by Sitting Bull
Late the next afternoon, the shrieking members of the victorious war party rode into camp, circling among the lodges and boasting of their accomplishments. The stolen horses were parceled out among family and friends, after the warriors had picked one or two apiece to keep for themselves. The trophies were put on display and caused a sensation, especially so the severed genitals. These were subjected to disparaging evaluation by the older women, causing the younger women to titter among themselves.
The boys too young to have been on war parties of their own seemed especially interested in the scalps, and they approached with some trepidation, prepared to run should the absent Crow owners suddenly materialize under the disheveled and bloody hair.
Sitting Bull, as was the custom, had sung his own praises, then retired from center stage to let the more experienced warriors have the spotlight. During the animated retelling of events, one of the young women noticed the Crow prisoner and started to whisper to a neighbor in the crowd. Before long, ripples of conversation had spread, and it began to look as if the women were more interested in the Crow woman than in the achievements of their own men.
Sitting Bull was curious and watched the phenomenon with some bafflement. He moved closer, intending to ask what was going on, but before he had a chance the women broke away from the crowd and rushed toward the Crow prisoner. They knocked Short Elk aside and swept the Crow woman from her pony, dragging her toward the edge of the village.
Sitting Bull could no longer restrain himself and moved into the crowd. He was surrounded by other warriors, most of whom wore the same baffled expression. Short Elk was jumping up and down, trying to make himself heard. He was aptly named, being no taller than most of the women, so he was having some difficulty getting their attention.
“What’s happening?” Sitting Bull asked One-Horned Elk.
“They say they know the Crow woman. They say she is loose, that she has no morals.”
“How do they know that?”
“Blue Eagle Woman told them. Remember two years ago she was taken by the Crows? They held her for nearly a month before we were able to get her back. She says the Crow woman went from lodge to lodge, sleeping with every Crow who would have her. The women think she will do the same thing here, if Short Elk is allowed to keep her.”
“But what business is it of theirs? If Short Elk wants to keep her, it is up to him.”
“They won’t give him the chance,” One-Horned Elk said. “Watch.”
The woman was swept away now, beyond the edge of the camp. The chattering Hunkpapa women dragged her by the hair, kicking and clawing at their legs as she tried to break free. Near the river, they hauled her upright and proceeded to lash the prisoner to a cottonwood.
The women fanned out then and disappeared into the brush along the riverbank. They reappeared with their arms full of dry branches. Sitting Bull couldn’t figure out what they were intending to do until one of them ran back to the camp, returning with a burning brand. Now he knew they were planning to burn her alive.
Chewing on his lower lip, he tried to decide what he should do. It was not his right to interfere. Lakota society didn’t work that way, and anyway, he was too young for anyone to pay attention to. If he had been older, with more coups, more authority, perhaps he could have reasoned with them. But he knew he didn’t have enough of either, so he didn’t try.
Instead, he paced back and forth, more and more upset at what was about to happen. The Crow woman seemed to understand now, too, and she started screaming insults at the Lakota women, spitting at any of them who came within range. The woman with the brand waited nearby while her allies yelled insults. Once, she feinted with the torch, sweeping it in under the Crow woman’s nose and singeing her hair in the process. The stink of burning hair reached all the way to where Sitting Bull was standing, and it nearly turned his stomach. He had killed his share of Crows, but that was in battle. That was different somehow. This wasn’t right. He knew it, but didn’t know how to prevent it from happening. Once, he thought to cry out to the women to stop, but his voice caught in his throat.
He continued to pace as he saw the torch tossed on the heap of bone-dry branches. The flames jumped and sparks drifted upward on the current of heated air. The Crow woman screamed as the flames began to lick at her legs. The smell of singed buckskin filled the air as the fire started to burn her dress.
Sitting Bull could stand it no longer. He took his bow from his shoulder and fitted an arrow to the string. Without a second’s hesitation, he drew the bow full, until the arrowhead nicked his knuckle, and let it fly. He was noted for his marksmanship, and his skill served him and the Crow woman well. The arrow pierced her heart, killing her instantly.
The women fell silent, turning to see where the arrow had come from. Sitting Bull stared at them, daring them to say something, but the women, cowed and ashamed now, could not look at him, They stared at the ground and one by one slunk away. The flames climbed higher as Sitting Bull turned his back and walked up into the hills. He had to get away, to be alone, to think about what he had witnessed, to try to understand it. But he knew he could not.
Chapter 11
Yellowstone River Valley
1851
SITTING BULL WAS GAINING greater prominence almost daily. Every time a war party went against the Crows or the Assiniboin or the Arikara, he went along. And there was hardly a time when he came back without another coup.
His prominence as a warrior was now matched by his increasing reputation as a composer and singer of songs. His studies with Four Horns and Black Moon continued to deepen his awareness of the great mysteries that surrounded the Lakota on every side.
