12

One Dies So Another Can Live

CHAŊKU WAŠTE

As my nephew, Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá, and I cleared the hill, we came upon a Lakȟóta woman giving birth in a small grove of trees on the hillside. She was just cutting the umbilical cord when we saw her. The woman then took the cord and put it in a decorated case in the cradleboard beside her.

We sat and watched the woman from a distance while the other warriors and dogs made their way down to the encampment. I wanted to make sure the woman was well before we continued on. We hadn’t been there for the actual birth, which was something men weren’t allowed to see.

Taking her baby in her arms, the mother wrapped the child in a soft fawn skin and put the infant on the cradleboard where it would spend most of its days and nights until it could sit unsupported. The board protected the child while its mother performed her daily tasks. Until the child could walk, he or she would be bound to the board most of the time.

Once she had secured her child, the mother removed her clothes and wrapped the tȟamní (placenta) along with the last bit of umbilical cord in them. She then placed the wrapped bundle high in a tree away from animals. This would ensure that the child would grow straight and smart. After donning a new robe that she had with her, she and the child left for the river, where she bathed the newborn.

The Lakȟóta called their children wakȟáŋheža (wak-han-hay-za: sacred ones) and cuddled and encouraged them to play. There was never a need to scold children, or to ridicule them, or to strike them. It was the way Lakȟóta children were raised. It was the Lakȟóta tradition to be kind and compassionate to one’s children.

A baby was never allowed to cry and was taught by its parents to withhold the sound of weeping. In its early years, if a child cried, the mother pinched its nose and put her hand over the infant’s mouth. In this way, a child learned not to cry and give away the hiding place of its people in time of peril.

“Uncle,” asked Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá, stirring me from my thoughts, “is that what my mother did when I was born, what this woman is doing now?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Uncle, is it true the cradleboard saved my life?”

“Yes, young one, it did, and along with the love of your mother and father it is the reason you’re here today.”

Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá’s question brought back memories of the boy’s parents. Eleven summers ago, just after Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá was born, his father and my brother, Oȟʼáŋkȟo Napé (oh-hon’-koh nah’-pah: Swift Hand), and his mother, Wičháȟpi (wee-chalk-pee: Star), had left the village to go hunting, taking their newborn son with them. Oȟʼáŋkȟo Napé had slain a deer, and they were butchering it to take back to the village. Wičháȟpi had hung her son’s cradleboard in a nearby tree.

The matȟóȟota (mah’-tah-ho-ta: grizzly bear) has a sense of smell that can pick up the scent of a carcass from a great distance, and, unknown to Oȟʼáŋkȟo Napé and Wičháȟpi, one of these huge beasts had caught the distant aroma of this deer’s death.

The two dogs with the couple probably barked a warning too late for the parents to reach their weapons. The swiftness of the huge beast once he neared his prey would have taken them by surprise.

Two days after the couple had left the village with their child, one of the dogs made his way back to the camp in terrible shape. A few warriors and I tracked the dog’s blood trail back to the scene, where we discovered the boy fast asleep in a tree. The big bear, after his battle, had eaten his fill, and the faint smell of a baby wouldn’t have interested him at all by then.

Two summers after the deaths a hunting party of our village slew a huge grizzly. Embedded in his neck was a broken blade of a bone knife. Oȟʼáŋkȟo Napé had battled to the end to protect his family.

My wife, Wawátʼečala Iȟá (wah-wah’-tay-chah ee-’hah: Gentle Smile), and I took in the boy to nurture as our own. He turned into a thoughtful and resourceful young man full of questions, who learned very quickly anything that was taught him.

His skill with the weapons of a Lakȟóta warrior surpassed that of all his friends. My son, Óta Heȟáka, told Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá that once he slew his first hoofed animal he could come along on a strike against the Ȟaȟátȟuŋwaŋ. Our young boys had to grow up fast to replace the fallen warriors of past battles. Strong numbers of warriors were necessary for our survival.

After watching the baby being tended and having his questions answered, Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá remained silent for the rest of the short journey down the hill.

Before we descended, we stood at the crest and admired the scene: more than seventy lodges, all facing east to the rising sun with their backs to the prevailing western winds, wisps of smoke exiting the top of the lodgepoles against the brilliant blue sky, leaving dark smudges on the exit areas of the skin coverings. I could smell the pleasant aroma of wood burning from our vantage point, and the warmth of this day’s sun tempted me to lie down in the long grass to enjoy the seeming tranquility. As we entered the village, children ran around and greeted us with laughter as dogs barked their welcome. The women were making meals, and the men and young boys sat and took stock of their lances and arrows for the hunt.

