by J. R. WRIGHT
“My chief would like the support of the Lakhota, as he has already gained that of the Hunkpapa, the Cheyenne, and the Arapaho. As a show of strength, Red Cloud would like you to move your village to the Powder River country, as your brothers the Dakotah have already done. Maybe if enough come, the white man will abandon the road, and the buffalo will return.”
Chaska was overjoyed, but somewhat puzzled, that a chief of such obvious power had asked for the support of his small, weak village. Of what value could they possibly be? When game was scarce, as it was now, those of the tribe who were fit could barely provide the extra food necessary for those too old or too young to be of help. How could they possibly do that and furnish warriors in support of this war at the same time?
For that reason, Chaska knew he would need to reject this offer, but perhaps there was another way he could help Red Cloud’s worthy cause.
“Tell your great chief my people wish to be friends in peace with the Oglala. Also tell him that our people have a great burden to bear with so many old and very young among us. For that reason we will not be able to make the journey. But that does not mean we cannot be of help in some small way. Is there a reason you have come here without the comfort and speed of the horse?”
“With so many of the young among us being advanced to warrior, we have run short of horses not with foal at their side. Maybe in a few years, there will be plenty to go around. But for now I must walk,” the young brave sadly said.
With that, Chaska turned toward Tom Too at his side, and said in English so as not to be understood by the messenger. “Blue, go to the herders of the horses, gather ten of our finest ponies and tie them head to tail, so they may be led from one that will be made ready to ride, complete with rein and blanket.”
“Yes, Father,” Tom Too responded and ran to complete the mission.
When Tom Too returned with the generous gift, a meaty bone Chaska had given the messenger to chew on fell out of his mouth. Finer ponies he had never laid eyes on. Truly this must be a rich tribe, he thought. Even though weak in other ways, they were powerful in stock.
“My chief will be greatly pleased,” the young brave said gleefully. “He said I should not be concerned with your coloring, that your heart is Indian. The Dakotah that were once here have told him that.” He hopped aboard the lead horse. “Maybe he will let me keep this one,” he then said and galloped away, the string of ten ponies trailing close behind.
Soon after he had gone, Chaska went to the lodge of Brave Fox and told him of what he had done. The old man listened intently, then responded in a weak voice from his bed, which he rarely left anymore.
“My son has decided wisely. I have heard of this Red Cloud, when he was younger. Your white father told me of him, when the soldiers were killed at Fort Laramie. He acted bravely then; now it is good to know he is chief of the Oglala, as you said. When he comes again, it would be wise to give him even more of our horses that are suitable for war.”
“Why?” Chaska was quick to ask.
“If not give, they may take. They know now we are weak. Taking would be easy.”
“They would do that?”
“A chief concerned for his people will do what he must. That’s why he is chief. It is expected of him in time of need.”
“With all the Ojibwa horses taken years ago, and the offspring from them since, we have more than we need anyway. So many, they have become a burden to the young who must herd and care for them. We now have three for every person in the village. We could be happy with fewer,” he went on, more to convince himself that parting with so many horses was a good thing, rather than simply agreeing with the old chief. Being a wise chief was sometimes painful, he concluded after a time. That horse herd was his pride and joy, and he hated to part with a single one of them, but knew he must now – maybe as many as half, if all the stout geldings were gifted to Red Cloud. “By giving the horses, will it appear to the other tribes that we have done our share in this fight to protect our lands?”
“It seems to me, from what you said, it is our many horses they need more than our few warriors. In that case, yes. Just make sure to give them enough, so they will not feel a need to return for more.”
“But what if they do?”
“They will not want the mares with foal at side, or in their bellies. It is those that will double the remaining herd come a year from now.”
With that bit of news, Chaska brightened. There were at least four hundred breed mares in the heard. With offspring, that number would double. In a year they would be only a hundred ponies short of the nine hundred they had presently. That was if he gave five hundred to Red Cloud, which he wasn’t planning to do. He would keep fifty of the best stallions for breeding purposes. And the hunter/warriors would all be allowed to each keep their favorite gelding, another fifty saved.
“You have spoken wisely, my Father. I will do as you said. Four hundred of our geldings will go to Red Cloud to satisfy our obligation to the war effort.”
“If you are planning to hold back good horses for our hunters and stallions for breeding, you better take them into the hills before Red Cloud’s people return,” the old man said with the twinkle of a smile on his weathered old face.
“Where will I get the wisdom to lead, once you are gone?” Chaska said, returning the smile.
“You did not need me for that,” Brave Fox said. “I saw it in your head long before I said it. When a white man is going to cheat you, it shows up on his face.”
“I will be careful of that in the future,” Chaska said and left the tepee. He would meet with the two lesser chiefs this day and formulate a plan for the dividing and hiding of the horse herd.
CHAPTER FOUR
Only two weeks had passed since the runner had come from Red Cloud. Now he was back with eight mounted braves, each leading a heavily burdened mule to the center of the village.
