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Authors: Rosanne Bittner
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obvious some of the Indians had run for shelter. Everywhere around the camp he saw signs of shod horses. The village had apparently been totally surrounded. Bodies were strewn in the creek. Apparently soldiers had lined up on both sides of it to kill off the fleeing victims as though they were merely rooting out a pack of wolves. Many women and children lay in the creek bed, some women hunched over their children as though to protect them. Never had he seen anything like it, not even in the Civil War.
Then he noticed a familiar red headband. With pounding heart, he approached the body, then threw his head back and emitted a long cry of sorrow. It was his brother, Black Elk. Nearby lay his wife, Blue Bird Woman and their son, Bucking Horse. How they had prized their seven-year-old son, for he was the only child Blue Bird Woman had been able to have. Now they were dead! All dead!
Zeke fell to his knees and grabbed up the stiff, frozen body of his brother, holding the man and rocking him. Then he gently laid him back down, again crying out, angrily this time, and pounding his fists into the cold snow and cursing John Chivington, the white settlers, progress. Was this then the price of settling the West? He pushed up his coat sleeve and angrily removed his knife from its sheath. Quickly, he cut a long gash into his arm in his sorrow, letting the blood flow onto his brother’s body. He knew he would have to bury them, even if it took all day to break open the frozen earth enough to do so. Then he would have to keep looking for Wolf’s Blood. He screamed out to Maheo, begging his God that he would not find his son among these bodies; then he hunched over and wept as he had neverwept before. It was not just for his brother that he cried, but for the entire Cheyenne nation.
“Wolf’s Blood,” he groaned. “Where are you, my son!”
His only reply was the moaning wind. Already the blood that had dripped onto Black Elk was frozen, and snow had drifted across the dead man’s face.
Chapter Four
It took hours to dig a hole deep enough to hold Black Elk, his wife, and child. Zeke wished he could bury them all, wished he could erect proper platforms for a proper Cheyenne burial, but there was not enough material and not enough time. He had to find Wolf’s Blood. At first he suppressed the fear that the boy would be among the bodies scattered about. He didn’t want to think he could be there. He wanted to delay finding his son as long as possible if Wolf’s Blood was among them.
The wind howled at his back as he covered the bodies of his brother and sister-in-law and nephew. But his own numbness was from grief rather than the cold. He threw down the small spade he had salvaged from what was left of the village; then he began the grim process of looking at all the bodies. He wanted to throw up and wondered why he didn’t. The bodies were those of the very old, of women and of small children—the weakest ones who could not escape fast enough and who could not defend themselves.
The horror of what was happening to his people engulfed him. Nearly all the bodies had been mutilated, before or after death he would never know. Manywere scalped. He recognized some of them: Cheyenne friends he had known for years, some old ones who had known his own mother. How grateful he was now for her own early death. She could not see what was happening now, could not know that one of her sons had shot himself after selling his wife for whiskey, that another lay dead and mutilated along with his wife and son, and that still another rode in the north, making war with white settlers. His mother’s name, Gentle Woman, had truly fit her. How heartbroken she would be to see this!
He was startled to see that one of the bodies was that of old White Antelope, an aged and peaceful chief who had been to Washington just the year before to meet President Lincoln. One old woman he found was totally scalped, her face covered with blood. That could only
Then he noticed a familiar red headband. With pounding heart, he approached the body, then threw his head back and emitted a long cry of sorrow. It was his brother, Black Elk. Nearby lay his wife, Blue Bird Woman and their son, Bucking Horse. How they had prized their seven-year-old son, for he was the only child Blue Bird Woman had been able to have. Now they were dead! All dead!
Zeke fell to his knees and grabbed up the stiff, frozen body of his brother, holding the man and rocking him. Then he gently laid him back down, again crying out, angrily this time, and pounding his fists into the cold snow and cursing John Chivington, the white settlers, progress. Was this then the price of settling the West? He pushed up his coat sleeve and angrily removed his knife from its sheath. Quickly, he cut a long gash into his arm in his sorrow, letting the blood flow onto his brother’s body. He knew he would have to bury them, even if it took all day to break open the frozen earth enough to do so. Then he would have to keep looking for Wolf’s Blood. He screamed out to Maheo, begging his God that he would not find his son among these bodies; then he hunched over and wept as he had neverwept before. It was not just for his brother that he cried, but for the entire Cheyenne nation.
“Wolf’s Blood,” he groaned. “Where are you, my son!”
His only reply was the moaning wind. Already the blood that had dripped onto Black Elk was frozen, and snow had drifted across the dead man’s face.
Chapter Four
It took hours to dig a hole deep enough to hold Black Elk, his wife, and child. Zeke wished he could bury them all, wished he could erect proper platforms for a proper Cheyenne burial, but there was not enough material and not enough time. He had to find Wolf’s Blood. At first he suppressed the fear that the boy would be among the bodies scattered about. He didn’t want to think he could be there. He wanted to delay finding his son as long as possible if Wolf’s Blood was among them.
The wind howled at his back as he covered the bodies of his brother and sister-in-law and nephew. But his own numbness was from grief rather than the cold. He threw down the small spade he had salvaged from what was left of the village; then he began the grim process of looking at all the bodies. He wanted to throw up and wondered why he didn’t. The bodies were those of the very old, of women and of small children—the weakest ones who could not escape fast enough and who could not defend themselves.
The horror of what was happening to his people engulfed him. Nearly all the bodies had been mutilated, before or after death he would never know. Manywere scalped. He recognized some of them: Cheyenne friends he had known for years, some old ones who had known his own mother. How grateful he was now for her own early death. She could not see what was happening now, could not know that one of her sons had shot himself after selling his wife for whiskey, that another lay dead and mutilated along with his wife and son, and that still another rode in the north, making war with white settlers. His mother’s name, Gentle Woman, had truly fit her. How heartbroken she would be to see this!
He was startled to see that one of the bodies was that of old White Antelope, an aged and peaceful chief who had been to Washington just the year before to meet President Lincoln. One old woman he found was totally scalped, her face covered with blood. That could only
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