Lakota Surrender (3 page)

She would have to make that journey to the north.

Then, and maybe only then, would this restlessness be quieted.

Chapter Two

Mouth of the Teton River (The Bad River)

Upper Missouri River

“What is it, brother?” the Lakota brave asked his companion, who had broken stride.

The tall youth of twenty-three winters signaled his brother to silence as he inspected the valley below; his black eyes swept the river, the trading post, the swells of the swaying, green prairie. His gaze lingered on the trading post, that eyesore that the white man called a company; its timbered walls marred the beauty of the six hundred or so graceful skin lodges spread over a two-mile radius. The lodges were colorful, imaginative, and so much more practical than the walls the white man felt were so necessary. The youth scanned the skirt of timber along the river’s shoreline, and surveyed the murky brown waters of the Teton itself. Gentle hills rose and fell closer at hand until they gradually formed the summit where the two tall youths were stationed, leaning heavily on their bows. Clad only in breechcloth and moccasins, both young men had slung their quivers onto their backs, their shields over their shoulders.

“What is it, my friend?” the anxious brave repeated.

“I do not know, but something is wrong, I think,” Tahiska replied, his eyes examining the valley once more, studying the gentle slopes for anything suspicious in the natural order of things, listening for the usual sounds of the prairie that would warn of present danger. But he could detect nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that could explain the tension that filled his mind.

“Perhaps my brother has stood in the sun too long.” Wahtapah, too, discovered no danger and, poking his friend in the ribs, he grinned.

“Perhaps I have,” Tahiska agreed with a chuckle, his smile displaying strong, white teeth against smooth, copper-colored skin. Both youths had unbound black hair, and while the wind whipped the long ends around their shoulders, the sun accentuated the blue-black highlights. From Tahiska’s hair hung a lone eagle’s feather.

“How do you think the trade goes?” Wahtapah asked.

Tahiska grunted low in the back of his throat. “The white man is greedy this year.”

“Yes,” Wahtapah agreed. “I am very poor this year. For ten buffalo skins, I received only one steel knife. Many more trades such as this, and I could become the poorest man in the village. I have heard of white men who have a fairer trade. Perhaps our tribe should seek this out.”

Tahiska’s only response was the nod of his head.

Moving on, they descended the hills and returned to camp, their moccasins making little sound as they walked through the tall grass. As they approached upwind, the faint breeze reached out to greet them home, carrying the familiar scents of the campfires and supper. The sun was still high, beating down on those below with a deadly heat.

There was activity all around them. Dogs barked out warning of their approach, children rushed about in various states of undress, some playing hoop-and-pole, some returning from a cooling swim at the river. Older men sat in groups, gambling, while the women rushed about, working on fresh hides, attending to the meals, or some, like the children, were just returning from a swim. There were several drumbeats echoing in many areas of the camp, with a young man here and there practicing his dance steps.

“There is a dance on the other side of camp tonight,” Wahtapah said. “I think I will go.”

Tahiska threw a quick glance to his friend and grinned. “Will she be there to watch?” he inquired.

“I hope so.” Wahtapah hung his head. “She is so beautiful that I feel sick thinking about her all the time. If I can’t find a way to have her soon, I think I will fall over and die.”

Tahiska laughed heartily, knowing his friend hadn’t yet cornered the beautiful Kokomikeeis to tell her of his feelings. She was well protected by her parents and guarded tightly day and night. The maiden was indeed beautiful, and Tahiska knew his friend would have to make his intentions known soon, or risk the chance of losing her to another.

“Brother,” Tahiska began. “I have a plan. I, too, will be attending the dance tonight. Tomorrow I will tell you what to do. I am sure you can get her if you are man enough.”

Wahtapah took heart. “I will do whatever you say if I can win her hand.”

Tahiska nodded to his friend and turned toward his father’s lodge while Wahtapah walked on.

The dance was held on the other side of the village, almost three miles away from his own tepee. All the different tribes of the Lakota had come together in a great encampment, as was their custom each summer. It was a time for socializing, a time to reorganize the warrior society, a chance to discuss mutual problems. It would last two weeks or longer, ending in the excitement of the buffalo hunt.

The drums beat out the rhythm. Many of the old men sang the song, with an occasional female voice echoing the words one octave higher. Tonight’s dance was a social event. It was not to beg favors for the poor, to ask for guidance from Wakan Tanka in the buffalo hunt, or to send men off in a raid. Tonight the young men danced because they were excited, because they were happy, or, as in Wahtapah’s case, because they hoped to gain admiration from a maiden.

Tahiska danced for none of these reasons. His senses alerted him that there was danger, though he could find none; his heart was heavy, but from what source, he could not imagine. Tahiska danced to ease the turbulence of his thoughts. It was his intention to continue dancing through the night. Then, when his body reeled from exhaustion, he would seek a vision to explain this intuition and to guide him through what was to come.

The fire burned high, lending its warmth to the near naked performers. With the smell of smoke filling his nostrils, the steady beat of the drums, and the high-pitched whooping of the men, Tahiska lost himself to the dance, his own voice joining the others in song.

On the sidelines, young couples talked in whispers under blankets, proud parents boasted of their sons, young girls watched in fascination, and children imitated the stimulating dance. There was much talk and lots of laughter as those who hadn’t seen one another throughout the year became reacquainted.

It was, therefore, a shock to all when the criers burst into the dance, shouting out the news. A hunting party was returning. They had been attacked. Two were dead.

Voices were silenced; drumbeats stopped; dancers stood frozen. The fire, its embers shooting out live sparks, made the only sound.

