by Tatjana Soli
In his tent he lay on his bed of buffalo skins before the blazing stove. When she was prodded in, he glimpsed Tom’s face behind her, outraged on Libbie’s behalf and yet loyal despite that. His young brother was not yet married, could not understand that there was marital love and then there was also this.
He had caught enough of his words to gather that Golden Buffalo had urged the girl’s accommodation. All men understood that women were the best insurance for loyalty. Golden Buffalo was bargaining to buy his. Custer would enjoy letting him try.
The tent flap closed behind the girl. Both were aware that a soldier with a loaded gun stood on the other side of the canvas. The night was a cold one, a howling wind blowing sporadically, causing the tent to shudder from each powerful gust. He propped himself up on an elbow and stared at her.
Stonily Monahsetah stared back. Wrapped in her blanket against the cold, she did not look away, showing neither anger nor fear, but frankly appraised him. Impressed, he thought her more cool-headed than many a general he had fought against. They both understood the proposed transaction; now it was more a settling on mutually satisfactory terms. He almost fell asleep waiting until some calculation had been reached, when at last she shifted her weight from one foot to the other and let the blanket drop. Despite the dress and leggings, the fineness of her body had been obvious—the youth of unblemished skin, the inky hair that fell thick down her back as she unbound it, a veil covering her breast. She would not have been out of place, except for her exceptional beauty, if attending a social soiree in New York City, back in the States. There was none of the wilting delicacy of white women about her. Instead of seducing by helplessness she undid him by her strength.
After a prolonged silence, she coughed.
—You are handsome on a horse.
He flushed, knowing this was the highest criterion for leadership among the Indians. He, too, was being chosen.
—You mount a horse quite prettily yourself, he answered.
She tossed her head at the obviousness of his statement.
As she continued to undress, he realized he had indeed underestimated her charms. He tried to figure out this new enemy. He would need to be careful if it was true that she’d wounded and left her husband. The prisoner he’d questioned claimed she was a crack shot with a rifle, better than most warriors. What was she plotting now, when a day earlier she’d lost her father and a major portion of her tribe? Here she was dry-eyed, scheming her best possible future. She canted her chin higher, not subservient in the least. A powerful protector among the enemy was essential. Raised in a warrior culture, used to the ways of the nomad, her life much resembled his as a soldier. For the moment he represented relative safety and shelter. They understood each other.
—Hi’es’tzie, Long Hair, she said, pointing at him.
He swept his hand over the nearby low table filled with officers’ rations. She was a woman of appetite to match his, and he delighted as she fell on the food, ravenous, never taking an eye off him. Her inquisitive gaze probed to discover what kind of man he was while her sharp white teeth tore at the food.
Table re-created from Washita Memories: Eyewitness Views of Custer’s Attack on Black Kettle’s Village, by Richard G. Hardorff. University of Oklahoma Press. Copyright © 2006 by Richard G. Hardorff.
GOLDEN BUFFALO
He spoke to the tribe at a feast in his honor. He had been sickened by the behavior of the soldiers at Washita the previous winter, how they fought without skill and then lied afterward about the number of women and children killed. He had returned to his people to regain his spirit strength.
“You do well to return,” the chief said. “Tell us what kind of man this Long Hair is.”
“He is a warrior. He has the heart of an Indian.”
The chief bowed his head.
“He is smart and learns our ways,” Golden Buffalo continued. “But he does so to defeat us and glorify himself among his people.”
* * *
A LARGE GROUP of warriors left with Golden Buffalo for the hunt. They rode to a favorite buffalo watering hole in a secluded valley they had hunted in since Golden Buffalo was a young boy. The warrior who called himself his new father had been proud of Golden Buffalo’s abilities in riding and shooting and had him accompany the hunt before he allowed his own sons to do the same. He remembered the great excitement the men felt getting ready for the annual trek, and how he experienced a sense of belonging for the first time since he had lost his parents. He tried not to think that these men he rode among were the very tribe to kill his parents in warfare and then adopt him. The valley made him mindful of all these things.
