The Story of No Moccasins

Among us the old ones are the best models for how we should live our lives. Every old person is a collection of stories because of all that each one has seen and lived and all that happens in the world around them in a lifetime. I have not met an old person yet who was not a strong exemplar of at least one virtue, and many are outstanding exemplars of more than one.

Such a person was an old woman named No Moccasins. She lived in a time before the coming of the horses (prior to 1700).

No Moccasins and her husband, Three Horns, had lived long lives. They had a son and a daughter and several grandchildren. No Moccasins, in fact, was grandmother to all the children in the village. She was a small woman, and by her sixty-seventh winter her hair was the color of new-fallen snow. The lines in her face seemed to show the many trails she had walked in her life. No visitor to her modest but orderly lodge ever left hungry, and rarely without a gift in hand, something that was finely quilled. She was known far and wide for her intricate quilling patterns and designs, and many women came to learn her skill. But in spite of all of that she was known mainly as the wife of Three Horns.

Three Horns was a man of excellent reputation. He had been a warrior far past the time when most men lost the strength of arm and leg as well as the will to take risks. So in his lifetime he had collected many, many war honors. The lance to which his eagle feathers were tied was twice as long as a man was tall. Every feather was an honor, of course, and no other man could boast of such a thing. When he finally turned from the warpath, he took his place on the council of elders. There he offered his wisdom unselfishly and the skill with which he spoke could not be matched. He was seventy winters old, but his appearance could take the breath away. He didn’t have the big belly that many old men did. He stood straight and tall, and his hair, which hung to his waist, was silvery white.

In the village everyone turned to Three Horns for advice. It seemed as though he had always been there. So when he fell ill and took to his deathbed, the entire village was in disbelief. Word traveled fast and soon many, many people from other villages came to pay honor to the dying leader. Three Horns’ tiny village grew to twice its size in a matter of days. No Moccasins, her daughter, and several other women were kept busy cooking to feed all the guests. When Three Horns was told about all the people who had come, he asked the oldest people in the gathering to come to his lodge.

The four men and two women who came to No Moccasins and Three Horns’ lodge saw in the man’s half of the lodge, which was to the north, the long eagle-feather staff, bows and arrows and lances, and buffalo-hide shields that were the color ful symbols of the glorious life of a warrior. Three Horns, weak from his illness, spoke in a low voice with No Moccasins, who was sitting beside him. But he seemed to grow stronger as he went on. No Moccasins, as she had always done, saw to the comfort of her guests and her husband and remained respectfully quiet.

“My friends and relatives,” he began, “thank you for coming into our lodge. I have been honored to share this lodge with my wife for nearly fifty winters. In that time we were given a fine son and a fine daughter and many grandchildren. Our people saw difficulty as well as good. We took to the path of war now and then and good men were hurt or died. We are feared and respected by our enemies. The number of our lodges and villages has grown in that time. We are a strong people; our ways are good. I am thankful to the Great Mystery for bringing me into this world as a Lakota! I have lived a good life and I am ready for the next. Before I leave I have a story to tell, and I ask that after the sun comes up tomorrow you tell this same story to all the people gathered here. That is why I have asked you to come today. Here is what I want you to know.

“When I was a young man I traveled south from my mother and father’s village to hunt. I came to a village that was encamped for the summer just north of the Running Water River. There was great feasting and a dance at that time, for there had been a fight and a great victory over enemies to the south. I was invited to join the celebration. It was a good time. There was much food and we danced far into the night.

“I awoke the next morning beside the trail to the water and looked into the largest and most wonderful eyes I had ever seen. A young woman was gazing down at me. She said, ‘It is funny what suddenly grows beside this trail.’ I jumped to my feet and followed her to the water and carried the water skins back to the village for her. That was the best chore I have ever done in my life.

“The next evening I stood in line outside the lodge of this young woman, with all the other young men who had come to court her. Her name was Carries the Fire and she did put the fire in my heart. I was very surprised when she asked me to come again the next evening. You will not be surprised when I tell you I remained in her village until the autumn hunts. By then, for reasons I still cannot understand but for which I am grateful, she had decided that I might be a good husband. So I went back north to tell my family so they could prepare the gifts to her family for the bride price.

