White Buffalo Woman

I LAID AWAKE STARING AT the single star visible through the smoke-hole in our lodge. My belly ached and rumbled with hunger. Winter came early this year, and the promised beef allotment and blankets came not at all, but Black Kettle gave his word. He made his mark on the white chief ’s paper. They gave him a flag to fly from the top of his lodge so that all would know he made his mark, and the soldiers would not attack us. So, we waited. The People stayed only a day’s pony ride from the white-man fort, as they told us to, growing leaner on empty promises of cattle and blankets that never came. Before we knew it, the hungry times came to us. I thanked the Great Spirit for my father, Tall Bear—a brave warrior and a strong hunter who provided more for our lodge. He did not trust the white man, so he continued to hunt, and my mother, Morning Dancer, dried the meat and made the pemmican as always.

The Dog Soldier Society considered my father an important man. The People gave him many gifts, but he always gave away more than he received. It was his way, and they loved him for it. Still, he provided more for us than some lodges. The People feared that some of the very young and the very old would not see the green grass time. Our fears increased when the wolves we sent out to scout told us that the soldiers were preparing to move.

I tried to turn my mind to happier thoughts, and away from this hard time on the Lodgepole River. A dog barked and my father stirred in his robes, throwing a protective arm across my mother. She made a little cooing sound and snuggled closer to him. Their love filled the lodge, and brought a smile to my face.

Another dog barked and a bugle answered. Everyone awakened instantly. Father flung the robes away, grunting an order to my mother. Shots rang out as he grabbed his weapons and disappeared, naked, through the entrance flap. My heart pounded in my chest. Screams and shouts echoed through the village along with more shots and the screams of both the warriors and the wounded.

Mother grabbed her parfleche and a buffalo robe and hustled me out of the lodge, turning to the river. Gunfire came from all directions. Suddenly, I heard a dull thud. Mother’s hand slipped from mine. I turned to see what was wrong, and she stiffened and fell to her knees. I started to help her up.

“Run,” she said.

I ran.

Chaos reigned among the lodges as women and children fled, and the warriors remained to fight a desperate hopeless fight to buy them time to escape. Men, women, and children fell everywhere as the soldier bullets tore into them. Already, the powder smoke made a thick fog in the village.

I caught a glimpse of my father as I ran by. A large wound in his thigh pumped bright blood onto the trampled snow. Impervious to the snow and cold, he flung his challenge to those who attacked us.

“Cowards. Women. I am Tall Bear. Will you fight me?” He dropped his empty rifle and drew his bow. I never saw him again.

I ran faster than I ever ran before, dodging between lodges, and jumping over fallen bodies, tangled robes, and dying ponies. The screams of the wounded women, children, and ponies broke my heart and continued to ring in my ears. The guns continued to boom. A soldier slashed at me with his long knife. I dodged and kept running. Suddenly, my leg collapsed. I looked down and saw a long bloody cut on my hip. Painfully, I got up and ran limping toward the river.

I saw Blue Horse fall, shot in the back while he wrestled with a soldier. He had only a knife to fight the soldiers’ guns. They hacked at his fallen body with their long-knives. One of them picked up his severed arm and danced around waving it like a warclub.

Prairie Dog Woman and her child fell, run down by a mounted soldier who swung his long-knife at them again and again and danced his horse across their bodies.

Black Kettle’s flag waved in the morning breeze. I shut my eyes and ran barefoot on the frozen ground. The ice tore at my cold, tingling feet. The wound throbbed and dripped blood down my leg, but the need to escape was my only priority.

I reached the timber along the river, but turned away from the crossing. Some instinct told me it was a death trap. The trampled snow of others fleeing before me made my flight a little easier. I followed the flattened snow along the river. The bearberries tore at my legs, but I pushed on. I tasted the coppery smell of blood in the air. My hip felt like fire, but I gritted my teeth and ignored it.

