Niglíču

By Florence D'Angelo and Paul Oscar Wybrant

Niglíču was there. She saw it all. And survived it. Traumatized. It was called the incident that ended the Indian wars in the United States. Wounded Knee. December 29, 1890. But the story does not end with the devastation because two men couldn't bear to see a young girl torn by it. Two old men. A warrior grandfather and a Jesuit priest.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Independent Thinking Press
• Release date: Aug 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088236642

Book preview

Niglíču

She Comes Out Alive

A Story of Wounded Knee

Florence D’Angelo

Paul Oscar Wybrant

Copyright © 2023 Florence D’Angelo

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher.

Independent Thinking Press—Port Jervis, NY

ISBN: 979-8-9856582-2-4

Library of Congress Control Number:

Title: Niglíču

Author: Florence D’Angelo and Paul Oscar Wybrant

Digital distribution | 2023

Paperback | 2023

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Dedication

The authors dedicate this work

to each other

and

to their spouses,

Sal D’Angelo and Jing Wybrant

Contents

Niglíču

Dedication

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Part Two

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Part Three

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

About the Author

About the Author

Part One

1890

Chapter 1

Čhaŋkpé Ópi Wakpála ektá ípi.

They arrive at Wounded Knee Creek.

H

is McClellan saddle always squeaked, and especially so in cold weather. It irritated Major Samuel Whitside. He stood up in the oiled wooden stirrups and waved a gauntlet gloved hand to call a temporary halt to the caravan. The wind flipped up the cape of his royal blue greatcoat and the exposed gold caught the attention of his officers and men. They had just crossed the narrow bridge, passing Louis Mosseau’s store and the post office. He knew histroops, weary of field rations, would have enjoyed going inside, but he would not let them. Methodically fingering the fob of his open watch, he noted it was getting late. Obsessive about time and discipline, he knew there was a lot to be done before sunset.

Thirty-two years of sterling service had earned him the respect of his men. His piercing eyes and dashingly bushy moustache enhanced his stern expression and embodied him with undeniable dignity. He was not a man to be crossed.

Whitside scanned the ranks of his officers and nodded towards Lt. Harry Hawthorne. Expecting yet another interrogation from his superior so obsessed with duty, the lieutenant rolled his eyes towards his companion, Captain Wallace. Here we go again, Hawthorne sighed, urging his dark bay warhorse forward into a quick trot.

Never taking his eyes off the terrain that would become the Indian encampment, Whitside directed question after question at the lieutenant.

You’ve instructed Capt. Moylan to station his Troop A and Capt. Nowlan’s Troop I as sentinels around the Indian camp?

Yes, sir.

Hmmm. Moylan will establish twenty posts around the Indian camp and his patrols will roam from post to post. But what about the Indian camp itself? Its location?

Always making sure, Hawthorne thought. He leaves nothing to chance. His response was quick. He wanted to please his superior officer. You, sir, will direct Big Foot and his people to encamp west of the Agency Road here. That’ll lock them in between the dry ravine there in the south and that prominent hill on the north.

That’s fine, Harry. And what about your boys?

Well, yes. We’ll be ready. I will post my battery of two Hotchkiss cannons on yonder hill above the camp with muzzles pointed in enfilade at the Indians. And later today, when Colonel Forsyth arrives from Pine Ridge with reinforcements, he’ll bring in another battery. That’ll give us a total of four cannons, enough to kill half the Indians in the territory.

Did I see a shadow flicker over the Major’s features, Hawthorne wondered? Was it a wince?

Hmph. Tell me about the cannon, the Major demanded.

Major, Sir, these weapons terrify the hostiles. And being the projectiles will explode on contact even at 4,200 yards, every hostile in this valley will be within easy potshot range.

Whitside nodded somberly. How long will it take to place the cannon?

Once we get started? Thirty minutes. Forty-five minutes, at most. Major, with those big guns looking down on them, the hostiles won’t think twice about following orders.

Hm ... what time is it, Harry?

About 2:30, Sir.

And the date?

Wanting to shake his head in exasperation, but controlling himself, he replied, December 28, 1890.

Whitside again scanned the hills. "Those of us who have been in this business as long as I have, have developed a keen sense of smell for situations like this. Yes, our situation here looks good, but I don’t like the smell of it. Twisting in his saddle again to look back at his troops, he continued. I want you and your men to be careful with those big guns. Capron will probably take command of all four pieces when he comes in with Forsyth. As you know, Capron’s got a real hothead, that German Weiner, in his battery. That makes it doubly important that you keep your wits about you, Harry. And now he looked with truly stern eyes. We don’t want Wiener blowing the gates of Hell wide open. This is not the time to avenge Custer."

Yes, Sir, Hawthorne replied, and dropped back to ride again with Capt. Wallace.

What did he have to say? the captain asked.