Hearing all the commotion, Chaska and Tom Too came at a run from the river, where they had been spearing fish. Seeing the familiar face out front of the group, Chaska slowed to a walk and approached the young brave. He was embarrassed that he did not recall his name from before, if in fact he’d ever given one.
“You remember me, Cha puen kah?” he said in the Oglala Sioux dialect, as before, which was very similar to the Teton dialect the Lakhota spoke.
Being named Mosquito may be something the young brave will want to change later in life, if he is to advance in the tribe, Chaska thought.
“I remember,” Chaska confirmed, towering over the young man before him. “I’m glad you have returned. We were expecting you.”
“My chief, the mighty Red Cloud, wants me to tell you how grateful he is for the gift of fine horses. In return he has sent these things to your people,” he said, gesturing toward the eight loaded mules. And when he did, those with him cut the new jute ropes that bound the loads.
Among the items that spilled to the ground were blankets, hundreds of them, blue in color, dozens of skinning knives with black leather sheaths, white man’s trousers, also blue, along with wool jackets, a darker blue, with gold buttons. Most of those things looked very familiar to Chaska. But there were other things: spools of rope, huge bags of unroasted coffee beans, and a Spencer repeating rifle, along with a small supply of ammunition, the likes of which he had never laid eyes on before.
Mosquito presented Chaska with the rifle, and after looking the strange gun over, he handed it back. “Show me,” he said.
Obligingly, Mosquito took the rifle, leveled it at a nearby tree, and fired three rounds into it in rapid succession. Chaska then took it and did likewise. Now he realized how obsolete his village’s flint rifles were. This made him feel even weaker as a tribe than he had assessed before.
“Tell your chief the gifts are accepted,” Chaska said. “My people will make good use of these things.” Then he turned to those of his tribe who’d gathered around, waiting for permission to take from the piles, and signaled that they could proceed. “Make s
ure the old ones get the blankets,” he ordered and took aside two for Brave Fox. He handed them off to Tom Too at his side with instruction to take them to his grandfather.
“My chief also said I should ask for more horses,” Mosquito said. “He said that you should send all you can afford, since many more are needed in this war we fight for all Indian lands.”
“I have already spoken with Brave Fox on this matter,” Chaska replied. “We have decided to give your great chief all the ponies we have that are suitable for war, for this worthy cause. They number over four hundred. I hope Red Cloud will be happy with that.”
“He will be very pleased,” Mosquito’s face lit up with surprise. “My chief was expecting much fewer. How will he repay you?”
“More of the rifles would make my village strong again,” Chaska suggested, but he didn’t expect to ever receive any more of them. Surely, they could not have an abundance of this new gun, with a war going on.
“I will tell him,” Mosquito said, suddenly appearing anxious.
“I will take you now to the valley where the ponies are located,” Chaska said and walked toward his lodge where he had two old mares tied, one for himself and one for Blue. “My herdsmen there will help you drive them to your people.”
“You are generous,” Mosquito said. “Chief Red Cloud will not forget this.”
When Chaska returned to the village with Tom Too some hours later, somewhat depressed after seeing near all his beautiful horses driven off into the late afternoon sun, never to be seen again, he was dismayed to see near half the men in the village dressed in the blue soldier outfits. Even his sub-chiefs and some of the women paraded around in them. It was obvious to him earlier that all of the things sent by Red Cloud as gifts had been looted from an Army Fort or military supply train passing through. He had decided then to do away with most all of the stuff, once the gift givers were gone. He feared being seen with some of the more noticeable things by a passing cavalry patrol and being blamed for the taking of them. His little village wouldn’t stand a chance if that should happen.
“Get out of that silly outfit,” he told one of his sub-chiefs. “Gather them all and burn them!” Then, seeing Bright Moon standing over one of the open bags of beans, he asked. “What is it?”
“Coffee!” she said, curling her upper lip, as she always had ever since Chaska’s father, Tom, had given her a taste of the stuff so many years ago.
“What can we do with it?”
“Nothing,” she said. “The squirrels won’t even eat it.” She pointed to where she had tossed some near a tree. Once the squirrels sniffed the beans, they avoided them as if they were dirt. “Bordeaux sold a lot of it at the store, but the Indians that came in never bought it.”
With that, Chaska took one of the heavy bags and tossed it on the fire. Soon a rather pleasant fragrance rose up to his nostrils, and he sniffed to gather more of it. “Smells good!”
“It does. I like the smell,” Bright Moon confessed. “But it is awful bitter, like the roots we boil to treat the children’s winter sniffles.”
Before long a huge fire burned in the center of the village as the soldier uniforms were gathered and burned. It was then one of the sub-chiefs, seeing Chaska had burned one of the bags of strange beans on the fire near his tepee, came to ask what else should be added to the community blaze.