Each male hunter had an identifying colour design on his weapons so that his wife and mother knew what animal was his to butcher. There were many more women than men in the community, the consequence of warriors dying in battle and during dangerous hunts. Because of this, it wasn’t uncommon for a man to take more than one wife. Usually, he married a sister, which resulted in a much more harmonious relationship between wives and meant less competition than if they were unrelated. A man had to be a good hunter and provider to support more than one wife, and the more wives he had, the better off he and the whole family were. By being an expert hunter, he could supply his wives with more skins to make the family a bigger teepee, because it was the women who tanned the hides, butchered the meat, and cared for the children. With more skins being prepared, the family would be well off because the man would then be able to trade for dogs and other valuable possessions with the newfound wealth supplied by his hard-working wives.

I turned to Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá outside our lodge and said, “Go inside and prepare your extra weapons for the hunt. You’re old enough now to join the men. I also need you to go out beyond the village to find some gooseberry or Juneberry shoots for arrow shafts.”

“All right, Uncle, and while I’m gone perhaps I’ll bring home something to eat for tonight!”

The akíčita, the society responsible for the hunt, would be gathering the hunters together now that we had arrived with the advance warriors from SápA Ziŋtkála’s village. Here the rules would be laid down for the protection, safety, and success of the hunt. Any deviation from their laws would be dealt with by the akíčita. Punishments could be anything from a whipping, destroying personal property, banishment, or in severe cases, death.

It was also the akíčita’s duty to control the movement of the camp, to organize war parties, and to enforce the customs of war. Its leadership was an important aspect of Lakȟóta life and was needed to ensure the success of the community as a whole.

An akíčita leader was recognizable by his facial markings: a black line of paint starting at the forehead above the right eyebrow that continued downward on the outer right edge of the right cheekbone to beside the mouth. This marking signified that he had control of the camp. A war party head had two of these marks, and his word was the law!

The rules of the hunt were few but important. No one was to branch off, fall behind, or go in front without permission. Absolutely no one could run the buffalo before the general order to do so. Group leaders were to take turns patrolling the camp and keeping guard to guarantee no one left before the hunt began.

Nážiŋ Išnála (nah-zhee is-na-la: Stand Alone), the head of the akíčita, told everyone gathered that the buffalo pound was ready and that the chute constructed of rocks and branches now stretched to the horizon. Warriors had been sent out to watch the herd and plan the attack. The animals were still a good distance away from the čhaŋkáškapi (chon-kos’kay: fence), and the thought was that in less than two suns the hunt could begin. He had told his scouts they were to start carefully driving the herd toward the chute and to not stampede it. This would be done by burning buffalo chips to start a controlled grass fire, directing the herd toward the opening of the drive lines.

Chosen warriors then would have to separate about fifty or more animals from the herd without spooking them. A few of these warriors, dressed in wolf robes and on all fours, would follow the herd. Because wolves were always present, this wouldn’t scare the great beasts into a run. Once the animals were in position, a caller wearing a buffalo calf robe would make the bleating distress sound of a lost calf to lure the animals into the chute. Then the warriors garbed as wolves would jump up once the animals were in the chute and get them running.

The warriors would drive the animals down the interior of the runway until all of our people would rise from their hidden positions alongside the outer edges of the travel way and wave their robes over their heads to keep the animals on course to the killing area. The dogs would run behind the herd and along the sides to prevent it from turning off and rejoining the main herd. The people along the flanks had to keep their wits about them because if an animal decided to make a turn to escape, it would trample anyone in its way. Deaths like that were common during the hunt.

Our hope was that SápA Ziŋtkála and his people would arrive before the hunt started and that Óta Heȟáka and his raiding party might also be back.

But in the meantime everyone would gather to feast, dance, and pray to Wakhan Thanka for a successful hunt. During the time the village was waiting for the herd to approach, two games of skill would take place to prepare for the hunt.

That night in our lodge Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá and I sat and gathered our arrows. During the day, Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá had found some shoots of gooseberry and Juneberry to make shafts, enabling us to add to our arrow collection for the hunt. While I prepared the arrow shafts, Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá feathered waglékšuŋ (wal-gay’-leck-shahn: turkey) feathers to glue on the end of the shafts with the buffalo hoof glue my wife, Wawátʼečala Iȟá, was preparing.

