To be considerate, to hold in high esteem

The Story of the Deer Woman

I have never seen the Deer Woman myself, but I heard of a man who did when I was a boy. My grandmother knew that man—a young man, she said. He was always restless; he was never home. He didn’t pay attention to his young wife, she said, because he couldn’t stop looking for the Deer Woman. That could happen to me, she warned, if I wasn’t careful.

No one I know these days has seen the Deer Woman. Maybe it’s because we Lakota are too modern and what we used to believe has been watered down, you might say. Maybe the Deer Woman knows we wouldn’t respect what she is if she did show herself to someone in these times. Still, every time I went hunting I thought I might see her. There was still some lonely country when I was a young man, before farms and ranches took over: quiet river valleys thick with oak and cottonwood, and wide-open prairies where nothing moved but the wind—the kind of places I heard the Deer Woman liked to show herself to a lone hunter.

It’s one thing to think ahead about what to do, but when something does happen, it’s never the way you imagined it would be. So I don’t know what I would have done if the Deer Woman had appeared to me. I like to think I would have done the right thing, that is, not given in to her, as in the story my grandmother used to tell me of a young man in the old, old days. I’ve forgotten the young man’s name so we’ll just call him Koskalaka (ko-shkah-lah-kah), which means “young man” in Lakota.

When he was a boy Koskalaka lived with his grandmother. His grandfather had died so the boy’s mother and father decided he should live with his grandmother. He didn’t go all that far because her lodge was next to theirs.

The boy helped his grandmother by doing chores, but mainly he kept her from being lonely. In return she told him stories and taught him to cook, make clothes, and so on. The stories were what he liked best—stories of how the people came into the world through a hole in the ground; of the White Buffalo Calf Maiden, who brought the pipe to the people and taught them many good things; and of the strong warriors in his family. There were so many stories he wondered if he could remember them all.

One evening in the middle of a long winter, when the snow outside was deep and the winds howled, the old woman told her grandson the story of the Deer Woman.

“Grandson,” she began, “I have something to tell you.” That’s how some old people began their stories. “You are learning to be a hunter, and to be a hunter is a good thing. A good hunter provides for his family so that there can be food to eat and good clothing to wear. I know you will be a fine hunter, and I also know you will hunt alone many times. When you are alone hunting there is something you must watch out for, something besides the animals like the bear and the great cat who can hurt you, something besides the enemies who come into our country now and then.

“Sometimes the danger waiting out there is not just that your body might be injured or wounded. Sometimes the danger is for your spirit, too.

“Men are sometimes wounded in battle or they are hurt while hunting. Those wounds or injuries can heal, but your spirit is a different thing. If your spirit is hurt, sometimes it can never be well.

“My husband, your grandfather, told me of something that I heard of when I was a little girl—something out there always waiting for hunters. He saw her, he told me, when he was a young man, before he became my husband. Maybe you will see her, too.

“The Deer Woman waits out there, Grandson. When you are a young man and a hunter and you go out alone, she might appear to you. When you are tired and hungry and very far from home, perhaps when your hunt has not been good, she will come to you.

“She is the most beautiful woman any man has seen. Those that have seen her say so. Her hair is shiny and hangs to her ankles, her eyes are large and sparkle with a light that beckons, and her smile can turn the strongest man into a foolish boy.

“Her lodge is always pitched nearby, with a fire inside, and soft robes. She will invite you in to drink tea with her, to rest.

“Do not go near her, Grandson. Do not go near her lodge. Some men have and their spirits were taken by her. They went into her lodge with her, and they rested; they lay with her as if she were wife to them. When they woke up, they found themselves alone. The lodge was gone; she was gone. They had known her; they had lain with her, the most beautiful woman they had ever seen. And she was all they could think of.

“When this happens to a man, young or old, he forgets his family and goes looking for her, the Deer Woman. But he can never find her, no matter where he looks; no matter how far he travels, he can never find her. Such a man goes looking for the Deer Woman, he tells himself, because she is so beautiful that he must have her. But he is really looking for his spirit because she has taken it from him. A man who has lain with her is never the same; he is always restless.

“So when you are a young man, Grandson, and you are hunting alone far from home and you come across the most beautiful woman you have ever seen, you must turn away. If you go with her, she will please you and she will give you pleasure; but she will also take your spirit from you and you will never have it back. It may be the most difficult thing you will ever do, but you must turn away from her.”

Koskalaka did grow up to be a fine hunter. He was the best hunter in the village, as a matter of fact. He never failed to provide for his family and for those who were needy. It was said of him that when he left the village on the hunt, two things would be for certain: He would not return empty-handed and he would be gone for many days.

