Lakota (3 page)

From Tacante, Mastincala learned to observe his brother creatures, especially Rabbit.

"You may be small," his father taught, "but so is Rabbit. See how he goes where the fox cannot follow. He has no bow or knife, yet he wounds those who would bring his death. Learn this lesson, little one."

Mastincala watched the other creatures, too. Antelope showed how the fleet might escape harm. Fox taught the patience of a good hunter. Bear used his great power and stamina. And Uncle Buffalo, he that was sacred above all creatures, showed how one walked the sacred path, taking only what was needed and giving in return what he could.

He Hopa took great interest in Mastincala, and the medicine man devoted many days to teaching the lore of the tribe. Sometimes the two would walk beside the river and share some story of the long-ago times. Mastincala took each word of those tales to heart, for there were lessons within. And when He Hopa showed which roots or moss could take the fever from the sick, or where the sacred medicine paint came from, Mastincala remembered. Knowledge brought power. This much he knew as a boy in his seventh summer.

From the time of the bear dreaming, Tacante looked at his son with new pride. Now, when the band moved after the buffalo, Mastincala was sometimes allowed to ride with the men, out ahead on a scout, or perhaps to hunt game for the supper kettle. Tacante and Hinhan Hota, the Gray Owl, often fought mock battles with the boy or wrestled with him in the deer meadows. Hinhan Hota showed Mastincala a fine new bow cut from the sacred wood of the ash.

"This bow will be yours, my son," his uncle said, for in the Lakota way, a father's brothers are one's fathers also. "When you can pull the bowstring, then we will set off into the thickets after deer."

"Will that be soon?" Mastincala asked.

"Soon," Hinhan Hota answered, lifting the boy onto one shoulder. "The moon will be born whole and be eaten many times before you have the arm to pull the string. Your heart would pull it now."

"I'm but a rabbit among boys," Mastincala complained.

"Remember, little one, rabbit is clever. And the arm will grow larger and stronger. Others may pull it before you, but they won't have the true aim that lies in your eye. Who among them struck bear? Hau! Whose heart is greater than Mastincala?"

The boy grew warm in the glow of such praise. It wasn't often the Owl spoke such words, for it was Hinhan Hota of all the men who undertook Mastincala's education in the ritual and rule of the Lakota camp. Too often Gray Owl sternly scolded Mastincala for teasing his sister or speaking to his mother.

"You are old enough to begin walking a man's path," Hinhan Hota declared. "From this time you must address Tasiyagnunpa, your mother, only through others. Your sister, Wicatankala, must be treated much the same. It is hard for one without brothers. But Tasiyagnunpa, your mother, is young. Perhaps one day you will call someone
Misun."

Brother? Mastincala considered the matter cautiously. After all, brothers had been born before, but the light quickly left their eyes.

"Yes, Hinhan Hota," Mastincala finally said. "A brother would help with the labors. I could teach him many things, even as you have shown me. I have no friends among the other boys. They say I am white, like a winter rabbit, even after my skin has grown dark and brown from the summer's sun."

"The spirits send trials to make you strong."

"Ah, so many?" the boy asked. "When the time of the hunt is over, maybe Hinkpila Le Doux can come to our camp. There is room in my father's lodge."

"Perhaps," Hinhan Hota agreed. "When the eagle chief has no more anger against our people, we will surely visit the fort again. You and he can teach each other much."

"And I can wrestle Hinkpila to the ground," Mastincala boasted. "As one day I will do with you."

"Ah, when Tatanka has crushed my bones and time has wrinkled my hide. Only then!" Hinhan Hota declared. "Only then."

Talk of Louis warmed the Rabbit. He looked fondly upon the end of the hunting days. The camp was forever on the move, and everyone was weary from work. There were so many hides to work already, and the meat was still drying on the racks, those strips not snatched by prank-playing boys or prowling animals. And he, Mastincala, rabbit boy, was forever in the company of his jeering fellows, boys like Capa who stood half a head taller. Ah, Mastincala thought, how sharp the tongues of boys can be!