With a nervous smile, the Lieutenant teased, He wanted to know what we had for breakfast. Asked if I was still picking my nose. He drew in a deep breath and then exhaled, puffing a fog of smoke into the cold air. He also said the situation here stinks.

Yeah, Wallace agreed, spitting tobacco juice on the dusty ground. Welcome to Wounded Knee.

****

Pȟehíŋ šašá na akhíšoke.

His hair was red and thick.

Brings Fire sat in the wagon bed chipping off slivers of dry wood from the sides. There was nothing else to do on this long journey to be with relatives. It wasn’t the usual way they had traveled. They were not bringing gifts. And never before had the Long Knife soldiers traveled beside them.

One sliver embedded under her fingernail. She pulled it loose and sucked the tiny drop of blood from the wound. With her finger still in her mouth, she tested the stability of a loose tooth. Her first loose tooth. She wiggled it. It still seemed firmly attached, but not for long she had been told. She would lose this tooth but another would come back. That’s what her mother had said. But her grandfather’s tooth hadn’t grown back the second time it came out. Maybe because it was kicked out? Maybe it was because he was an adult. When adults lose things they don’t always get them back. That’s part of growing up, her grandfather had said. He was right. Her father never came back after he went to fight the white soldiers.

Grasshopper, her grandfather driving one of the first wagons, braked, stood up, and stretched. Riding in a wagon, sitting stationary like that, was hard on his arthritic knees. Smiling wryly to himself, he remembered his knees had not bothered him when he had sat astride his war pony. No, then he had moved with the fluid motion of his mount, his thighs aware of the horse’s bellowing lungs, his calves pressing in, allowing his knees to flex as he moved up and down to the rhythm. Where are my horses now? As a warrior and respected elder, he once could count many that were his, grazing near camp, waiting for his call. Gone now.

Relative to Tȟašúŋke Witkó His Horse Is Crazy, Grasshopper was born in the Year of the Whirling Stars, 1833. Many people of the time, Lakȟóta and white, thought the stars were falling. Grasshopper felt that way now; that the stars were indeed falling. He had an uneasy feeling looking out over the terrain. His right hand reached for his medicine pouch, hanging on a thong around his neck. It, and the photo it contained, were still there. He was reassured.

Wind Woman, her mother, sat erect across from her. Brings Fire thought her beautiful although her father would never had allowed his wife to have her hair as unkempt as it was now, with a tangled nest of shorter hairs at the top of her long braids. Brings Fire closed her eyes, remembering the morning routine of her parents. She pictured her father’s strong fingers holding the long black strands of her mother’s hair and braiding them with soft fur strip. She remembered the dreamy smile on her mother’s face. Where is my mother’s smile now?

Looking ahead, Grasshopper saw the caravan had stopped. Several cavalry soldiers guarded the ambulance carrying the gravely ill chief, Sitȟáŋka Big Foot. Following behind the beloved leader were 350 of his Lakȟóta Mnikȟówožu, tired and hungry, and sandwiched between mounted cavalrymen. The halt made him uncomfortable. He looked around. With seasoned warrior’s eyes, he saw the terrain was favorable for the hunter, but a trap for the hunted.

Why have we stopped, Até? Wind Woman asked from the flatbed.

The Long Knives probably want us to camp here. They remember what happened two days ago, and don’t want us to escape again. He tried not to look, but his eyes returned again and again to the southern side of the valley where the ravine opened to the creek. Just an arrow shot away, he thought as his mouth became suddenly dry. He had been here some twenty summers before. Again, he touched the pouch.

Let me look too, Lalá, Brings Fire requested. Her grandfather stood her up on the seat beside him. She followed his eyes, steady and focused on the distance.

We are not yet there, my grandchild. Almost, though. Pine Ridge is not too far now, but they will have us stay here tonight. Look over there, he said, pointing, "by that line of cottonwoods. That’s Čhaŋkpé Ópi Wakpála Wounded Knee Creek."

You have been here before?

Our band made winter camp here two or three times when I was a boy. I’ve hunted here. Do you see that high hill? We played up there. We could see a long way from that spot. His eyes softened as he continued, The hills roll on and on and fool your eyes. They are there and then they are not. Mysterious. And then, as another thought intruded, his eyes became cold. From that hill, you can see everything that moves in this valley. And he remembered how true that had been twenty years ago. He sighed, switched thoughts and remembered the way he had played as a boy, pretending to swoop down the hill and ambush the enemy.

"We called it Wígmuŋke Pahá Rainbow Hill."

Why?

Because from up there the rainbows were bigger and brighter.

The wagons started to roll again. There are no rainbows here today, she thought, coughing out the dust that clouded the air.

