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  LAKOTA

  LAKOTA

  G. CLIFTON WISLER

  M. EVANS

  Lanham • Boulder • New York • Toronto • Plymouth, UK

  Published by M. Evans

  An imprint of Rowman & Littlefield

  4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706

  www.rowman.com

  10 Thornbury Road, Plymouth PL6 7PP, United Kingdom

  Distributed by National Book Network

  Copyright © 1989 by G. Clifton Wisler

  First paperback edition 2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  The hardback edition of this book was previously cataloged by the Library of Congress as follows:

  Wisler, G. Clifton

  Lakota / G. Clifton Wisler.

  p. cm.—(An Evans novel of the West)

  1. Lakota Indians—Fiction. I. Title. II. Series.

  PS3573.I877L35 1989 89-1498

  813'54—dc20

  ISBN: 978-0-87131-536-7 (cloth : alk. paper)

  ISBN: 978-1-59077-264-5 (electronic)

  ISBN: 978-1-59077-263-8 (pbk. : alk. paper)

  The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.

  Printed in the United States of America

  In grateful appreciation, Lakota is dedicated to Victor, Lionel, and my other friends at Sinte Gleska College and among the Sicangu Lakota people

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter One

  They called themselves Lakota for the branch of the tribal language spoken by the seven southern bands. The white man called them Teton Sioux, the prairie dwellers, and spoke the name with a mixture of dread and respect. They were the fiercest hunters and the most unrelenting of enemies. But all that was yet to come. For in the year marked by the black robe priests 1848, under the greenleaf moon of May, bands of the tribe knew only the peace of iiattening ponies and mild weather.

  In Little Thunder's camp, deep in Pe Sla, the circular valley that is the heart of Paha Sapa, the Black Hills, the people were restless. There, in that sacred place which is the center of the earth, Tasiyagnunpa, the Meadowlark, felt the pains of birthing beginning. As her female relatives offered prayers and provided what comfort experience had taught, Tacante, the father, climbed a distant slope in search of a dreaming.

  For Tacante, it was not the first time he had awaited a child's coming into the light. Twice before Tasiyagnunpa's belly had grown large. Each time a small, sickly thing had emerged, only to close its eyes in the silent death understood only by the grandfathers' grandfathers.

  "Sing the brave song, my brother," Hinhan Hota, the Gray Owl, had urged. "There is much that isn't understood."

  "Han," Tacante had sadly agreed. Yes, Wakan Tanka, the Great Mystery, gave life only to take it away again. Who could understand that?

  Each time Tacante grieved for the dead ones three days, even as he had mourned for a father and a mother taken by winter's chill. Now, as he climbed the rocky hillside, his heart sang with new hope.

  "Wakan Tanka, hear me," he pleaded. "I have danced and I have smoked. I have undertaken Inipi, the purification rite, and even now I starve myself as I did long ago in the time of my coming upon manhood. Always I am generous to the needy. I hunt so that the people grow strong, and I have never neglected to pray and smoke before going upon the hunt."

  Tacante paused and stared out at the darkening skies. Soon the sacred hoop of stars, Can Gleska Wakan, would appear high overhead and bring the earth back to life from the depths of winter's death. Surely this was a time of birth. Down below Tasiyagnunpa struggled to give him a son. But it would live only if Wakan Tanka so willed it.

  "I am called Tacante," he spoke as he removed his buckskin shirt, then stepped free of his moccasins. He continued stripping until he stood naked before the Great Mystery, a man free of pride and bare of pretensions. "I ask a son, Wakan Tanka, a brave one to follow the sacred path behind me. He Hopa, who has great power, says I will not live long if I walk the warrior path. It is the only path a man can walk who has been given the name Tacante."