Chaska didn’t have the heart to tell the sub-chief the fine wool blankets must be taken from the old, with the chill of winter already in the air. Nor did he want to destroy the fine knives. But the cases they came in that had U.S. stamped on them should go, he told the sub-chief. As should the spools of rope. No Indian ever bought white man’s rope when braided rawhide was so much better for the lassoing of horses. It was stiff and never tangled, as opposed to the twisted stuff made from some sort of grass.
When Bright Moon took a look at the dormant fire pit before their tepee the following morning and saw the charred remains of the coffee beans, she gathered a bunch into a pot with water and put them over a fresh fire to boil. Maybe Chaska would like it? If so, they still had nine more huge bags of the dried green beans for her to roast up from time to time, as she had seen Cola Bordeaux do before boiling for James.
Sometime later she handed Chaska a steaming cup of the strong brew. After one sip he doubled back, twisted up his face and spit it out. “No good!” was his instant response, and he dumped the remainder into the fire.
With that, Bright Moon laughed hysterically for a short time. “Shall we burn the rest, then?”
“Yes,” Chaska responded, still trying to get the bitterness from his mouth by chewing on a corn cake that had been fried in buffalo fat. “But only a little each day; I like the smell.”
And it was the downwind smell from that that brought several wagons of would-be squatters in within seeing distance a few days later. This gave the young boys of the tribe great fun in chasing them off, with their coup sticks whaling, from the backs of clumsy old mares. Even Tom Too participated in this and laughed about it for days later.
“It’s a wonder you weren’t shot,” Chaska scolded. “Getting in so close is dangerous. Next time take a rifle and shoot over their heads from a safe distance.”
It was shortly after the first snow of winter had blanketed the tall pines a shimmering white that Mosquito returned to the Lakhota village. Again, he had others with him, each with a mule in tow.
“I have brought good news,” Mosquito said in Oglala as Chaska approached him in the center of the village. “The war is over. Chief Red Cloud has reached an agreement with the Great White Father. The forts have been removed, and the Bozeman road is no longer traveled. The buffalo will now return.”
“What is this agreement you talk about?” Chaska asked.
“A treaty was signed at Laramie that gave us and the other tribes there the Powder River country back, for as long as the grass shall grow and the birds shall fly. My chief insisted those words be put in. Our people are so proud of him. He is now truly a great chief. Everyone says that, even the great scout, Tom Hill.”
“Tom Hill?” Chaska was shocked to hear his father’s name. “What was he doing there?” He had retired from that, years ago.
“Tom Hill brought the cattle to the fort to satisfy the treaties from before, as he does every year. Red Cloud asked him to advise and interpret the words on the paper before he put his mark on it.”
“What about the Paha Sapa?” Chaska asked anxiously. “Was it mentioned?”
“Paha Sapa is the same, as long as the grass shall grow. Tom Hill told my chief to insist it be included, all the way east to the Missouri River.”
Chaska was happy that his father, and Red Cloud for that matter, had looked out for him and his small tribe. “That is good news,” Chaska said and turned to Blue by his side. “Go tell your mother! She has been worried for us.”
“What do you have on the mules?” Chaska couldn’t help but ask, hoping it wasn’t more of the same as last time.
“The mules are loaded with rifles and ammunition, over five hundred of them,” Mosquito said. “My chief had sent me to ask another favor.”
Five hundred rifles was still stuck on Chaska’s mind when he said, “What’s the favor?”
“My chief wants you to take what rifles you need for your warriors as a gift for the horses, and hide the rest for a time when he may need them.”
“Why would he want me to do that?” Chaska was confused. “Why not just keep them himself?”
“The tribes have hidden some, but the new treaty calls for the Indians in the Powder River country to give up their guns,” Mosquito said distastefully. “They will be coming through all the villages to collect them.”
“Will they come here?”
“Red Cloud does not think so, but precautions should be taken. If guns are found, they will be taken, and the person having them will be punished.”
“Where did these guns come from?” Chaska asked, but thought he already knew.
“They were taken from the forts when the soldiers were driven away.”
Immediately Chaska thought of the cave as a place to hide the guns. But now he wondered. That was his secret place. No one knew of it but his immediate family, including his white father. And he would like to keep it that way.
“I will do this thing for your great chief,” Chaska finally said. “I will hide the rifles in a secret place in the hills, but I will need the use of those ten mules in doing so.”
“The mules you can have,” Mosquito was quick to say. “They were taken from the soldiers as well. Eat them when you are finished with them.”
Chaska’s tribe did not eat mule, or horse, for that matter. They were different from some other Indians in that way. But he would take the mules even if he had to turn them loose when done with them. With that U.S. brand on the hip of all of them, they certainly couldn’t be kept.
When Mosquito and his group had left, Chaska called for a meeting with the sub-chiefs and hunter warriors of the tribe. Each was given one of the new Spencer rifles and a good supply of ammunition in exchange for their old French flintlocks. Those would be taken to the cave as well.
Chaska then cautioned the group about keeping the new guns hidden when not in use, and told them why that was important.