible fight that had taken place there. Yes, it would be a remembered batde. No wasicun who visited that place and saw that sight could hunger for the same fate.

  "Hau, we are warriors!" Hokala sang as his face twisted in pain.

  "We fight the enemies of the people!" Cehupa Maza shouted.

  "Brave hearts, sing loud," Tacante added, "for ours is a hard road."

  "Ayyy!" the three friends howled as they turned their horses toward the distant lodges that would welcome them. It was a long way to ride in such difficult weather. Already snowflakes danced like feathers in the chill north wind. The white blanket of Tacante's dream was falling upon the dead. As for the living, well, they would have to provide their own.

  "We should have taken a wasicun horse," Cehupa Maza complained. "Our people always need horses in winter."

  "We have enough," Tacante muttered. "We are alive. And we have people whose hearts will warm when we return."

  "Ayyy!" Hokala howled. "Fine scalps we bring! Our sisters will be proud."

  Tacante glanced back at his companions. Each raised a strip of yellow-brown hair. He wondered how young warriors lamed by bullets could rush on to strike down the enemy. It was the great strength of the Lakota, he decided. And the folly, too, perhaps. Those rapid-shooting rifles had cut down many warriors. Where one gun appeared, others were certain to follow. Bows and lances could never stand against such weapons. And unlike the thunder guns, a rifle could be carried across deep ravines and up great mountains.

  Chapter Eleven

  The journey to Powder River proved to be a difficult one. Tacante and his wounded friends endured the sharp agonies of biting wind and numbing cold. Their horses grew weary, for there was only the yellow buffalo grasses dug from beneath powdery snow for the animals to eat.

  Tacante also felt hunger's gnawing teeth. His food bag was nearly empty, and he gave the last of his wasna to Hokala. The Badger was hot with fever, and his knee festered. Tacante prayed they would soon be among the people. He Hopa would chase the evil odors from Hokala's leg.

  Cehupa Maza's wound grew better. There wasn't any wasicun lead in the ankle, plaguing the healing spirits a man holds in his heart. The Jaw walked with a pronounced limp, wincing when he placed weight on the injured foot, but he refused to cry out or complain. And if Tacante set off on foot to shoot game for the spit, Cehupa Maza would follow.

  They had but little success. Oh, once a small rabbit venturing out of its hole was shot, but its meat barely staved off the jaws of hunger. Tacante felt himself growing thinner. At night, when the three young Lakotas huddled in a makeshift shelter, they made a game of counting each other's ribs. And when Hokala lay shivering and moaning from the pain of his wound, Tacante spread his own threadbare blanket atop the Badger and prayed Powder River lay not far ahead.

  Fortunately, the three skeletons rode their war ponies into Hinhan Hota's snowbound camp that next day. Hokala was slumped across the neck of
his horse, and Tacante called for He Hopa, the wise old medicine man.

  "His knee's been shattered," Tacante explained. "Will you use your power to make him one again?"

  "Ah, I will try," the old one answered. "With your help."

  Tacante gazed at the medicine man with solemn eyes and agreed. The young warrior then saw to his horse, presented the scalps to Wicatankala, and briefly greeted his father and young brother. Tacante spread the captured clothes beside his mother's place near the door of the lodge.

  "These are good wool," he said, casting his eyes away from the woman's smiling face. "They will keep Itunkala warm in the coldest times. Perhaps someone will make him a shirt from them."

  "I can make such a shirt," Tasiyagnunpa declared, taking the clothes. "I'll also make my first son a warrior shirt."

  "He'd have use for it," Tacante replied.

  It was a strange way to speak son to mother and mother to son, but it prevented the softness of a woman from smothering the warrior spirit in her son. Such was the Lakota way.

  Tacante remained only another moment. His sister filled a platter with cold corn cakes and wasna, and he hungrily ate every scrap. Then, after smiling shyly toward Wicatankala, he hurried out into the cold. He Hopa had sought help. Soon it would be there.

  Tacante had spent many hours learning the medicine herbs and the power of the chants. As he stood over Hokala and watched He Hopa open the festering wound, Tacante tried to recall every word of instruction. He Hopa noticed and smiled faintly.

  "A man learns best what he does," the old man remarked, pointing toward a flint knife with a yellowing bone handle. It wasn't sharp like the fine steel blades the wasicun traders brought to the plains, but it was of the earth. He Hopa chanted as he cut Hokala's flesh. The Badger fought the pain, but still a groan passed his lips. Tacante held his friend firmly by the shoulders as He Hopa's knife cut deeper. Soon the medicine man drew out the pounded fragments of lead and small slivers of bone. After draining a yellow fluid, He Hopa called attention to the bright red blood which followed.