“We were married the following spring. In between was the longest winter of my life. So I left my family and became a part of her village, as is a custom among us. Not long after that, enemies came among us from the south on a revenge raid for the defeat they had suffered before. They killed a man and took two young women. A war party went south on their trail. I went along.

“We trailed them for a half a moon, it seemed, going far into country I had never seen. We traveled fast and caught up with them as they rejoined their village. We hid and watched. We saw where they had put the two young women. Later we saw where their night sentinels were and made a plan.

“There were six of us. That night two of us would set a fire to the east of the village, and two of us would do the same to the west. While the men of the village were busy putting out the fires, two of us would sneak in and take back our young women. The plan worked, except for one thing: I was one of the two who sneaked into the village, and I was captured.

“By dawn all of our war party had escaped back to the north with the two young women, and I was glad to pay the price of a good raid. As you might think, my captors were very angry. They made me a slave. All my clothing was taken from me—everything. I was led around naked; everyone laughed. I was made to work. I pulled drag poles like a dog until my hands and knees were bleeding. They teased me; they threw dirt in my face. Women pulled up their dresses in front of me and laughed, showing me that I was no longer a man. They gave me no food so I had to fight with the dogs for scraps. At night they bound me hand and foot and stretched me between two stout poles. There was no way to escape. I began to feel lower than a dung beetle.

“I lost count of the days, but I looked for ways to escape. But lack of food made me very weak, and I knew that before I was too weak I had to escape. After a time they stopped putting a guard to sit and watch me at night. Night after night I pulled at the poles which held me, and little by little I loosened them. But someone saw what I had done and pounded the poles in deeper. I was discouraged.

“I am not ashamed to tell you that one night I prayed to the Great Mystery to give me a quick death. I could not escape; I was too weak.

“One night it was cold and rainy, and I was naked and shivering. There was no one about; it was too cold. Even the dogs curled up out of the rain. My heart was sad as I thought about my young wife and that I would never, ever see her again. I thought about her so much that her face appeared to me. After a moment I realized it was real; she was there! While I lay there in disbelief she cut my bonds with her knife, pulled me to my feet, and guided me out of the enemy’s village.

“I was weak from hunger and my mind was not clear. But I know we walked through the night and by dawn we arrived at a hiding place she had prepared. The rain had fallen through the night and washed out our tracks. She could not have found a better time to come.

“She had hidden food and weapons. As my mind cleared I saw that she was wearing men’s clothes—mine—to disguise herself for the journey. We hid, and we ate and rested. She told me that the other men had returned home with the news that I had been killed. She grieved for a time, she said, but she found herself not believing I was really dead. One night she made preparations and left the camp. The others had told her where the enemy camp was located. She knew where to look. After many days of hiding and watching she came into the camp on that rainy night.

“Though our tracks were washed out by the rain, the enemy knew we had to travel north to come home. So they sent out a war party.

“After a few days of resting and hiding we were eager to start home. We knew to be cautious, of course, and we looked often at our back trail. That is how we saw others heading in the same direction: six of them moving fast. I knew they had to be from the village where I had been a captive and that those six men were the best of their warriors. I had escaped when they were certain I could not. They could not know that I had help. Because my escape was an insult they could not let pass, they sent out their best trackers, their fiercest warriors.

“We covered our trail as best we could but it did not matter. They were running, and I could not. Carries the Fire and I decided that we should hide so that we would not leave a trail they could find. But they had to be thrown off somehow. I thought about that but I could do nothing, so I did not speak that thought to her. But she had thought the same.

“We made a good hiding place in an old bear’s den. That afternoon while I slept she slipped away. She returned that evening, wet and barefoot. She had placed her moccasins near a creek to lay a false trail for our pursuers. Later she told me that when they nearly spotted her, she hid in a beaver’s lodge. She had to go into the creek and come up inside the beaver’s house. I teased her, saying that she should have a new name—No Moccasins.