One autumn, soon after his grandmother had died, Koskalaka made preparations for a hunt. He told his mother and father he would travel with three other hunters and they would be gone longer than usual because it had been a dry summer and the animals were closer to the big river, far to the north.

The hunters reached the big river and set up their camp. They hunted the deep gullies and draws that cut down to the river’s banks. They were successful, but they had to use every skill they knew because the deer and elk were not so plentiful as they usually were, and, they seemed especially wary. Because the hunters were so far from home, they also had to dry the meat they had killed. As the days wore on they grew tired and were anxious to go home.

Just before sundown one evening, Koskalaka tracked a bull elk to learn the trail the animal used each day. He was certain he could bring it down the next day if he waited in ambush at a good spot. As he headed back for the hunting camp, he smelled smoke from a fire and decided to see if enemies were about. Sneaking carefully down into a wide gully, he found a lone tipi, a lodge, pitched in a grove of oak. It was a fine lodge, but a small one, and Koskalaka wondered if others had come to the big river valleys to hunt.

As he watched the lodge to see who might return to it, a woman came out and looked in his direction. He waited, but he could see no one else. The woman waved and walked toward the plum thicket he was hiding in until she was very close.

“You must be very tired.” Her voice was soft and soothing. Koskalaka stepped from the thicket and a shudder went up his back. Standing before him was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life. There were several beautiful woman back in his small village, but their beauty next to this one was like the dim glow of a campfire next to the brightness of the moon.

“I have a fire; it is warm in my lodge and there are robes to rest on. Come,” she said, her eyes beckoning and filled with promises a young man could not mistake.

Koskalaka knew who she was, of course. Standing a few steps from him was the Deer Woman. All the stories he had heard were true. She was so beautiful that he couldn’t take his eyes from her. Her hair was black as night and hung to her slender ankles. Her hands were small and delicate. Her eyes were deep, deep brown and very large with thick, long lashes. A man could get lost in them. A soft smile curved her full lips upward. And there was the slight scent of rose hips as if her finely tanned dress had been rubbed with the flowers.

“I know you are tired,” she went on, smiling. “Come into my lodge and rest.”

Koskalaka trembled. There was something more to this creature before him, he could feel it. He was afraid, but he was also tempted. He wanted to follow her, to take her into her lodge.

She turned and walked away for a few steps, her slender body swaying, her long hair swinging with the fringe of her dress. She stopped and turned to Koskalaka. “You are strong, a fine young man,” she murmured. “I am looking for a young man such as you. I have been waiting for you. Come.”

Koskalaka’s legs seemed to have a mind of their own. Before he knew what was happening he was walking toward the Deer Woman, his hand reaching for her outstretched hand. But a heartbeat before his hand touched hers he stopped.

“No!” he said, pulling his hand back. “I will not go with you.”

“Yes, you must,” she replied, her voice soft and low, her eyes leaving no doubt as to her meaning. “I need you.”

Koskalaka was a strong young man, strong of body and of mind. It took all of that strength to turn away from the Deer Woman. It was the voice in his head that helped him—a voice that said, “It may be the most difficult thing you will ever do, but you must turn away from her.”

“No,” Koskalaka said again, “I will not go with you. My grandmother said that I must turn away from you. I will not go with you; leaye me alone.”

Deer Woman’s beautiful face quickly twisted into an angry sneer. She stamped her feet and snorted. Her mouth moved, but she could not speak.

A cold wind suddenly sprang up, scattering the leaves in the gully. Koskalaka was afraid and he turned to run. Leaves rattled all around him and he heard a whistling snort, the sound deer made when they were alarmed. Looking back he saw a deer standing where the Deer Woman had been. It was a female blacktail with a dark stripe across its face. He had never seen such a black stripe across the face of any deer. Koskalaka noticed something else. The Deer Woman’s lodge was gone.

The deer lowered its head to charge. Koskalaka put an arrow on his bow string and raised his bow to take aim. The deer spun and disappeared into a line of sumac. Never again in his life would Koskalaka see such a deer, although he would always be on the lookout for it, for her. He never saw the Deer Woman again for as long as he lived.

Koskalaka returned to the hunting camp and told his companions what had happened. He told them he had seen the Deer Woman. They believed him because there was something different about him; there was a look of strength in his eyes.

“We must build a sweat lodge and pray,” he told them. So they did—a low round lodge made of willow and covered with deer and elk hides. That night they heated stones and made a sweat to purify themselves and to pray for good things to happen.

In the days that followed their hunting was good; it was very good. Soon they had plenty of meat to take home.

In time Koskalaka courted a young woman from another village and won her love. They married and had a son and a daughter. Over the years not only was he the finest, most skillful hunter to come along in many a generation, but he was also a stalwart warrior and a leader of men. Men were willing to follow him on the warpath or on the hunt because he had a calm manner and strength of spirit. And when he was an older man, he took his place on the council of old men, and there he was known for his wisdom and good advice.

