Ashes of Heaven (14 page)

“They tied you because they don't believe you can do this thing?”

“Yes,” Ice answered gravely. “I do not think many of them believe I can.”

“They should learn to believe,” the holy little person replied. “Shut your eyes.”

The moment Ice closed his eyes, the little man slapped him on the sole of his right foot, then slapped the sole of his left foot. Moving around Ice, the holy person took Ice by the hair and pulled on it. It felt just as if he pulled Ice up a little, straightening his back.

“Now,” the holy person said to him. “Open your eyes.”

When Ice looked, he found himself standing outside the huge lodge. Many of the people unable to crowd into the lodge were gathered there before him. Directly in front of him stood a woman whose back was turned to him.

She called out to the priest and chiefs in the lodge. “Why don't you hurry up and sing your sacred songs before he gets smothered under that great rock?”

Her question confused him, so Ice asked her, “Who will be smothered?”

Whirling around in surprise, the woman gazed at Ice, her face filling with amazement. Her lips moved but she could not utter a sound.

“Let them finish their songs,” Ice told her quietly. “Then ask them to light a fire and we will have something to eat. I am very hungry.”

In that next moment, others who were standing outside the lodge turned to discover Ice among them. Some began to shout their miraculous news to those inside the lodge.

“Look under the rock to see it isn't true!” disbelievers cried.

“Move the rock and you will find his body!” others hollered.

But when the warriors went to remove the sweatlodge from the top of the slab, they found it and the four smaller rocks had already been shifted to the side of the lodge, stacked neatly out of the way. Then they discovered that the hole was empty. Atop the stones lay the painted robe, and across it lay the bowstrings that had been used to secure Ice's wrists and ankles.

From that moment on, the Northern People referred to the event as Ice's miracle. And by showing his faith in the Spirit Persons, the holy man was given a new name.

Now he was known as White Bull.

Chapter 11

Big Hoop-and-Stick Game Moon
1877

BY TELEGRAPH

SERIOUS INDIAN DEPREDATIONS IN THE BLACK HILLS.

THE INDIANS.

Lo, the Poor Indian, Devastating Deadwood and Vicinity.

DEADWOOD, February 15.—During the last week a number of reports of Indian depredations have been coming in from small towns adjacent here, and to-day these rumors assumed an alarming aspect. Well substantiated news of simultaneous attacks in different directions leads to a belief that the Indians are surrounding this vicinity. Volen's large cattle train was captured entire near Bear Butte yesterday, and Fletcher's herd of mules was also captured in the same vicinity. The Montana ranch, a short distance from here, was attacked about the same time, the Indians capturing all the stock. Wigginton's herd of horses, which was near Crook City, were all captured, Wigginton wounded, and his assistant killed. Considerable stock in the vicinity of Spearfish was also run off.

White Bull found much to loathe in Last Bull, leader of the Kit Fox warrior society.

In the past two winters, Last Bull had grown all the more arrogant and belligerent. Long ago he had stolen the wife of American Horse, now a respected Council Chief. Everyone knew Last Bull for an overbearing bully, whipping not only the members of his own society, but having his warriors quirt and humiliate others in camp when rules were not obeyed. By the time Three Finger Kenzie's soldiers attacked their camp on the Red Fork, the Kit Fox Warriors were commonly known as the “Wife Stealers” or the “Beating-Up Soldiers.”

Last Bull's arrogance had cost the
Ohmeseheso
their village, their wealth, their weapons, their very way of life. Yet instead of becoming apologetic and humble before the people he had brought to ruin, Last Bull had grown angry and bitter as the rival Elkhorn Scrapers increased their prestige and respectability in the eyes of the Northern People. Their members were legendary, men who time and again put the good of the band above their own selfish desires.

Little Wolf, as Sweet Medicine Chief, was head of all the Council Chiefs. He was an Elkhorn Scraper, not a Kit Fox Warrior.

Old Bear, the venerable chief whose winter village on the Powder River was attacked by soldiers, was an Elkhorn.

Black Moccasin, respected member of the Council of Forty-Four, was an Elkhorn as well.