“After two days we left our hiding place and struck out west and traveled in that direction for three days, then north. I began to call her No Moccasins because it was a name of honor for what she had done. That is why my wife is called No Moccasins. Though I grew stronger each day it was not an easy journey home. We had to watch for enemies, find food, and a shelter each night. But it was her quiet courage, more than anything, that was our greatest strength.

“The people were surprised to see us. They believed that I had been killed and that my wife had gone off and killed herself. That is not unknown. My wife did not want me to tell our story and would only let me say that I had escaped from my captors. The people honored me for that, but it was not my victory.

“I have asked you old ones to our lodge to witness for me. It is time to repay the great debt I owe my wife. Throughout my life I was fortunate as a warrior and somehow I was able to win some honors and gain a reputation. Yet all those honors are not mine because I could not have achieved them if my wife had not risked her life. I have not heard of any man in my lifetime who has done a braver deed. She traveled alone into enemy country and sneaked into an enemy’s village. Few men can say they have done that.

“Because of her deed I took to the warpath each time with one thought in mind: to be worthy of my wife. For my life long I have tried to be worthy, but I am afraid I am not. So I must give all these honors to the one who truly deserves them. I give them to my wife. I ask that my warrior weapons and my eagle-feather staff be moved from the man’s place in our lodge to the woman’s place, where they rightfully should be.

“I will leave this world soon and I ask that another thing be done. I ask that my burial scaffold hold only my body wrapped in my burial robe. I will leave this world as the man I was before I met my wife: poor and unadorned. All that I appeared to be would not have been if not for this woman.”

Three Horns sighed deeply and settled back. No Moccasins silently wiped away her tears and pulled a robe up over her husband.

“I have known good people in my life,” Three Horns continued. “Many were wise, honorable, generous, and brave. But none, except this old woman who sits beside me as always, had the one strength that gives true meaning to all the others—humility.

“She did a brave thing, and no one—not the strongest warrior among us—has yet to do the same. Yet she cared not if anyone ever knew. It is time that everyone knows. Thus I have spoken.”

The old ones who gathered with Three Horns gave their word to tell the story of No Moccasins’ courage and humility. Through the days and nights that followed, young and old alike crowded around the campfires to listen to those old ones. Before long No Moccasins’ name rose with the smoke from many campfires.

Days later Three Horns died in the arms of his beloved No Moccasins. Though her loss was great she comforted others. As he wished, Three Horns’ burial scaffold was unadorned. Those who mourned for him also honored his widow.

No Moccasins cut her hair short in mourning, but nothing else outwardly changed. She lived her life the same as always—a small, quiet old woman amidst the bustle of a busy village. She gave her husband’s eagle-feather staff, his shield, and his weapons to the Kit Fox Warrior Society. They, in turn, decided to hang those symbols of honor in the great council lodge in the very center of the village. There they would remain as a reminder of one man’s courage and an old woman’s humility.

The honor and reverence that Three Horns was given in his life now belonged to No Moccasins. Not a day went by that a gift of food was not left outside her lodge door, and every day she shared those gifts with the very young and the very old. For the rest of her days No Moccasin wanted for nothing. In the winter the firewood piled outside her door was nearly as high as the lodge. This, too, she shared. She welcomed all who came to visit, and many who did were warriors from near and far. They came to bring gifts and to share a meal, and to sit in the presence of courage to learn humility.

No Moccasins died in her seventieth winter. On her burial scaffold were hung her husband’s shield, his weapons, and the eagle-feather staff. On the ground below were piled hundreds of moccasins so she would not have to journey to the other side in bare feet.

The Quiet Path

Lakota tradition encouraged its fighting men to publicly recount their exploits in battle. Waktoglaka (wah-kto-glah-kah) is the word for that old custom, meaning “to tell of one’s victories.” It seems illogical that a culture in which humility was a virtue could allow its fighting men to brag in public. There was, however, an essential requirement: Each and every action recounted had to be verified by at least one witness. That verification ensured the truth. To truthfully describe one’s action in combat through the forum of ceremony was not considered bragging because the recounting—the story of the action—was a gift. It became part of the identity and the lore of the storyteller’s warrior society, and it served to strengthen the entire village—not to mention that the deed recounted served as an example for young men to emulate.

