In late August one of the senior bureaucrats at the Pine Ridge agency rode out to No Water’s camp to confront him about the Ghost Dance. No Water refused to hear the agent out, and when he attempted to have the old chief arrested, he suddenly found himself faced with three hundred armed Ghost Dancers. Needless to say, his report to Washington did not sit well with his superiors.

  A couple of weeks later Young Mule—the very same Sioux who had struggled to make his way to my camp the year before—and his companion, Head Swift, killed a settler. Two days later, they rode into the Lame Deer Agency and attacked the troops stationed there. It was a foolhardy gesture, of course, as there were at least seventy men to their two. Both died wearing their Ghost Shirts.

  In October McLaughlin tried to order Sitting Bull to come to the agency for questioning concerning the Ghost Dance. Although the true leader of the cult amongst the Sioux was Kicking Bear, the Whites insisted on believing Sitting Bull was behind it all, simply because the old medicine man refused to denounce it. Needless to say, Sitting Bull ignored McLaughlin’s orders.

  In early November the Brules, under the direction of Kicking Bear’s disciple, Short Bull, deserted their homes and followed their leader to Pass Creek, which marked the boundary between the Rosebud and Pine Ridge agencies. Although this upset the Whites a great deal—no doubt they had visions of marauding Indians in their heads—you have to bear in mind, up until this point, despite their warlike behavior, the Ghost Dancers still intended to hold out until they were joined in this world by their ghost relatives. As far as they were concerned, there would be no need to fight the Whites. But the agents in charge of running the reservation were hardly in touch with the Indian way of thinking.

  The government, already nervous over the reports of the mysterious “Indian cult”, ordered all whites and mixed blood agency employees in the reservation’s outlying camps to abandon their schools, farms, and missions and come into the agency for protection. It also instructed all the Indians considered “friendlies” to gather on White Clay Creek.

  A few days after Short Bull’s exodus, two hundred Ghost Dancers swarmed the Pine Ridge agency, virtually taking over all the offices and buildings, hurling files and requisitions into the street and trampling them underfoot.

  Five days later, the Sioux found themselves shorted yet again on their beef cattle rations. A Ghost Dancer began haranguing the crowd, soon inciting them to near-riot. The only thing that kept violence from breaking out was the intervention of Jack Red Cloud, old Chief Red Cloud’s son. Two days after that, soldiers sent from Fort Robinson in response to McLaughlin’s telegraphed plea for assistance marched into Pine Ridge. It just so happened to be the Seventh Cavalry—Custer’s old unit.

  The sight of their old enemy’s former regiment sparked a panic amongst the assembled Indians, friendlies and hostiles alike. Convinced they were being set up for Custer’s death, they piled their pony drags with tipis and winter clothes and moved west of Pass Creek, to join the Ghost Dancers already there. Once there, Short Bull and Kicking Bear decided their numbers had swollen to such numbers that they needed a new camp, one where they could feel secure against possible attack by the bluecoats. They picked The Stronghold, a two hundred foot butte known to the Whites as Curry’s Table. It would be impossible for anything to sneak up on them there without being seen.

  However, while on their way to the Stronghold, many of Short Bull’s Brules—who tended to be somewhat high-spirited even in the old days—got their blood up and attacked a settlement of squaw men and mixed bloods at the mouth of Porcupine Creek. Ranches and homes were wrecked, horses stolen, harnesses and wagons chopped to pieces, cattle driven off and, to top it all off, they burned the government beef ranch to the ground.

  Of course, I had no way of knowing this at the time. I had a few visitors who made a point to keep me current as to the state of the tribe, most of them mixed bloods who were allowed to travel freely between the agencies. But where I kept my camp was a good three or four days ride from the Pine Ridge and Rosebud agencies, so by the time I heard what was happening on the reservation, it was usually old news. But sometimes I had visitors who came to me in dreams.

  Just after Thanksgiving I woke from a particularly troublesome dream to find Sitting Bull seated, cross-legged, beside my cabin’s hearth. He was smoking his peace pipe and looking fairly calm and composed. At first I imagined that my wife’s uncle had somehow succeeded in smuggling himself out of Pine Ridge and had come to us for sanctuary. Then I realized that the medicine man was as substantial as the smoke rising from his pipe. Only then did I know that I was dreaming. “Uncle! Why do you come dreamwalking?” Sitting Bull looked at me with surprise in his eyes. “This is a dream?” Heaving a weary sigh, he turned into smoke and disappeared up the chimney.

