Lakota (4 page)

Harney wasn't concerned with the dead. In truth, he seemed to have little pity upon the living. He soon ordered the survivors to move along Platte River, and his soldiers saw it done. Those too weak to walk were carried by their weary companions. The strong helped the weak. Soon, though, there were few strong ones left. The Gray Owl, Hinhan Hota, and many of the younger warriors had escaped death and fled into the hills. A few wandered in, surrendered their weapons, and joined the sad caravan. Hinhan Hota didn't.

"So long as a single Lakota lives, so our people live," He Hopa sang.

Mastincala tried to put on a brave face, knowing his father's brother, his second ate, was out among the wild things, maybe riding his horse where the buffalo still shook the earth. It was a hard thing, being brave. He gazed at the dark brown stains on the white bandage a wasicun medicine chief had put on his elbow. His whole arm hurt, but he musn't show it. He was a man now, as other boys among the Sicangu were men. They guarded their sad-eyed mothers and sisters, knowing it would be hard to follow the sacred path with no fathers to guide them.

There were some men in the camp, though. A handful had suffered only slight wounds. Others had been surprised in their beds by soldiers who lacked the wolfs hungry eye. Death had satisfied its appetite elsewhere. A few had gone to guard the women, old ones mostly, or boys not yet allowed to ride to the buffalo hunt. Among a band of children, a boy of fourteen snows seemed tall indeed.

For most, the greatest fear lay ahead. It wasn't easy facing the great unknown. What fate did these wasicun chiefs have in mind for the captives? Were the women to be taken into some chiefs lodge, as was the fashion of the Pawnees and Crows? Would the youngest boys be adopted?

When asked these questions by those Lakotas who spoke English words, soldiers laughed. They told tales of hanging men by the necks from trees or throwing them in small iron boxes. Some said the women would be given to the Pawnee scouts. Others told how boys were flayed with rawhide strips until their flesh cracked and bled. Terrible mutilations were performed. After such tales, some boys always fled the camp, and the soldier chiefs ordered the talking stopped. Some of the fugitive Lakotas were recaptured, but not many were not.

"I, too, should run away," Mastincala told old He Hopa. "I can find Hinhan Hota, my uncle-father. He will come to slay the wasicuns."

"No, Tonska," Four Horns warned. "There are a hundred times the fingers of my hands of these wasicuns. You would take the fever and die. Pray to Wakan Tanka for power, little one. The day will come for you to take up the lance."

Mastincala tried to lift his spirits at that notion, but he couldn't. Dreaming of the good fight was an old man's tonic. Too much despair choked the hearts of the young.

"Ah, it's not anger that makes your heart heavy," the medicine man said, gripping the Rabbit with both hands on shoulders seemingly too small to bear their burden.

"No," Mastincala confessed. "Taeante is dead. Hinhan Hota is gone. I am afraid."

"Afraid?" the old man asked, laughing. "What can a man be afraid of? The winds blow. Clouds bring the thunder. A man lives and dies. Why should he fear what is certain to happen anyway?"

"You're old. Don't you fear death?"

"It's part of the Great Mystery, this dying," He Hopa explained. "When we breathe no more, it seems there is nothing. But after we sleep, don't we wake to rise again? When we close our eyes on this life, we begin the long walk on the other side."

"What's it like there?" Mastincala asked.

"Ah, that is the mystery," He Hopa said solemnly. "But I don't fear what I don't know, little one. Far beyond what I can see, the sacred hoop of life continues. Other people walk other prairies there. Great waters flow into lakes larger than any I will ever see. So it's said. I haven't been there. I don't fear those places, and I don't fear the other side."

Such strong talk helped a heart be brave. It was needed, for the march to Fort Laramie was long and difficult. Sharp rocks cut the bare feet of the people. Hot days and cold nights brought fever and death. The dead were wrapped in their blankets and laid on rock ledges. The soldiers didn't trouble them, for there was great fear of fever.

Mastincala often grew light-headed, but He Hopa bled the elbow, sang a healing song, and painted the scar with healing powders.