Most men who did the waktoglaka did not repeat the story unless asked because they realized the value of humility. While exploits in the arena of combat were the way to establish and enhance a good reputation and gain status in the community, lack of appropriate humility was a sure way to taint one’s reputation and erode hard-won status. In other words, once the battle was over it was time to be humble.

To traditional Lakota, humility was the one virtue that enhanced other virtues. To be generous was good, for example, as long as one did not call attention to his or her generosity. Anything good that was done or said with humility carried more impact. According to all the stories, one of the most humble of all Lakota was Crazy Horse.

Crazy Horse was an Oglala Lakota. The Oglala, which means “to scatter one’s own,” were (and are) one of the seven Lakota groups. His is one of the most familiar names to emerge from the turbulent nineteenth century in the American West. In western American history, written by Euro-Americans, he is popularly regarded as the conqueror of both General George Crook and Lieutenant Colonel George Custer. On June 17, 1876, he led seven hundred to nine hundred Lakota and Cheyenne warriors and stopped Crook’s northward advance at the Battle of the Rosebud, on the Rosebud River in what is now north central Wyoming. Eight days later, one thousand to twelve hundred Lakota and Northern Cheyenne warriors under his leadership, as well as the able leadership of several other notable Lakota battlefield leaders, defeated Custer’s Seventh Cavalry at the Battle of the Little Bighorn. Crazy Horse was thirty-six years old at the time, and his combat experience and leadership helped to thwart—albeit temporarily—the United States Army’s grand plan of 1876 to capture and herd all the Lakota onto reservations once and for all. But we Lakota don’t remember him primarily because he defeated Crook or Custer; we remember him because—in spite of his larger-than-life achievements on the field of battle—he was a humble man.

Crazy Horse was born to be a warrior and a leader. He had an ability to stay calm in the midst of chaos and confusion, and to lead by example. In the Lakota society of his day the arena of combat provided opportunities for fighting men to display skill and courage. Acts of bravery on the battlefield earned them honors within their warrior societies and status in the society at large. Many men who achieved a following as combat leaders also went on to become political leaders as well, such as the Hunkpapa Lakota Sitting Bull.

As a matter of fact, Crazy Horse’s steadiness under fire earned him his first adult name, prior to Crazy Horse. Because he had a habit of dismounting in the midst of fighting, then kneeling beside his war horse to take deliberate aim at the enemy, he became known as His Horse Stands in Sight. Such conduct earned him more combat honors by his early twenties than most men achieved in an entire lifetime. He was known far and wide for his daring and recklessness in combat, but also for his ability to make good tactical decisions. If anyone earned the right to participate in the waktoglaka ceremony, it was he. But according to all the stories handed down about him, he never did.

For all of his life Crazy Horse was painfully shy and probably spoke in public only twice. Though he was entitled to wear the symbols of his many achievements on the battlefield—eagle feathers—he was known to dress plainly. If he wore any decoration, at all it was usually a single feather.

His refusal to do what was expected of all accomplished warriors—recount his exploits in combat—raised more than a few eyebrows because he was bucking tradition, but it also endeared him to many. Those exploits are the basis for the legend of Crazy Horse; but, sadly, they overshadow the real man—the man, the stories say, who would walk through camp with his head down in humility when he had every right to strut with arrogance. To the Lakota who knew, loved, and admired him, his humility only enhanced his achievements and he didn’t need to recount his exploits. Many, many others did it for him.

Crazy Horse didn’t ask or volunteer to be a leader. His reputation brought men to him, especially during that critical period following the Battle of the Little Bighorn when the U.S. Army stepped up its campaign against him. Because of his reputation and the humility with which he always conducted himself, just over nine hundred people followed him. Only a few more than a hundred were fighting men. The rest were old people and women and children, and they all endured hardship and uncertainty. But all of the fighting men and most, if not all, of the others would have continued to fight against the whites to the last man, or woman, or child if Crazy Horse had chosen that as the best course of action. But he chose otherwise. As a true testament of their loyalty, Crazy Horse’s people followed him into an uncertain future when—for the welfare of his noncombatants—he finally surrendered to the United States. He was the last Lakota leader to do so.