Wawátʼečala Iȟá was also making a meal for us. She had filled a lining of a buffalo stomach with water and into it she dropped heated stones to warm the water. Once the water heated up, she tossed in turnips, wild onions, and the meat of a pispíza (peace-piza: prairie dog) that Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá had shot today during his roaming.

Looking up from her tasks, Wawátʼečala Iȟá advised us, “Don’t forget to mark your arrows so I know what buffalo to butcher. Also tonight we’ll have a special treat. This stomach lining I’ve been cooking with is becoming too soft to use anymore, so it will also become part of our meal.”

Continuing with my arrow preparation, I measured the shaft from the length of my elbow to the end of my little finger and then again the same length. Then I took two pieces of grooved sandstone and pulled the shaft through them to smooth it out. Once this was finished, I added a flint arrowhead to the end and wrapped it with leather to hold it in place. To three of the arrows I attached sharp, coloured stones I had obtained from the wóphiye (medicine bag) of a deceased Psáloka (sa-ah-loo-ka: Crow) warrior I had slain in a battle many years earlier. The stones were very magical, and I only used them for special hunts when I knew I could retrieve them. I had never employed them in a battle because I couldn’t guarantee getting the arrow back if I missed or only wounded a foe.

When I was done with the arrowheads, I turned the shafts over to my nephew and he glued the feathers on and wrapped leather around the shafts where the feathers were affixed. Once he was finished, I added the lightning marks to make our arrows fly true and coloured each arrow with a dye marking so that Wawátʼečala Iȟá could pick out the buffalo we had slain. When we were done, each of us had added another seven arrows to his quiver.

Right after the sun rose to lighten our lodge, I stepped out into the early-morning chill and dew. There I caught the faint smell of cooking fires cutting through the morning freshness. Then my ears were awakened by the crier announcing that the tȟahúka čhaŋgléška na wahúkheza (tah-ha-uka chan-glay-sh-ka na wa-hu-keza: hoop and spear game) would commence soon. The call to the contest area would be made by the beating of a drum.

After the crier made his way through the camp, everyone suddenly came alive. Meals were eaten in haste, and when the drum beat started, all the males who were old enough for the hunt made their way to the competition area with their spears.

Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá turned to me. “Uncle, do you think we’ll be on the same team?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Friends and families usually play together.”

The whole village gathered in an open field where the grass had been trampled down previously by young children and Elders. The sides were quickly decided on and there was much laughter and betting.

The hoop for the game was made of ash bent into a circle with a web of rawhide woven into the entire hoop. There was a small hole in the middle called the heart. The idea was to throw a spear through this heart while the hoop was in the air, which scored the team a five count. A spear through the heart while it was rolling after it landed earned a three count. Any other spot in the hoop was a one count.

A few chosen Elders were selected as the tossers, and the game began.

The teams stood in line and took turns throwing their spears amid much hollering, hooting, and whistling from spectators and contestants. There were many strikes and rarely did the hoop hit the ground without a spear thrown through the game piece. However, when it did fall to the ground, the hoop throwers were so skilled that it rolled for quite a distance until someone speared it.

When it was my turn, I hit the hoop in the air but only scored one. Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá, though, pierced the heart while it was rolling on the ground for a three count, which inspired much whistling from the spectators and many hoots sent in my direction because my nephew had bested me.

Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá had a huge smile on his face, and I whispered to him, “Well done.”

The game went on until the noon sun and then broke up. Our side lost by eleven counts, and as people paid their bets, the crier announced that after the noon meal we would be called back for the ogleče kutepi (oh-glay-say kue-day-pi: arrow shooting).

These games honed our skills with the weapons that would be used during the hunt, relieved the tension of waiting, and also helped pass the time until the akíčita told us it was time to start the buffalo chase.

For the noon meal the women contributed to a huge feast, and everyone ate together in the middle of the encampment. As Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá and I sat and ate, warriors came up and congratulated him on bettering me during the spear throw. There was much laughter and teasing as they came and went during the meal, and Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá beamed at the attention from the warriors.

I turned to him and said, “I hope this newfound skill will continue with you once the hunt starts.”

“It will,” he answered.