She climbed back into the bed with the lodge poles hanging out the back and rested on the hides. Warily she watched the soldiers. They looked tired, with drooping heads and sagging shoulders, and some looked sick. But she felt no sympathy for them. They should not have been chasing the Mnikȟówožu away from home and through the hills. She should not be in this wagon traveling to be with relatives.

They are so different from each other, these Long Knives, she thought. Different faces. Different hair colors; blonde, black, brown, gray and that one over there, red. As if sensing her eyes on him, the red-haired soldier rode up closer to the wagon and smirked.

Suddenly, Grasshopper pulled in the reins. Attuned to animals all his life, he had been watching the mule pulling the wagon. His gait had changed. There was now a limp. He must have picked up a stone. Grasshopper put down the reins and jumped down from the wagon.

What are you doing? Get back on there and get moving! a soldier yelled to him, motioning with his rifle. Grasshopper pointed to the mule whose hoof was now raised. The soldier reluctantly understood and waved him clearance to continue.

While Grasshopper worked with the animal, the red-bearded soldier sidled up to within inches of Wind Woman. She turned to look at him. He raised one hand and spread two fingers while his other hand went to his crotch. Seething, she looked away. She raised her chin. He parted his lips and snaked out his tongue, moving it suggestively.

I’ll bite it off, she thought, turning her head.

The soldier leaned over the wagon and cupped Wind Woman’s chin, twisting her head, forcing her to see his lecherous gaze.

You know you want it, he whispered.

But Wind Woman was neither weak nor timid. She grabbed his arm and pulled, shying his horse who sidestepped away from the wagon and whinnied.

When Grasshopper stood up to intervene, the butt of a rifle against his back knocked him to the ground.

The disturbance caught the attention of a junior officer. He struck the red-headed man’s shoulder with his riding crop and growled, I had enough of you, Dawes! Get your sorry ass back in line!

Dawes, his vulgar and undisciplined ways tolerated by the Army only because he was a valued sniper, turned to Brings Fire and spat a stream of foul tobacco saliva at her. She rose, burning with anger. Čhikté kte! I will kill you!" she screamed again and again.

Her mother grabbed her skirt and pulled her down. Stop! You cannot fight them! Stop! she commanded. Seething and frustrated, Brings Fire leaned back into her mother’s embrace and cried.

*****

Líla eháŋni k’uŋ héhaŋ.

It was very long ago.

The caravan came to a halt, and Grasshopper looked over the intended encampment as though he were planning a battle. He could not help but think he was prey to something much bigger than himself. Both seasoned warrior and effective hunter, he could analyze from both angles. He focused on the terrain, thinking he would put his warriors here if they were to be the aggressors, and there, if they would need to flee. He put both his wagon and the one following at the intersection of the Agency Road and the dry ravine.It was a risky decision, he knew. In the event of a fight, a high concentration of bullets would fly through the area. But the intersection offered the shortest route to the relative safety of the ravine, where they would find brush and shallow caves. Grasshopper shuddered. His band was far outnumbered in men, weapons, and ammunition. And he suspected that the feared Hotchkiss cannon would soon menace his people from that high hill.

Yes, he thought, this would be the best place. Not a good place, as the chance of surviving was poor, but surely it is better than running through open fields.

My family must be first. Swallowing hard, he maneuvered his wagon to be clearly in front. Should they need to escape this way, they’d pass the spot of the secret only he and the wanáǧi spirits knew. Lost in a long-ago moment, he placed one hand over the pouch on his chest and absentmindedly stroked it with his other. Long ago, but like yesterday, he thought, feeling the jump of his heart at the same time.

*****

Wíŋyaŋ kiŋ thípi kiŋ pawóslal iyéyapi.

The women erected the thípi.

Their fingers nearly froze while erecting their thípi. Wind Woman, together with her relatives, struggled in the wind to construct the tripod frame before fastening the lesser poles to create an almost conical dwelling, tilted with its steep face windward, while the gradual slope of the front opened into the entrance. Despite the harsh conditions, they worked swiftly and, within an hour they had established the shelter. Brings Fire longed for the protection and warmth of the soon-to-be fire within. Assisting, as the adults expected, she carried in the blankets and robes and established her own sleeping area. In other times and other places, the women would have erected their thípi to form a camp circle which would have offered some shelter from the wind and a place in the center where the children could play under watchful eyes. But now? The bullying by the Americans left them little time for planning and cooperation.

Brings Fire had few things she could call her own, but she had packed within her folded robe a valued possession: a gift from a grandmother on the night her baby brother died during birth! The braided sweetgrass doll was all she had left from that expectant night. The white man had killed her brother as surely as they had killed her father, for what grieving woman could properly nourish a son whose father had just died? This, she knew with certainty. With her little girl’s tears, the doll had become her brother. On the day she found the copper American coin with the Lakȟóta head stamped on it, she thought, perhaps the white man’s magic would bring her brother to life again. In her despair, the wašíču white men seemed so powerful and her people so powerless, and so she had inserted the coin inside the doll to be his heart. On this night, however, when she knew the days of such fantasy were over, she withdrew the coin.