Without a doubt people followed Crazy Horse because of his courage as a fighting man and his ability as a military and civilian leader. We Lakota will always remember him for those very reasons. As a Sicangu/Oglala Lakota I will always admire him for those achievements, but I will likewise never forget that he was a humble man. For me, his humility outshines his fame.

Humility was a virtue that the Lakota of old expected their leaders to possess. A quiet, humble person, we believed, was aware of other people and other things. An arrogant, boastful man was only aware of himself. Interestingly, our methods of selecting leaders today seem to favor the arrogant and boastful.

The process that we, as a nation, endure every four years is the same that many Native American tribes, or nations seem to mimic on a more frequent basis. In Lakota society of the not-too-distant past, however, it was the people who approached the man who possessed the qualities of leadership. One of those qualities was humility.

If humility was a virtue important for everyone to practice, it was absolutely necessary for a leader. Humility can provide clarity where arrogance makes a cloud. The last thing the people wanted was someone whose judgment and actions were clouded by arrogance. Several years ago I watched my uncle, then president of the Rosebud Sioux Tribe, diffuse a volatile moment with simple humility. A woman walked into his office and proceeded to ridicule and berate him, insulting him in every way she could think of because she or her family had been denied a service by one of the tribal service agencies. He didn’t interrupt her; he waited until she finished her tirade. Then, instead of taking umbrage because he, and the office he held, had been grievously insulted, he, with his head down, quietly and respectfully replied, “Yes, that is why I have this job. So you can insult me when something goes wrong. Thank you for telling me your problem.” The woman could only walk away. She had expected her words to be met with anger because an arrogant person would have reacted in that manner. When there was no anger, no arrogant retort, she didn’t know how to handle the humility.

Now the process of selecting leaders apparently leaves no room for humility: A man or a woman who believes he or she can be a leader approaches the people by declaring candidacy. In most cases the candidate is not known to the people and consequently is forced to do at least a little boasting, and certainly a lot of promising. To make matters worse we are besieged by more than one candidate. This all brings to mind the story of Iktomi, the Trickster.

Iktomi was hungry as usual. In fact he couldn’t remember when he had last eaten. So without a solid plan in mind he set about to feed himself. Circumstances were not favorable for a quick meal, however, since Iktomi was not a good hunter. As a matter of fact, he was the worst hunter around. He was not proficient with weapons and he was very slow of foot. Strangely, though, he was confident because he knew he was one of the trickiest beings to walk the Earth.

He came upon a trail and followed it. One never knew where such trails could lead, but of one thing he was certain: Chances were it would lead to opportunity. And opportunity was the key to Iktomi’s survival. He gained the crest of hill and as he started down he saw someone coming up the hill. It was Mato, the bear.

Iktomi hid immediately. Except for Tatanka, the bison, Mato was the most powerful creature on four legs. One swipe of his paw could send skinny little Iktomi into the next world, and it was a place Iktomi was not anxious to go. From the middle of a plum thicket Iktomi watched as Mato lumbered up the hill. Iktomi suddenly realized that he was sitting in the middle of ripe plums, a favorite food for Mato. He was on the verge of panic and about to run for his very life when he saw that Mato was covered with scars from many old wounds. An idea formed in his opportunistic little brain.

Leaving the thicket he went back down the trail and began to whistle as he walked. Mato took immediate notice, of course, but because of his poor eyesight he had to wait to see what was making such a cheerful noise.

“It’s you!” he growled as Iktomi stopped. “Get out of my way! I have to find food to fatten up for the winter. Go away unless you want me to eat you!”

Iktomi’s knees were knocking and his heart was pounding. But he had a plan and it wouldn’t work if Mato saw that he was terrified.

“Greetings, brother Mato!” Iktomi called out in the loudest, bravest voice he could muster. “It’s good to see you, but you must step aside because I am in a hurry! ”

Mato was astonished. He had never known anyone to face him. All the two-leggeds ran away at his approach. Now this skinny little being was telling him to step aside.