Just as the meal was ending, there was a disturbance on the east side of the camp. Some of the men there were yelling a welcome. Everyone rushed to the spot, and we watched as a painted warrior made a zigzag running approach to the village. It was one of the warriors who had left with my son, Óta Heȟáka, on the dream quest war party to the land of the Ȟaȟátȟuŋwaŋ. By running in this zigzag formation, he was announcing that their raid had been successful.

Now that the returning party had everyone’s attention, another one of its members came forward and threw a round ball-shaped robe in the air three times, signifying the number of raiders who had lost their lives. Nážiŋ Išnála, the akíčita head, then went out to greet the returning warriors, get the names of the dead, and escort the war party back to the community. The akíčita head then related the bad news to the families of the fallen warriors. Once the news was given to the relatives, they fell to the ground overwhelmed with grief. The women became so distraught that they wailed uncontrollably, cutting their hair and slashing their arms in despair. For the next year these families would mourn and keep places for the departed spirits to eat with them at meals. After a year, they would let the spirits quit this world during a ceremony.

Óta Heȟáka came up to me and nodded. “It was a successful raid, Father. We captured many furs the Ȟaȟátȟuŋwaŋ were bringing back to their village. Also two women who had been taken from us a few years ago have been returned with great happiness to their families. Our warriors killed twelve of their best and we’ve brought their scalps home to hang in our lodges. It was a good day to be a Lakȟóta!”

“Óta Heȟáka, even though you were successful, you know the Ȟaȟátȟuŋwaŋ won’t let this act of war go unheeded. They’ll come upon us with a vengeance. A loss of twelve warriors is a defeat and loss of life they will certainly avenge with all their power. The Ȟaȟátȟuŋwaŋ are a strong and powerful enemy. They will lick their wounds and reach out to their allies for aid in a mourning revenge attack.”

“Father, we’ll be ready. The Lakȟóta are strong!”

“Remember Kȟaŋǧi Wakpá,” I said. “The Ȟaȟátȟuŋwaŋ proved their power that day by wiping out my father’s village.”

“The people of Kȟaŋǧi Wakpá were starving and weak. The Lakȟóta today aren’t like our forefathers. We’re stronger and better warriors and hunters than they were.”

“I hope you’re right, my son. Now prepare your warriors for the hunt. We have a game of ogleče kutepi to win! Tonight you and your men can dance and tell the story of how you brought the mighty Ȟaȟátȟuŋwaŋ to their knees.”

For the arrow-shooting game, one of the Elders fired an arrow high into the sky at an angle. When it came down, the Elder took a robe and laid it in the area around the shot arrow. Then the teams took turns firing at the target. When each team had its turn, the sky was full of arrows. Then the young boys and a few Elders counted and collected the arrows after each turn. The team with the most arrows stuck in the robe was the winner for that game.

Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá was very accurate with his arrows and showed great promise as a marksman. He turned to Óta Heȟáka after a good shot and said, “I’ll get a buffalo tomorrow and then you’ll have to take me the next time you go to war.”

“That was the deal we made,” Óta Heȟáka said. “Shoot a hoofed animal and I’ll take you.”

The game went on until just before sunset. There was lots of teasing, betting, and flying arrows. In the end, though, the games won between the teams ended up almost even. I was down one eagle bone whistle lost in the betting when we finished. These competitions readied us for the big hunt, which was vital for the long-lasting survival of our people. The buffalo had to give up their existence for our lives to continue. It was all part of the Great Mystery.

As the men made their way back to the village for the evening meal and also to prepare for Óta Heȟáka’s warriors to dance and tell their stories of battle, a lone scout rushed into the camp. He approached SápA Maȟpíya (sah’-pah maii-hoh’-pee-ah: Black Sky), the akíčita’s leader of the hunt, and said something. SápA Maȟpíya then turned to everyone and said, “Tomorrow at first light, be ready: the hunt will begin. As of now, no one leaves the camp until I give the order. All hunt rules and restrictions are on. Tomorrow you all know your places and duties. If you have any questions, come and ask me or one of my fellow akíčita members tonight during the storytelling dance.”

That evening the drums beat and the warriors of Óta Heȟáka’s party told of their deeds and how they had struck their enemies down. The fires blazed high and the dancers’ bodies glistened in the heat from their sweat and the energy they put into their stories. During this time, many warriors also underwent a smudging ceremony to guide and protect them on the next day’s hunt.