As I leapt over a fallen tree, a strange woman grabbed me and pulled me down. She threw a white buffalo robe over us, and held me to her breast. She smelled of sweet-grass and buffalo grease, and my fears vanished as she hugged me close.

“Be very still and quiet.”

“Who are you?” I whispered. “And why are we not running?”

Before she could answer, a volley of shots rang out very near us in the direction I ran.

“Be very still,” she breathed again.

I nodded and allowed my body to settle against the fallen tree. The rough, icy bark scratched my back and bare legs. My chest heaved as I tried to catch my breath. Hers hardly moved as she held me close.

I heard heavy footsteps close by.

Soldiers! They did not know how to walk like people. They tramped loudly through the brush and snow making enough noise to scare all the game within many bowshots. Their shouts and laughter mingled with shots, followed by more laughter. The celebration continued for a long time while the cries and moans of The People faded. I listened as the soldiers shot the pony herd. The ponies neighed and screamed in terror. The soldiers laughed and continued to shoot. I was glad I could not understand what they said while they slaughtered the survivors. The screams of wounded ponies rang in my ears for many nights. Even under the thick robe, I could smell the greasy smoke of our burning lodges.

I reached over the woman’s shoulder and pulled back a corner of the white robe when I heard a bugle in the village. The coppery smell of blood and the stench of smoke and offal stung my nose. The sun was nearly midday. The shouting grew far away now and more subdued. The bugle sounded again.

“We must go, now.” The woman cut a piece off her own skirt to bind my thigh. Her gentle soothing touch almost made the pain go away. She rose, throwing the robe across her shoulders and draping it around me along with her arm. Slowly, we moved toward the river. The snow showed the trampling of many boots and hooves.

We came to an open space in the brush. Bodies littered the clearing. All bore the wounds of bullets and knives, and many showed mutilations. Children’s bodies lay scattered and freezing in the snow, while blood froze on their little scalped heads. A woman lay on her back with her dress pushed up to her waist and cut open down the front. I saw a bloody hollow where her breast should be. Her unseeing eyes stared at the overcast sky. I felt sick, but had no time to care for them. Hatred poured from my heart and sent its flaming fingers through my entire being.

I would make the soldiers pay for this. I stood tall, and shook the woman’s arm off my shoulders.

The time for being a child was passed. I took her hand and led her across the clearing to a ford of the river. We saw many more bodies and blood trails.

The waters of the Lodgepole were icy, and I nearly cried out in shock, but I held tightly to the woman’s hand, and we forded the river.

My teeth chattered, and my empty belly rumbled as we trudged along. My chest constricted with the thought that I might not find The People, but I was determined. We plodded our way along the steep hillsides and down the ravines, moving generally west. I felt certain that any survivors would go this way, and I hoped to find them somewhere ahead of us.

The woman stopped, and I turned to see why.

“I must go now.” She placed the white buffalo robe around my shoulders. “Tell The People that I am with them still.” Her white doeskin dress and bronze arms began to shimmer and glow. She smiled at me before she turned. Walking away, her image continued to shimmer and fade, then she vanished.

Thoughts tumbled and bounced in my mind. People don’t disappear. I felt fear again, and I missed the comfort I felt when she held me under the robe. Only a spirit or a powerful ghost could do what she did. But she was no ghost. Her presence warmed and comforted me. I was alone. I took a staggering step to follow her, then slumped to my knees at the overwhelming loss of my people.

I forced the tangle of thoughts from my mind, and concentrated on the need to find The People. The trail would be hard, but I could do it. I found a branch for a staff to lean on, forced myself to my feet, and moved on, but I only walked a few more steps before I saw a small movement in the trees ahead. I hurried as fast as my injury allowed to the spot. When I approached, a familiar figure stepped out. It was my aunt, Matches Woman. Tears ran down her cheeks, and her face twisted with grief. She gave a soft cry of joy when she saw me. I looked around, and saw three hands-count of women and some children.