“I hope you taste much better than you look!” Mato said. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you! Beings much more powerful than you tremble at the sight of me!”

“That is true,” replied Iktomi, “but you don’t know how powerful I truly am.”

“The only thing powerful about you is your odor!” roared Mato, so incensed at Iktomi’s arrogance that he rose on his hind legs.

There are few sights more frightening than Mato, on his hind legs, rising to a height equal to four of Iktomi‘s, whose insides were turning to mush. It was much too late to run because the only thing on the prairie that could outrun Mato was Tatanka. Iktomi gathered all his courage, which he never had in abundance, and stood his ground.

“I am more powerful than you!” he retorted. “And unless you are too afraid I can prove it to you!”

Mato crashed to the Earth, doubled up in laughter. His loud guffaws rolled across the hills as he howled with laughter until the tears ran from his beady little eyes. When he could laugh no longer he sat up and stared at Iktomi, who, of course, was the very image of confidence.

“There is no one more powerful than me,” said Mato. “Therefore I am afraid of nothing, not even you!” At that he rolled over with laughter once again. “So,” he giggled, “prove to me how powerful you are!”

“I will,” said Iktomi, “but I will give you first chance. For not only am I powerful, I am also fair.”

Mato giggled all the more. “What must I do?”

“I know you have been wounded many, many times and you are still alive.”

“Yes,” admitted Mato. “I have been wounded many times by two-leggeds, so I have many arrowheads and lance points in my body.”

“Exactly!” shouted Iktomi, “but so do I, and much more than you. Still, I will give you a chance. You must cough up all the arrowheads and lance points in your body and I will do the same. Then we shall see who has more.”

Mato couldn’t stop giggling. “Very well,” he said, “I will, but it hardly seems worth the trouble. I could just eat you and be done with it.”

“Then we need to make a wager,” Iktomi said. “If you win, I will show you a creek where the fish are so plentiful you can catch them with your eyes closed. What’s more, you can eat me, too. If I win, you must provide me with food for a month.”

“You probably are stringy and would be tough to eat, but you have a wager nonetheless,” decided Mato. “I’ll go first.”

So saying, he jumped to his feet, rose to his hind legs, and began to pound his chest and then coughed and coughed until he began to spit up arrowheads and lance points. Of course, as Iktomi knew he would have to, Mato closed his eyes as he gagged and coughed. And as the objects flying out of him were beginning to form a large pile, Iktomi sprang into action. As quickly as Mato coughed up arrowheads and lance points, he swallowed them. When Mato finally finished and sat back down, he looked at the pile in front of him. It was rather small.

“Now you,” he said, not the least bit worried. He knew Iktomi’s puny little body couldn’t possibly have more than one or two arrowheads.

Iktomi raised himself as tall as he could stand, pounded on his chest and began to cough and cough. Soon one arrowhead came out, then another, then a lance point. In front of the astonished Mato, Iktomi’s pile grew and grew, higher and higher. It was hard to believe that Iktomi could have been wounded so many times, but there it was, a pile of arrowheads and lance points much larger than Mato’s.

If Mato was dimwitted, he was also honorable, so he yielded, though he kept mumbling to himself in astonishment. And true to his word he supplied Iktomi with berries and fish for an entire month.

Our current method of choosing leaders reminds me too much of Mato’s loss at the hands of the clever Iktomi. And although that system functions primarily to perpetuate itself, we shouldn’t be prevented from realistically assessing the true character of any candidate. Records of achievement are important—if they are real and not concocted, like Iktomi‘s—but so are character and virtue. I am always leery of anyone who first and foremost touts his or her record of public service. I tend to look at the person. What is he or she without that record? I look for the No Moccasins and the Crazy Horses because I am influenced by quiet dignity and the person who walks through camp with his or her head down, rather than the one who struts. I would vote for a truly humble person.

