Walking Wolf

by Nancy A. Collins

  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. Soldiers were sent from Fort Robinson in response to McLaughlin’s telegraphed plea. And it just so happened to be the Seventh Cavalry—Custer’s old unit—that marched into Pine Ridge. The sight of their old enemy’s former regiment sparked a panic. 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.

  Short Bull and Kicking Bear decided their numbers had swollen so much 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 Cuny’s Table. It would be impossible for anyone to sneak up on them there without being seen.

  However, while on their way there, some of Short Bull’s Brûlés 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, the government beef ranch was burned to the ground.

  Of course, I had no way of knowing this at the time. While I had visitors who made a point of keeping me up-to-date as to what was going on, 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 over and done with. But sometimes I had visitors who came to me in dreams who carried far fresher news.

  One day, just as the snows had started to fall, I woke from a particularly troublesome dream to find Sitting Bull seated, cross-legged, beside my cabin’s hearth. He was smoking his 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, until I realized that the medicine man was as insubstantial 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 vision confusing, and thinking it was probably not an authentic visitation, I dismissed it. But then the next day, Digging Woman said to me: “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 looked at me and smiled. “Do you not know me, Walking Wolf?” 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.

  “Grandfather!” I gasped. “Forgive me. I did not know you like this 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. Yellow Hair is here, too. He is to be reborn as a sled dog in a place called Yukon.”

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

  “I am here to warn you.”

  “Of what?”

  “I am not certain.”

  “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. It will, however, pull the living into the land of the dead. 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 you have nothing to fear, old friend. Such a thing 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 one called McLaughlin is awaiting word from his chiefs so he may have Sitting Bull arrested. 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. It is familiar to you, yet still a stranger. Be wary, Walking Wolf, for this darkness would eat your soul.”

  “Grandfather, what is this danger that 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. With a wave of his hands, he disappeared into himself.

  I lied to Digging Woman the day I left. I told her I needed to go off into 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 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 good 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 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 the cabin, watching me head into the mountains. They looked so small—almost like dolls. I lifted a hand in farewell and, after a moment, they waved in return. For a moment I was overwhelmed with a surge of love for my wife and son that was so profound it almost 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.

  It gets cold early in the Dakotas 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 alike, had settled in for the season, barricading themselves against the blizzards and brutal sub-zero temperatures. But the winter of 1890 was far from normal, especially for the Sioux.

  That was why I was astonished, on my second day out, to run across a band of Indians traversing the hostile landscape. 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. The band’s leader was none other than Big Foot, an elderly chief once respected for his wisdom but who had fallen on exceptionally hard times. The old chief was wrapped in a trade-cloth blanket that was no replacement for the buffalo robes of old. Although it was close to zero, he was sweating and his eyes burned with ague, he still seemed glad to see me.

  “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 cannot perform the Ghost Dance! We are 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 that comprised his sorry band of pilgrims. Only one or two carried firearms, while the rest clutched spears and stone axes. Even a blind man could see they were far from being on the warpath.

  “Big Foot, if you continue on your way, many of your number will perish,” I cautioned.

  “It does not matter,” he replied with the surety of a convert. “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.

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

  As I lowered myself from my horse, 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 much later that I discovered that it was Crowfoot, Sitting Bull’s eldest son. 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. “Strikes-the-Kettle, my old friend,” I called out. “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?” I gasped. “How is this?”

  “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 the others. They had been hiding across the river the whole time, drinking whisky to make them brave. They had bluecoats with them. They came to arrest Sitting Bull.

  “One of the Metal Breasts grabbed Sitting Bull and dragged him outside. But they were so noisy, they work up everyone. We came out of our lodges, angry that the Metal Breasts would try and do this thing to our chief. Catch-the-Bear pointed his rifle and told him to let go of Sitting Bull. The Metal Breast just laughed, so Catch-the-Bear shot him in the leg. Shave Head 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 twice.

  “Then Sitting Bull’s horse—the one he was given by Cody when he performed before the Great White Mother—broke loose. It sat back on its haunches and raised its hoof in salute. The Metal Breasts became scared, thinking Sitting Bull’s spirit was in the horse. That was when the bluecoats fired into the crowd, killing Catch-the-Bear, Black Bird and the others.

  “Shave Head was bad hurt—dying—but he ordered the troopers to shoot Crowfoot in revenge. Red Tomahawk kicked Crowfoot’s face in, and then started hitting Sitting Bull’s head with a piece of wood. 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 onto a wagon, along with the dead Metal Breasts. They said they were taking them 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. “His deaf-mute son smuggled it out of the camp. That much we have been able to save.”

  “Did the Metal Breasts 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 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 shop. There was quite a crowd gathered there, composed mostly of the settlers who’d been called into the agency for protection, and I had to shoulder my way to the front to get a look at my old friend’s remains. His 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. 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 kinsman. 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 gunshot wound, but I wasn’t sure if having an entire garrison shooting 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. 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 as he spoke was both sad and horribly aware. “We have killed our chief. What is there to be proud of?”

  Having seen Sitting Bull’s body, 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, Kicking Bear would saddle up for war. Nor could I have known that Big Foot’s band of starving, pneumonia-ridden pilgrims would soon meet their final, futile end on the banks of the Wounded Knee. In any case, it would not have changed what I found when I returned to my own camp, days later.

  At least, I like to tell myself that.

  Chapter Eleven

  As I rode across the Wyoming grasslands, where the buffalo had once roamed as thick as fleas on a hound’s ear, an ice storm came whipping down out of the mountains. The sleet froze to me almost immediately, and I was forced to shift into my true skin to keep from freezing to my saddle. As it was, my pony wasn’t faring that well. It wasn’t long before I was forced to find shelter and wait out the storm, huddled against my mount for warmth.

  That night my dreams were full of Sitting Bull’s ruined face and the sound of women wailing. But amidst my troubled slumbers, I thought I could hear a familiar voice calling my name. The voice was distant and feeble, as if the person was trying to yell over the howling of the ice storm. I struggled to identify the voice. And then, with a surge of fear, I realized who it belonged to. It was Digging Woman.

  I started awake, terror racing
inside me like a live mouse. Something was wrong. Something was horribly, horribly wrong. My horse was close to dead, but I somehow got it to its feet and forced it on its way. A couple hours later it died, collapsing into the snow without so much as a whinny. Although sore and frozen, I kept plowing on through the bitter cold, possessed by a desperate need to reach my wife and child that transcended all rational thought.

  I reached my camp on what I later discovered was Christmas Day. The snows had relented, and the pale winter sun shone down on the place I had called home for nearly a decade. Even from a distance I could see the humble two-room cabin where my wife and I first made, then raised, our son in was now nothing more than charcoal and snow-flecked soot. Although the barn had been left standing, the corral was full of dead horses, all of them shot through the head.

  I found what was left of my family not far from the ruins of the house. At first I did not see them because they were covered with snow. I tried to cradle Digging Woman’s body in my arms, but she was frozen to the ground. She was missing her eyes, tongue, nose, breasts and scalp. Wolf Legs was relatively untouched, save that he’d been skinned from knees to ankles. As if their mutilations were not humiliation enough, their killer had pissed in their wounds.

  I dug through the charred remains of my home until I found a kettle. I then took the axe from the barn and chopped a hole in the creek so I could draw water. I built a fire, boiled the water and poured it over the bodies of my wife and child. Even then, it still required all of my inhuman strength to pull them free of the cold, hard ground they had perished on. Sadly, I found it impossible to move their limbs into anything resembling peaceful repose.