"It will heal," the medicine man pronounced, and Mastincala cast aside his own doubts. Pain could be endured. It had been.

Most days the boys saw to the needs of those animals the soldiers allowed now to carry the very weak. There were fires to tend, too. The women and girls saw to the cooking, as was the custom. But there was no hunting or fishing or warrior games. The soldiers wouldn't permit it.

Mastincala looked forward to trail's end. There was talk among the people that the great white father might punish Harney for killing Little Thunder's people. Seven dozens were slain, so it was said. And though the soldiers spoke of a battle, Mastincala knew how many of the dead had been helpless—women and little ones. Some soldiers knew the truth. They were certain to speak it.

But when Harney's soldiers arrived at the little fort, they spoke only of the lesson they had delivered to the Sioux murderers. Sioux! These wasicuns knew so little they called the people by a Frenchman's word.

Mastincala bowed his head in shame as he and the other captives were paraded like ponies before the people of a wagon train. The wasicun mothers pointed fingers while their children spit ugly words. The men kept their rifles close by, afraid that a tired, near naked band of Lakota women and little ones would strike out at their tormentors.

Then Mastincala heard his name called. From ahead a small, dark-haired boy appeared. He wore the brown cloth trousers of the wasicun, but his shirt was of buckskin. His eyes filled with anger and sadness as they gazed upon the scarecrow features of a friend.

Your blood is mostly wasicun, Hinkpila,
Mastincala thought as young Louis Le Doux broke past the soldiers and raced to embrace his friend.
But your heart is with the Lakota people,
the Rabbit observed as he collapsed with exhaustion. And in what had grown more and more to be a friendless world, Louis's smiling face was the most welcome of sights.

A thick stew prepared by Charlotte Le Doux, Louis's mother, soon brought Mastincala back to life. The soldiers took little interest in the Lakota children, and so many of them escaped the privations of the captive camp. Post traders took some in. Others were soon accepted into other quarters. For the destruction of Little Thunder's camp did not pass unnoticed by the Lakota people. Soon an Oglala band appeared on the Platte. Among the warriors who rode to the fort was Hinhan Hota, the Gray Owl.

Mastincala's heart soared at the sight of the broad-shouldered Owl. The captive camp soon warmed with the knowledge that others thought dead were among those who had remained in the camp. Few smiled at the soldiers encamped beyond the fort buildings, though. Each sad-faced child seemed to remind its elders of the eighty-six slain.

Hinhan Hota and the others left their horses to drink at the banks of the Laramie River. They strode toward the fort with stern faces, carrying rifles, and clearly angry that so many remained encircled by the soldier camp. Mastincala wanted to rush to the men, tell of what he had seen and survived, but Louis's father, the trader Ren6 Le Doux, held the boy back.

"I will go," Le Doux announced. "Louis, you must stay here. There may be trouble, like when the soldiers marched on Conquering Bear's camp."

Louis quickly translated, and Mastincala drew back. The thought of another fight, and the loss of a second father, was more than a boy of seven could bear.

In the end, there was no fight. Colonel Harney warned the Oglalas and their brother Sicangus that the army would punish the Lakotas again should they lift their lances against soldiers.

"Ah, nothing good will come of this," Le Doux said afterward. "He treats warriors like children, and he insists on taking hostages to assure the peace."

Indeed, several young men offered themselves to the soldiers in return for the release of their relatives. It pained Mastincala to watch such fine young warriors shackled and led off to the iron-box lodge. It was said the soldiers would take the hostages far away and punish them hard for the bad deeds of their people. Even those whose blood had begun to cool had bad hearts for the wasicuns afterward.

For Mastincala, though, it was a good time. Hinhan Hota wasted no time inviting Tasiyagnunpa to his lodge. It was not unusual for a man to adopt his slain brother's family, or to wed a widowed wife. Hinhan Hota took little Wicatankala for his own, and Mastincala was soon as much a son as one born to the Owl's loins could have been.