Just before sunset, SápA Ziŋtkála’s people entered the village to enthusiastic cheering. The Great Mystery was lining everything up for a successful hunt.

In the morning, the crier came through the village waking everyone up to start this important day. I left the lodge and ambled down to the river. Facing the sun, I woke my body up with the cool water and asked Wakhan Thanka to watch over me and help my arrows fly true. After I was done, I looked around and watched as all the warriors and young hunters did the same. Óta Heȟáka had Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá at the river and was instructing him in the ceremony.

The Elders gathered the children to amuse them while the hunt ensued. Once the butchering began, they would all come to aid in any way they could.

After the warriors and hunters left the river, they headed back to their lodges to collect their weapons and dogs. The women gave each man a robe to wave over his head when the great beast came his way, and then more than five hundred of our people started on a run to their appointed places, trailed by the village’s dogs. The women moved toward the penned-up area where the killing would take place to assume their positions out from the pound. They would be responsible for doing as the men did with their robes, but closer to the great pen. The women would also butcher the animals once the killing was finished.

To keep the buffalo from escaping once they were in the pound, a ramp had been built for them to enter the killing area. It sloped down and away from the entrance, which was the height of a man. Once in, though, if the buffalo turned to break out, they would discover that the ramp was far too high to do so and neither could they jump back onto it to retreat.

Our fastest warriors now went toward the end of the chute to wait at the entrance. In the distance, we could see the dust of the herd and the smoke that was driving the beasts in our direction. The wind was in our favour, gently blowing away from the herd and carrying with it the sharp smells of burning dung and prairie grass. There was no sound except for the people’s footsteps on the prairie, the rustling of the women’s skirts, and the almost silent breaths everyone was taking.

The men were stripped to breechcloths and moccasins, with one or two spears in their grasp and bows and arrow-laden quivers on their sweat-coated backs. Even the dogs were quiet in their approach, hundreds of them following their masters, their slanted eyes wide open. The only outward sign in these ferocious mongrels that indicated any excitement was the saliva dripping from their mouths.

If the oncoming buffalo herd had any sense of reality, it would see a column of dust made by hunters toward the hunted and recognize that good things weren’t coming its way.

Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá, Óta Heȟáka, and I were lined up along the west side of the fence a short distance from the start. Once the beasts ran by us, our job was to race as fast as we could to occupy an open space farther down the drive line. To our right were some young boys a year or two older than Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá. They nervously checked their weapons, chattered, and compared their distraction robes. Across from them were their fathers and uncles.

“Uncle, I can hear the scouts yelling and moving the herd,” Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá said.

Turning to our right, I spotted the dust raised by the onrushing animals being pushed toward us by the wind as cowbirds rose in the air and made their distinctive whistles. Suddenly, out of the dust cloud, a huge bull charged, tail raised in agitation, body sprinkled with dust as it snorted loudly.

The warriors raised their robes, flapping the skins and hooting and whistling to keep the animals in the chute running toward the pound. The boys beside us were slow getting their robes in the air because of their inattention, and in their tardiness they created an opening that one frantic young bull saw and made a lunge toward. Reaching the opening just as the boys tried to shut it by raising their skins and twirling them above their heads, the bull caught one of the boys with a horn and tossed him high into the dust-laden air. The young man hit the ground with a thump and a gasping rush of air from his lungs, causing grasshoppers and powdered dirt to rise in unison. Having landed ahead of the rampaging bull, the boy was in danger again when the bull turned its head to toss the youngster again.

While all this was happening, the boy’s companions were chasing alongside the bull to divert its attention, opening up an even bigger gap in the line. The fathers and uncles who were directly across from the boys now tried to cover up the breach which, if not soon closed, would allow more buffalo to escape. A couple of roving akíčita members also lent a hand to block the opening.

This whole incident unfolded in so short a time that I could hardly take three breaths and reach for my bow and arrows.

Just as the young bull was about to reach the boy on the ground to toss him again, two arrows whizzed by my head and buried themselves up to their feathers in the area behind the bull’s left front leg. The bull stumbled and twisted its head toward me, opening its mouth in a bellow and ejecting a mixture of foam and blood. I could feel the hot breath of the beast on my face and smell the contents of its stomach. As the buffalo dropped to its knees, two of the delinquent boys’ relatives drove their spears into the beast to finish it off.