Fear of war and a general uncertainty hovered over the camp. The Wanáǧi Wačhípi Ghost Dancing had frightened the white population. Ever since Wovoka, the Paiute, began promoting the new religious idea that heaven would punish the whites for their mistreatment of the natives and cause them to disappear by the year 1891 if the dancing continued, the settlers suspected an uprising was in the making. With the recent assassination of Sitting Bull whom the authorities at Standing Rock Reservation believed was inciting a rebellion, Big Foot had struggled to protect his people. He could have taken his band to the Makȟóšiča Badlands stronghold or perhaps to join Maȟpíya Lúta Red Cloud at Pine Ridge, as Red Cloud had encouraged. He chose the latter, but the Seventh Cavalry had intercepted the band on the way. And now here they were on the banks of the Wounded Knee Creek, awaiting an uncertain future.

As the sun set, the cooking pots held a weak stew of dried beef and tímpsula, a powdered wild turnip which added thickness to the water. Using the buffalo horn ladle, Brings Fire dipped into the pot and offered it to Grasshopper. Saying he was not hungry while refusing it meant he was giving his portion to her, and she gratefully nodded her understanding. The People must care for the young first.

Iná, may I go out to scout round the camp?

You may, but, I want you nearby.

I want to go outside as well, Grasshopper announced. He would see that she was safe.

Brings Fire did not want to go anywhere near where the wašíču, the white men, were congregating. She had been taught they were evil. Stay away! But the coin in her pocket and her desire to surprise her grandfather overrode the fear. Once outside, she sprinted off. Her grandfather followed her with his eyes as she overtook two Húŋkpapȟa boys heading for Mosseau’s store. They walked side by side for a short distance, but then the boys broke off into a run. Grasshopper’s heart swelled with pride as he saw her race in pursuit and then quickly take the lead, until finally she stumbled up the steps, approaching the front door before the others.

Brings Fire had never opened a wooden door before! She placed her two palms on it and pushed. It did not move. She heard a snicker from a white man sitting off to the side smoking a pipe and became embarrassed. Her fingers went to the crack where the door met the frame as she would have opened her thípi, but before she could try to pry it open, a dark brown hand appeared from behind her and settled on the black latch, lifting and then pulling it. With that motion, she leaned back into the body behind her and, turning, saw a wondrous color, the amber of dark honey from the wild buckwheat flowers the bees so love on the plains. And it was on a boy’s face, spread so smooth she almost reached up to touch it! She blushed and lowered her head.

This is the way to do it, he said as he pulled the door open further and let her pass inside. So mesmerized was she by his color that she barely stammered a grateful response before he disappeared. This must be Há Sápa, Black Skin, the Húŋkpapȟa boy. She had heard about him. The older girls found him quite handsome.

*****

Pȟéta Akú wakȟályapi etáŋ opȟétȟuŋ čhíŋ.

Brings Fire wanted to buy some coffee.

So much to see inside this strange, four-sided building! She walked down one side and across to the other, examining cooking and eating utensils. So much she did not understand, and she almost dizzied herself with the many colors of the bolts of cloth. She skimmed her fingers over them, and closed her eyes, thinking perhaps she could feel the colors. A red feathered headdress sat on a wooden head with painted blue eyes and such red cheeks to match! What type of woman is this? She giggled as she imagined her mother wearing the hat. And then, turning, she saw her own full face in a mirror hanging on the wall. Startled, she jerked back a step. Her face streaked with dust from the road. But the others in the store were as dirty as she.

A blue pillow with yellow flowers brought to mind the prairie in summer. The shiny silver pots brought her thoughts to the thin skim of ice on an early winter pond. What kind of people create such beauty and yet be so cruel? She heard others in the store make similar remarks. Such magic these wasícu possess! she heard, and yet the magic of the copper coin had not brought back her brother.

The coin! She had almost forgotten why she had come here! She walked to the counter where a white man and his Lakȟóta wife stood. She did not know what to say.

Háu, Young Lady. Do you want to buy something?"

She stretched out her hand to Mousseau and presented the copper coin. Coffee, she said. But the shopkeeper shook his head. Did this mean no? Why no?

Too little. Too little, Mousseau explained, but again she stretched out one hand with the coin and the other for the coffee in return.

You need this! he smiled indulgently as he held out a larger coin.

Wait, Mrs. Mousseau said, taking Brings Fire’s hand and placing into it a small bag.