The Deer Woman couldn’t fool Koskalaka because of one thing: respect. Koskalaka loved and respected his grandmother. And because he did, he remembered her words during that awful moment when the Deer Woman almost took him. If he hadn’t respected his grandmother, he would not have remembered what she had told him.

Perhaps the Deer Woman doesn’t appear to lone hunters anymore. Or perhaps she does in other ways. Times have changed for us, so maybe she’s changed her ways, too, and comes after our spirits in other ways. I can tell you one thing: You’re never too old to remember the things your grandmother taught you. It’s never too late to respect the ways of our elders. It’s never too late to remember what Grandmother said.

Remembering Respect

Luther Standing Bear, a Lakota and one of the first Native American writers to be published (around 1900), talked about respect as an essential ingredient for balanced interaction among all living things. According to him, the Lakota had developed a respect for the Earth and all forms of life because all were a necessary part of the physical environment. He suggested that some people, and he was politely implicating whites, had lost respect for animals. His biggest concern was that humans who lost respect for animals would soon lose respect for their own kind as well. Unfortunately, human history is replete with horrifying examples of mindless cruelty that bear out Standing Bear’s fears: the Spanish Inquisition, the African slave trade, the Salem witch trials, the black hole of Calcutta, the Wounded Knee massacre of 1890, the Bataan death march, the Holocaust, the My Lai massacre of 1968, and so on. I suppose it could be argued that there were many other contributing factors in each of those events, but the absence of respect was certainly an exacerbating factor.

Respect is a close relative of tolerance, and both go a long way to prevent and alleviate the negative interactions between and among people. Respect was a member of each Lakota household during the free-roaming buffalo-hunting days on the northern Plains.

After the arrival of the horse, the average Lakota tipi—which means “they live there”—was sixteen to eighteen feet across. Its overall shape was conical, the floor plan was slightly more egg-shaped than circular, and it had only one room. The basic components were twenty to twenty-two soft, tanned, and dehaired bison hides sewn together, which formed the covering. It was supported by sixteen to twenty long, slender poles arranged and lashed together in a cone-shaped framework. At the top was a smoke hole with directional flaps and at the bottom edge was the only door, usually faced to the east. The tipi was perfectly suited to the nomadic lifestyle. Its care and construction and disassembly and reassembly were the exclusive responsibility of the women. They could take it down in less than half an hour and needed no more time than that to put it up at the next encampment.

Inside of this wonderfully appropriate dwelling lived, on the average, seven people. Many households consisted of three generations living in the same dwelling. The use and arrangement of space was critical to the family’s harmony, since this was a one-room structure. Amazingly the disputes over space were rare because of one simple and essential presence: respect.

Each member of the household took no more space than he or she needed and, with the possible exception of the children, was careful not to encroach on someone else’s space. There was also a simple way to handle the issue of privacy. If a non-Lakota observer was a fly on the wall inside a Lakota tipi as the family was preparing for bed, he or she would probably think that the people in the tipi were rudely ignoring one another. As a point of fact, they would have been, but not out of rudeness. Since there were no interior walls to provide privacy, people politely ignored one another. Frequently, for example, it would seem that the younger husband and wife were totally unaware of the grandparents, and vice versa. But they were simply affording each other privacy. The children, of course, had access to all the adults in the household, but they were nonetheless learning the proper etiquette for a necessary aspect of family life, an etiquette firmly rooted in respect.

Two significant historical events are proof that respect for others, even one’s enemies, is certainly possible. The first occurred in 1851 and the second, fifteen years later in 1866.

The Oregon Trail had been firmly established by 1850 as the primary white emigrant route from Missouri to Oregon, a trek of some 2,000 miles. From its jumping-off point in western Missouri, it followed old, established travel corridors through Kansas, Nebraska, Wyoming, Idaho, and finally Oregon. Over its twenty-year history, 350,000 people would use it.

Through northwest Nebraska and southeast Wyoming, the trail was in Lakota territory, but along its entire route the white emigrants were fearful of Indian attacks. Primarily because of this concern, United States peace commissioners called for a treaty meeting at Fort Laramie, in southeastern Wyoming, and invited many of the tribes from the northern Plains. In the spring of 1851 many of the invitees showed up, including the Lakota, Cheyenne, Arapaho, Mandan, Hidatsa, Arikara, Crow, Shoshoni, and Blackfeet. The Lakota, Cheyenne, and Arapaho had by then formed a strong alliance and had clashed at one time or another with all of the other tribes. There was especially bad blood between the Lakota and Crow, and between the Lakota and Shoshoni as well. But for the entire forty days or so of the treaty gathering there were no clashes. Old enemies set aside their differences for the time being and had a good time at the expense of the United States and its peace commissioners.