  He stopped a moment and gazed at the evening star sparkling on the horizon. It was true. Tacante meant Buffalo Heart, but it might as well have been spoken Heart of the People. One so named must always ride first into battle, must always put the needs of the people ahead of his own. He had been a shirt wearer four winters now, and the scars on his chest and thighs attested to his courage. Tacante now added to those scars, for he drew his knife and cut the flesh of his chest four times. Blood seeped from the wounds and dripped down his bare trunk, across his thighs, and down his legs. He sang a brave song and chanted boldly.

  "Ah, Wakan Tanka, grant my prayer. Send to me a brave heart to endure what will come. May a son come tonight to the Lakota people, one with the heart to lead others and the power to see clanger. Ah, Wakan Tanka, walk with me these short days of my life. All that is flows from your power. Help me to walk the sacred way."

  Tacante chanted and sang, turning slowly so that the darkness above could see the blood flowing from him. To the Great Mystery he prayed and pleaded. Then, as his strength began to ebb, he sank to his knees, then passed into the peace of dreaming.

  In the silent, hollow darkness of the netherworld, Tacante saw many things. First there came a great marching of storm clouds. Thunderbird flapped its wings, and yellow tongues of lightning danced across the heavens, stinging Mother Earth and causing her to tremble. Into this scene crept Tatanka, Bull Buffalo. He was not the tall, humped master of the yellowing plain as in the past, though. Tatanka stood on the prairie amid the storm, and tears fell from his somber eyes. Before him stretched a sea of whitening bones, for his brothers lay slaughtered in their hundreds. Only bones remained to haunt the valleys.

  "Our path is a short one, Tacante, my brother," Bull Buffalo spoke. And even as Tatanka howled a death chant, the rumbling thunder tormented him with its yellow daggers.

  Tacante awoke hours later. He Hopa, Four Horns, the medicine man of great power, dabbed yellow paste on Tacante's wounds.

  "You've had a dreaming?" the old man asked.

  "Hau, a dark dream, He Hopa," Tacante answered. He then described the vision, and the medicine man frowned.

  "Ah, you've seen much," He Hopa observed.

  "What does it mean?" Tacante asked.

  "Much, perhaps. Or little."

  "Tell me."

  "There is much death to come. The buffalo will die, and with him the Lakota."

  "This can't be," Tacante objected. "There are more buffalo on the earth than stars in the heavens. Tatanka is our uncle. He feeds and clothes the people. He is for all times."
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  "Ah, have you not seen how the rocks of Paha Sapa break apart in the grip of winter? Only Father Sky and Mother Earth live long. All else walks a path. Short or long, who can say?"

  "And what am I to do, He Hopa? I am but a single Lakota."

  "You're a shirt wearer, Tacante," He Hopa scolded. "You must see to the welfare of the people."

  "If such hard times are ahead, I will need help."

  "Then ask Wakan Tanka that the son born this night be strong and swift and wise. For surely Tasiyagnunpa brings a boy into your lodge. I, too, have dreams."

  "Yes," Tacante said, raising his arms skyward and chanting the required prayers. He turned slowly and sang. He Hopa joined in, shaking a rattlesnake charm in one hand while clutching the sacred medicine bags in the other. And then, swift as a red-tailed hawk dives upon his prey, the old medicine man halted.

  "Dress yourself, Tonska," He Hopa commanded. "Your son awaits you, Nephew."

  Tacante raised a howl of thanksgiving and then uttered a short prayer. After dressing himself, he hurried back to the camp.

  Tasiyagnunpa remained in the women's lodge, among the grandmothers, but Wablosa, Redwing Blackbird, her mother's sister, emerged from the lodge with a tiny bundle.

  "Cinks?" Tacante asked. My son?

  Wablosa nodded, then showed the child to its father. Tacante touched the infant's tiny, whitish hands and stroked the raven-black hairs on its head.

  "Ah, Tacante, a son," He Hopa observed. "What will he be called?"

  "I had thought 'Little Heart,' or 'Buffalo Calf,' as I myself was called."