They walked their horses leisurely in a scattered line, talking and joking, the chief turning around on his horse to tell Golden Buffalo the end of a story. No one could see the valley ahead, as a last hill still blocked it. The men at the head of the hunting party made a signal as they sniffed the air. Soon all of them noticed the awful stench of decomposition. Perhaps, they thought, a lone buffalo had died nearby. Cresting the hill in silence, the sight before Golden Buffalo’s eyes made his heart sick—hundreds and hundreds of dead buffalo scattered across the valley floor, as numerous as the wildflowers, so many they darkened the ground they lay on. The animals were bloated and rotting, the killing days old, some with their skin cut off, others whole except for a missing tongue.
The warriors shouted, outraged. They rode in angry circles and fired their guns into the sky. Golden Buffalo simply felt shame. Was he a fool to try to learn the ways of men who did such things? He turned his horse back and did not speak the rest of the day.
They had been expected to be gone a week, but came back in a few days. Urgent councils were announced among the Cheyenne, Sioux, and Kiowa, and ideas solicited to deal with the encroachment on their lands. Although it was illegal, the military would not enforce its own treaties. The majority favored going on the warpath against the settlers, who were easier targets than the soldiers.
They agreed on a plan to attack a fort in the migration path as a clear warning for the whites to leave. A medicine man claimed he could make the warriors immune to the whites’ bullets. He told them he could cut a vein and bleed more warriors if needed. If he chopped off a finger, guns and ammunition would rain down from the sky. His breath would create a splendid shield protecting the warriors from the white man’s bullets.
“Their guns will be no more powerful than sticks,” he told them. “You will destroy them.”
The warriors were empowered by his words, not allowing for the possibility of their being false. They rode in circles on their horses and gave the war cry, feeling invincible, stronger than they had in a long time. Golden Buffalo had been with the army long enough to be a skeptic. He viewed the warriors’ belief as childish. With his white mind he did not believe the medicine man, but after Washita his Indian heart called on him. Faith rewarded made living worthwhile.
* * *
THEY CHARGED THE FORT at dawn with great fanfare and little protection, propelled by their belief in the spell of the medicine man. The first warrior hit by a powerful rifle rolled off his horse, but they ignored it as an aberration. Another group charged but were repelled by a wind of bullets. Three fell to the ground, and the rest rode away to regroup. They had been presumptuous that the medicine would not still require of them their utmost skill and effort. They began their traditional circling attack, leaning along the necks of their horses and shooting rifles through the fence and into exposed windows.
Horses were shot and rolled over, injuring the men who rode them. Some of the warriors argued that they must revert to their traditional way of fighting and stay out of range of the powerful weapons. Others argued that they must put their lives in the power of the medicine for it to work. A small subset of the most experienced warriors, including Golden Buffalo, would ride straight at the main building. The danger they put themselves in would impel the medicine to protect them. The man next to Golden Buffalo was killed. He himsel
f was hit in the arm and fell off his horse, rolling to safety in a gully.
Golden Buffalo lay on his back and stared up into the blue sky. For a time, he could not vouch how long, he forgot about the battle raging around him, forgot about the soldiers who he served in order to defeat, forgot the tribe that he loved and had no faith in, but simply lost himself in the blueness of the sky overhead with its small white clouds speeding across. The wind had grown stronger without his noticing. A hawk was wheeling through the air currents, riding each swell with outstretched wings, gliding effortlessly. Without a doubt Golden Buffalo would have traded his life for that of the hawk. He was weary of being human.
At last the war party made the decision to retreat.
The warriors rode away in pain and humiliation. They had lost ten men, an astonishingly high number given the small size of the action. Many more were wounded. Such a rout was possible only because they had so foolishly exposed themselves. When they were far enough away to be sure of their safety, they dismounted and accosted the medicine man.
“Why did you mislead us, ma’háhke’so, old man?”
