by Win Blevins
Yellow Bird, blue with big yellow dots from head to toe, sat first in one place, then in another, moving restlessly. Everyone in council except Yellow Bird, both red and white, was bundled thickly against the cold. Yellow Bird wore only a breechcloth, leggings, and headdress.
Yes, medicine man, you look mythic and magical to the Indians. Unfortunately, you look devilish to the whites. O Iya, I see your handiwork here.
During the long talk some men in the half circle came and went, back and forth to the village, as they pleased. The older men looked wary to me, the young men combative. Maybe it’s important that most of the older men had earned their war honors, but the younger men were without opportunities, so far.
I sat in front of Big Foot’s tent where I could hear the soldiers speak and see the faces of the Indians.
Standing at the front of the half circle with some of his officers and interpreters, Colonel Forsyth gave quiet orders for the deployment of his forces, eight troops of cavalry, 470 officers and men. Plus the thirty Oglala scouts, who were stationed well back, south of the ravine, not to be trusted in case of fighting. Plus the four Hotchkiss guns and their crews on the hill overlooking the camps. Forsyth put two troops, K and B, hard by the council circle, on the western and southern flanks, at the ready. About a third of the A and I Troops were positioned on the north side of the council, about a hundred yards off. The other troops were put further back, but all within a long rifle shot, and instructed to be ready in case of trouble. Forsyth’s standing order was, “At the first sound of gunfire, all units fire.”
Finally the colonel addressed the men of the Big Foot band. He spoke pleasantly. They must give up their weapons, he said—the Great White Father in Washington required that. They would be compensated for the cost. When the weapons were handed over, the army would provide an escort for the long trip home. They were safe in the hands of their old friends the soldiers, he said. The time of starvation and other trouble was now happily at an end.
To this some Indians responded, “Washtay!”—good! But I saw a lot of stiff, stony faces, especially among the young men. Blue Crow kept his face impassive. The Horn Cloud brothers said nothing.
Now the conflict was not just weapons—Forsyth had said the army was going to escort them home. But the Mniconjou wanted to go to Pine Ridge. Many were looking forward to seeing relatives. More important, there was Big Foot’s promise to help mediate the disagreements among the Oglala, and his payment of a hundred horses. Forsyth seemed devious, talking friendly and slipping in that they wouldn’t be allowed to go see their own relatives.
The Indians talked among themselves about Forsyth’s demands. Before long they said they wanted to send two men to confer with Big Foot. The soldiers said okay, and Horn Cloud and another leader went into the wall tent where the chief was lying, followed by the half-breed interpreter Shangreau.
Big Foot was bleeding from the nose now, and looked weak and desperately sick. The two headmen told him what Forsyth had proposed and asked his counsel. “Give them the old guns,” Big Foot said. “Keep the good ones.” Shangreau put in, “You better give up the guns. You can always buy new guns, but if you lose a man, you can’t replace him.”
Big Foot only repeated, “Give up the old guns, keep the good ones.”
The two headmen went back to the council. Shangreau spoke to an officer, but I didn’t hear what he said.
Forsyth now had twenty Indians counted off and ordered them to go to the village and bring back all the weapons they could find. I followed them among the lodges. Some women, I noticed, were loading the wagons for the rest of the journey to Pine Ridge. Children were running and playing among the tipis. Clearly the people were not planning to start trouble, nor really expecting any. The men took a long time, and wandered back one by one, bearing armloads of weapons. I saw that someone had brought Big Foot out now. He was propped up in front of his tent, facing his people. Most of his headmen had moved behind him.
These guns, maybe sixty, were put in two piles, one at each end of the circle, and Forsyth inspected them. I followed him to look. They were old, battered, half-useless guns, not the fine new Winchesters brandished at Porcupine Butte yesterday. Forsyth stiffened and walked like a marionette to the other pile, which told the same story.
His voice sharpened as he spoke to one of the interpreters, Philip Wells. “You tell Big Foot that yesterday at the time of surrender his Indians were well armed, and that I am sure he is deceiving me.”