  I found the dream confusing, and thinking it was probably not an authentic visitation, dismissed it out of hand. Then the next day Digging Woman said; “I had a strange dream last night. I dreamt that my uncle came to visit us, then turned into smoke and went up the chimney. What do you think it means, husband?”

  I lied and told her it probably meant nothing—that it was a silly dream, nothing more.

  A week later I awoke once more, this time to find an Indian I did not know sitting in front of the fire in the same place Sitting Bull had occupied.

  “Who are you?” I asked warily.

  The strange Indian turned to look at me and smiled. Although his face was younger than I had ever seen it, his hair as dark as a raven’s wing, I recognized my old mentor, Medicine Dog.

  “Do you not know me, Walking Wolf?”

  “Grandfather!” I gasped. “You are younger than I ever knew you in life!”

  The dead medicine man nodded. “It is the way of the Spirit World. The dead grow younger here, walking back through time, from elder to brave to boy. In time I will be so young I will not be born—then it will be my time to return to the land of the living, dressed in the flesh of a new life.”

  “Does this happen to all the dead—or just Comanche?”

  “There are many spirits here, gathered in great herds like the buffalo. Many are from places strange to me when I was alive. It is most interesting. Eight Clouds Rising, your adopted father, is now no older than the son that sleeps by your side. He will be reborn as a temple dancer in someplace called Siam. Longhair Custer is here, too. He is to be reborn as a sled-dog in a place called Alaska.”

  “But why are you in my dreams, grandfather?”

  “I am here to warn you.”

  “Of what?”

  “I am not certain.”

  “Grandfather—does this have anything to do with the Ghost Dance?”

  “In its way. The ritual you call the Ghost Dance is not what its disciples think it is. No dance, no matter how sacred, can ever hope to pull the dead back into the world of the living. We shall return, but only in the way I described to you. This dance, however, is more than capable of pulling the living into the land of the dead.”

  “Grandfather—what are you telling me?”

  “The Ghost Dance has set a series of events in motion. Blood—rivers of blood—will be spilled in the next few days. But perhaps it can be averted if one thing is kept from happening.”

  “What is this thing?”

  “The murder of Sitting Bull by his own people.”

  “Then it will never come to pass. No Sioux in their right mind would dare to raise a hand against Sitting Bull!”

  Medicine Dog shook his head sadly. “The wheels are already in motion. The one called McLaughlin is awaiting word from his chiefs so he may have Sitting Bull arrested. Once he has approval, he will call his Indian Police to him and order them to Sitting Bull’s camp.”

  “But what do you expect me to do—?”

  Medicine Dog held up a hand for silence. He seemed to waver before my eyes like the reflection in a troubled pool. “I came to warn you—I spoke of the danger to your friends, but I have not finished. There is a darkness coming your way, Walking Wolf. A darkness familiar to you, yet still a stranger. Be wary, Walking Wolf, for the darkness would eat your soul.”

  “Grandfather, what is this darkness you speak of—?”

  “My time here is over. I can say no more. Farewell, Walking Wolf.” Medicine Dog’s body was now as thin as a cloud on a hot summer’s day, and with a wave of his hands, he disappeared into himself.

  I’m not proud of the fact I lied to Digging Woman the day I left. I told her I needed to go off on a vision quest. That I needed to be alone in the wilderness for a few days in order to commune with the Great Spirit. I knew if I told her I was on my way to try to prevent the murder of her uncle, she would have insisted on coming with me, and I feared that she and Wolf Legs would either be hurt or taken from me. It was not an irrational fear. I knew that if McLaughlin was desperate enough to go after Sitting Bull, anything might happen.