The hunt was over soon, but it ended in far from the ordinary way. The Lakota were camped on Blue Creek, in a place the white men in their wheeled lodges called Ash Hollow. Fools they were, those whites, Mastincala thought as he tended his father's horses. There were not ash trees there at all!

It was a well-traveled spot, however, for there the wagon trains descended a high bluff in order to follow the North Platte to Fort Laramie. Many of the whites seemed ill at ease, seeing Little Thunder's Lakotas camping so near, and they often shot off their guns to warn away Lakotas who went to trade for tobacco or lead. Sometimes a young man's blood would rise, and he would steal a horse from the wagon people.

Such unauthorized raids were a bad business. The whites grew angry, and perhaps they would shoot more often as they passed through this Lakota country. Le Doux said the soldier chiefs were angry and sent many men. He had told of how the little soldier chief at Laramie had slain Conquering Bear and others because of a single cow. Would they not be more angry over the theft of horses?

As it happened, the soldiers did come. Mastincala knew not whether the wagon people sent word of Little Thunder's camp or whether the Pawnees, who often scouted for the bluecoats, sent the eagle chief Harney upon the old enemy. It mattered little. One night Mastincala lay as always in the soft elk robe beside his father in the lodge painted with the magic buffalo figures revealed in his father's dreamings. The next morning the sky split open, and thunder exploded through the world.

Mastincala knew nothing of war. Once he had looked into He Hopa's medicine lodge when a young man caught in a buffalo stampede was brought inside. The young Lakota had lain there, his body battered and broken, the blood dried brown on his chest and trunk. The buffalo had crushed him as a man stepping upon a pine cone broke it into pieces, and death quickly arrived.

Now, as the eagle chiefs thunder guns breathed fire, whole lodges exploded. Lodge poles as thick as a man's waist snapped like twigs. Proud warriors were ripped apart like dolls made of cornstalks.

"Take your sister, Mastincala, my son," Tacante shouted as he dragged them both from the lodge. "Be a rabbit, little one. Run so that the bluecoats have no eyes with which to find you."

Mastincala thought to argue. He didn't want to run away with the women and little ones. His was the warrior's path. But Tacante waved his hand angrily at the scattering camp, at the dust rising beneath the wasicuns' horses.

"Go, my son!" Buffalo Heart cried, his eyes pleading more than ordering. "I am a shirt wearer and must look to the others. Be brave, little one. Look to your sister."

Mastincala waved Wicatankala along as he darted between the fiery mountains of black smoke. His sister fought to keep pace, but she often stumbled and fell. He muttered under his breath and pulled her along. At the edge of camp, He Hopa and others of the old men were collecting the helpless ones. Mastincala left his sister among them and started back into the battle-torn camp.

There was nothing so lovely as the circle of conical tipis that formed a Lakota camp. Little Thunder's band took great pride in its lodges, and many were brightly painted with scenes of courage and triumph. Now a storm of fire devoured half those lodges, and the surviving ones witnessed a scene of pitiless butchery. Soldiers rode their ponies down on the mystified band of men, women, and children. Capa, who had been among the worst of Mastincala's tormentors, stood bravely before a white soldier. The Beaver was yet to see his ninth winter, nor would he. The bluecoat fired a rifle bullet through one ear, and Capa fell.

For the first time Mastincala sensed the dark despair of approaching death. If a black cloud had swallowed the world, it could not have brought more darkness to his mind. Two women fought to save their blankets from a burning lodge. Soldiers shot them down, then threw them back into the burning tipi.

Mastincala froze as he saw Hinhan Hota. The Owl was hurrying a handful of little ones from the camp while firing his rifle at any white men who approached too closely.

"Run, little one!" Gray Owl shouted at his nephew. "Run!"

"I can fight," Mastincala argued. "There is the bow."

"There is a day to fight and a day to run!" Hinhan Hota yelled.

Even as the owl spoke, a wild-eyed soldier charged the fleeing children. Gray Owl fired, and the soldier's head snapped back.