Hook Nose, the one called Roman Nose by the
ve-ho-e,
who led the charge against the white men huddled behind their dead horses even though he knew it would mean his life, had been a revered Elkhorn.

Lame White Man, second only to Little Wolf in courage, a warrior who gave his life leading his people against the soldiers at the fight on the Little Goat River—an Elkhorn too.

In his fighting days, even the blind, elderly priest Box Elder was an Elkhorn.

Wild Hog, Crow Split Nose, White Hawk, Tall White Man, Left-Handed Shooter, Goes After Other Buffalo, Plenty Bears, Wolf Medicine, Broken Jaw—all were Elkhorn fighting men now grown famous among their people in this time of grave trouble with the soldiers.

Why, membership in the Elkhorn Scraper Society even spanned tribal lines. Young Man Afraid of His Horses, a revered Shirt-Wearer for the Lakota Little Star People, was an Elkhorn.

And to a man, these Elkhorn Scrapers regarded Last Bull with nothing less than a fiery contempt. More than being just an unworthy leader of one of the four warrior societies founded long, long ago by Sweet Medicine himself, the Elk-horns believed Last Bull to be little short of a duplicitous, self-serving, and conniving liar.

It made a fire smolder inside White Bull's belly to see how Last Bull strode in now to brazenly take his place among the head chiefs and little chiefs of those three warrior societies still remaining in the Northern Country this winter. One at a time the leaders of the
Ohmeseheso
entered the huge double lodge erected for this grand council to discuss the news brought them by Old Wool Woman, upon which the Old Man Chiefs could not reach agreement: the Bear Coat's demand for surrender. Gathered to listen, to argue, and to decide this most important issue were these chiefs of the Kit Fox Warriors, the Elkhorn Scrapers, and the Crazy Dogs.

Once every headman had settled four deep in that great ring surrounding the fire, the rest of the village pressed close on all sides of the great double lodge so they too could hear the deliberations. With the lower edges of the lodgeskins rolled up, the coming debate would be a most public matter.

Because of their ancient position of honor among the warrior societies of the Northern People, the Kit Foxes were allowed to speak first. Wisely realizing that their leader, Last Bull, might well poison their position if he spoke before the assembly, the Kit Fox Soldiers decided that Two Moon should instead address the gathering.

“For many summers we have fought the
ve-ho-e
soldiers while we went about our journeys, following the migration of the buffalo in our hunts,” Two Moon began as he gazed about his audience, speaking with understated eloquence. He wore a large feather tied to a forelock and attached to a piece of buffalo horn. “And when each summer was done, so was the fighting. The soldiers went back to their forts and they left us to our lives. But for the last two winters the soldiers have not let us be.”

There arose the first shards of angry muttering.

“The
ve-ho-e
have stalked our villages of women and children, finding our camps in the river valleys, driving our families into the wilderness with little but the clothes they wear. No more is war with the white man a summer occupation. The
ve-ho-e
promised to follow us, harass us, crush us in the snows of winter. And that is the one promise the white man has kept.”

Many of the Kit Foxes were crying loud in response to his impassioned words. Beyond them, among the spectators, many of the women openly wailed, keening as they remembered the husbands and fathers, sons and nephews lost in battle after battle with the soldiers.

“While for some of you, your burning hatred of the soldiers will lead you to fight on and on and on until there is not one
Ohmeseheso
left alive,” Two Moon continued, his strong voice cracking with emotion, “your burning hate will destroy us! But for me, I stand before these leaders to declare I will go to speak to the Bear Coat, to listen to his words. And if his words are straight and fair … I will surrender to the soldier chief at the Elk River Fort.”

When Two Moon finished his long, impassioned speech, Wrapped Hair was the next to stand and recite his war deeds before this great assembly. Then he too added his voice in favor of surrender. Bear Who Walks on a Ridge spoke as afternoon stretched into evening, as the winter night descended upon their camp. Still more of the Kit Fox Warriors stood to speak, all echoing the sentiments of Two Moon.

A cold, gibbous moon had risen in the east and hung against the cold sky by the time the last Kit Fox Soldier had finished his argument in favor of surrender. At last it was time for the Elkhorn Scrapers to express their views.