If anything, as a young warrior of twenty he was even more fascinated by nature and its complexities than he had been as a boy of five. He never missed an opportunity to watch the world around him. Nothing escaped his attention—not a single leaf floating on a current of air, not an ant stumbling its lonely way through the grass, not the solitary howl of a wolf at midnight. The more he knew, the more he wanted to learn.
His insatiable curiosity left him little spare time. And there were occasions when it seemed that he was every bit as much the object of curiosity for others as the world was for him. As a renowned warrior, he was considered a good catch by the young Hunkpapa women of marriageable age. As a member of an influential family that included chiefs and holy men as well as great warriors, his desirability was considerably enhanced. Everyone knew that he was destined for great things. He was famous throughout the Lakota nation for being the fastest runner anyone had ever seen, and he never missed an opportunity to demonstrate his great speed … especially when someone was willing to bet a horse or a buffalo robe.
And those footraces, in which only Crawler could come close to catching him, were run under the admiring gaze of the young women of the village. More than once, after leaving an opponent in the dust, he would stand at the finish line with the young women gathered around, congratulating him.
As busy as he was, he had not failed to notice that one young woman seemed more than fleetingly interested in him, and he was flattered by her attention. Light Hair was considered a real prize, and more than one suitor for her hand had been sent packing. It was not that the marriage gifts the warriors offered were insufficient, either. No amount of bartering between the would-be husband and her family made any difference. Light Hair knew what she wanted, and what she wanted was Sitting Bull.
He was beginning to think that maybe he wanted Light Hair, too. Like the other young men, he would occasionally wrap himself in a blanket, leaving little but his eyes exposed, and pull a prospect under the blanket for a few minutes of conversation. Light Hair knew that he was special and hoped that he would realize that she was his for the asking. But she was not going to compromise her reputation to win him, either. Lakota courting customs were clearly defined, and one flouted them at great risk. As the daughter of a chief, Light Hair was not prepared to take that risk, because it was not ju
st her own reputation that would be tarnished, but that of her family as well.
She had been watching Sitting Bull for more than six months before he finally invited her under his blanket. They stood there talking quietly, Sitting Bull clearly nervous and not saying much. She didn’t want to seem pushy, but neither did she want to waste an opportunity that, for all she knew, might not come again any time soon.
“Maybe we could take a walk,” she suggested.
Sitting Bull seemed baffled by the suggestion. “A walk? Why?”
“Maybe your tongue will loosen if there are not so many people watching us so closely,” she said.
Sitting Bull conceded the truth of her observation with an embarrassed smile. “I can sing better than I can speak,” he explained.
“I never noticed,” she said. “You didn’t seem to have any trouble talking to Pretty Door a few days ago.”
“She is easy to talk to.”
Light Hair bristled. “And I’m not?” she demanded, making as if to pull the blanket aside and leave him standing there.
“No, no, I don’t mean that you’re not easy to talk to. I just meant that …”
“Well, what did you mean?” She had the hook set now, and she was not about to cut him loose easily. He would have to fight to spit it out.
“I, uh … I just meant that it’s easy to talk when it doesn’t matter.”
“Is that supposed to mean that talking to me matters more? Or does it mean that the less it matters, the less you say?”
Once more, Sitting Bull squirmed uncomfortably. It was not going nearly as well as he had hoped. And Light Hair was not doing anything to make it easier for him.
She tapped him on the chest. “You are such a fast runner, but right now you don’t seem fast at all. You seem like you have turned to stone.”
Sitting Bull just bobbed his head. This woman was worse than any Crow war party. She made him feel like a five-year-old again. And for a moment, he wished he were. It was a lot easier to get a girl’s attention by chasing her with a dead fish or pulling on her braid than it was to be standing there alone together, the whole world shut out by the blanket.
Light Hair was beginning to think that she had pushed him too hard, and decided to make it up to him. “I was just playing,” she said. “Trying to make you less sure of yourself.”
“You managed that quite well,” Sitting Bull acknowledged.
“Maybe we will do this again, when you have more to say,” she suggested.
Again, all he could do was nod his head. When she pulled away from the blanket, it was left dangling from one shoulder, and he felt suddenly naked. He saw that the other courting couples were watching him, and he turned away, wrapping the blanket around himself again, and stalked off to Jumping Bull’s lodge where no one could see how flustered he was.
When he went inside, Her Holy Door glanced up, then went back to her quillwork. But she was not going to let the opportunity to instruct him pass unremarked. “You should have done that a long time ago,” she said.
He looked at his mother curiously. “Done what, made a fool of myself in front of the whole village?”
“You didn’t make a fool of yourself—or no more so than anyone else, anyway. Your father was no more accomplished at courting than you seem to be, but we managed to find each other. If Light Hair is meant for you, it will work out. At least now she knows you are interested.”
Sitting Bull walked over to sit beside his mother. “You think so?” he asked.
She nodded. “I know so.”
“Do you think she is a good match for me?”
“That is not for me to decide.”
“But what do you think?”
