Lakota Surrender Read online

  Her friends insisted the Indian was savage and stupid because he could not read or write, yet Kristina observed the system of hand motions by which all tribes could communicate. The system was intricate and expressive. Kristina had learned this language first from Nanny, with a mixture of phrases thrown in from her father, and then the Indians themselves, who indulged a young woman who strove so hard to master their language. She’d practiced it until she could communicate in this way as though it were a second language to her.

  Yet there was more. There was Nanny’s vision, plus Kristina’s own dream.

  Her future was entwined with the Indian people. Hadn’t Nanny said so? Kristina tried again to remember the exact words. What had they been?

  Many Moons had been a mere ten years older than Kristina when she had taken the post of nanny at Fort Pitt, near the fork of the Monongahela and Allegheny rivers in Pennsylvania. She had been mother, sister, and best friend to a young girl when no one else, not even Mrs. Bogard, had particularly cared.

  Kristina’s father was often gone and Margaret Bogard had at first needed nursing during her stay at the fort. Then later Mrs. Bogard had decided that caring for a young child was beyond her abilities.

  It was only natural that the nanny and her charge would become close, so close, in fact, that Nanny felt safe in imparting her own heritage to the young child.

  And Kristina, in return, had loved and respected her nanny. Many Moons treated her charge as though the child were already an adult capable of making her own decisions and Kristina, as a result, exhibited more independence and stronger will than most of her female contemporaries.

  Kristina had been only fifteen when Many Moons had dreamed. Later Kristina would think it odd that her friend’s vision had been for that of a young, white girl, a complete alien to the Indian culture, but Kristina had never had the chance to tell this to Nanny. Looking back, it seemed to Kristina that Many Moons had no sooner related her dream than she was taken away.

  “Kristina, come quickly!” Nanny called out and patted a place on the floor in front of her.

  “What is it?” Kristina sat where Many Moons indicated.

  The young Indian girl’s glance flicked around the room nervously. Finally, her gaze fell on Kristina. “I have had a vision, a dream.”

  “That’s wonderful!” Kristina giggled. She gazed at her friend with the adoring eyes of one who had never experienced prejudices, although it surrounded her at the fort.

  “Hush now and listen to me! The vision was not about me, Kristina. It was about you.” Many Moon’s dark, almost black, eyes looked straight at Kristina.

  Awed, Kristina returned the gaze, feeling as though her friend had touched her very soul. “Me? Your vision was of me?”

  Many Moons nodded. “I don’t have time to tell you all of it; I fear your mother may come here at any moment. She has ordered me to leave you. She fears my influence over you, fears that I have made you too sympathetic to the Indian. I have been told to have no further contact with you. But before I go, I must tell you this: Follow your heart. At times there may appear to be too many obstacles, but you must be true to your heart. Don’t listen to the demands of others, but do what you know, yourself, to be true.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you do. Listen, Kristina. To the Indian,” Many Moons began to sign as she spoke, and Kristina followed the hand gestures as easily as she heard the words. “To my people, a dream, a vision, is more real; more important than the very world in which we live. It is how the Great Spirit talks to us. What he says we must try to make happen. It is the way. My dream was for you. I must tell you this. In the vision, Kristina, you were Indian. You were still you, but you were no longer living in the white man’s world. Nor were you living in my world or anything resembling our village. I believe you were living somewhere out west among the free tribes that still live there and roam as their ancestors did long ago. And Kristina, there was much happiness there, yet I am afraid for you. You are white. I do not know how your future can lie there. Yet I believe that only there will you find true happiness. I fear that if you do not seek passage west, all that is good for you in this life may never happen. You must somehow travel west. You must seek this place out for yourself.”

  “With you.” Kristina grabbed her nanny’s hand. “You and I will go there together.”

  “No,” said Many Moons, staring at their hands entwined together before she continued. “Your mother has dismissed me. What you do, you must do on your own. Perhaps I have dreamed so that I may encourage you. I only pray that the choices you make will bring you happiness. Now I must go. I have already said too much.”