As the bull groaned and rolled onto its side, dead, I heard a high-pitched cry, “Hie, hie, hie,” behind me. Turning to look, I saw Óta Heȟáka with his bow and spear raised in the air, yelling and whistling as he danced around Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá, who stood with an arrow in his bow and a huge grin on his face. The other warriors and the fallen boy’s relatives also shouted and sang praises. It was Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá who had fired the two rapid arrows that had slain the raging animal, saving the boy’s life.

The gap was now closed and the buffalo were contained in the chute. Warriors sprinted past us to fill gaps ahead. The dust from the passing animals entered my mouth and nostrils and changed my exposed skin to a powdery white with streaks of sweat creating lines that crisscrossed my torso.

Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá glanced up at me. “Uncle, you look like a Ghost Warrior!”

SápA Maȟpíya, the akíčita’s hunt leader, approached the young boys who had caused the break that allowed the bull to escape, grabbed their weapons, and snapped them in two as punishment for violating the hunt rules. He then told them they would escape the wrath of the akíčita’s whips but would have to report to the women once the butchering began and do whatever they asked. Indicating the direction of the pound, SápA Maȟpíya told the boys to run to the front and help close off any holes.

The boy who had been thrown had suffered only a small scrape on his left leg and a bloodied elbow on the same side when he hit the ground. A slice of his cheek was also hanging over his lip where the animal had gored him. SápA Maȟpíya popped some ȟaŋté čhaŋȟlóǧaŋ (yarrow) into his mouth and chewed quickly. When it was a paste, he pushed back the boy’s dangling cheek and smeared the substance on it to stop the bleeding and prevent infection. Once the cheek was back in place, he handed the wounded young man some yarrow leaves to hold against the wound. Then, pointing in the direction of the women, the imposing warrior ordered, “Get the healer to sew that back in place and be gone with you!”

The negligent friends took off with the speed of a pack of scared dogs and ran to the forward position, with the bull’s victim leading the way. One of the warriors started laughing, breaking the tension of the moment and sending everyone in the vicinity into bouts of mirth that seemed out of place among the yelling and whistling of the pursuing warriors, the barking dogs, and the bellowing beasts. All of this occurred in a billowing cloud of thick dust.

Óta Heȟáka then turned to Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá and me and said, “The scar from the goring will be a badge of honour in years to come for that boy. Not many Lakȟóta have survived a goring and a flip in the air from an irate bull buffalo!”

Chuckling at the thought that the story of the scar would be a future winter storytelling tale, I motioned to Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá and Óta Heȟáka, saying, “Come, we must keep up with the herd!”

Óta Heȟáka turned to his cousin and shouted to him as they sprinted beside me, “You fulfilled the task I asked of you, so you can now join my next war party. You slew a hoofed animal, and now I give you a gift. From this moment forward you won’t be known as Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá ever again! Your new name given by me, your uncle’s son, Óta Heȟáka, will be Tȟatȟáŋka Kat’á (tah-ton-kah k’tay: Buffalo Kill).”

Racing beside my son and nephew, I raised my weapons above my head and cried, “Tȟatȟáŋka Kat’á, Tȟatȟáŋka Kat’á, Tȟatȟáŋka Kat’á, we have a new Lakȟóta warrior, aye, aye!”

The other warriors running with us then raised their weapons and robes into the air and repeated my words, causing my nephew’s smile to widen. I then turned to Tȟatȟáŋka Kat’á and cried above the din, “Your aunt will be mad at you for killing a buffalo so far from the pound, making her and her sisters come all the way out here to prepare the animal!”

“Uncle, I’ll gladly help them to repay for my negligence.”

We loped ahead of the herd, choking back the stifling prairie heat and smothering dust to gain our place in the line where we waved our skins and kept the stampeding animals on the intended course. Gazing around at the other warriors, I noticed they were also coated in dust with muddied spots where their sweat had seeped through the powdery covering. I now knew what my nephew had meant when he said I looked like a Ghost Warrior. All the pursuers were smiling, hooting, and whistling loudly as they herded the huge beasts to their death and our survival.

Soon the buffalo reached the opening, charging up and over the stoutly built ramp that had been constructed with tightly packed rocks. Once over the ramp, they tumbled into the closed-off area to meet their deaths. Surrounding the corral were warriors sending arrows and spears into the animals’ bodies. The noise was deafening, with warriors shouting, dogs barking, women singing, and the buffalo bellowing as they took their last breaths. The rising dust and stench of dying animals as they released urine and emptied their intestines upon their deaths filled my nostrils and made me dizzy from the excitement of the hunt. Tȟatȟáŋka Kat’á, Óta Heȟáka, and I shot all our arrows, keeping our spears for any unseen dangers.