Humility may be the most difficult virtue to learn and maintain. As a society we reward arrogance and “attitude”; and our heroes tend to be loud and brash sports figures, millionaire developers, movie stars, and the like—those kinds of people who don’t know, or don’t want to know, what humility is. But of all the virtues, humility is the one that life will teach us if we don’t learn it of our own accord.

Two young men were hunting far from their village one day long ago during a time of great hardship for their people. A great drought had driven the animals from their usual territories, but the people themselves seemed to have lost their way as well. They were weak and unhappy, yielding to confusion and anger because they had forgotten the good ways that had made them strong.

The young hunters had not been successful and were discouraged, but they kept to the trail nonetheless. One morning they saw a strange sight at the top of a hill, a floating white mist. They had not seen clouds for many months and were curious, but also afraid. With much caution they approached the floating mist.

From out of the mist came a woman, a very beautiful young woman, and she was naked. The hunters were astonished, of course, and didn’t know what to do. One of them immediately had impure thoughts and approached the young woman, intending to take full advantage of the situation. The second hunter tried to stop him, to no avail. Before the first hunter could reach the young woman the mist rolled down and covered him and in a while it rolled back. The other hunter was terrified to see that his companion was now nothing more than a skeleton. His flesh had been consumed by the mist and snakes were crawling in and around the bones.

Realizing that he was in the presence of something mysterious and powerful, the remaining hunter humbled himself before the young woman. She spoke, commending him for his humility and gave him a task. He was to return immediately to his village with instructions for his people to prepare a lodge for her. Then they were to wait for her to come.

The young hunter did as he was told, convincing the people of his village that they should do as the young woman had asked. Soon after the lodge was prepared the young woman appeared with a bundle in her arms. Inviting the elders into the lodge she taught them seven ceremonies they must perform faithfully. If they did as she instructed, they would once again become powerful and flourish. Opening her bundle she revealed to them a sacred pipe. She taught them how to use the pipe, and then she departed.

The people watched as she walked to the top of a hill where a floating white mist had appeared. The young woman walked into the mist and emerged from the other side as a female white buffalo.

This is, of course, a condensed version of the most revered of Lakota stories: the coming of the White Buffalo Calf Maiden. She brought us not only the pipe, which we still have to this day, but also the basis for our spiritual beliefs and the ceremonies through which we carry them out. But there are two simple lessons in this story that are often overlooked.

We did as the White Buffalo Calf Maiden instructed us to do. We followed the ceremonies and lived in the good ways she taught us, and we became strong. In fact, we became the most powerful people on the Plains, although I shudder to think what might have happened if both hunters had been brash and arrogant.

But I think the White Buffalo Calf Maiden appeared to these two particular young men precisely because one was arrogant and one was humble. The first lesson is that arrogance was destroyed. The White Buffalo Calf Maiden had no use for it, and the mist that covered the arrogant hunter is life itself. The second lesson is that humility was used as an instrument for good.

Most of us have been at times generous, brave, respectful, and even wise. But humility is the one virtue that validates all the others. The people in No Moccasins’ village honored her for her humility rather than for the courageous deed she performed as a young woman. Likewise, though Crazy Horse was the bravest of the brave on the battlefield and his exploits are legendary, those who knew him best spoke more often of the humble, quiet way he lived life. But the fact is there are also the Iktomis of the world: those who hide behind the illusion of arrogance and can make it seem real and appealing.

A humble person rarely stumbles, the old ones say, because such a person walks with face toward the Earth and can see the path ahead. On the other hand, the arrogant man who walks with his head high to bask in the glory of the moment will stumble often because he is more concerned with the moment than what lays ahead.

The Lakota warriors of old who took part in the waktoglaka and publicly recounted their deeds had every right to feel proud of their accomplishments and accept the honor they had earned. They understood, and were often reminded, that it was the deed or deeds performed under the most difficult of circumstances that earned them honor, not the telling. And if the honor for a deed well done was accepted with humility, it only served to increase the worth of the honor and enhanced a man’s reputation.

The burden of humility is light because a truly humble person divests himself or herself of the need for recognition. The burden of arrogance, on the other hand, grows heavier day by day. In sharing the journey of life, travel with the humble person on the quiet path.