Although Little Wolf and Morning Star were both members of the warrior society, as Old Man Chiefs they did not choose to speak before this council. Instead, Wild Hog stood. It was clear to White Bull to see that he was seething with the same rage that burned inside Little Wolf.

“How does the
Ohmeseheso
talk of surrender to the
ve-ho-e?
” the Hog's voice crackled with thunderous emotion. “How does any warrior of the People talk of making peace with the soldiers who have made war on our women and children?”

Suddenly the Elkhorns came alive within the great lodge, sentiment strong and deep among those hardy spectators standing in the cold around the ring of warrior chiefs.

“We did not choose to make this war on the
ve-ho-e,
” Wild Hog declared. “The white man came to our country, driving off the buffalo, killing off the game. We did not ask him to come to our country!”

Many in the noisy throng did more than grunt their approval.

Hog spoke for a long time, that place between his eyes deeply furrowed as he uttered each word the way a man might spit out a foul oath.

“The
ve-ho-e
declared war on us. He sends his soldiers to destroy everything we have. And when we have nothing left but our lives, he sends Old Wool Woman and the half-breed to tell us we better surrender or he will keep making war on us. As for me, I will tell the Bear Coat to come kill me himself!”

After the loud approval had quieted, Left-Handed Shooter spoke.

“I am a warrior of the People. Many times have I offered my body to protect those who cannot protect themselves. In all the days left me, I will continue to give my life to my enemy to save the
Okmeseheso.
The white man will not go away on his own. He thinks this is his land when it does not belong to him. He thinks the buffalo belong to him, when the buffalo belong to
Ma-heo-o.
How can you teach such a creature what is right and what is wrong?”

“You can never teach the white man how to live like a human being!” a voice called from the gathering outside the lodge.

White Bull quickly turned in that direction, hoping to see who had cried out. He could not, but he did catch a glimpse of his younger sister. Antelope Woman stood at the edge of the gathering, a blanket clasped around both her and Old Wool Woman. On the other side of the old woman stood the clearly anxious half-breed. The fire-lit darkness accentuated the deep furrows of worry deeply chiseled into his face.

Yes, White Bull thought as another of his fellow Elkhorn Scrapers prepared to argue for war over surrender, yes; this Big Leggings must feel like a crippled dung beetle trapped on a teeming anthill. Things did not look good for the advocates of peace.

Yet as he listened to the harsh, strident arguments of the Elkhorns, White Bull saw not the procession of speakers but the weary, hunger-ravaged faces of those spectators crowded around the war council. True enough, there were many young warriors whose eyes ignited with each renewed call to carry on the fight. Some were young men who had only come of age in the past few winters of struggle against the
ve-ho-e.
There were some who hadn't experienced war as White Bull and other older warriors had—the seasons of pain, tribulation, death, and mourning this war had visited upon the People.

But, as he recalled his own youth, White Bull realized he could not tell much of anything to a brash young warrior. For some reason, they already knew all they needed to know. It had always been that way with the young hot-bloods, and it would always be so.

While the Elkhorn Scrapers continued to denounce any talk of surrender, it was not the faces of those young men eager to carry on the struggle that drew this veteran's attention.

No, White Bull looked closely at the faces of the women—mothers, sisters, daughters, and aunts of the many warriors who had been killed in this ongoing fight with the
ve-ho-e.
There in the dancing light of the council fire, his heart was most touched by the faces of the little ones, some who were destined to grow to adulthood without knowing their fathers, some who might only have an uncle or grandfather as tutor and mentor. Those children who huddled beside their mothers or those clutched in the arms of grandmothers, yes, these members of the
Ohmeseheso
would be the ones who suffered the deepest for any difficult decision made by the wise and respected men of this council.

Next White Bull looked here and there at the deeply lined faces of the few old ones left among the Northern People this second terrible winter of war. Not nearly so many as there had been when Old Bear began his march south for the White Rock Agency the previous year.
*
Night by freezing night, the bodies of the old ones began to fail. With so little to eat, with so much endless cold, with so far to travel after each attack of the soldiers—one by one the spirits of those old ones simply gave up their long and valiant fight to survive.