How kind she is, Brings Fire thought. She was not aware that the dark-skinned boy had been watching her, attracted to this girl who ran so fast. She did not see the boy go over to Mrs. Mousseau during the initial attempted transaction. She did not know that he, seeing the coin she held, would never be enough to buy coffee, handed Mrs. Mousseau the only coin he had, a bigger one, and walked out of the store.

*****

Pȟéta Akú haŋblóglake.

Brings Fire talks about her vision.

Long shadows stretched before her when she ran back to her thípi. Her grandfather stood out front, watching for her. She handed him the bag and smiled.

So tired was she that after entering the thípi, she went straight to her robes. The familiar dancing sparks of the fire relaxed her, but sleep eluded her. Squeezing her eyes shut, tears flowed, but she bravely wiped them away. She couldn’t cry. Warriors don’t cry! Isn’t that what she had learned from her dream?

Weeks ago she had awakened, shaking. A dream unlike any other filled her…had stayed with her.

Iná, do little girls have visions?

Čhuŋkší, what a strange question to ask, but yes, they do. I, myself, dreamed of Double Woman. Do you know who she is?

Brings Fire shook her head, and so her mother continued. If you dream of Double Woman, you can go one of two ways. Either you will be industrious and virtuous and excel in crafting and join the Quilling Society as I have, or, and here she lowered her voice, or you can create havoc by stealing the men of other women. Brings Fire blushed. Her mother smiled.

But Brings Fire’s dream was nothing like that. She wasn’t even sure it was an actual dream either. She didn’t feel like she had fallen asleep. She felt she had just drifted into another place. Was that what happened in a vision? She went to her grandfather. Maybe he would understand.

Lalá, it is possible that I have had a vision?

It was hard for Grasshopper to hide his smile. I do not remember when you went to the mountaintop and fasted.

But motioning to a space on the frost covered log beside him, he invited her to tell the story.

I was in a different world, Lalá. The colors were so sharp they almost hurt my eyes. I walked out of a forest and onto a grassy plain. No buffalo were there. I walked to a mountain and when I stood beneath it, it towered high into the sky.

Like Devil’s Tower? he suggested.

Taller. Her eyes took on a faraway look. Beneath it, a small river flowed. I followed along its banks and came upon a she-wolf. I was afraid, and yet the wolf’s eyes beckoned me closer. The wolf then spoke in a language I somehowunderstood. ‘What do you seek, little girl?’ I walked up to her and said, ‘I want to help my people.

Brings Fire took her grandfather’s hand. I want to be a warrior. Like you. Like my father was! I tried to tell this to the wolf, but she just shook her head. ‘The sun has set on the days of the warrior,’ she said. Is this true, Lalá? Will there be no more fighting?

There will be a fight, Tȟakóža.

The wolf told me something else. She said I will fight a different battle. Will you help me be ready for it?

"What you ask is difficult. How can I help prepare you for a kind of fight I do not know?

Well, then can you teach me to be a warrior like yourself…just in case?

A warrior like myself? Do I want that for her? Scarred. Now defeated. No, I want her safe. I want her to care for her children. I want her, a woman, to pass on all that is good about our ways so that we, the People, will never die. To humor her, though, he pretended he would do as she wished. It would serve her well if she learned to be conscious of her surroundings and how to react to them, regardless of what her future held.

*****

Wítaya mníčiyapi.

They came together for a meeting.

A rush of cold air flowed over the hair of the buffalo robe pulled part way over her head. The long outer hairs tickled her nose. Brings Fire awoke, smiling out of a dream in which her father had entered the thípi carrying meat for the cooking pot. But, she realized, the cold air was not coming from the raised flap of someone entering. Someone had left the thípi, and she was alone in the dark. Have I slept long? She did not think so because the fire looked as it had when she had closed her eyes; soft, welcoming. Even after she pulled her robe up even higher and nestled down under it, she still heard the voices of people outside. They were close, and indeed so close that she could teasingly stretch her foot up against the slanted hide side and touch someone’s leg. No, I won’t do that. Those are not playful voices outside, she thought.

When she became fully awake, she realized where she was, and then, feeling the anxiety of her people, another chill passed through her body that the robe could not warm.

"Come in, come in. It is too cold to stay outside. Sit by our fire, Mitákuyepi My Relatives, and let us talk about this." It was the voice of her grandfather, and she sat up as he entered. Several people followed him, but the draft had diffused the smoke and a gray haze made it difficult for her to recognize them all. That they were relatives, as her grandfather’s greeting had suggested, was certain. But were all people our relatives?That cannot be.Or why would we be captives? As the smoke cleared, she saw that there were aunts, uncles, cousins, among those entering. And she saw Grasshopper sitting in his honored place with the women on his left and the men on his right.

Wind Woman approached her with outstretched hand. Come, I will take you to my cousin while everyone here talks. But Grasshopper held up his hand. Hiyá, she should stay. This is her future, too. Let her listen and learn. Though this was an informal council, one of many held in the camp that night, she felt honored to be allowed to stay. She would be respectful and not disappoint her grandfather.