When it was over, the men entered the compound and finished off any of the animals that were still alive. The women then came in after the men had completed their killing and began butchering the meat with their knives. Many of the people, to satisfy their hunger, cut off pieces and ate them raw, while the dogs were thrown guts to fight over along with the crows and ravens.

The women skinned each buffalo down the back in order to get at the tender meat just beneath the surface, the area known as the “hatched area.” Once this was removed, the front legs were cut off as well as the shoulder blades. This exposed the hump meat as well as the meat of the ribs and the beast’s inner organs. After all this was exposed, the spine was then severed and the pelvis and hind legs removed. Finally, the neck and head were separated as one. This allowed for the tough meat to be dried and made into wasná (wah-snah: pemmican).

Once the animals were cut open, the stink became almost unbearable in the late-day heat. The akíčita posted scouts around the kill site to watch for grizzlies, which had an excellence sense of smell for carrion and could detect the scent of death from a great distance.

Everything on this great animal that Wakhan Thanka had given us would be used in our everyday lives. The women took great pride in making wókpȟaŋ (who-kpah: parfleche-rawhide bags) from the hide once the hair was removed. They then decorated these bags and used them to carry all of their possessions. The bags were so strong that they could stop an arrow or spear. The hides were also used for clothing, teepees, shields, and drums. The sinew: for thread, bowstrings, and attaching arrowheads. The meat: for sustenance. The bones: for weapons, sled runners, tools, and scrapers. The horns: for spoons, cups, and bowls. The hair: for rope and decoration. The hooves: for rattles and glues. The brain: for softening hides. The fat: for pemmican, hair grease, paint base, and soap. The stomach, intestines, scrotum, and bladder: for bags and water containers. The teeth: for necklaces. The skull: for ceremonies and prayer.

Without the buffalo we wouldn’t have survived as a strong nation. For this we offered prayers of thanks always before the final butchering. We thanked the great beast for giving his life so that we could live, and we thanked Wakhan Thanka for creating the beast and giving us the strength to slay him.

As the women continued their bloody, smelly work, the men rotated the great beasts, enabling their wives, aunts, and sisters to cut around the animal and get the skin off. The young boys built fires of buffalo chips and along with some of the Elders started roasting the tongues, which were a great delicacy, and sharing the meat with the women. The warriors who had slain an animal consumed the heart raw with the hope of gaining the buffalo’s strength. There was much happiness and excitement among the people because now we all knew that no one would go hungry this coming winter. There would be enough meat to feed everyone.

Each carcass would be cut into eleven pieces for transportation: the four limbs, the two sides of ribs, the two sinews on each side of the backbone, the brisket, the croup, and the backbone. Then, once we got everything back to the village, we would hang the parts on racks and smoke and dry them for storage and to make pemmican, which consisted of the meat, berries, and fat.

Because Tȟatȟáŋka Kat’á had slain the buffalo now lying on the prairie away from the main pound, my family was responsible for it. All the meat was shared among the people, but it was the responsibility of whoever had slain an animal to harvest the beast. The extra meat would be given to Elders, warriors who hadn’t made a kill, or warriors of the akíčita who were responsible for the oversight of the hunt and who hadn’t participated in any of the slaying.

That night fires were built to keep the wolves and bears away and the people went to sleep exhausted. The next morning Tȟatȟáŋka Kat’á, Óta Heȟáka, Wawátʼečala Iȟá, her younger sister, Pȟáŋžela Napé (pohn-zhah-lah nah’pay: Soft Hand), and I left the camp to butcher the buffalo my nephew had slain. Also with us were fifteen dogs hooked up to travois to bring the meat back.

We were busy talking and laughing when Pȟáŋžela Napé stopped and asked, “What’s that awful smell?”

Once she pointed it out, my nostrils flared with a horrendous stench, and shivers ran down my spine.

Óta Heȟáka was ahead of everyone else and walked up the small rise in front of us with a couple of dogs. Then he turned to me and cried, “Father!”

The dogs beside him growled as their manes bristled. I knew what it was before even casting my eyes upon it.