  Still, ours was a special marriage, and it pained me to be deceitful—even when I had her best interests at heart. I do not know if she completely believed me—she had her own inner sight and spirit-visions, not all of which I was privy to. She was not happy with my leaving, considering the first of the punishing winter storms would soon strike the camp. I remember looking back at her and Wolf Legs standing in front of our cabin, watching me head into the mountains. They looked so small—almost like dolls. I lifted a hand in farewell and, after a moment, Digging Woman and Wolf Legs waved in return. For a moment I was overwhelmed with a surge of love for my wife and son that was so strong, so profound, it knocked the wind out of me. I came close to turning my pony around and heading back to camp right then, but for some reason I didn’t.

  I told myself I’d make it up to my wife and son when I got back. Of course, I had no way of knowing that was the last I would see them alive.

  It gets cold in the Dakotas early on and hangs on like a pup to the teat. By the time I saddled up and headed for Sitting Bull’s camp most folks, Indian and White, had already settled in for the season, barricading themselves against the heavy snow storms and brutal sub-zero temperature. But the winter of 1890 was far from normal, especially for the Sioux. Still, I was astonished, on my second day out, to run across a band of Indians traversing the hostile winterscape.

  The band’s leader was none other than Big Foot, an elderly chief once respected for his wisdom but whose people had fallen on exceptionally hard times. There were close to a hundred of them, shivering and starving as they trudged through the snow. I could tell with a glance that most of them had the fever. Big Foot, wrapped in a trade cloth blanket that was no replacement for the buffalo robes of old, seemed glad to see me. Although it was close to zero, he was sweating and his eyes burned.

  “Greetings, Big Foot. Why are you away from your winter camp?”

  “Have you not heard? Custer’s old regiment has been brought in to punish the Sioux once and for all. They would wipe us out so we can not perform the Ghost Dance one last time!”

  “You’re headed for the Stronghold?”

  “My nephew, Kicking Bear, is there. He has promised not to start the last dance until I have joined him.”

  I looked at the rail-thin, fever-stricken men, women and children who comprised the band of pilgrims. Most clutched spears and stone axes, while fewer than a handful carried firearms. Even a blind man could see they were far from the warpath. “Big Foot, if you continue on your way, many of your number will perish.”

  “It does not matter. Come the dance, all shall be returned from the Spirit World.”

  I knew there was no point in arguing the point with the old man, so I rode on, leaving them to whatever fate they had dealt themselves.

  It was December 15th when I made Sitting Bull’s camp, the dim winter sun climbing toward noon. The sound of female voices raised in mourning struck me between the ribs as surely as an arrow. I had come too late.

  A couple of crude huts still smoldered, and in front of Sitting Bull’s lodge lay the bodies of several men, placed side-by-side, shoulder-to-shoulder. The women of the camp huddled near by, rocking back and forth and weeping. Some of the women had cut off their braids and tossed them, like empty snake skins, at the feet of their slaughtered men folk, while others rent their garments and slashed their bared breasts with knives and sharp rocks.

  As I lowered myself from my horse, I realized I knew all of the dead men. I recognized, Catch-the-Bear, Brave Thunder, Black Bird, and Spotted Horn, all warriors I had fought alongside and hunted with during my years with the Sioux. One brave’s face had been so savagely kicked in there was no way of identifying him—it wasn’t until later that I discovered that it was Crowfoot, Sitting Bull’s eldest son. But, to my relief, I did not see the medicine man’s corpse on the ground.

  I spotted an old Indian I had been friendly with in the days before Greasy Grass hovering at the edge of the mourning, his face so grief-stricken it seemed at first to lack all expression, and went over to speak to him.

  “Strikes-the-Kettle, my old friend, what has happened here? Where is Sitting Bull?”

  Strikes-the-Kettle shook his head, passing a hand before his face as if to block some horrible image from his mind’s eye. “Sitting Bull is dead.”

  “Dead? How?”

  “Yesterday Shave Head of the Metal Breasts came to the camp to speak with Sitting Bull. Sitting Bull allowed him to share his lodge for the night. Then, just before dawn, Shave Head opened the door to the lodge for his friend Bullhead and the others. They had been hiding across the river the whole time, drinking whisky to make them brave. They had bluecoats with them. They had come to arrest Sitting Bull.

