the hands of Big Eagle, the Pawnee chief, who brandished them as he charged at the deeply shaken Cheyennes.
The Sacred Arrows and that battle both were lost
that day. And though the People mourned the death of the men who fell that day, they mourned the loss of Sweet Medicine’s gift even more.
New arrows were prepared to take the place of
those four that were lost. But many felt that
they were not the same. Years later, White Thunder risked his life to travel with only his wife, Old Bark,
by his side, to the lodges of their enemies.
He begged the Pawnees for the return of the Sacred
Arrows. Big Eagle took pity and gave back one of
the Buffalo Arrows. But he kept the other three.
Two years later, the great friends of the Cheyennes,
the Lakotas, attacked a Pawnee village and recovered one of the Man Arrows, which they bought back to
the People. But the other two arrows remained in
the hands of the Pawnees and are there to this day.
From that day on, the Cheyenne people began to suffer bad luck. Without their Sacred Arrows, many say,
their way of life was doomed to end.
FORT MARION
“How is this?”
Wolf added a few more lines to the picture he was drawing and then held it up for Zo-tom to see.
The stocky young Kiowa man leaned closer to study the picture carefully, tracing the outlines of the large black horse with the star on its chest and the small dark-skinned man in a cavalry uniform on the animal’s back.
“This is a well-rendered drawing,” he finally said—in English, of course. “Quite commendable, George.”
“Thank you, Paul,” Wolf replied, using his friend’s American name just as Zo-tom had used his. “That is most kind of you.”
One of the first things that they had been told to do after arriving at their place of captivity in Florida was to accept white man names. Each of them had been offered several choices. George was the one Wolf took. It appealed to his sense of humor. He had learned by then that George was the name of the first of the White Fathers, the one for whom the city of Washington had been named.
It pleased Wolf, or rather George, to hear such words of praise from his Kiowa companions. Though he had not known him before they became prisoners of war, Zo-tom—Paul, that is—had become one of his best friends. The two of them sat together often as they did now, high on the battlements of the old fort, their feet dangling over the side, the sandy beach and the endless stretch of saltwater below them.
Paul was perhaps the best artist among the seventy-two Indians being held at Fort Marion. When it had been suggested to them months ago that they might like to draw pictures of their experiences, he had been one of the first to pick up the crayons and paper and begin. His pictures of their strange journey, of the train in which they had ridden, the cities they had passed through, were as clear and accurate as any of the images held in Wolf’s own memories of that painful trip.
And like Wolf, Paul had been proving himself to be a good student. Their new ability to speak and write English pleased their teacher, Miss Sarah Mather, so much that she often praised them to Captain Pratt.
Paul gently placed the side of his hand on the central figure Wolf had drawn, a young Cheyenne man clutching his side and falling as white soldiers fired their guns at him.
“Who is this fellow here?”
“His name was Black Horse.”
“Did he succumb to his injuries?”
Wolf shrugged his shoulders. He did not know. Black Horse falling to the ground was the last he saw of the fight that took place on the day he was chained. He had been hustled away with the other Cheyenne prisoners too quickly to know if Black Horse had lived or died there. All he could do was listen to the sounds of guns being fired, the shouts of men, the galloping of horses’ hooves as White Horse’s Dog Soldiers fought like grizzly bears. It had been much later—just before they started the train journey to Florida—that he was told of how they fought. Only three Cheyennes had been killed there. A Gatling gun had been fired at them that shot off thousands of bullets, but the sand hills had swallowed up those bullets. The land itself had been determined to protect his people.
Many ve’hoe soldiers had been hurt in that battle, struck by Cheyenne arrows and bullets. Wolf hoped his little Buffalo Soldier was not among those hurt or killed. He wondered sometimes what had happened to him. It was strange how their lives had kept meeting.
As he and Paul sat together silently, Wolf thought about what had happened after that fight at the sand hills.
One of their camps, about sixty people led by Little Bull, heard the fight at the agency and fled north. The army was sent after those poor frightened people. Red-face Neill and his soldiers, guided by three white buffalo hunters, led the pursuit. They attacked Little Bull’s camp at daybreak near Sappa Creek. Half of the people got to the pony herd and escaped. Those who were left, seven men and twenty women and children, did not get away. They were massacred near that creek of dark water.
The hide hunters and the soldiers stripped their bodies of what few valuables they had. They set fire to the lodges and threw in the bodies of the people. Some of the women and children were still alive when they were thrown into the flames. It was a terrible thing.
Word of what happened at Sappa Creek had reached them as they were being chained into wagons with the other condemned. Sixty-nine men in all. Kiowas, Comanches, Arapahoes, Cheyennes, and one unlucky Caddo. With them were two women and one small girl. Mochi was one of the women. The other was Pe-ah-in, who was not a prisoner. But she and her nine-year-old daughter had refused to be parted from her Comanche husband, Black Horse.
At that time, as the interpreter Romero was telling them the story of Sappa Creek, they were all sure that they were being taken to be hung. Instead, they had been loaded on a train. Then, through the interpreter, a soldier chief had spoken to them. He was a man some of them had seen before, a white officer of the Buffalo Soldiers.