One of the warriors whose brother had just been killed raised his quirt and lashed the man. Others joined in. Golden Buffalo felt the same rage, but he would not participate. What the man’s failure told him was that his own vision was true—he must continue learning the way of the whites, hard as it was, because it was the only path to save his tribe. The prophecy of his dream was at last clear. His people would be lost otherwise.
THE EIGHTH REMOVE
Indian council—On the warpath—Waiting—Victory celebration
The spring and summer of her fifth year in captivity passed in unending movement that further deteriorated Anne’s health. Nevertheless she did her utmost to survive and protect Solace and her unborn child. Although her belly was still flat she knew the signs—a tickling weight in her womb like that of a tendril pushing through soil deep, the tenderness and dark swell of breast, the muzziness of mind. Neha knew almost before she did, claiming that an expectant woman smelled differently.
* * *
THE INDIANS WERE CONTENTIOUS after a series of routs by the army and stories of massacres of whole camps both on the reservation and off. It kept them distrustful. When Anne broached the subject of her being traded for ransom to enrich the tribe, she was roughly told off. The Cheyenne had learned how duplicitous the whites acted.
Through the gossip of the women, Anne was learning of a world that was the inverse of the one she had previously understood.
The Sand Creek Massacre was long past but the memory of its treachery stayed fresh within the tribe. At the homestead, Anne had never heard mention of it before, but perhaps it had been kept from the children. Chief Black Kettle had been pledged safety for his people by Tall Chief Wynkoop. He had been told that if soldiers ever approached, mistaking them for hostiles, to hang the American flag and stand beside it, because it was strong medicine and would keep them safe.
But Wynkoop’s defense of the Indians made him unpopular with the military, and he was replaced by a man they called the red-eyed soldier chief. The Indians did not trust him, with good reason. He was only pacifying Black Kettle while waiting for a large force of soldiers led by a devil named Chivington. Soon a force was gathered to go after the camp. Wynkoop’s remaining allies protested that such action would dishonor the uniform of the army. They were threatened with court-martial.
When the soldiers approached the camp at dawn, there stood Chief Black Kettle in front of his teepee, his American flag blowing in the wintry wind.
Black Kettle was no fool. He understood the white man was seldom good on his word, but he reasoned appeasement was his tribe’s only chance at survival.
The soldiers opened fire on six hundred Indians, mostly women and children, as the warriors were off hunting. Still Black Kettle yelled to his people to stand under the flag. Old men, women, and children huddled in a circle as White Antelope ran up a white surrender flag for good measure in case the army did not understand the American flag meant protection. Regardless, they were murdered.
A small number of Indians, including Black Kettle, managed to escape and tell of what happened. Later some of the soldiers there told the same story. The scene had been a chaotic one, a total lack of discipline combined with heavy drinking of whiskey. Forty or more women hid in a ravine to avoid gunfire. Offering no resistance, they sent out a small girl of six holding a white flag on a stick to show they were peaceful. The soldiers shot and killed the child after a few steps. One of the soldiers reported seeing a woman with child cut open by other soldiers. After killing them, the soldiers systematically scalped or otherwise mutilated every body.
After the shooting ended, 105 Indian women and children lay dead; 28 Indian men were killed. Chivington had lost only nine soldiers, mostly due to reckless firing by his own men. Shaken, the Cheyenne and Arapaho tribes gave up their claims to the Colorado Territory. This had been the goal.
Recently, Long Hair/General Custer had gone after Black Kettle’s camp again while it was in Indian Territory, on its own assigned reservation. Black Kettle, the strongest advocate of peace with the white man, had been betrayed and killed. The white man’s word was deemed worthless.
Anne did not know what to make of such stories, but she saw the attitude toward her harden after the Washita Massacre. Members of the tribe who already resented her, if possible increased their hostility to her. Others understood that she was only a girl and could not be blamed for the sins of her people. It seemed to Anne that all the world had gone mad, she did not know who to trust, and it pained her to bring an innocent into such a world.