“Is this all that remains of us?” I asked softly.

“No, White Fool and the other warriors went back to protect us from the soldiers. It is good you have a warm robe. Many have nothing at all.”

I told her of the woman who hid me under the white robe, and how we made our way back to The People. I told her how the woman vanished.

“White Buffalo Woman,” she said. “You are blessed. You will do a great thing for The People one day.”

She was right. When the warriors returned without my father, they said nothing, but led the way north through the snow. Hunger followed us like a camp dog. We found little game and nothing to keep us going except our anger and fear. Of that, we found plenty. I ate handfuls of snow to keep my empty belly quiet.

We found another camp of The People. These people did not make their mark on the white man’s paper, and the soldiers hunted them. They made no permanent camp. They shared what little they had with us, and welcomed us into their lodges.

My aunt boiled some sinew and sewed my wound shut. She chewed some woundwort and spat it onto the wound, then wrapped it tight.

We moved every few days, trying to make it hard for the soldiers to find us. Winter lasted a long time, and many more fell to the hunger and cold. I somehow survived with only a slight limp.

When I grew old enough, I joined the Dog Soldier Society, and pledged to kill our enemies wherever I found them. No longer did we move south in the summers and hunt buffalo. We kept to the mountains where we found less game, but more safety for The People.

Eight summers after the attack on Black Kettle’s village, we met some of our Lakota cousins, and they invited us to stay with them in their great summer village on the Greasy Grass. It was the biggest gathering of The People and their friends I had ever seen. The village spread for more than twenty long bow-shots along the river.

I was there, among my friends for two moons. One morning, I lay in the lodge of the Dog Soldier Society. Dawn broke the darkness to the east, and I stared out the smoke-hole at a bright star.

I heard the bugles again, and felt fear. I did not fear the soldiers. I feared that I would not get there in time. I sprinted from the lodge and vaulted onto my pony. We rode hard to the sounds of fighting. The screams of the dying ponies in our Lodgepole village rang again in my head and my old wound throbbed. I kicked my pony harder, and put an arrow in my bow.

The valley filled quickly with warriors and gun smoke. I saw Yellow Hair standing on a small hill with a few soldiers around him. A wound in his belly leaked blood on his shirt.

I screamed at him. “You will die by my hand. Do you hear me? You are mine to kill.” I turned my pony his way. He aimed his short gun at my friend, Black Bear, and fired. I put my arrow through his heart. He fell and moved no more. I refused to take his scalp. The hair of a child-killer held no power. I looked around, but found no more soldiers to fight. There was a small circle of dead soldiers on the hill and more bodies down below.

Our women knew what happened to us at The Lodgepole. They took their revenge that day. They stripped the soldiers naked, and hacked at the bodies with knives and hatchets. No one tried to stop them. As I rode back to the village through the hundreds of celebrating warriors, I glimpsed a lone figure of a woman on a hill above the village. Her face and arms seemed to glow in the morning sun—she smiled at me, then vanished.

Dennis Doty, a Southern California native, has been writing fiction since 2004. His stories spring from a vivid imagination, but most have a basis in his many life experiences, including growing up in a small town, the decade he served in the Marine Corps, and a multitude of stories from two years riding on the old Southwest RCA rodeo circuit. Dennis presently lives in Appalachia, with his wife and their two dogs, where he divides his time between writing, swapping lies with the other old timers, and yelling at kids to get off his lawn. After submitting his first short story to Saddlebag Dispatches, Dennis so impressed Publisher Dusty Richards that The Ranch Boss invited him to join the magazine staff on a permanent basis. He now serves as Managing Editor of the magazine itself, and as Deputy Publishing Director of Galway Press's parent company, Oghma Creative Media. Dennis blogs on a regular basis on a multitude of subjects, not the least of which is quality in editing. You can learn more about Dennis and his writing at www.dennisdotywebsite.com