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Authors: G. Clifton Wisler
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brought on the spotted sickness to kill the people. Still he wasn't content. He now set his hungry eyes on Powder River, on the hecinskayapi country. It must stop!
Tacante wasn't the only one to view the rutted intrusion with angry eyes. All his people silently shared that rage. And when Hokala discovered a party of wasicuns camped beside the trail, a dozen voices rose in a call for war.
"This is no time to let the blood talk," He Hopa scolded. "We have long been at peace in this country. I have touched the pen to a paper saying the Lakotas will hold this country always, with no roads to chase away the game or bring forts. These greedy wasicuns are like children. They must be showed the way back, not struck down like a crazed dog."
"The treaty says they will not come here," Cehupa Maza complained. "But the wasicuns don't care. They killed my mother and my sister at Blue Creek, when we were also at peace. They speak of peace, but they make war anyway."
There were many who howled their agreement with young Iron Jaw. Hinhan Hota was not among them.
"We'll meet with these wasicuns," the Owl said. "We'll tell them to go home, that they're not welcome here. If they go, then we won't hinder them. If they continue, we'll punish them."
"Han," the warriors all agreed. Yes, it was a good plan.
And so, after smoking the pipe and invoking Wakan Tanka's aid, Hinhan Hota led Tacante and some of the young men to the camp of the wasicuns.
It wasn't much of a camp. Many times Tacante had seen wagon camps on Platte River with a hundred people. This wasicun band had only two wagons, and most of the men rode mules. Two women were with them, and seven children.
"He Hopa was right," Hinhan Hota declared, pointing at the camp. Here, after all, were men so foolish as to leave their animals to graze unhobbled, without guards. Yes, they were children, needing to be taught.
The Owl spread out his companions so as to encircle the camp. Then he called to the wasicuns.
Instantly the camp came alive. The women collected their little ones and huddled beside the wagons. The men formed a line beside the river. Tacante counted seven, although two of them were no more than boys. All held rifles.
Hinhan Hota called again, but the wasicuns knew nothing of the Lakota words the Owl hurled at them. Hinhan Hota then waved Tacante to his side, and the young warrior translated his father's challenge.
"You shouldn't be here!" Tacante cried. "This is Lakota land by treaty. Go back to Platte River."
"I been this way before!" a tall, hairy-faced wasicun called. "John Bozeman made himself a road through here to the Montana goldfields. You know gold, eh, Injun? We ain't goin' no place 'cept on."
Tacante translated the words for his father and the others. The chief scowled, and Hokala offered to lead the first charge.
"They have many guns," Hinhan Hota pointed out. "They are ready now. We will talk some more. Come, Tacante, we will meet with them."
Tacante trembled slightly as he watched Hinhan Hota dismount. The chief left behind his rifle and bow. Tacante also left his weapons behind. The two of them walked slowly, grimly, toward the wasicuns. Now it was possible to read the fear in the pale faces of the trespassers. Clearly, fighting wasn't in their hearts.
"You must go back now," Tacante translated after his father shouted his demands. "We are many, and you are few. We don't wish to wear your scalps, to kill children and women because they have foolishly gone where they shouldn't."
Hinhan Hota had finished, and he sat before the wasicuns with folded arms. Tacante paused a moment, then added words of his own.
"I know your words," the young warrior explained. "Many days I have spent with wasicuns, with white people. My own brother lives among the traders at Fort Laramie. You know this place? I tell you we don't hunger to close your eyes upon the light. But you can't go on killing the game so that my people will starve. If you turn back and go to Platte
Tacante wasn't the only one to view the rutted intrusion with angry eyes. All his people silently shared that rage. And when Hokala discovered a party of wasicuns camped beside the trail, a dozen voices rose in a call for war.
"This is no time to let the blood talk," He Hopa scolded. "We have long been at peace in this country. I have touched the pen to a paper saying the Lakotas will hold this country always, with no roads to chase away the game or bring forts. These greedy wasicuns are like children. They must be showed the way back, not struck down like a crazed dog."
"The treaty says they will not come here," Cehupa Maza complained. "But the wasicuns don't care. They killed my mother and my sister at Blue Creek, when we were also at peace. They speak of peace, but they make war anyway."
There were many who howled their agreement with young Iron Jaw. Hinhan Hota was not among them.
"We'll meet with these wasicuns," the Owl said. "We'll tell them to go home, that they're not welcome here. If they go, then we won't hinder them. If they continue, we'll punish them."
"Han," the warriors all agreed. Yes, it was a good plan.
And so, after smoking the pipe and invoking Wakan Tanka's aid, Hinhan Hota led Tacante and some of the young men to the camp of the wasicuns.
It wasn't much of a camp. Many times Tacante had seen wagon camps on Platte River with a hundred people. This wasicun band had only two wagons, and most of the men rode mules. Two women were with them, and seven children.
"He Hopa was right," Hinhan Hota declared, pointing at the camp. Here, after all, were men so foolish as to leave their animals to graze unhobbled, without guards. Yes, they were children, needing to be taught.
The Owl spread out his companions so as to encircle the camp. Then he called to the wasicuns.
Instantly the camp came alive. The women collected their little ones and huddled beside the wagons. The men formed a line beside the river. Tacante counted seven, although two of them were no more than boys. All held rifles.
Hinhan Hota called again, but the wasicuns knew nothing of the Lakota words the Owl hurled at them. Hinhan Hota then waved Tacante to his side, and the young warrior translated his father's challenge.
"You shouldn't be here!" Tacante cried. "This is Lakota land by treaty. Go back to Platte River."
"I been this way before!" a tall, hairy-faced wasicun called. "John Bozeman made himself a road through here to the Montana goldfields. You know gold, eh, Injun? We ain't goin' no place 'cept on."
Tacante translated the words for his father and the others. The chief scowled, and Hokala offered to lead the first charge.
"They have many guns," Hinhan Hota pointed out. "They are ready now. We will talk some more. Come, Tacante, we will meet with them."
Tacante trembled slightly as he watched Hinhan Hota dismount. The chief left behind his rifle and bow. Tacante also left his weapons behind. The two of them walked slowly, grimly, toward the wasicuns. Now it was possible to read the fear in the pale faces of the trespassers. Clearly, fighting wasn't in their hearts.
"You must go back now," Tacante translated after his father shouted his demands. "We are many, and you are few. We don't wish to wear your scalps, to kill children and women because they have foolishly gone where they shouldn't."
Hinhan Hota had finished, and he sat before the wasicuns with folded arms. Tacante paused a moment, then added words of his own.
"I know your words," the young warrior explained. "Many days I have spent with wasicuns, with white people. My own brother lives among the traders at Fort Laramie. You know this place? I tell you we don't hunger to close your eyes upon the light. But you can't go on killing the game so that my people will starve. If you turn back and go to Platte
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