“This man,” Romero said, “he say name Captain Pratt. He say he be fair with you if you behave good. He also say tell you this. You be sent far away. So far even if you escape no way you ever find way back home.”
No one had taken the news of the deaths at Sappa Creek harder than Lean Bear and Gray Head. Some of those who had died had been in Gray Head’s camp. Wolf saw the despair on the faces of the old peace chiefs.
“I have lived too long,” Gray Head said.
Wolf had understood his words. Young as he was, there were times when he found himself wishing that he, too, had died. All he had known since he was young was war. All he had known were hard times, times of running and starving and seeing those closest to him suffer and die. Yet he loved his land and his people. To be sent away from those things he loved was worse than dying.
The first place they had been taken was a big army camp called Fort Leavenworth. There they had been placed in cells. On Wolf’s second day there, he had been walking through the cell block with Eagle Head, another of the Cheyenne leaders, when they had heard the sound of choking. Gray Head was trying to hang himself from the iron bars of the cell window. Wolf was the one who lifted him up while others untied the strip of blanket he had used as a noose.
“Uncle,” they had begged him, “please do not leave us.”
“I hear what you are saying,” he had replied. But the look in his eyes was no less sad than it had been. Gray Head no longer wished to live.
Two days later, Lean Bear stabbed himself many times with a small knife he had managed to find. The soldiers took the knife from him before he killed himself, but his wounds had been so many he had not been put back on the train to continue the long journey into exile. And not long after that, whether from his wounds or his wish to join his loved ones in the next life, Lean Bear had died.
The rest of them had been on the train for many days. By the sevent
h day they had traveled so far that the land and the trees outside the partly open windows were strange to them. The air was so humid that it was hard to breathe. The sweat never dried on their faces, even after darkness fell.
Wolf was sitting next to Gray Head when Captain Pratt came walking through their car. Captain Pratt’s young son was with him. Although the Indian captives had been forced to leave their wives and children behind, the captain’s wife and his children were with him on the trip.
“My son,” Pratt said to his boy, “this fine old man is a great chief.”
Then he had addressed Gray Head.
“This is my son.”
Gray Head had looked at Pratt’s son. He gently touched him on the shoulder. “He is a fine boy,” Gray Head said. “He is the age one of my grandsons would have been.”
Pratt smiled at that. He had heard the compliment for his son. But he had not understood that Gray Head was comparing his boy with a grandson killed by white men.
“Mason will be with us all in Florida,” Pratt said. “Seeing him will remind you of the family you have left behind.”
Then he stood up and left the car with his son, leaving Gray Head alone with his thoughts of the family he would not see again in this life.
Gray Head waited until Pratt was gone. Then he leaned his shoulder against Wolf. “Nephew,” he said, his voice too soft for anyone else to hear, “I am going to join my family.” His hand rested on Wolf’s arm for a moment. “Do not try to stop me.”
Wolf’s voice caught in his throat. Tears came to his eyes as the old man lifted his hand from his arm. Wolf covered his head with his blanket. He did not see him squeeze through the open window, but he knew what was happening. He knew what would happen next.
Almost immediately, cries came from first one soldier and then another.
“Prisoner escaping!”
“Prisoner escaping!”
Wolf did not move. Nor did any of the other prisoners. He felt the train stop. He heard other white soldiers shouting. Among them, Captain Pratt’s voice was the loudest of all.
“Do not shoot,” he was shouting. “Do not shoot!”
There was much commotion. The soldiers could not find Gray Head. He was concealed somewhere in the palmetto trees along the track. Maybe he would escape. Maybe, even though they had traveled more than a thousand miles, he could find his way back home.
The train started up again. Wolf felt more hope. It seemed they were giving up the search. But he was wrong. Captain Pratt had ordered a small group of soldiers to get off the train and wait.
The sound of a rifle shot came before the train picked up much speed. The train stopped again. More voices were shouting.
“We have him!”
“We got him!”
Two soldiers came into the car carrying a limp body between them. It was Gray Head. He had been shot through the chest but was still breathing.
Everyone had been ordered to stay in their seats, but Wolf was close enough to hear.
“It is good,” Gray Head whispered, his voice weakened from the great wound. “I have wanted to die ever since I was chained and taken from home. Send a message to my wife and daughter.”
Then he died.
Because of Lean Bear and Gray Head, the soldiers became more vigilant. When the Indian captives finally arrived at the great stone house by the sea, the soldiers kept close watch. They were afraid others might attempt to escape.
And some did, though not by running. Sun, a Kiowa, killed himself not long after they arrived. Next was Mamanti, the great Kiowa medicine man. He had foretold his own death. Then Straightening-an-Arrow passed into the spirit world.
Captain Pratt had worried that more would follow them. So he had spoken words of encouragement “If you behave, if you are good, you may have a chance to see your families one day. But you can do so only if you walk this new road I have made for you. Do as I say, and you will be given more freedom.”