  "He hasn't the look of a buffalo," Wablosa joked. "The grandmothers have named him Mastincala."

  "Rabbit's a good name for one so light-skinned," He Hopa declared.

  "A hard name to wear among the foxes and elks," Tacante complained. "I've dreamed. I saw thunder."

  "Yes, Tonska, but the dream was for you, not him. Mastincala is a good name. Perhaps Rabbit will give him speed and cunning. There is time yet for Tatanka to visit his dreams."

  Tacante dropped his head in disappointment. And yet his frown did not linger. The child gazed up with mystified eyes, and buffalo heart or no, a father's pride swelled within him. He touched the baby boy on the forehead and silently pledged all the devotion a father could offer.

  You will be proud one day to walk the sacred path with me, Mastincala, Tacante promised. And proud, too, to be the son of a shirt wearer.

  Chapter Two

  Mastincala, the rabbit boy, learned early the lessons life taught a Lakota child. When the urge to cry came upon him, Wablosa pinched his nose and covered his mouth until tiny lungs burned with the need for air.

  "There, little one," his aunt would scold. "See how it is death to cry out? Would you give away a silent camp to our enemies?"

  The infant couldn't understand the words, but he soon learned the futility of wailing. Once, while the band was erecting its tipis, he cried to attract attention. Tacante promptly carried his cradleboard beyond hearing and left him to howl to himself. No sooner did he stop than old Wablosa appeared to tend him. By and by, as his needs were met by Wablosa, Tasiyagnunpa, or some female cousin or aunt, he learned instinctively to trust that all would be tended in time.

  He spent his early days strapped in a cradleboard, bouncing along on his mother's back as the camp moved out onto the plains in search of Uncle Tatanka, Bull Buffalo. Other days, when the band encamped near some stream or beside a spring in the hills, he would crawl about, discovering the freedom of the camp. Other children would often play tricks on him or roll a buckskin ball to him. Sometimes he would creep over among the elders. They would not scold him or chase him back to the children. Sometimes old He Hopa, Four Horns, the medicine man, would speak strange words and draw the boy child close.

  "Ah, see how Mastincala seeks the wisdom of his elders," the old man told his fellows. "He will grow to be a shirt wearer like his father. Or else be a man of power like this old grandfather."

  He Hopa presented Mastincala a medicine bundle when next the child crawled to the old men's fire, and the others howled their approval as the Rabbit clutched a sacred horn.

  "See," He Hopa cried. "He is already the man of power I foresaw."

  The other men laughed at the thought of an infant knowing the sacred ways of Wakan Tanka. But they took new interest in the restless one.

  Mastincala enjoyed his wanderings. Most of the time, that is. The time he crawled into the coals of his father's fire, he screamed in pain. The tender skin of his hands was scorched most severely, and as he fled the fiery earth, he stared at the amused faces of those he judged his protectors.

  "See there, Mastincala, foolish one," Tacante said. "You've burned yourself. A wise man doesn't put his hands in the fire."

  Wablosa then carried him to He Hopa's lodge, and the medicine man provided a thick yellow paste that soothed the burned hands.

  It was the way a boy learned best, so said the Lakota elders. Leave a child to burn himself, and he will not need to be told a fire is hot. Leave the anxious mind to explore. He will learn.

  And so Mastincala took his first steps when he undertook the notion to walk. He spoke as he grew able to form the words. His questions were answered if it wasn't inconvenient, and understanding began to supplant impulse.

  By the time he greeted his seventh summer, he knew much. He could easily recognize the dress and traditions of his band, the Sicangu Lakota, the burned-thigh people or Brules, as the French traders knew them. He could quite naturally tell the difference between his Oglala cousins and the Pawnees or the Crows, their enemies. He sensed his father was a great man, for even the head man of the band, Little Thunder, would seek the counsel of the man known as Buffalo Heart. Tacante's prestige flowed from the beaded shirt he wore when leading raids upon the Pawnee horse herds or while chasing curious Crows from the buffalo range.