“Some want to do away with you to stamp out your seed,” Unci said. “I tell them no. Even if you are killed, the white seed will spread everywhere.”
* * *
THE BUFFALO HERDS had shrunk dramatically, and wherever one could be found the Indians invariably found the army and settlers also.
An Indian scout came into camp for the hunt. His name was Golden Buffalo, and he was rumored to be in the service of Long Hair. Anne tried to catch Golden Buffalo’s eye with the idea that he might report her presence to Custer, but if he did notice her he gave no indication.
* * *
DURING THE PERIOD of the councils, groups would arrive from the wilderness with their own captives in tow. At these meetings, chiefs from other camps noticed Anne and gave offers of goods in barter, but Snake Man was loath to part with her. Some warriors thought she, being white, should be put to death to avenge their losses, but cooler heads argued that she was innocent, besides valuable to the tribe for her dexterous fingers, which sewed such beautiful items.
In this way Anne met a tall woman who had been abducted the previous year in Kansas. She was a doctor’s daughter and a barrister’s bride. She had known only the most protected life and had no idea of how to survive. Her dress was filthy. Anne helped rid her hair of the lice that were driving her mad. The women became friendly, Anne even offering to make her a dress, until the woman’s chief noticed the two together and accused them of conspiring.
He dragged the woman by the arm back to his teepee and there tied her to a stake in the ground with a length of rawhide. She was denied food. Anne passed her regularly on errands and feared this new friend might perish from her unjust punishment. Unable to stand it any longer, when Anne next passed she surreptitiously threw a bit of seed cake into her lap while passing, which the woman stuffed in her mouth, not daring to chew but letting it dissolve down her throat. A few hours later Anne risked stealing pemmican out of her master’s parfleche, although she knew the punishment would be severe.
The next day Anne again passed by but found the teepee empty, the stake bare. She feared the worst. While she sat on the riverbank doing her sewing, she was surprised when the woman approached her, this time in the company of a new master. This man appeared kind and much pleased with his new trade. The woman had fetched a low price because she was accused of
fomenting trouble. She handed Anne a kerchief of boiled venison and berries in thanks. She said she now had all the food she needed and was gaining strength hourly. She prayed her new chief would ransom her back to her husband.
Anne nodded with enthusiasm, knowing that hope, however unfounded, was the only grace available.
The day after, the chief left the council. Anne was never to see the tall woman again or know her fate. Her name was Dorotha.
* * *
THEY HAD REACHED the decision to make war on the whites. All rejected the idea of going to the reservation, to certain slow death. The women and children were sent to a place of safety to wait.
Anne was worked mercilessly, packing and carrying the teepee’s belongings. When she was caught napping in exhaustion, the oldest wives kicked her, sometimes in the stomach, little valuing a captive’s pregnancy although they would not dare such behavior in front of their Snake Man. This abuse worried Anne for her unborn’s sake.
She had endured the same abuse while carrying Solace, but she had been a different being back then, meek and afraid. Now she grabbed a branch from the cooking area whose endfire was coaled red. She poked the cruelest one’s cheek with it, scarring her.
After that they left her in peace.
Neha was quiet when they were next alone.
“Do you fault me?” Anne finally asked.
“I fault myself for not coming to your aid.”
“I had to win this battle myself. But your words please me.”
Anne had learned that the Indians valued bravery and courage as Christians did meekness and charity, which they viewed as weakness. She resolved to change to the Indian way.
Once news of her defense spread within the tribe, her status rose greatly.
Still, she remained outcast but for a few exceptions. When Neha was busy, Anne would take the meager dinner either begged or earned from her sewing and go to sit with her babe, Solace, to watch the night sky alone. When the moon rose she reminded herself that it also shone down on her old home, on her friends and loved ones. She tried to convince herself that civilization did somehow still exist beyond the vastness of the wilderness in which she languished, even though from all appearances the wilds seemed to have swallowed the rest of the world whole.