  “Don’t leave me,” Kristina choked out the words. “I will speak to my father. It won’t matter, then, what my mother says or orders.”

  “No. Your father is gone and your mother has changed this past year. She stares at me now as though I am not quite human. She is taking you back east. She no longer requires my services.” Many Moons hugged Kristina to her. Wrapped in her nanny’s arms, Kristina felt that she could not have loved a sister more. “Remember what I have told you,” Many Moons pressed. “You must seek your future out west. I believe your happiness lies there.”

  “Kristina, are you there?” Margaret Bogard rapped sharply on the door and Kristina was thrown back to the present.

  “I’m here, Mother,” Kristina replied, but she didn’t open the door. “I’m dressing for the dance tonight. I’ll be a few moments, please.”

  “See that you are ready soon. Your father and I are waiting downstairs.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Kristina complied. Slowly, she wandered to her closet. She selected a dress, but her mind was still far away.

  She had never seen Many Moons again. And though she had made inquiries about her friend later, she had never discovered what had happened to the young Indian woman. Kristina hoped that Many Moons had found happiness. She knew of no one who deserved it more.

  Kristina pulled the dress over her head. What was she to do? She longed to travel up the Missouri River to the wild tribes. She, too, believed her destiny belonged there, and she yearned for it. But only the stoutest of men had made that journey. What chance did she have to make that trip?

  Kristina settled the dress down over her figure and sat in front of the mirror. She sighed. Would she always have to hide this ache inside?

  She would have to make that journey to the north.

  Then, and maybe only then, would this restlessness be quieted.

  Chapter Two

  Mouth of the Teton River (The Bad River)

  Upper Missouri River

  “What is it, brother?” the Lakota brave asked his companion, who had broken stride.

  The tall youth of twenty-three winters signaled his brother to silence as he inspected the valley below; his black eyes swept the river, the trading post, the swells of the swaying, green prairie. His gaze lingered on the trading post, that eyesore that the white man called a company; its timbered walls marred the beauty of the six hundred or so graceful skin lodges spread over a two-mile radius. The lodges were colorful, imaginative, and so much more practical than the walls the white man felt were so necessary. The youth scanned the skirt of timber along the river’s shoreline, and surveyed the murky brown waters of the Teton itself. Gentle hills rose and fell closer at hand until they gradually formed the summit where the two tall youths were stationed, leaning heavily on their bows. Clad only in breechcloth and moccasins, both young men had slung their quivers onto their backs, their shields over their shoulders.

  “What is it, my friend?” the anxious brave repeated.

  “I do not know, but something is wrong, I think,” Tahiska replied, his eyes examining the valley once more, studying the gentle slopes for anything suspicious in the natural order of things, listening for the usual sounds of the prairie that would warn of present danger. But he could detect nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that could explain the ten
sion that filled his mind.

  “Perhaps my brother has stood in the sun too long.” Wahtapah, too, discovered no danger and, poking his friend in the ribs, he grinned.

  “Perhaps I have,” Tahiska agreed with a chuckle, his smile displaying strong, white teeth against smooth, copper-colored skin. Both youths had unbound black hair, and while the wind whipped the long ends around their shoulders, the sun accentuated the blue-black highlights. From Tahiska’s hair hung a lone eagle’s feather.

  “How do you think the trade goes?” Wahtapah asked.

  Tahiska grunted low in the back of his throat. “The white man is greedy this year.”

  “Yes,” Wahtapah agreed. “I am very poor this year. For ten buffalo skins, I received only one steel knife. Many more trades such as this, and I could become the poorest man in the village. I have heard of white men who have a fairer trade. Perhaps our tribe should seek this out.”

  Tahiska’s only response was the nod of his head.

  Moving on, they descended the hills and returned to camp, their moccasins making little sound as they walked through the tall grass. As they approached upwind, the faint breeze reached out to greet them home, carrying the familiar scents of the campfires and supper. The sun was still high, beating down on those below with a deadly heat.