  “Bullhead grabbed Sitting Bull and dragged him outside. But they were so noisy, everyone was awake and coming out of their lodges, angry that the Metal Breasts would try and do this thing to our chief. Catch-the-Bear pointed his rifle at Bullhead and told him to let go of Sitting Bull. Bullhead just laughed, so Catch-the-Bear shot him in the leg. Bullhead shot Sitting Bull in the left side as he fell down. Then Red Tomahawk shot Sitting Bull in the back. So I shot Shave Head and then shot Bullhead twice.

  “In all the confusion Tall Bull, Sitting Bull’s horse—the one he was given by Cody—broke loose and sat back on its haunches and raised one hoof in salute. The Metal Breasts became scared then, thinking Sitting Bull’s spirit was in the horse. That was when the bluecoats took charge, firing into the crowd, killing Catch-the-Bear, Black Bird, and the others.

  “Bullhead was bad hurt—dying—but he ordered the troopers to shoot Crowfoot in revenge. Red Tomahawk kicked Crowfoot’s face in, then started hitting Sitting Bull’s head with a neck yoke. The bluecoats and the Metal Breasts went crazy then, ransacking the camp and burning the lodges of those who dared stand against them.

  “When they were finished, they loaded Sitting Bull’s body onto a wagon, along with the bodies of the Metal Breasts. They said they were taking Sitting Bull back to the agency for burial.”

  “What of the wotawe, Sitting Bull’s war medicine?” I asked, fearful that one of the drunken Indian police or troopers might have taken my old friend’s most sacred personal possession as a trophy.

  “It is safe,” Strikes-the-Kettle assured me. “John, Sitting Bull’s deaf-mute son, smuggled it out of the camp. That much we have been able to save.”

  “Strikes-the-Kettle, did they say what they were arresting Sitting Bull for?”

  The old warrior shook his head, tears running down his seamed face. “Does it matter?”

  By rights, I should have turned my horse around and headed back home. I had failed in my mission—reaching my destination almost six hours too late. But, instead, I rode in the direction of the Pine Ridge agency—a collection of trading posts, schools, and office buildings clustered behind garrison walls.

  The troopers guarding the entrance to the agency looked at me funny, but because I appeared white, they let me in. The first thing I saw was Sitting Bull’s corpse, propped up in a crudely-fashioned pine box in front of the blacksmith’s. There was quite a crowd gathered there, composed mostly of the settlers who’d been called into the agency for protection against the “savages”, and I had to shoulder my way to the front to get a look at my old friend’s remains.

  Sitting Bull’s head had been reduced to a pulp, the jaw twisted so that it was positioned under his left ear. I counted at least seven bullet holes in his body. A sign was hung around his neck which read: Sitting Bull: Killer of Custer & Enemy To All Americans.

  Tears of rage burned the back of my throat and I had to turn away to keep from losing control of myself. It would have been so easy—and so sweet—to simply cast aside my human skin and fall upon the killers of my friend. But I knew there was nothing to be gained from such an action—unless it was my death. I had yet to die from a gun shot wound, but I wasn’t sure if having an entire garrison emptied into my hide might not prove fatal.

  One of the armed guards standing watch over Sitting Bull’s pitiful remains was a member of the Indian Police—those who Strikes-the-Kettle had called ‘Metal Breasts’. To my surprise, I recognized him as High Eagle, a Sioux warrior who had once followed Sitting Bull in the days before the surrender. The older Indian recognized me as well and shifted about uneasily, trying not to meet my eyes, but I would not let him get away so easily.

  “So, High Eagle,” I said in the tongue of the Lakota. “Are you proud of the thing you have done today?”

  High Eagle stiffened at my words and met my gaze. What I saw in his eyes spoke was sad and horribly aware. “We have killed our chief. What is there to be proud of?”

  I did not bother to look at Sitting Bull’s body again. I got on my horse and rode back out of the agency. What else was there for me to do but go home? I had no way of knowing that once word of Sitting Bull’s assassination reached the Ghost Dancers that Kicking Bear would saddle up for war. Nor could I have known that in ten days’ time Big Foot’s band of starving, pneumonia-ridden pilgrims would meet their final, futile end on the banks of the Wounded Knee Creek. In any case, it would not have changed what I found when I got back to my own camp, several days later. At least, I like to tell myself that.

 

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