Post by yellowhair1850 on Jun 4, 2011 7:11:36 GMT -5
Every massacre has its survivors. And so it was with the Battle of Whitestone Hill, as the whites called it. The survivors, eighty-six in number, hid in the ravines until the killing, looting and destruction were over, and then one-by-one they emerged from their hiding places.
One who escaped death that morning was White Tail. He, being an old man, could not sleep and arose early before the daybreak star was alone in the sky. Leaving his lodge, he walked east for awhile and then sat down in the grass upon a small hillock to await the father, the sun.
He sat looking at the few remaining stars in the sky and then off to the northeast he perceived a line of dark shapes that appeared to be moving toward his village. He knew what he saw must be men on horseback. Could it be the hunting party returning early?
As he sat watching the men approach his village, the sky lightened to grey. It was then that he saw the fork-tail flag of the long knives.
He knew this would not be good for his people for he remembered what happened eight winters earlier to his cousins the Brûles. That is when the horse soldiers under the command of “Squaw Killer” Harney (Lt. William S. Harney) attacked a peaceful camp and murdered men, women and children at Blue Water Creek on 3 September 1855 as the whites count time. Yes, another 3rd of September.
White Tail, when he realized what was about to happen, stood and ran to warn his people, but he had to run down a ravine and back up the other side, and by then it was too late. When he crested the rise the soldiers were firing into the lodges and setting them afire. At that point all he could do was sink into the grass and watch the slaughter of his people. The people he had nurtured and cured of their ailments for so many winters.
Hours later when the soldiers had gone, he walked down to what was left of the village where he was joined by other survivors.
What they beheld was heart rendering. The bodies of their friends and relatives lay dead and mutilated; there was not a lodge that was not burned to the ground and the meat that had been hunted and dried for winter was burning in a big fire in the center of the camp circle.
The covering of the dead should have been the first order of business, however everything of the village was burning and nothing was being done. Some of the meat could be saved if it was pulled out of the fire right away. The women were keening over the bodies of their dead. The old men and boys walked through the camp as though in a daze and the wounded needed attention.
White Tail looked about him and knew something had to be done, so he walked to where most of the people were congregated and said in a loud voice, “Come, come, we are Lakota, we must not perish now, we must live to tell others of this day. You women get off your knees, there will be a time to mourn our dead, but now there are things that we must do.
And then pointing to the big fire he said. “Right now our winter meat is burning, save what you can. It is all we have to eat until our hunters return. You men and boys do not walk as shadows; search the lodges, or what is left of them. Find knives, we need to cut meat out of the dead horses before they bloat in the sun.
When the people were busy with their tasks, White Tail went to where his lodge had stood and pulling up the burnt skins of the collapsed tipi, he found the half charred remains of Fighting Woman and Little Thunder.
Looking at the two, White Tail was filled with sadness. And then he saw the knife in Fighting Woman’s hand; she had told him how Yellow Hair had given it to her the night she and Little Thunder escaped. He bent over, removed the knife from her hand and then from around her waist he removed the sheathe that she had made for Yellow Hair all those winters past. Putting the knife in its home, he then promised himself that he would one day return the knife to Yellow Hair and tell him what had happened to his family. He did not look for Yellow Bird because he had seen the soldier carry him away.
After he had covered his two friends with half burned buffalo robes, he searched for his medicine pouch and when he found it, he went to attend to the wounded. The dead no longer had any need of his art.
One who escaped death that morning was White Tail. He, being an old man, could not sleep and arose early before the daybreak star was alone in the sky. Leaving his lodge, he walked east for awhile and then sat down in the grass upon a small hillock to await the father, the sun.
He sat looking at the few remaining stars in the sky and then off to the northeast he perceived a line of dark shapes that appeared to be moving toward his village. He knew what he saw must be men on horseback. Could it be the hunting party returning early?
As he sat watching the men approach his village, the sky lightened to grey. It was then that he saw the fork-tail flag of the long knives.
He knew this would not be good for his people for he remembered what happened eight winters earlier to his cousins the Brûles. That is when the horse soldiers under the command of “Squaw Killer” Harney (Lt. William S. Harney) attacked a peaceful camp and murdered men, women and children at Blue Water Creek on 3 September 1855 as the whites count time. Yes, another 3rd of September.
White Tail, when he realized what was about to happen, stood and ran to warn his people, but he had to run down a ravine and back up the other side, and by then it was too late. When he crested the rise the soldiers were firing into the lodges and setting them afire. At that point all he could do was sink into the grass and watch the slaughter of his people. The people he had nurtured and cured of their ailments for so many winters.
Hours later when the soldiers had gone, he walked down to what was left of the village where he was joined by other survivors.
What they beheld was heart rendering. The bodies of their friends and relatives lay dead and mutilated; there was not a lodge that was not burned to the ground and the meat that had been hunted and dried for winter was burning in a big fire in the center of the camp circle.
The covering of the dead should have been the first order of business, however everything of the village was burning and nothing was being done. Some of the meat could be saved if it was pulled out of the fire right away. The women were keening over the bodies of their dead. The old men and boys walked through the camp as though in a daze and the wounded needed attention.
White Tail looked about him and knew something had to be done, so he walked to where most of the people were congregated and said in a loud voice, “Come, come, we are Lakota, we must not perish now, we must live to tell others of this day. You women get off your knees, there will be a time to mourn our dead, but now there are things that we must do.
And then pointing to the big fire he said. “Right now our winter meat is burning, save what you can. It is all we have to eat until our hunters return. You men and boys do not walk as shadows; search the lodges, or what is left of them. Find knives, we need to cut meat out of the dead horses before they bloat in the sun.
When the people were busy with their tasks, White Tail went to where his lodge had stood and pulling up the burnt skins of the collapsed tipi, he found the half charred remains of Fighting Woman and Little Thunder.
Looking at the two, White Tail was filled with sadness. And then he saw the knife in Fighting Woman’s hand; she had told him how Yellow Hair had given it to her the night she and Little Thunder escaped. He bent over, removed the knife from her hand and then from around her waist he removed the sheathe that she had made for Yellow Hair all those winters past. Putting the knife in its home, he then promised himself that he would one day return the knife to Yellow Hair and tell him what had happened to his family. He did not look for Yellow Bird because he had seen the soldier carry him away.
After he had covered his two friends with half burned buffalo robes, he searched for his medicine pouch and when he found it, he went to attend to the wounded. The dead no longer had any need of his art.