The pipe was passed to Grasshopper, and he smoked; the smoke rising to the ancestors who would witness this gathering and these conversations. The meeting began in silence, as all such meetings did. Brings Fire looked around the circle.

Her two older cousins were there. Both had attended the mission day schools on the reservation and Brings Fire found it fascinating that these two brothers could be so different. Inseparable as children, they had grown apart over the years and now were clearly at odds with each other. As a student, Wašíčuŋ Pȟehíŋ American Hair, despite being able to return to his home at night, readily accepted and thrived on wašíču white culture. Wearing his hair short and parted in the middle, coupled with his habit of using knives, forks and spoons when available, set him apart from most of his relatives. A Christian now, or so he said, like many new converts, he was enthusiastic about spreading the Word and so he carried about him an air of superiority that irked his brother Matȟó Hótȟaŋka Loud Bear, so much that they would not even speak to each other. Teachers considered Loud Bear to be a mission school failure, for as soon as school let out for the day, he would immediately revert to traditional ways. Loud Bear would only speak in Lakȟóta, while American Hair avoid communicating with it whenever possible.

American Hair was therefore the success story of educators who advocated, Kill the Indian, Save the Child. Many of his peers recognized him as such with the chant, Dead Indian! Dead Indian! Although he tried not to show favoritism, Grasshopper clearly favored Loud Bear, the traditional grandson, and was proud when he joined the militant Wanáǧi Wačhípi Ghost Dance faction. Brings Fire, so far, had escaped wašíču schooling, and she promised herself she would never stray from traditional ways.

Her eyes focused on the wanáǧi ógle ghost shirt worn by Many Crows. The black raven feathers stood out among those of owl and eagle that adorned the neck of this plain cotton shirt. Surely, he had come under the influence of Kicking Bear, son-in-law of Chief Big Foot, and clearly he was ready to defy bullets with the Ghost Shirt. Would it protect him? A dutiful son, Many Crows was supporting his aged father, Strong Legs, now toothless and feeble in his eighties. The man, quite old for that time, leaned against his son for balance. Strong Legs’ mind was sharp yet, and he drew inner strength from his memories of fighting side by side with Grasshopper. It had been fourteen years since the decisive Lakȟóta defeat at Slim Buttes. His philosophy now was more in keeping with American Horse, a key figure in that battle, and a man who promoted the path of friendly associations with white people and wašíču education for the children.

The silence is good. The smoking is good. Brings Fire could feel it settle the high emotions of those present. Eyes no longer flashed anger across the fire. Wind Woman looked toward her father and communicated with him in spirit as only two people so close can. Her eyes said that he was wise to invite people with different points of view. These were dangerous times, and all opinions were important.

This thípi seems very crowded, Brings Fire thought as she counted the people. Bloody Mouth, Knife, Big Belly, Chases Twice, Hail Hawk, Rabbit, Many Wounds, Grey Wing, wives of some of them whose names she was not sure of, and the unmarried twins, Black Bone and Stitch. She sent her prayers with the smoke, intending to invite the spirits of her ancestors to join this gathering. Perhaps they are already here. The people around the fire were visible, but it seemed that among them were others who had lived before, a crowd of people from past and present.

A sudden voice then startled them all. "Wakháŋ Tȟáŋka has blessed us all winter without a storm. I ask you, did you notice how high and blue the sky was above the hills today? And tonight, Mitákuyepi, you surely could count all the stars of Tȟayámni The Pleiades. All this will change. Tomorrow night a blizzard will come out of the north and we will suffer great agonies. Prepare as best you can."

Waŋblí Hohú Eagle Bone had spoken and then sunk, slouched, into silence. A demented man, the People indulged him with much affection. Tonight, though, Big Belly was in no mood for his dire predictions. This good man often predicts evil, and he does it more as he ages, he said, dismissing the prophecy. Rabbit wasn’t so sure. This winter has been easy on us, but we have suffered other sorrows lately. Maybe his prediction will come true.

Brings Fire saw her cousin American Hair get agitated. It was clear he wanted to command attention and was obviously struggling to control himself. Finally, he blurted out, The old man is a foolish heathen who talks to spirit creatures who are not there. There will be no storm.

Loud Bear slowly turned to his brother and in a low, threatening voice said, It would be good if my brother remembered he is in his aunt’s thípi and is speaking of an elder present.

Oh, no. Now they will go at each other.

Brings Fire was right.

My brother is quick to remind me of my manners, but what he is not saying is that he disapproves of my way of living and my beliefs, American Hair said. The old ways have passed away. It is time to put away our foolish ideas of living free on the plains. There are no buffalo anymore. They have perished, and so have our old ways.

