by Rick Revelle
“Misko, stop your noise!” I cried. “Lie down!”
The dog, startled by my raised voice, immediately obeyed and lay down in the boat with a thump. Turning my eyes to the opposite shore, I spotted where I could get to a landing, remove the arrow, and return to help my people. As I approached the shore, a large rabbit was sitting there on his haunches and seemed to wave at me to come to him. I was starting to feel the effect of the arrow now, and I was wracked with chills. Blood coursed down the side of the canoe, colouring both it and the water red. When I clambered onto the shore, I looked up into the eyes of a tall warrior. He reached down and grabbed me, pulling the canoe and myself to shore. Then he broke the arrow, releasing my hand.
I gazed up again and asked, “Who are you?”
“Nanabozho!”
Then I blacked out.
8
Tȟatȟáŋka (Buffalo)
CHAŊKU WAŠTE
“Tell me about the tȟatȟáŋka (tah-tohn’kah: buffalo), Chaŋku Wašte (chan-koo wash-tay: Good Path),” said my nephew, Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá (tah-ka shin-sha: Deer Child).
“It’s the smell, the sound, the dust, the shaking of the earth by the huge beast that creates such an excitement among us,” I told him. “The following of the herd by the šuŋgmánitu tȟáŋka (shoon-gur’mah-nee-tee tanka: wolf) who is always there preying on the old, the young, and the sick, keeping the herd strong by culling the weak. Then there is the pteyáȟpaya (pa-tay-pay-ah: cowbird) that’s so busy following the beast and eating the insects the herd stirs up. It won’t take time to make a nest. It lays its eggs in the nests of other birds along the way. It’s all these things and many more that create the mystery of this creature.”
In the background of the herd, the sun sparkled off the Mnišá Wakpá (mnee-shah wah-koh’-pah: Red River, also called Wine River by the Lakȟóta) as it streamed through the tall prairie grass.
“The Wakȟáŋ Tȟáŋka (wakhan thanka: Great Mystery) created this animal for all the animals, our people, and other tribes to make use of for survival,” I continued. “It supplies us with everything we need, from food, to weapons, to eating utensils, clothing, the making of our lodges, and even the dung we use for our fires.”
“Uncle, how can our people kill such a large and powerful animal?”
“He’s difficult to slay,” I replied. “We have to use all our trickery and skill to bring this animal down.”
We were lying on a bluff downwind from the huge herd, watching as they grazed on the prairie grass that came up to the large beasts’ shoulders. The sun’s warmth made me drowsy. Around us other warriors and young boys from our village observed the same amazing spectacle as we did. The herd was huge, and we could see neither the end nor the beginning. We had been waiting many days for this herd to come near our lands and had travelled from our forest homes (west of present-day Leech Lake, Minnesota) to the prairie’s edge.
As we lay there, we witnessed a pack of a dozen wolves harass an old and feeble cow. The pack had separated the animal away from the herd to an area where the grass was sparser. There the wolves took turns attacking her from behind. She managed to kick free a couple of times and attempted to return to the safety of the herd, using her horns to defend herself. The yelping of the wolves as she struck them with her head made them realize she still had some fight in her.
The grunts of the cow and the snarls of the wolves carried to our ears but seemingly went unnoticed by the rest of the herd. This was a death struggle that had only one ending. The outcome came swiftly as the aged cow’s strength finally gave out. Two of the wolves desperately held on as they tore at her legs, collapsing her rear quarters into the swirling mass of the pack. There the beast’s life ended and the Great Mystery made a gift to the wolf pack.
If the wolves had attacked a calf, the outcome might have been different; calves were always protected. The old cow had lived her life and the herd wouldn’t risk defending her. She was sacrificed because of her age.
Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá never said a word while the kill went on. He just watched. Then he turned to me and asked, “Is that how our people kill the buffalo?”
“No, we use our weapons instead of our teeth!” I replied.
He looked at me and started to giggle, and soon we were both laughing as we lay back in the warm grass and gazed at the sky. Then the other men and boys who had been watching the herd came over to where we were to talk about how we should go about our hunt for these huge beasts.