The warriors who searched the tipis repeated to Big Foot that these were all the weapons they could find. Almost too softly to be heard, Big Foot told the interpreter the same.
Bristling, Forsyth consulted with Lieutenant Whitside.
The tension was electric enough almost to warm the freezing, early morning air. The troops were pressed so close to the Indians, they were almost in their faces. The Indians feigned calm, but no one was calm. White and red were like two male dogs, sniffing each other, the spinal hairs on each critter rising, tails stiffening, the fight nearing.
I watched Big Foot. He knew there were more guns, and many were those good Winchesters. If they weren’t in the village, they were right here, on the men in the council, under their blankets. Maybe, another time, this conciliator, this politician could have negotiated successfully. He could have said to Wells, “Let’s sit and be calm and have some coffee and a smoke and talk about this.” Meanwhile the older men could have soothed the feelings of the younger. But today Big Foot was feeble.
I looked at Forsyth. Even whispering to Whitside, he was agitated, his speech almost violent. He had become a man impelled to do more than complete a mission. He had to make a point. He was in a contest of wills, and he would show the savages, by God.
When Forsyth turned back to the assembly, he spoke fateful words. “Since you won’t bring the weapons yourselves, I will detail a squad of soldiers to search the village.”
The Indian men rumbled and grumbled. Big Foot appealed for them to keep calm.
In fact Forsyth detailed two groups of soldiers. I didn’t follow them to the village, but I heard one of the officers, Captain Wallace, admonish his soldiers to be courteous. They disappeared toward the village and were gone a long time.
In the circle the strangeness began. I saw the officers of K and B Troops, the ones almost on top of the council, talk quietly one at a time to some soldiers, who were standing maybe four, five, or six feet apart. Then the individual soldier, at will, would raise his Springfield, aim it at the head of a nearby Indian, grin devilishly, and click the hammer on an empty chamber.
Indians twisted and dived out of the way. They shouted at their tormentors. Others cried, “Take courage! Take courage!”
About this time, at the west end of the circle, Yellow Bird began to pray aloud. He lifted his arms to the sky and in the voice of supplication asked the Grandfathers to take pity on the people and come to their aid.
Hammers clicked on empty chambers. Soldiers laughed mockingly, and sneered.
Indians writhed, and cursed the soldiers. Someone cried loudly, “We are not children to be talked to like this! We are a people in this world!”
Yellow Bird started dancing, a shuffle step, back and forth, back and forth. His praying elevated to singing, high and shrill, picturing now the divine intervention he sought.
Forsyth demanded of Philip Wells, “What is that man saying?”
Wells turned toward Yellow Bird.
“What’s he saying?” repeated Forsyth.
Wells brushed him off with a hand. “I’ll let you know anything you should know.”
Forsyth barked “All right!” at Wells and walked away.
The Indians were talking angrily now, and gesticulating. Blue Crow pulled his blankets over his head and left only one eye showing, and many young men did the same. That’s our traditional way of warning, “I’m getting pissed off!”
Now Yellow Bird dived deeper into his invocation. He danced in a circle around all the asse
mbled Indians, twisting and muttering. He scooped up handfuls of dust and cast them in a circle, over the soldiers’ heads and the heads of his own people. White and red men alike were transfixed by his gesticulations.
“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!” Yellow Bird cried. “Take courage!” he shouted at the young men at his end of the circle. “There are lots of soldiers about us and they have lots of bullets, but they cannot harm you. Their bullets will not go toward you, but will pass over the prairie. If they do go toward you, they will not penetrate you. As you just saw me throw up the dust and it floated away, so will the soldiers’ bullets float away harmlessly over the prairie.”
“Hau!” shouted Blue Crow vigorously, and other the young men cried “Hau!” Around the edges of their blankets their dance shirts showed. I saw that my great-grandfather was wearing a dance shirt. The young Horn Cloud men wore none—they had no protection from the bullets.
