He spoke to the tribe at a feast in his honor. He had been sickened by the behavior of the soldiers at Washita the previous winter, how they fought without skill and then lied afterward about the number of women and children killed. He had returned to his people to regain his spirit strength.
“You do well to return,” the chief said. “Tell us what kind of man this Long Hair is.”
“He is a warrior. He has the heart of an Indian.”
The chief bowed his head.
“He is smart and learns our ways,” Golden Buffalo continued. “But he does so to defeat us and glorify himself among his people.”
* * *
A LARGE GROUP of warriors left with Golden Buffalo for the hunt. They rode to a favorite buffalo watering hole in a secluded valley they had hunted in since Golden Buffalo was a young boy. The warrior who called himself his new father had been proud of Golden Buffalo’s abilities in riding and shooting and had him accompany the hunt before he allowed his own sons to do the same. He remembered the great excitement the men felt getting ready for the annual trek, and how he experienced a sense of belonging for the first time since he had lost his parents. He tried not to think that these men he rode among were the very tribe to kill his parents in warfare and then adopt him. The valley made him mindful of all these things.
They walked their horses leisurely in a scattered line, talking and joking, the chief turning around on his horse to tell Golden Buffalo the end of a story. No one could see the valley ahead, as a last hill still blocked it. The men at the head of the hunting party made a signal as they sniffed the air. Soon all of them noticed the awful stench of decomposition. Perhaps, they thought, a lone buffalo had died nearby. Cresting the hill in silence, the sight before Golden Buffalo’s eyes made his heart sick—hundreds and hundreds of dead buffalo scattered across the valley floor, as numerous as the wildflowers, so many they darkened the ground they lay on. The animals were bloated and rotting, the killing days old, some with their skin cut off, others whole except for a missing tongue.
The warriors shouted, outraged. They rode in angry circles and fired their guns into the sky. Golden Buffalo simply felt shame. Was he a fool to try to learn the ways of men who did such things? He turned his horse back and did not speak the rest of the day.
They had been expected to be gone a week, but came back in a few days. Urgent councils were announced among the Cheyenne, Sioux, and Kiowa, and ideas solicited to deal with the encroachment on their lands. Although it was illegal, the military would not enforce its own treaties. The majority favored going on the warpath against the settlers, who were easier targets than the soldiers.
They agreed on a plan to attack a fort in the migration path as a clear warning for the whites to leave. A medicine man claimed he could make the warriors immune to the whites’ bullets. He told them he could cut a vein and bleed more warriors if needed. If he chopped off a finger, guns and ammunition would rain down from the sky. His breath would create a splendid shield protecting the warriors from the white man’s bullets.
“Their guns will be no more powerful than sticks,” he told them. “You will destroy them.”
The warriors were empowered by his words, not allowing for the possibility of their being false. They rode in circles on their horses and gave the war cry, feeling invincible, stronger than they had in a long time. Golden Buffalo had been with the army long enough to be a skeptic. He viewed the warriors’ belief as childish. With his white mind he did not believe the medicine man, but after Washita his Indian heart called on him. Faith rewarded made living worthwhile.
* * *
THEY CHARGED THE FORT at dawn with great fanfare and little protection, propelled by their belief in the spell of the medicine man. The first warrior hit by a powerful rifle rolled off his horse, but they ignored it as an aberration. Another group charged but were repelled by a wind of bullets. Three fell to the ground, and the rest rode away to regroup. They had been presumptuous that the medicine would not still require of them their utmost skill and effort. They began their traditional circling attack, leaning along the necks of their horses and shooting rifles through the fence and into exposed windows.
Horses were shot and rolled over, injuring the men who rode them. Some of the warriors argued that they must revert to their traditional way of fighting and stay out of range of the powerful weapons. Others argued that they must put their lives in the power of the medicine for it to work. A small subset of the most experienced warriors, including Golden Buffalo, would ride straight at the main building. The danger they put themselves in would impel the medicine to protect them. The man next to Golden Buffalo was killed. He himself was hit in the arm and fell off his horse, rolling to safety in a gully.
Golden Buffalo lay on his back and stared up into the blue sky. For a time, he could not vouch how long, he forgot about the battle raging around him, forgot about the soldiers who he served in order to defeat, forgot the tribe that he loved and had no faith in, but simply lost himself in the blueness of the sky overhead with its small white clouds speeding across. The wind had grown stronger without his noticing. A hawk was wheeling through the air currents, riding each swell with outstretched wings, gliding effortlessly. Without a doubt Golden Buffalo would have traded his life for that of the hawk. He was weary of being human.
At last the war party made the decision to retreat.
The warriors rode away in pain and humiliation. They had lost ten men, an astonishingly high number given the small size of the action. Many more were wounded. Such a rout was possible only because they had so foolishly exposed themselves. When they were far enough away to be sure of their safety, they dismounted and accosted the medicine man.
“Why did you mislead us, ma’háhke’so, old man?”
One of the warriors whose brother had just been killed raised his quirt and lashed the man. Others joined in. Golden Buffalo felt the same rage, but he would not participate. What the man’s failure told him was that his own vision was true—he must continue learning the way of the whites, hard as it was, because it was the only path to save his tribe. The prophecy of his dream was at last clear. His people would be lost otherwise.