“Chaŋku Wašte,” said SnázA (snee’-zhay: Scar), “there are no cliffs or rock faces near enough for us to stampede them toward. We’ll have to either hunt them on foot in the open or make a čhaŋkáškapi (chon-kos’kay: fence).”
“We’ll make the fence,” I said. “SnázA, you and a few of the younger boys stay here. If anything happens that disturbs the herd or if the end of the animals comes in sight, send one of the boys back with the news. As of yet, there’s no end in sight on the horizon and the trailing wolves aren’t going to stampede them. If the end does come to pass before we’re back, follow the herd, making sure we know where you’re going by leaving a sign. I don’t think they’ll leave this area for several suns. The grass is too plentiful and there’s ample fresh water nearby.”
Then I motioned to the others and we took off at a run, heading for the village we had previously set up. We had left our winter encampment at Leech Lake less than a moon ago. Now I would have to ask the women to move the camp again, closer to the herd. Arriving at the encampment, I noticed that many of our younger warriors were absent. I approached my friend, Ógleiglúzašá (oga-lee-sha: Wears a Red Shirt), and asked him where the young warriors were.
He answered that Óta Heȟáka (oh’-tay he-ha-ka: Many Elk), my son, had sent the camp éyapaha (eh-a-pa-ha: crier) through the village asking for Dream Warriors. Óta Heȟáka had dreamed of a battle with the Ȟaȟátȟuŋwaŋ (ha-ha-ton-wan: Anishinaabe) on a distant river he knew about. That morning, after the dream, he had sent the crier to ask for warriors who had experienced the same dream.
“How many left with him?” I asked.
“Around twenty, plus six dogs,” Ógleiglúzašá replied.
“Why now?” I exclaimed. “That’s a lot of Dream Warriors who have had the same dream about a battle!”
“You know Óta Heȟáka. When there’s a war to make on the Ȟaȟátȟuŋwaŋ, he doesn’t sit idly. He goes in headfirst!”
“Yes, I do know, but it doesn’t change anything,” I said. “We need warriors for this hunt. The food and the robes that the great beast will supply us with will feed and provide shelter and warmth for our entire village for many moons. Even the loss of those six dogs Óta Heȟáka took with him will be felt on this hunt. If we fail because he decided war was more of a deterrent to starvation than a successful hunt for buffalo, how then can he ever expect to be a leader? A dream is powerful, but so is starvation!”
I turned to SnázA. “Have our people take down the lodges. They have to travel to the hunt site and start building the stone and brush piles for the fence before the main part of the herd passes. An enclosure for the kill also has to be constructed. With a village of four hundred, we only have seventy warriors. Now we’re down to fifty. This hunt needs every man, woman, child, and dog to be successful. So, SnázA, do what’s necessary. I’ll go to our brothers who are camped on the Kȟaŋǧí Ȟupáhu Wakpá (kohn’-gay hoo’-pah wah-koh’-pah: Crow Wing River) to ask for their help. I should be back to the herd in six or seven suns. Start the fence and corral once you get there.”
The people I was going to ask for help with the hunt would be near the Kȟaŋǧí Ȟupáhu Wakpá this time of year. They were a group of only a hundred and fifty, with fewer than thirty warriors. They hunted deer and elk, gathered nuts and berries, and fished. The little band was able to survive because of the abundance of small game in its area, and its needs weren’t as great as our group of more tha
n four hundred.
The leader of these people was called SápA Ziŋtkála (sah’-pah zint’-kah-lah: Black Bird) and had been a friend for many years.
“Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá, pick two dogs,” I said. “We’re going on a trip!”
Leaving during the early dawn, Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá and I kept up a steady running pace. With the two dogs leading the way, we had no fear of being surprised by bears or men. For three days we ran until dark and our eyes couldn’t find the way anymore. Each night we made a fire and ate the dried meat we had brought with us. Berries and roots we found were added to our meal and also used to make tea. The dogs looked after themselves; one day they chased down a rabbit, other days they survived on small rodents they discovered rustling in the grass. Each night we slept by the fire with the dogs. The night air was warm now, since it was the wípazukȟa-wašté-wí (wi-pa-zoo-ka-wash-tay-wi: Moon When the Berries Are Good — June). It took us most of the first day to leave the prairie and enter the forest. Once into the woodlands, we came across a warrior trail that would take us to SápA Ziŋtkála’s camp.
