and old mothers to feed. They should stay, but if I go to Powder River, they will follow."
"Tacante, who was my father, said it is a hard road, leading the people."
"Yes, my son. But when a thing is hard, then it is sure to be right. Wakan Tanka never sends us an easy road, for it would make us weak."
"We go to Powder River, then?"
"It is all I know to do. If there's to be a fight with the wasicun soldiers, there will be need of brave hearts and strong arms."
"Yes," Tacante said, grinning at his father.
Before leaving the fort, Tacante rode into the nearby hills with Hinkpila, Louis Le Doux, to hunt fresh meat for the journey. The two young men, growing tall in their different ways, still shared a closeness for the land and a devotion to each other. They located deer tracks, and Tacante took the lead. Louis hung back, seemingly surprised at the agility and cunning demonstrated by this new person, the Buffalo Heart. Tacante stealthily approached a pair of deer, then drew an arrow from his quiver, notched it, and killed the first animal in an instant. Louis shot the second with his rifle. The choice of weapons, as much as anything, reminded them of how far their paths had diverged.
"You go to Powder River to fight the whites," Louis said as he began butchering his deer. "I'm mostly white myself, Tacante. Oh, the white men don't say it, but I am."
"And I am Lakota," Tacante answered.
"I'm Hinhan Hota's son, too. Your brother. Maybe I, too, should come to Powder River."
"You would be welcome," Tacante said without hesitation. Then he frowned. "But for you, Hinkpila, the white man's road is not so crazy. You wear wasicun clothes and shoot his rifle. If a fight comes, it will be hard on your father for you to be away. You have young brothers and sisters."
"You understand then?"
"There is a word among my people," Tacante said, gripping his friend by the hand. "Kola."
"It means friend."
"More, sometimes. Warriors who have no brother often call each other kola, brother-friend. They share all they have, and their hearts are like one."
"We did this long ago, when you were but a rabbit boy and not a Lakota warrior."
"Yes," Tacante agreed. "I call you kola, Hinkpila."
"And I you, my brother," Louis said, grimly forcing a smile onto his face. "We'll meet again, you know, in a better time."
"Hau! We'll hunt the buffalo then!"
They went on with the butchering, but neither entirely believed there would be another time, or a better one. The paths were so far apart already.
And yet all the world lies within the sacred hoop, Tacante told himself. Don't all paths turn?
Chapter Seven
So it was that Tacante followed Hinhan Hota into the land of the hecinskayapi. As he rode along atop a tall buckskin pony, he observed the deep ruts cut by wasicun wagons in the Platte River road. The grass there was eaten down to its roots, and there wasn't a hint of the buffalo or antelope which had once frequented the area.
Tacante read his frowning father's thoughts. This was how the wasicuns would paint the Big Horn country! Only there, along Powder River and in the mountains beyond, could the Lakota hunt in the old ways. Once the game was gone, as on Platte River, the people would have to go to the white man's reservationsâor starve. Either way, it promised to be a slow death.
Such a vision of the future spurred on Hinhan Hota's small band. They swept across the arid flats beyond the Platte and swung north into the rocky hills which led to Powder River. The young men rode ahead, locating small herds of buffalo or antelope to hunt. It wasn't long, though, before they saw evidence of the passage of wasicuns. Wagon ruts muddied streams, and half-devoured carcasses of elk often spoiled the land.
Yes, Tacante thought. The wasicun is a crazy man. He sets his feet upon a path, and he continues to walk blindly onward, taking what he wants and killing as he feels the urge. He cut the buffalo valleys with his roads, killed off the game,
"Tacante, who was my father, said it is a hard road, leading the people."
"Yes, my son. But when a thing is hard, then it is sure to be right. Wakan Tanka never sends us an easy road, for it would make us weak."
"We go to Powder River, then?"
"It is all I know to do. If there's to be a fight with the wasicun soldiers, there will be need of brave hearts and strong arms."
"Yes," Tacante said, grinning at his father.
Before leaving the fort, Tacante rode into the nearby hills with Hinkpila, Louis Le Doux, to hunt fresh meat for the journey. The two young men, growing tall in their different ways, still shared a closeness for the land and a devotion to each other. They located deer tracks, and Tacante took the lead. Louis hung back, seemingly surprised at the agility and cunning demonstrated by this new person, the Buffalo Heart. Tacante stealthily approached a pair of deer, then drew an arrow from his quiver, notched it, and killed the first animal in an instant. Louis shot the second with his rifle. The choice of weapons, as much as anything, reminded them of how far their paths had diverged.
"You go to Powder River to fight the whites," Louis said as he began butchering his deer. "I'm mostly white myself, Tacante. Oh, the white men don't say it, but I am."
"And I am Lakota," Tacante answered.
"I'm Hinhan Hota's son, too. Your brother. Maybe I, too, should come to Powder River."
"You would be welcome," Tacante said without hesitation. Then he frowned. "But for you, Hinkpila, the white man's road is not so crazy. You wear wasicun clothes and shoot his rifle. If a fight comes, it will be hard on your father for you to be away. You have young brothers and sisters."
"You understand then?"
"There is a word among my people," Tacante said, gripping his friend by the hand. "Kola."
"It means friend."
"More, sometimes. Warriors who have no brother often call each other kola, brother-friend. They share all they have, and their hearts are like one."
"We did this long ago, when you were but a rabbit boy and not a Lakota warrior."
"Yes," Tacante agreed. "I call you kola, Hinkpila."
"And I you, my brother," Louis said, grimly forcing a smile onto his face. "We'll meet again, you know, in a better time."
"Hau! We'll hunt the buffalo then!"
They went on with the butchering, but neither entirely believed there would be another time, or a better one. The paths were so far apart already.
And yet all the world lies within the sacred hoop, Tacante told himself. Don't all paths turn?
Chapter Seven
So it was that Tacante followed Hinhan Hota into the land of the hecinskayapi. As he rode along atop a tall buckskin pony, he observed the deep ruts cut by wasicun wagons in the Platte River road. The grass there was eaten down to its roots, and there wasn't a hint of the buffalo or antelope which had once frequented the area.
Tacante read his frowning father's thoughts. This was how the wasicuns would paint the Big Horn country! Only there, along Powder River and in the mountains beyond, could the Lakota hunt in the old ways. Once the game was gone, as on Platte River, the people would have to go to the white man's reservationsâor starve. Either way, it promised to be a slow death.
Such a vision of the future spurred on Hinhan Hota's small band. They swept across the arid flats beyond the Platte and swung north into the rocky hills which led to Powder River. The young men rode ahead, locating small herds of buffalo or antelope to hunt. It wasn't long, though, before they saw evidence of the passage of wasicuns. Wagon ruts muddied streams, and half-devoured carcasses of elk often spoiled the land.
Yes, Tacante thought. The wasicun is a crazy man. He sets his feet upon a path, and he continues to walk blindly onward, taking what he wants and killing as he feels the urge. He cut the buffalo valleys with his roads, killed off the game,
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