The little ones fled toward the creek as Hinhan Hota worked to reload the rifle. A thin blue line of riflemen now appeared. Gray Owl threw himself on the ground as a storm of lead swept the scene. Bullets impacted on buffalo hides or lodge poles, causing sounds like the beating of blankets by old women. Another lodge fell.

The air suddenly filled with the buzzing of hornets, or so it seemed to Mastincala. A woman fell back across a cradleboard peppered with shot. Her daughter died a good Lakota, never crying out with the pain that came with the bullet. An invisible hammer then pounded Mastincala's left elbow, and he fell.

The world was like a dream now. He looked at his arm as blood dug channels through the grime. Pain erupted from his splintered elbow, and for a moment he thought his arm was likely to fall off. He clasped a reassuring right hand against the wound and saw the ball had passed on through after breaking the bone. Only then, as he searched for a strip of cloth or buckskin to bind the wound, did he realize he stood barefoot and near naked.

He crawled along the ground, finally stopping when he reached the body of the wasicun killed by Hinhan Hota. The soldier wore a fresh cloth shirt, and Mastincala had no trouble tearing it into the required strips. He then crawled onward, hoping to spy the Owl up ahead. He saw only soldiers firing volleys into a circle of Lakotas who were trying to hold the far side of the camp. Behind them the last of the women and children not escaped or killed huddled together in fear.

Mastincala couldn't help feeling proud of his people. There was only death awaiting those warriors, but they would not save themselves and leave the helpless ones to die. Two men stood tallest. Both wore warrior shirts. The first to fall was Tacante. Then the soldiers simply overran the others, and the dying took a few moments longer.

"Ah, Ate," Mastincala wailed. He made the brave song of the warriors and pleaded with Wakan Tanka to make his father's spirit path an easy one. The boy was dizzy with loss of blood, and his heart was rent in two. Nevertheless he managed to stand and watch the women and little ones racing past soldiers too consumed with looting the camp to notice them.

"Hau, Wakan Tanka," Mastincala called as he traced streaks of red down his face and chest with bloodstained fingers. "It's a good day to die, Tacante. I join you."

But the soldiers had no eyes to see the boy among them. His fiery eyes stabbed them, and his heart erased them from that insane world. But the Rabbit was nothing to trouble with, after all. They left him to wander the camp, listening to the dying chants and final mumblings of Little Thunder's people.

Mastincala knelt beside his father. Tacante's bared chest showed two holes, and another shot had pierced his hip. The shirt Tacante had been so proud to wear would now remind some wasicun of the treacherous attack on a peaceful people.

Ate,
Mastincala said silently.
Father, I would have died with you, but the wasicun won't honor me with a warrior's death. The time will come when they will be sorry. They, too, will bleed.

He felt a strong hand grip his shoulder. A white-haired wasicun stared down with strange, somehow sorrowful eyes. He spoke words beyond Mastincala's understanding. The boy knew only a smattering of English from his time in the fort. He recalled a single word only.

"Father," Mastincala explained.

The white-haired man barked at a party of soldiers who were busy collecting discarded guns. One trotted over, threw Mastincala over his shoulder, and started toward a pair of four-wheeled wagons rolling toward the creek. Mastincala kicked and struggled to free himself, but the wasicun was young and strong. His grip was iron.

I am but a rabbit,
Mastincala told himself.
Helpless. But later there will come a time. Then I will dig my hole and escape these blue-coated devils.

The sun marched slowly across the great blue sky that day, but even the amber glow of dusk failed to end the people's suffering. Among the Lakota survivors were many wounded. Others wailed the funeral song for the brave dead. In another time men would have hacked willow limbs to make travois for the wounded or to build scaffolds upon which to lay the dead. The soldiers took even the small bows of the youngest child, though, and a band of bluecoats prevented their captives from crossing the creek and visiting the slain.

Tacante should have rested in a high place, surrounded by his painted shield and an ash bow. It grieved Mastincala to know his father lay untended. The wasicun eagle chief, the one called Harney, had ordered the camp burned, and the possessions accumulated by three generations were swept into memory by curling tails of black smoke. Some of the corpses were burned as well. A few were covered with earth in the white man's way. Most were left to feed the birds.