Yellow Bird kept circling, kept dancing, kept hurling words at the young men.
I looked at the faces of the soldiers of B Troop, those stationed nearest Yellow Bird. They were seeing their nightmares come to life. Here were a hundred savages, probably hiding repeating rifles under their blankets, getting more angry and hostile by the moment. And they were egged on by a crazy primitive, a mad, half-naked figure in blue paint, performing a grotesque and demented dance to his dark gods.
Now Forsyth called to Wells, “You’d better get out of there. It’s starting to look dangerous.”
“In a minute, Colonel.” Wells spoke quietly to one of the older men, Big Foot’s brother. From the body language I gathered Wells asked the man to help quiet the young warriors, and was refused.
Now I heard an uproar from the village. I put myself at the Blue Crow lodge and took a look. A soldier was trying to frisk Elk Medicine. Then I saw—it was the pale sentry from last night. He kept grabbing the edge of the blanket she was wearing and trying to open it up. She slapped his hand and snapped in Lakota, “Keep your hands off me.”
Well across the village, Wallace was walking around talking soothingly to everyone, chucking children under the chin, and the like.
Now Elk Medicine switched to English. “I said, Keep your goddamn hands off—”
Her blanket came off in both the sentry’s hands. He stood there looking dumb, holding the scarlet blanket. Nothing was under it except my great-grandmother, looking very cross. Her belly filled out her deerskin dress far too well for her to be concealing any rifle.
She slapped the sentry full in the face.
A passing corporal of middle age said in an Irish accent, “You undress ’em, lad, you should look for sweeter things than that.”
Elk Medicine ripped her blanket out of the sentry’s hands. Then she held back the tipi flap and said, “You wanna search our beds? The only gun in there will be yours. Our men got better weapons to take to bed.”
The corporal cackled.
The sentry stepped awkwardly into the tipi.
Other women were having their persons and their belongings pawed, and they resented it. The soldiers were frisking the old men, too.
Wallace barked at a couple of soldiers, “Remember courtesy!”
I went back to the council ground, and beheld something bizarre. A big strapping Indian was stalking Wells, every step. His blood rising, Wells turned to face the man. The Indian tried to slip behind him. Wells faced him. The Indian tried again. Now Wells planted his rifle butt, clapped his hands on the muzzle, and pivoted toward the Indian, glaring, whatever direction the Indian went.
Blue Crow gave the strapping man a look and a negative shake of the head. The man stood to one side.
Captain Wallace, back from the village, slipped over to Joseph Horn Cloud, who spoke English. He said softly, “Joseph, you better go over to the women and tell them to let the wagons go and saddle up their horses and be ready to skip. There’s going to be trouble.”
Joseph gave Wallace a startled look, turned, and padded swiftly toward the tipis. The men of K troop stopped him—Forsyth had ordered an end to men coming and going from the council. But Wallace nodded to the troopers and they let Joseph through. He hurried into the village.
Wells came to Forsyth and said about Yellow Bird, “That man is making mischief.”
Yellow Bird was dancing all the way around the circle, throwing dust in the air. The colonel and interpreter walked over to the medicine man and ordered him to sit down. Big Foot’s brother answered, “He’ll sit down when he finishes the circle.”
Forsyth and Wells backed off reluctantly.
When he completed the circle, Yellow Bird sat down.
Suddenly a whine stopped. It was like I’d been hearing it unconsciously and it had risen gradually in intensity. Now came an eerie quiet.
The two details returned from the village, and I saw the weapons they bore were a joke. Yes, they’d found a few decent guns. But mostly it was kitchen knives, hatchets for chopping kindling, bows and arrows, and the like. Though the faces of the Mniconjou were stony, the eyes of Blue Crow and some other young men danced with mocking laughter.
Now Forsyth fumed. He paced back and forth. Finally he said to Wells, “Tell them each man must submit to inspection. I don’t want to have to search them by force. Ask them to come forward to here individually, man by man, take off their blankets, and put any weapons on the ground.”