“I think she comes from a good family. She is pretty, she is strong, and she will keep you in line. From where I sit, you could do a lot worse than Light Hair.”
“Then I will have her.”
His mother laughed. “It is not that easy. The question is not whether you will have her, but whether she will have you. She knows what she wants, and if she wants you, then you will have her. You are not the only young man in the village who has an eye on her.”
“Who else?” he asked, sitting a little taller. “Who else?”
Her Holy Door shrugged. “I don’t know all their names. But if you want her, you had better let her know it … and soon. She won’t wait forever for you to find your nerve.”
Sitting Bull took the warning to heart, and six weeks later he and Light Hair were married. To celebrate the wedding, they went off alone on a hunting trip. It was a strange experience for Sitting Bull. He had spent twenty years in Jumping Bull’s lodge. He had hunted for his family and for those in the village who could not provide for themselves. Now he was standing on another threshold. He had taken the step, but realized it was going to be a while before he understood its full implications.
Getting away by themselves was a good way to begin. He had his own lodge now, with Light Hair there to share it with him. Someday there would be children, and he could do for them what Jumping Bull had done for him. His new life was going to take some getting used to.
On the second day away from the main village, they encountered a small herd of buffalo, and Sitting Bull brought two down. He and Light Hair butchered the animals together, and it seemed like a perfect beginning to what they both hoped would be a lasting thing. Jumping Bull and Her Holy Door had been together for more winters than Sitting Bull had been alive, and the match seemed ideal. He could only hope that his own would be as successful.
Two days later, while moving their lodge, they spooked some deer, and Sitting Bull again turned hunter, dropping a big buck this time. Once more they butchered their kill, and it was obvious they were already beginning to work well together. Sitting there on a hill that night overlooking their lodge, they talked about what it would be like to grow old together. Sitting Bull was finding it harder to ignore the reality of age now that Jumping Bull and Four Horns were getting on in years.
As a young man you took your elders for granted in some ways. It wasn’t that you didn’t respect them for what they had accomplished or what they knew. Lakota culture was based on reverence for the old, for their contributions in the past, and their ability to continue to contribute in the future. If you thought about it all, and as the descendent of holy men and medicine men Sitting Bull thought about it more than most, you realized that your elders had made everything possible. It wasn’t a long leap from there to understanding that by fulfilling your responsibilities now, you were continuing that tradition, making it possible for those who would come after you to experience the same things you had experienced.
But there was another way in which you never thought of the old as anything but old. It was as if they had always been there, the wrinkled skin never smooth, the gray hair never blue-black, shining in the sunlight, the flesh on the arms thick with muscle, corded with tendon, instead of slack and soft, the way it looked now. It was hard to think that the same thing would happen to your own body, assuming you lived long enough for aging to take its normal course.
It was easier sometimes not to think about such things. It was easier to lie back in the grass, knowing that your lodge was warm and dry, that you had food, and that everything you needed was out there, if only you had the strength to get it.
Wrapping his arms around Light Hair, he tried not to think at all. It was better to savor the moment, thinking only about the two of them, being young forever and then one day simply vanishing from the face of the earth. There would be no slack skin, gray hair, or aching joints. They would be there one day and gone the next.
They watched the stars and whispered, enjoying the smell of the flowers surrounding them in the dark and the scent of crushed grass beneath them. High above, the stars were cold white points against a blue-black sky, you knew there were things you did not understand and could not control. But as long as they stayed where they were and you stayed where you were, it didn’t matter.
&nbs
p; They slept on the hill that night, not intending to, just dozing off peacefully in each other’s arms.
The next day they moved their lodge again. It was already beginning to be old hat, as if it were a thing they had always done, but somehow it was exciting and new, too.
That evening, camped along a creek, the lodge up against some cottonwoods, Light Hair made some broth from the deer. She used a horn spoon to skim some of the fat from the boiling liquid. Sitting Bull was sitting across from her, watching everything she did as if it were something no one had ever done before. He saw her freeze and he tensed, instinctively realizing that something was wrong.
Reflected in the slick grease in the spoon, Light Hair could see a cottonwood limb through the smoke hole at the top of the lodge. In the center was the face of a Crow warrior, staring down at her. She whispered to Sitting Bull, “Don’t look up, don’t even move.”
Without waiting for an explanation, he reached for his bow and quiver, sliding an arrow out with his fingertips.
“What is it?” he whispered.
“There is a Crow looking down at us from the top of the lodge.” He started to move, but she hissed, “Stay there; don’t let on that we know he’s there.”
Sitting Bull notched the arrow and in one swift movement drew it full and let it fly through the smoke hole. They heard a thud and Sitting Bull ran for the entrance, already notching a second arrow.
Outside, on the grass under the trees, he found smears of blood. He knew he’d hit the Crow, but did not know how badly. Nor did he know whether the Crow was alone or had been scouting for a larger party.
They broke the lodge down and packed hurriedly, deciding that it would be best to return to the main village. If there were Crows in the area, they could not afford to be out alone.