The morning of the third day we were hit with a thunderstorm. We watched through the tree canopy as lightning lit up the sky and the two dogs whimpered with fear each time thunder boomed. Rain leaked through the canopy of the forest, drenching Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá and me and producing a glistening sheen on the dogs’ coats.
By the time we arrived at the village of SápA Ziŋtkála, the rain had stopped and we were starting to dry out. I gave Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá two rawhide ropes usually used to secure enemy prisoners on the trail and asked him to tie up the dogs for the time being and stay with them at the edge of the camp. I was in no mood to separate a bunch of fighting dogs at this time. Once the camp dogs realized there was no danger from these two, we could let them loose.
Members of the akíčita (ah-kee-chee-tah: camp guards and/or warrior society responsible for hunting and war parties) took me to the lodge of SápA Ziŋtkála. Once there, we smoked and talked of past battles and hunts. After we ate, I told him about my problem and the opportunity that could benefit both of our peoples.
“Chaŋku Wašte,” he said to me, “my warriors will welcome a chance to hunt buffalo and our wives and daughters will be delighted to obtain hides and everything else the great beasts have to offer. It will be an appreciated change from the deer and fish we’re accustomed to. Tonight you and your nephew will eat with us and we’ll strike the lodges first thing in the morning. I’ll send half of my warriors and young boys with you to arrive before the main camp to help your people with the preparations for the hunt. The rest of us should get there just in time for the beginning of the hunt. With so much to move, the group will be two to three suns behind. We’ll bury all our extra firewood, winter robes, and other items we don’t need until we return in the fall. There’s no need to take the extra weight. Tonight you and your nephew must share my lodge.”
I left the home of SápA Ziŋtkála and took some food to Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá and the dogs. Once we untied them, there was some serious sniffing, growling, and posturing between them and the alpha camp dog. Our two animals showed submission and were allowed to enter. Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá and I left the dogs to their night’s fate and entered the lodge of my friend where we quickly went to our dream worlds.
The morning brought brilliant sunshine and the buzz of a busy encampment. There was a constant clamour of people talking and the rattling of lodgepoles as the wakhéya (wa-kay’ah: lodges, teepees, dwellings) were taken down. Some of SápA Ziŋtkála’s people lived in sod huts, which years ago were more common, but lately they had more access to buffalo and other animal hides, enabling them to replace most of their sod shelters with hide teepees.
Catching the aroma of the early-morning meals being prepared from the surrounding firepits, I felt my stomach contract, telling me it was time to eat. SápA Ziŋtkála’s wife, Tȟawíŋyela (tah-win-yela: Doe), handed us some thíŋpsiŋla (timp-sila: turnip) when we exited the lodge — one of my favourite foods and very popular among my people. It was filling and sustaining, and I made sure I stuffed some extra chunks into my pouch for later in the day. Looking at Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá, I saw that he had his cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk and was still trying to cram more into his mouth. I had an intense desire to slap both sides of his cheeks, but I knew if I did that most of what was in his mouth would end up on my chest.
“Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá,” I said, “make sure you take some of the turnip destined for your mouth and put it in your pouch for a midday meal.”
With a full mouth all he could do was stare at me and smile. I then left him to his meal and entered the nearby forest to rid myself of my night’s body collections.
The village soon disappeared before my eyes. The Lakȟóta women were experts when it came to moving camp. By the time the sun was barely above the horizon, the encampment was in motion. The people moved like a meandering river flowing as one. The women, children, and dogs were strung out in a long line. There were close to four hundred dogs, and each of these animals carted more than their body weight on a hupák’iŋ (hoo-pock-een: travois or pole sled). Some of the dogs had to be led on a leather rope by a child, but on the whole, they followed the dog ahead of them. A few of the dogs’ travois carried cradled children.
The hokšíčala (oke-shee-chah’-lah: baby) was always wrapped on a cradleboard. The board extended above the infant’s head to protect against sudden jolts or falls. The bunting was made from animal hide, and the mother decorated it with shells or feathers. Small articles for the baby to play with hung from the bowed wood strip shaped around the child’s head. Moss was stuffed into the cradle to absorb the young one’s fluids. The plank was carried on the mother’s back, fastened to a travois, or hung or propped against trees. Until children could walk this was their home.