Tahiska felt his body stiffen. His father had been amongst those in the hunting party. Tahiska’s eyes met those of his friend, Wahtapah, above the crowd, reading there the emotions mirrored in his own gaze: disbelief, confusion, amazement. It was with a sickening realization that Tahiska determined the cause for his anxiety.

Spinning, he fled in the direction of the returning party, Wahtapah, by his side.

“Take heart, my friend,” Wahtapah implored. “Your father is not among the dead, most likely.”

Tahiska dared not say anything. There was a constriction in his throat preventing speech anyway. He glanced at his friend and then straight ahead.

“Take heed, brother,” Wahtapah repeated. “He will be alive.”

But he was not. Tahiska heard the wails of his mother long before he glimpsed the men.

He searched the horses, hunting for his father’s favorite mount. The lifeless body, rolled in a buffalo robe and strapped onto the horse’s back, told its own story.

Surprise, disillusionment, and anger welled up inside him all at once. He tore through the crowd to his mother’s side, taking her in his arms as he, too, followed the procession.

Council was held two nights later. The dead had been placed high in a scaffold. Tahiska had made the structure himself, refusing the help of Wahtapah and another, Neeheeowee, who had just arrived from the distant tribe of the Cheyenne.

Tahiska had slain his father’s horse, attaching its head and tail on the poles of the scaffold to ensure his father’s spirit would ride, not walk, to the afterlife.

The seven chiefs had ordered their tepees to be brought together to form a circle large enough to seat one hundred and fifty to two hundred men. The sacred fire leaped high in the center, while in the sky, the moon cast shadows upon the earth.

After the last meal had been served, all the warriors sat on the ground while hundreds of others crowded around to hear and to see what had happened and what was to be done.

Normally men as young as Tahiska and Wahtapah were not admitted to the council, but both were included tonight for two reasons: Tahiska had this last year counted two coups, one of which was considered a great coup since he had rescued a friend from a grizzly attack; also, he and Wahtapah had been a part of two successful raids. Plus, it was his father who lay dead upon the hills.

Hawonjetah, chief of the Minneconjou, lit the pipe, presenting the stem to the north, south, east and west, then to the stars and moon overhead. It was ceremoniously passed, clockwise, to all. Not until the pipe, at last, returned to the chief did anyone move.

Finally the chief rose.

“My friends, sons, and brothers. Two of our people have been murdered. My heart is saddened, my spirit is disillusioned, but my anger grows bold over this injustice. We must punish these killers. They must not be allowed to murder again. Listen well, my brothers, for this night, we decide the course of action for our people.”

The chief returned to his seat while the one from the hunting party rose. He took his place in front of the fire.

“We were hunting antelope at a place four days’ ride south of here. The game was plentiful and we stayed five days long because our women desire many skins. It was on this fifth day that we heard thunder, but when we looked at the sky, there were no clouds. We heard the thunder again and again but could find no reason for it. Deciding it must be the firesticks of the white man that we heard, we went to investigate.

“There we saw two white soldiers dressed in blue coats shooting at the wild turkey. One had hair the color of the autumn leaves on the oak tree. His eyes were the color of the summer sky, the hair upon his face was a shade darker than his scalp. The other wore long yellow hair and his face was scarred. These men were not hunting this game to eat, and though thirty or more turkeys lay dead upon the ground, these two would not stop the hunt.

“We did not make ourselves known, but Tchankee became afraid that these two blue coats could find our camp. We begged him not to announce himself, for it is doubtful these two men would bother our village, but he insisted and broke into the circle of their hunt. Before he could speak, one white man fired upon him. Matoiwa flew out of his cover to help his brother, but he, too, was shot. We hid until the white men left. When we reached our two brothers, they held no life and the white soldiers in blue coats were gone. To follow would have been suicide. So we gathered our dead and came home. I have spoken.”

The warrior sat down and the second hunter present at the murder rose to speak. His story was much the same as the first, confirming that the two white soldiers had, in fact, committed murder.

Murmurs were traded within the circle, but none rose to speak.

Finally a young chief, Shonka, rose and strode to the front of the fire.

“Are we women that we sit here and wonder what we should do to avenge our brothers’ deaths? We all have heard the rumors from beyond the Missouri of the white man’s treachery. We have felt his greed in our trades this year. Why do we wait? There are white men here within our reach. They have cheated us this year. Are they not brothers of these white soldiers? We must avenge these deaths tonight, within this trading post. The white man has shown he has no honor; he has no soul. He must go. We must make war on these white men. They must pay for the murders of our brothers. Have we not more warriors than they do? Why do we stand here?”

At this rallying cry, warriors bounded to their feet, whooping and brandishing their weapons. Drums burst out their rhythms. Young men, hungry to prove themselves, surged to their feet, shouting.

Tahiska sat still. He was uneasy. It was his father who lay slain, yet this talk was not good. There was no honor in this. He, too, desired revenge. Anger stirred in his blood, and he, probably more than anyone here tonight, required a white man’s scalp to atone for the death of his father. But not from these whites at the post. They had committed no crime of murder. No good would come of it.

Hawonjetah strode to the center of the council. “Is there no one else to speak? Shonka speaks with the fire of the young. I, too, desire revenge. But from these people at the trading post? Must we, too, become murderers? What will become of us if we begin to kill people who had no part of another’s murder? Do we not ourselves become like them? What do you say?” Hawonjetah spoke directly to Tahiska. “Was it not your father who was slain?”

Tahiska jumped to his feet. He tread swiftly into the center of the circle.

“You are right to ask me, chief of the Minneconjou. I, too, believe we must avenge these deaths, but not from the white people here.”

Hawonjetah, satisfied that the young man would speak, turned and resumed his seat at the head of the council.