Loud Bear retaliated. Our ways are who we are, and I ask you, who are you?

There was a pause of quiet and then came the unexpected reply, "From what pot do you eat? Is it not made of iron? Whose weapon do you use? Is it not the gun of the wašíču? What old ways are you following?"

It was time for Grasshopper to intervene. I have news from Big Foot. A while ago, I came from his Army tent. It is warm in there, and his wife and children care for him. The Army doctor is kind and gives him medicine.

There were murmurs. Only some were of approval.

Big Foot wants us to meet with Red Cloud, but he is bleeding and coughing. He will not make it to Pine Ridge tomorrow.

Women cried out and wept openly. The men remained grim.

We who are here have many differing ideas, Grasshopper continued. Let us speak of them face to face instead of hiding these in the corners of our minds. He turned to Loud Bear, Tell us what you think.

All here know of Chief Big Foot’s attempts to get along with the wašíču. The soldiers know it. Loud Bear glared at his brother and said, And remember, he even went to Washington to ask for a school. We have chosen to go to Pine Ridge. We were on our way. There was no need for a military escort. Do they think we have lost our way in the wilderness? And yet, look around. Hundreds of soldiers surround us. The Oglála scouts say that more are coming from Pine Ridge. You have seen the cannons. Why are they here? We were already going to where they say they are taking us. They are not fools. Maybe they do not want us at Pine Ridge. Maybe what I hear is right. Maybe they will put us on their train and send us off to captivity far away. To Fort Meade, maybe. Or maybe they will ship us away to a place called Alabama to rot with Geronimo’s people. Or maybe they will just kill us all.

American Hair could not let that stand. These people are Christians. They gave us their word.

Do you trust their word? Have our people ever been able to trust their word? Look at you. You can read. You can write their words. You dress as they do. Why are you not with them now? I will tell you. They do not see you as their equal ... and they never will.

Loud Bear’s supporters nodded their assent.

My brother, American Hair said, motioning to all around him, My relatives. Listen to me. We have but few warriors here. Maybe 150. Our women and children are here. We cannot win a battle. We will never win a battle against those cannons. Let us listen to Big Foot. We will peaceably go to Pine Ridge and talk with Red Cloud. We will learn the white man’s ways and we will live. We will learn to farm. Any other way and we will die. There will be no need to preserve old ways. No one will be here to observe them.

Fury was building up in Loud Bear, and there was fire in his tone. "Remember when they promised us land for ‘The Great Sioux Nation.’ Where is this nation? They said it would be ours till the buffalo are no more. They were right about some of it. The buffalo are no more, but where is The Great Sioux Nation? Gone. Here, his frustration brought him angry tears and he could no longer speak. He stared into the fire, breathing heavily. When he raised his head, his eyes were wet with passion. I am not a crippled animal. I will not surrender. Tomorrow is a good day to die."

A child’s voice cried out suddenly, I will die with you! All eyes turned to Brings Fire, who clearly adored her cousin. All eyes turned to see her as she stood up, defiant upon her robes.

The silence turned to a nervous titter and then, when she repeated, Yes, I will, gentle laughter erupted. Blood rushed to her face. She could not meet their eyes and looked down. She had spoken impulsively, it was true, but it had come from her heart.

My little cousin speaks like the warriors of old, Loud Bear boomed. Perhaps we should listen to her.

Wind Woman walked over and motioned for her to sit down and be quiet. My daughter speaks of that which she does not know. Men die in battle. Women live on.

American Hair seized this opening to pursue his argument. Their priests speak of a God who loves us all.

With flaming eyes, Wind Woman shot back, Their priests teach us to thank God for our destruction. Despite the risks, I say we should hide our guns and use them if we must. I will keep mine.

Black Bone sat up straight. Mitákuyepi, understand this. There are women, children, and the old ones in this camp. They are weak. They will die. Keep this thought before your eyes tomorrow. If you start a fight, are you willing to live with their spirits who will haunt you?

Rabbit, a recognized leader, spoke with a strength that betrayed his weakened lungs. "This is wisdom. They are many. We are few. Many of them fought at Greasy Grass, and they know we did too. They want to avenge Pȟehíŋ Háŋska Long Hair (General Custer). They want us all dead. We should not give them an excuse to kill us tomorrow."

I see it this way, Grasshopper said, finally ready to voice his own opinion. All have spoken. All have been correct, and all have been wrong. Some soldiers watching us have faced us before in battle. Some soldiers, by their actions, seem new to this type of duty. I hear many of their loud voices. They are drinking that bad water and their minds will be clouded. And they are nervous. This makes me anxious. I say we should expect the worst and be happy if wrong.

As Brings Fire searched the faces in the circle, she saw there was much agreement. Could her cousin American Hair agree to this compromise? She could not read his thoughts. His face was  hard as stone.