The Oglala camp moved along as autumn approached, but Hinhan Hota kept his lodge near the fort. He, like Tacante, had been born to the Oglala band, but his new wife was Sicangu. Other Oglala warriors, some with wives and some without, chose also to adopt the fatherless among Little Thunder's camp. He Hopa, the medicine man, remained as well, and many looked to the wisdom of Four Horns for direction.

"A younger man must lead the people," He Hopa insisted. And so it came about that Hinhan Hota became chief of the band.

Mastincala swelled with pride when he learned his father was so honored. He also felt the heavy weight of responsibility that fell upon the shoulders of a chiefs son. Many eyes would follow his steps along the sacred path, and he worried he would never be tall or strong as the Owl.

"You will grow," Louis argued when the two boys spoke of it while fishing the Platte. "As I will. He Hopa says the wakan comes to us often as a trickster, and we must not let our power turn us to the bad faces, the angry ones."

Mastincala agreed. And as the moon rose and fell, he began finally to grow. No Lakota would mistake him for the giant spruce or pine, but few taunted him as the little Rabbit now. Capa was dead and the other boys stared at the scarred elbow and nodded knowingly. Mastincala, rabbit boy, had been the one to return to the burning camp. He had stood at his dead father's side. On Rabbit's face the wasicuns had read no fear.

Hinhan Hota was a quiet leader. From him came no stirring call to battle, no tall boasts. He led, and those who chose to follow did so. But his example as a hunter and bringer of ponies increased his following. The Owl raided the Crows on Powder River and swept the Pawnees south of the North Platte. And as the people journeyed across the prairie and into the hills on the sacred hoop journey foretold in the heavens overhead, he brought new hope and power to the Sicangus.

Mastincala learned many lessons from Hinhan Hota. The boy could soon recognize the fastest among a pony herd, and his strong legs and small stature made him the fleetest among his fellows. Only Hinkpila could match his pace, and the trader's son stayed mostly in die shadow of the fort.

Louis was also a teacher. Even as the Rabbit taught his friend new Lakota words, so Short Hair passed along English phrases to the young Sicangu. Louis had two brothers and a sister, and his father was glad to let the half-wild colt run with the Lakota, the people of Louis's grandmother. Hinhan Hota didn't mind. He recognized better than most the hole left in a man's heart who had no brother.

"Soon you will have a brother of your own blood," the Owl told Mastincala one night, pointing to Tasiyagnunpa's swelling belly.

The Rabbit stood as tall as a smallish boy could in his tenth summer and howled his joy. Then he turned to Louis.

"I have a brother already, Ate," Mastincala declared a moment later.

"Ah, Hinkpila, you are always welcome to my fire," Hinhan Hota spoke. "My lodge is your home. We have many Crow ponies and much wasna. We will call the people together and invite you into our family. Tomorrow we feast and make many presents. He Hopa will prepare the pipe. Mastincala will be your brother, and I will be your father. Hau, my sons!"

"Hau!" Mastincala echoed. Louis howled even louder.

The making of a relative was not undertaken lightly among the Lakota people. Even as the people gathered, old He Hopa, the medicine man, set about preparing for die ritual. First sweet grass was spread on four coals to entice good influences. Then tobacco was offered to the four directions, to Wakan Tanka, the all-knowing mystery, and to Mother Earth. He Hopa prayed to each in turn.

He Hopa brought forth Louis, the light-skinned boy, and spoke of the ancient rite of Hunkapi, the making of relatives. Once, long before, the Rees had come to the Lakota people in search of sacred corn taken by a Lakota holy man. The holy man, known as Bear Boy, was given the rite of peacemaking in a vision. Now the same ceremony brought a bonding of bands, of tribes, or even joined a boy to a family.

Before the time of trouble, He Hopa recounted, men without sons often took into their lodge a boy from a large or poor family. In such a way a promising youth was allied to a strong man while not losing his blood relations, either. Such an event was always marked with feasting and a giveaway.

After He Hopa conducted the rite, Mastincala proclaimed gifts of Crow ponies to three young men from poor families. The giving was in honor of his new brother, though the gifts went to those in greater need. The ponies being of great value, Louis Le Doux became in the eyes of the band a young man of worth.