They had tried then to follow his rules. They did so even though most of them doubted his word. What white man had ever made any promise that he kept? They worked to repair the old fort. They fixed its walls. They painted and cleaned it so that green slime no longer dropped from the ceilings and the floors were clean. And, to their surprise, just as he had promised, Captain Pratt allowed them more freedom.
They were allowed to walk on the sandy ground by the water that went on forever. There they picked up shells and sea beans. They were allowed to trade those shells and beans for money to people who made them into necklaces. They were then allowed to buy food and things to wear with the money they earned.
Captain Pratt had been pleased. Then he had taught them how to dress like soldiers. He gave them uniforms. He showed them how to march together and follow commands. To his surprise, Wolf had found it was fun. Moving together and stomping their feet on the ground was a bit like dancing. And to dress and act as a warrior again, even a ve’hoe warrior, was pleasing.
Captain Pratt had led them in Bible study. The elderly Miss Mather, who was brought in soon after when Pratt saw how quickly his Indian charges learned, was a kind and patient teacher. Soon the men were in the classroom every day, learning to read and write and do arithmetic. And then they had been given paper and crayons and told to draw pictures of what they remembered.
Like the one that Paul and Wolf were now looking at, the second picture Wolf had drawn that day. It showed an old Cheyenne man being shot by white soldiers.
Wolf held the drawing up in front of him. The warm wind from the sea made it ripple in his hand, almost as if the figure in it was trying to escape. He grasped the corners of the paper and pulled. The drawing tore in half.
Paul said nothing. Wolf put the two halves together and tore them again. He kept doing it until the pieces were smaller than the little seashells they collected from the beach. He opened his hands to the wind. He and Paul watched as the pieces of pale paper swirled away like snowflakes in the wind.
Wolf walked down the stone steps. A white soldier stood at the bottom, leaning against the wall. He simply nodded as Wolf, dressed in a uniform similar to his own, walked by and went through the gate.
Then Wolf heard a child’s voice calling.
“George, George!”
It was Captain Pratt’s daughter, Nana. She waved at him from one of the benches that had been placed for people to sit on and watch the waves.
“George! Come look.”
Wolf walked over and sat by Nana Pratt’s side. She was holding something in her lap, a board with a square hollow cut into it. Beside her were many small pieces of thin wood cut into all sort of shapes.
“Can you help me put this puzzle together?” she asked.
At first Wolf could not see the purpose. But as they put the small bits of wood into place, he began to see something. One edge would fit into another. Then the patterns painted on them began to make a picture. There were many pieces, and it took some time. But when it was done and the last piece was in place, the picture was recognizable.
Nana read the words printed at the bottom. “Castillo San Marcos. That is the old name for Fort Marion! We made our fort!”
“Yes,” Wolf agreed.
“Wasn’t this fun?”
“Yes,” he said again.
Nana poked him with her elbow.
“George, do you always say yes to everything?”
“Yes.”
They both laughed. But as Wolf watched Nana skipping back to their house farther up the beach, he thought about that puzzle. He thought of the many things that had happened to him and to his people as they fought to save their way of life.
Individually, the events made little sense. But when they were put together, the picture was a clear one. It showed the end of their lives as they had been. Their old ways had been broken. But another thought came to him then. Though they were in pieces now, could their lives be put back together like Nana’s puzzle? Could they make a future for themselves and the children to come? Coul
d the buffalo return? Could they keep the Medicine Arrows? Could they find a new way back to the way of life Sweet Medicine showed?
Those thoughts stayed in his mind all the rest of that day. As he lay in his cot and tried to sleep, listening to the endless crashing of the waves outside, those thoughts still ran through his mind. He closed his eyes.
And suddenly he found himself somewhere other than the old stone fort. He was standing on a high place over the plains. Below him were many lodges of people, great herds of buffalo. A clean river flowed nearby. Children played in the water, swam with their ponies.
From that great height, he saw the faces of people he knew. They were people who had walked the road of stars. There were his two fathers, Black Kettle, Gray Head, Lean Bear, Horse Road. There were many others whose lives on earth had ended. They were all looking up at him. All he had to do to join them was to walk down to them.
Was the dream telling him that it was time to give up life? Time to accept death as his only escape from confinement and loss?
He turned and looked the other way, down the other side of the hill on which he stood. There were others down there, too, and they too were looking up at him. They were people who had not yet passed from the life on earth. There was his mother and his sister. There were friends whose faces he last saw before being loaded into the wagon in chains. And behind them there were others, many others. Somehow, though he did not know them, they looked familiar. They were not dressed in the old way, but in the manner of the ve’hoes. Yet they wore that clothing with dignity and stood strong. And there, though it was not Stone Forehead, was the Keeper of the Arrows. The Arrow Keeper smiled at him. Then Wolf noticed that his Striped Arrow People were not alone. They were staying close to one another, but they were among people from other tribes. There were also other people around them. Their faces were white and brown and black. Around them were great buildings and streets of hard stone. But when he looked closer, he saw that the sacred land remained beyond those cities.
Brothers of the Buffalo Page 33