  He learned, too, the heavy burdens life placed on the shoulders of an only son. For in those seven years three times Tasiyagnunpa had walked heavy with child, but only once did the infant live. And Mastincala had little use for the pudgy sister that was named Wicatankala, Gull. She soon grew nearly as tall as her brother, and she had not half the trouble with her name the rabbit had with his.

  Yes, Mastincala found his name a trial. While he shot small, blunt-pointed arrows with the other boys, they teased him beyond all reason. How was it a rabbit should walk among Little Raven or Mountain Hawk? There were boys named for beavers and eagles and horses. And there was the one called Rabbit.

  "Ah," He Hopa assured Mastincala, "one day you will be a man of power. Those others will hunt and live and die, but they will follow you in time of trial. It is good that a man who would lead the people should face hardships. You must make a prayer of thanks to Wakan Tanka, who sends you this struggle to make you strong."

  Mastincala did so, but it was hard to feel glad when the sharp words of the other boys stung his seven-year-old heart. And while Wicatankala doted upon her skinny, pale-skinned brother, the other girls enjoyed teasing the Rabbit.

  "Take care no hawk swoops down and takes you off to Paha Sapa," they called.

  "No, hawks see good," Capa, the Beaver, observed. "He is too little to make a meal of. Even a Pawnee would not waste an arrow on him."

  The others laughed, and Mastincala suffered.

  He might have endured the name and his slow growth more easily were it not for the light pigment of his skin. Others, whose flesh had grown dark brown, spoke of the white rabbit. When wagons of the Wasicun, the white people, passed along the road they had built beside the Platte, they often spoke to him in their stranger tongues.

  "They want to know if you have a white mother or father," some trader's son translated.

  Mastincala replied in his shrill voice that he was Sicangu Lakota, the son of Tacante, the great hunter and shirt wearer.

  But still the whites wished to take him from his people, to see him placed among the black robe priests who came among t
he Lakota with their loud words of the angry wakan. These whites were a strange people, Mastincala decided. They had many laws that were never to be broken, and yet they needed many soldiers to chase down those who broke such laws. At the forts there were lodges with iron windows where men who violated the laws were kept. Even soldiers were locked in those lodges. How much simpler to take the Lakota way. A man or woman who did wrong was sent from the camp. Was there worse pain than being taken from the people, left to wander the earth alone?

  And yet being among the white people was not altogether bad. They had many good things to trade for buffalo hides. Tacante and other warriors boasted fine rifles. The traders and the wagon travelers, too, would give many fine beads and much cloth for fresh trout plucked from the river or even a pair of worn moccasins. And while among the whites, Mastincala's skin appeared not so pale.

  At one fort, the one called Laramie, Mastincala met the first great friend of his young life. This was Hinkpila, Short Hair, also called Louis Le Doux by the whites. His skin was dark for a white man, and Hinkpila explained how his grandmother was a Lakota. Hinkpila was of an age and size to be Mastincala's twin, and the two boys, both misfits among their own people, spent many days swimming the river, wrestling on the sandy banks, or racing through cottonwood groves that stood between the Sicangu camp and the white man's fort.

  It was as good a time as a boy not old enough to ride to the buffalo hunt might know, but it didn't last forever. A year had passed since a soldier chief had fired upon Conquering Bear's camp, and the Lakota had fought a battle near the fort. Many soldiers had been slain, for Conquering Bear had been killed and the people were very angry. Peace followed, but now Hinkpila's father brought word the soldiers were angry with the Lakota and were sending an eagle chief to teach the Indian a lesson.

  "We will go," Tacante explained to his son. "We've always known Le Doux to give us good words. We have traded, and now we should seek out Uncle Tatanka."

  So Mastincala bid his friend farewell, leaving him the gift of a fine buffalo-hide coat to mark their friendship.