Wells told them, and added his own harshness to Forsyth’s words. Part Santee Sioux and part white, Wells felt superior to full-bloods. His voice, his whole manner spoke his arrogance.
Still, some of the older men greeted his words with, “Hau!”
About twenty older men walked to the front, near Big Foot’s tent. One by one they dropped their blankets. No weapons were revealed.
Wells repeated Forsyth’s order and the young men, sullen and grumbling, lined up for the check. Blue Crow was well back in the line, and I couldn’t read his expression—his Winchester had to be under his blanket. Horn Cloud’s sons, except for Joseph, stood in the middle, looking miserable.
Yellow Bird started throwing his words at the young men again. “Take courage! Be ready for what is coming! The soldiers’ bullets will not penetrate us.” Now he pulled his dance shirt over his naked torso. He glared his defiance and strutted his invincibility at the young warriors.
On the first three young men the soldiers found two rifles, one a Winchester, and a bunch of ammunition. They took the rifles and dumped the cartridges into a sergeant’s hat.
Yellow Bird began to scoop up dust and let it drift between his fingers to the ground.
The lieutenant in command of K Troop said in a low, controlled voice to his soldiers, “Be ready. There is going to be trouble.”
The men of K Troop were more than ready. Their bodies were twisted like wire with tension, their nerves screaming. Fear and rage built in them like lightning in black clouds.
A young Indian named Black Coyote stood up now and jumped around holding his rifle with two hands above his head. Black Coyote was deaf. He yelled in Lakota, “This is my gun. I paid a lot of money. Nobody’s going to get this gun without paying for it. Nobody.” He repeated these words over and over, gyrating about like a crazy man.
Blue Crow and several others in the circle talked among themselves and then got up and went toward Black Coyote. He was a wild young man, a bad influence, and he hadn’t been able to hear any of the talk. They intended to calm him down and explain to him in sign language why men were giving up their guns.
Before the Indians got to Black Coyote, some soldiers slipped up behind the deaf man, grabbed him, and tried to wrest the rifle out of his hands. Black Coyote fought.
Just at this moment Yellow Bird grabbed a handful of dust and flung it in the air.
The rifle tilted, muzzle to the sky.
Somehow it went off.
The shot echoed through the valley of Wounded Knee Creek.
I saw knowledge on Blue Crow’s face. On the faces of the Horn Cloud sons. On the face of every m
an in the circle.
At point-blank range red eye looked into white eye, white into red.
The Indians hesitated. The soldiers hesitated.
The invitation to horror was recognized. It was accepted. It was welcomed.
One eternal moment ticked past.
Apocalypse came as the rage of Thunderstorm against Wind Storm.
A half dozen young Indians threw off their blankets and brought up their rifles.
The soldiers of K Troop fired a volley into the mass of Indians on the council ground. Then their lieutenant drew his revolver and screamed, “Fire! Fire on them!”
The men of Troop B, also hard against the Indian men in council, fired.
Indian men with and without dance shirts fell, or stood to shoot again.
Divine and demonic forces came screaming onto the field. In ancient enmity Wind Storm and Thunderstorm howled and raged. The cosmic energies crashed and boomed, and the merely human was destroyed. I could almost hear the mocking laugh of Iya.
Instantly dust, smoke, and din half-blinded and half-deafened everyone. Soldier and warrior shot it out at close quarters through the murk and haze. When Indians missed, some of the shots ripped through the village. Women, children, old men, dogs, and horses burst into an uproar.
Wild shots from the soldiers ripped across the council ground and hit other soldiers.
Big Foot was propped up on one elbow. Immediately an officer and an enlisted man shot him in the upper chest, as though fulfilling an assignment. His daughter, who was standing by the sick man’s tent, dashed forward to her father. The same officer shot her between the shoulder blades.
The headmen sitting behind Big Foot took one of the first blasts from the Springfields. Bodies flew in wild directions, fell in agonized postures. Among those never to get up was Horn Cloud.