  There was activity all around them. Dogs barked out warning of their approach, children rushed about in various states of undress, some playing hoop-and-pole, some returning from a cooling swim at the river. Older men sat in groups, gambling, while the women rushed about, working on fresh hides, attending to the meals, or some, like the children, were just returning from a swim. There were several drumbeats echoing in many areas of the camp, with a young man here and there practicing his dance steps.

  “There is a dance on the other side of camp tonight,” Wahtapah said. “I think I will go.”

  Tahiska threw a quick glance to his friend and grinned. “Will she be there to watch?” he inquired.

  “I hope so.” Wahtapah hung his head. “She is so beautiful that I feel sick thinking about her all the time. If I can’t find a way to have her soon, I think I will fall over and die.”

  Tahiska laughed heartily, knowing his friend hadn’t yet cornered the beautiful Kokomikeeis to tell her of his feelings. She was well protected by her parents and guarded tightly day and night. The maiden was indeed beautiful, and Tahiska knew his friend would have to make his intentions known soon, or risk the chance of losing her to another.

  “Brother,” Tahiska began. “I have a plan. I, too, will be attending the dance tonight. Tomorrow I will tell you what to do. I am sure you can get her if you are man enough.”

  Wahtapah took heart. “I will do whatever you say if I can win her hand.”

  Tahiska nodded to his friend and turned toward his father’s lodge while Wahtapah walked on.

  The dance was held on the other side of the village, almost three miles away from his own tepee. All the different tribes of the Lakota had come together in a great encampment, as was their custom each summer. It was a time for socializing, a time to reorganize the warrior society, a chance to discuss mutual problems. It would last two weeks or longer, ending in the excitement of the buffalo hunt.

  The drums beat out the rhythm. Many of the old men sang the song, with an occasional female voice echoing the words one octave higher. Tonight’s dance was a social event. It was not to beg favors for the poor, to ask for guidance from Wakan Tanka in the buffalo hunt, or to send men off in a raid. Tonight the young men danced because they were excited, because they were happy, or, as in Wahtapah’s case, because they hoped to gain admiration from a maiden.

  Tahiska danced for none of these reasons. His senses alerted him that there was danger, though he could find none; his heart was heavy, but from what source, he could not imagine. Tahiska danced to ease the turbulence of his thoughts. It was his intention to continue dancing through the night. Then, when his body reeled from exhaustion, he would seek a vision to explain this intuition and to guide him through what was to come.

  The fire burned high, lending its warmth to the near naked performers. With the smell of smoke filling his nostrils, the steady beat of the drums, and the high-pitched whooping of the men, Tahiska lost himself to the dance, his own voice joining the others in song.

  On the sidelines, young couples talked in whispers under blankets, proud parents boasted of their sons, young girls watched in fascination, and children imitated the stimulating dance. There was much talk and lots of laughter as those who hadn’t seen one another throughout the year became reacquainted.

  It was, therefore, a shock to all when the criers burst into the dance, shouting out the news. A hunting party was returning. They had been attacked. Two were dead.

  Voices were silenced; drumbeats stopped; dancers stood frozen. The fire, its embers shooting out live sparks, made the only sound.

  Tahiska felt his body stiffen. His father had been amongst those in the hunting party. Tahiska’s eyes met those of his friend, Wahtapah, above the crowd, reading there the emotions mirrored in his own gaze: disbelief, confusion, amazement. It was with a sickening realization that Tahiska determined the cause for his anxiety.

  Spinning, he fled in the direction of the returning party, Wahtapah, by his side.

  “Take heart, my friend,” Wahtapah implored. “Your father is not among the dead, most likely.”

  Tahiska dared not say anything. There was a constriction in his throat preventing speech anyway. He glanced at his friend and then straight ahead.

  “Take heed, brother,” Wahtapah repeated. “He will be alive.”

  But he was not. Tahiska heard the wails of his mother long before he glimpsed the men.