Grasshopper continued. Bury your guns so that the Americans cannot confiscate them but do so in a way that you can  easily retrieve them without being seen when we are ready to leave. Sing your death songs, but do not provoke a fight. We have never started a fight with our women and children present. I will not do so now. And yet, I do not want to die peacefully in my thípi if my people need to be defended. In case of a fight, grab your gun and keep firing at the Americans until our women and children can escape. The Long Knives are not likely to fire on women and children. Run behind them to the ravine. It is our best escape route. Head east towards Wounded Knee Creek and then south from there. There are pockets in the walls of the ravine near the creek. Hide in them to escape the bullets. He paused. I have spoken. That is all.

One by one, the guests silently left the thípi to go their own way for a night of fitful sleep.  Brings Fire did not sleep at all.

*****

Mílahaŋska akíčhita kiŋ wayátkaŋpi na itómnipi.

The American soldiers drank and got drunk.

The smoke from the Sibley tents on the hill was indistinguishable from that emanating from the ventilation openings of the thípi in the encampment below. Like prayer smoke from the pipe, the swirls of white rose to the heavens and mingled with all smoke and yet it came from people who could find no common ground this night. Grasshopper stood outside the thípi, wondering how it could be that smoke from different fires mingled in the sky without conflict, while those who made the smoke could not find peace with each other. Grasshopper pulled the blanket around him closer as a chill ran through his body. Something bad will happen tomorrow. He wasn’t so much concerned for his own well-being, he had fought many times before, but he worried for the women and children. He lifted the flap, bent down, and walked inside.

Not far from where the Lakȟóta thípi were, a rowdy group of men gathered around a lantern lit wagon. From the hill, Sgt. Murphy could see the oaken kegs in the back of it. I guess ole Jim got tired of entertaining the reporters in the back room of his store at Pine Ridge, and figured the business would be better here, Murphy mumbled to no one in particular. He leaned back, looked to the starry sky and held his concertina in two tense hands, gently pumping out a lonesome ballad from back home in Ireland and trying not to think about those drinking whiskey on a night like this. What an incredibly stupid idea!It isn’t like those Indians really want to be here. He was a little surprised that rebellion had not yet occurred. But that would be a dumb move. Though the Indians were outnumbered and outgunned, Murphy knew desperate people could do unpredictable things.

Col. Forsyth also saw this wagon while he walked down the hill. What’s that all about, Sam? he said, turning to the officer next to him.

That trader Asay hauled a keg of whiskey over here. Figured there was more money to be made here than back at his store. He’s selling whiskey to the reporters and some officers. I’ll go down there directly and shut down his--

Forsyth cut him mid-sentence. Let it be. The men deserve some conviviality. Just make sure Asay and his partner down there understand that the only enlisted men he is to sell to are the noncoms. Whitside was uneasy about this. The air was already thick with tension, and he started to protest, but Forsyth lifted his hand. Come to think of it, Forsyth said, round up the officers and bring them to my tent. The drinks will be on me.

The Sibley tent can comfortably accommodate twelve men, but, with whisky flowing, no one cared it was so crowded that elbows bumped into each other, and tin cups tipped their contents onto soldiers’ boots. The raucous laughter emanating from the colonel’s tent drifted into thípi, and Lakȟóta children, hearing it in their sleep, cuddled closer to their mothers, who stared into the darkness dreading the dawn.

Col. James W. Forsyth, in high spirits as the center of attention, entertained reporters from back east, accepting congratulations in advance for subduing the mighty Sioux nation. While not vocally boasting of his accomplishments, his actions pointed to his realization that he would achieve a page in history books tomorrow. Children would know and would study his name! He had subdued the mighty Sioux nation and brought the Indian wars to a conclusion, finally! Such a thrill! Celebrate, his spirit said. Celebrate mightily!

I propose a toast, a young officer shouted, barely heard above the din. To our colonel! Raise your cups and drink. All willingly obliged. To Thomas Jefferson’s Empire of Liberty. All cups were filled and raised again. Our Empire of Liberty progresses apace from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Fueled by the alcohol consumption, the applause became louder.

Forsyth toasted, To all of you gentlemen! Your names will grace the illustrious history of our young nation.

He then shouted, Music! We need music! We need to sing our song. Tell me, men, what is our song? What is the song of our regiment?

The chorus cheered, Garry Owen!

Forsyth continued, Get that son-of-a-bitch squeezebox player in here. I’m tired of listening to that crap he’s been playing ... so sweeeeeet and gentle! Let’s give those Indians some real battle cries! He swung his arm around to point to the entrance but, dizzied with the alcohol, he almost toppled and was steadied by a now whiskey splashed Whitside.

Soon after, an orderly returned with the reluctant Murphy. Play for us, my good man! Forsyth commanded.

Now Murphy had a certain affinity for