SápA Ziŋtkála and his men guarded the procession front, back, and sides. With them were their war dogs, who acted as sentinels, ranging farther afield than the men. The war dogs were bred and trained for battle and hunting, whereas the other dogs were kept as beasts of burden and for food when there was a shortage of game.
Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá and I left camp at the same time as the column. With us were ten warriors and fifteen young boys around Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá’s age. Our group kept up a steady running pace for the whole day. For the next few suns we would keep a constant tempo from dawn to dusk. At night the young boys gathered firewood when we were in the forest and aged buffalo dung once we were on the prairie. Both items were used for warmth and cooking, although the wood tended to have a better smell than the dung.
When we reached the tall grass of the prairie, we found a well-used game trail that helped speed our journey. As we hurried through the tall grass that came up to our heads, something to my left caught my eye. It was a curious tȟáȟčasaŋla (tah-kchah-sohn-lah: antelope). He bounded beside our group, jumping and looking inquisitively at us. A warrior ahead of us timed the animal’s leaping perfectly, and that night we feasted on fresh meat.
During the days with our new companions, we enjoyed a faster pace than we had done coming to their village. My two dogs stayed by our sides, but the four dogs brought by SápA Ziŋtkála and his people raced ahead alongside two sinewy warriors.
“Uncle, why are those men and dogs running so far ahead?” Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá asked on the evening of the second day.
“Because of our enemies, we have to be cautious they don’t surprise us,” I replied.
“Who are our enemies?”
“The Ȟaȟátȟuŋwaŋ,” I said.
“Why are they our enemies?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Uncle, we still have a long way to go and I’m a good listener.”
“Well, in that case, if you can keep up with me as we run, I’ll tell you the story of why the Ȟaȟátȟuŋwaŋ and Lakȟóta are enemies.”
9
Kȟaŋǧi Wakpá
(Crow Creek)
CHAŊKU WAŠTE
“In the time of my grandfather,” I told Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá, “our people came from the southern part of this great land on the lower Wakpá Atkúku (wak-pa’ at-ku-ku: Mississippi River). Forty winters ago the Lakȟóta made the decision to leave the region because of constant intertribal warfare, starvation from crop failures, and the lack of game due to the infringement of other tribes into our hunting grounds.
“That spring scouts were sent to the north, west, and east to find new lands to live on. They were told to go twenty suns in the direction they were assigned to travel, then on the twentieth day they were to come back. When they returned forty suns later, the four main villages were gathered at one location and the scouts made reports of what they had seen in the directions they had journeyed. After much talk among the Elders, it was decided to go north where there were many lakes and rivers to fish as well as deer, bear, elk, and small game to hunt.
“They left during the čhaŋpȟásapa wí (can-pa’-sa-pa wi: Moon of Cherries Blackening — July). During the move, they suffered greatly, barely living off the land. The Lakȟóta at that time numbered around twenty-five hundred people, with six hundred of them warriors and young men. Each family had thirty to forty dogs to carry their belongings on travois. During these times when food became scarce while travelling, they had to eat some of these dogs. However, for each dog that was eaten, someone had to carry that animal’s load or leave it behind on the trail.
“After twenty suns, their scouts said they were still a long way from the destination. One group of Lakȟóta then decided it couldn’t travel north any longer. That band had suffered many hardships during the winter and was in a weakened state of body and mind. During the move, these people, among all of the villagers, had lost the most members to starvation on the trail. The scouts who had journeyed to the west had originally told of a river, tall grasses, and herds of antelope and buffalo. Now this exhausted band made the determination to follow those scouts to that spot on the thíŋta (tin’-ta: prairie). There would be rivers to cross getting there, but the distance would be shorter than where they were headed now. The scouts were to lead them to the area near the banks of the Mníšoše Wakpá (mini-so-se wa-pah: Missouri River) to a small stream called Kȟaŋǧi Wakpá (kohn’ay wa-pah: Crow Creek).