  He searched the horses, hunting for his father’s favorite mount. The lifeless body, rolled in a buffalo robe and strapped onto the horse’s back, told its own story.

  Surprise, disillusionment, and anger welled up inside him all at once. He tore through the crowd to his mother’s side, taking her in his arms as he, too, followed the procession.

  Council was held two nights later. The dead had been placed high in a scaffold. Tahiska had made the structure himself, refusing the help of Wahtapah and another, Neeheeowee, who had just arrived from the distant tribe of the Cheyenne.

  Tahiska had slain his father’s horse, attaching its head and tail on the poles of the scaffold to ensure his father’s spirit would ride, not walk, to the afterlife.

  The seven chiefs had ordered their tepees to be brought together to form a circle large enough to seat one hundred and fifty to two hundred men. The sacred fire leaped high in the center, while in the sky, the moon cast shadows upon the earth.

  After the last meal had been served, all the warriors sat on the ground while hundreds of others crowded around to hear and to see what had happened and what was to be done.

  Normally men as young as Tahiska and Wahtapah were not admitted to the council, but both were included tonight for two reasons: Tahiska had this last year counted two coups, one of which was considered a great coup since he had rescued a friend from a grizzly attack; also, he and Wahtapah had been a part of two successful raids. Plus, it was his father who lay dead upon the hills.

  Hawonjetah, chief of the Minneconjou, lit the pipe, presenting the stem to the north, south, east and west, then to the stars and moon overhead. It was ceremoniously passed, clockwise, to all. Not until the pipe, at last, returned to the chief did anyone move.

  Finally the chief rose.

  “My friends, sons, and brothers. Two of our people have been murdered. My heart is saddened, my spirit is disillusioned, but my anger grows bold over this injustice. We must punish these killers. They must not be allowed to murder again. Listen well, my brothers, for this night, we decide the course of action for our people.”

  The chief returned to his seat while the one from the hunting party rose. He took his place in front of the fire.

  “We were hunting antelope at a place four days’
ride south of here. The game was plentiful and we stayed five days long because our women desire many skins. It was on this fifth day that we heard thunder, but when we looked at the sky, there were no clouds. We heard the thunder again and again but could find no reason for it. Deciding it must be the firesticks of the white man that we heard, we went to investigate.

  “There we saw two white soldiers dressed in blue coats shooting at the wild turkey. One had hair the color of the autumn leaves on the oak tree. His eyes were the color of the summer sky, the hair upon his face was a shade darker than his scalp. The other wore long yellow hair and his face was scarred. These men were not hunting this game to eat, and though thirty or more turkeys lay dead upon the ground, these two would not stop the hunt.

  “We did not make ourselves known, but Tchankee became afraid that these two blue coats could find our camp. We begged him not to announce himself, for it is doubtful these two men would bother our village, but he insisted and broke into the circle of their hunt. Before he could speak, one white man fired upon him. Matoiwa flew out of his cover to help his brother, but he, too, was shot. We hid until the white men left. When we reached our two brothers, they held no life and the white soldiers in blue coats were gone. To follow would have been suicide. So we gathered our dead and came home. I have spoken.”

  The warrior sat down and the second hunter present at the murder rose to speak. His story was much the same as the first, confirming that the two white soldiers had, in fact, committed murder.

  Murmurs were traded within the circle, but none rose to speak.

  Finally a young chief, Shonka, rose and strode to the front of the fire.

  “Are we women that we sit here and wonder what we should do to avenge our brothers’ deaths? We all have heard the rumors from beyond the Missouri of the white man’s treachery. We have felt his greed in our trades this year. Why do we wait? There are white men here within our reach. They have cheated us this year. Are they not brothers of these white soldiers? We must avenge these deaths tonight, within this trading post. The white man has shown he has no honor; he has no soul. He must go. We must make war on these white men. They must pay for the murders of our brothers. Have we not more warriors than they do? Why do we stand here?”