The peace commissioners were wholly ignorant of the dynamics and factors that were part and parcel of centuries-old interrelationships of the tribes of the northern Plains, but they knew just enough to be fearful of outbreaks of fighting. Consequently, they paternalistically admonished the attendees against fighting of any kind. When the gathering was conducted and concluded peacefully, the commissioners therefore assumed that the absence of conflict was due to their admonishment. In fact, one of the conditions of the Fort Laramie Treaty of 1851 was that the tribes of the northern Plains were to forever cease and desist from any further intertribal warfare. While tribal representatives signed the treaty, once the gathering ended and they returned to their own territories, old hostilities were resumed. As a matter of fact, many of the tribes had come to Fort Laramie simply out of curiosity and to collect on the promise of goods from the U.S. government—blankets, food, cloth, beads, tools, implements, and so on.

The gathering of tribes at the Horse Creek Council—as the Lakota and other tribes called it—was peaceful for the same reason that several generations of a Lakota family coexisted harmoniously in the same small dwelling: respect. Old enemies who had clashed many times were able to temporarily set aside their animosities.

Fifteen years later and some two hundred miles to the northwest of Fort Laramie, my ancestors accorded respect to a fallen enemy. In disregard of the conditions of another treaty promulgated at Fort Laramie, whites opened a trail through the heart of Lakota country in the Powder River region of what is now north central Wyoming. The Bozeman Trail was a direct route to the gold fields of Montana. The U.S. government further violated its agreement with us by building three forts along the trail and causing an almost continuous conflict for a period of six years that was known as Red Cloud’s War. Red Cloud was an Oglala Lakota leader who had been prominent in the Fort Laramie negotiations.

Fort Phil Kearny was built in 1866 a few miles north of the present town of Buffalo, Wyoming, along the eastern slopes of the Big Horn Mountains: the Shining Mountains, as my ancestors called them. Almost from the day the U.S. Army contingent arrived to build the fort, the Lakota harassed them on a regular basis because the whites were there in violation of their promise to seek and obtain Lakota permission to enter the Powder River country. That harassment culminated in a decisive battle on the twenty-first of December. An eighty-man combined force of infantry and cavalry was lured into a trap by ten decoys led by Crazy Horse, who was twenty-five or twenty-six at the time. By the time the soldiers realized they had been led into an ambush, it was too late. A force of five-hundred to seven-hundred Lakota and Northern Cheyenne wiped them out in less than an hour. History books call it the Fetterman Massacre, after the brash Indian-hating officer who led his entire command to its death. We call it the Battle of the Hundred in the Hand. It was far from a massacre. It was a hard-fought battle in which the soldiers fought fiercely and inflicted heavy casualties.

Toward the end of the fight the Lakota saw one soldier fighting with nothing more than the bugle in his hands. He was killed, of course, but his bravery impressed those who witnessed his determined efforts. Out of respect for his bravery he was not scalped, and one Lakota warrior went so far as to cover his body with a buffalo robe.

Respect, as in the story of the young hunter who resisted the charms of the Deer Woman, can sometimes be a lifesaver. It did save the life of a Crow warrior who managed to sneak into a Lakota camp to steal a horse.

The Crow warrior was young and was eager to prove himself. He had hidden near the Lakota camp and waited for nightfall, knowing that the best war horses and buffalo-hunting horses were tied near the lodge doors for the night. When it was sufficiently dark, he crept into camp and carefully worked his way toward one particular lodge where a tall, black war horse was picketed. He was so skillful and silent that not a single camp dog was aware of his presence as he cut the horse’s lead rope. But he was not aware that two Lakota sentinels had spotted him and followed his every move. With bent bows they waited for him to reach the edge of the camp. When he did, they would shoot him and recover the horse.

As the Crow walked as nonchalantly as he could through the camp, an old woman emerged unexpectedly from one of the lodges. She hurried to the woodpile and took up a large arm-load of wood, so large in fact that she could barely carry it. The young Crow, seeing the old woman’s dilemma, immediately went to her aid and carried her firewood for her. He, of course, had a grandmother whom he admired and respected. When he finished his task, he turned to find the two Lakota sentinels waiting with their bent bows with arrows aimed at his chest. Instead of killing him, however, the sentinels recovered the nearly stolen horse, disarmed the Crow, and escorted him a short distance from the village. From there they turned him loose to return to his own village. Respect for the elderly was a common element among all of the tribes of the Plains.

Respect manifests itself in many ways. The Lakota, as well as other Plains tribes, were heavily dependent on the tatanka, or bison, for their livelihood. The abundance of bison meant strength and prosperity, and the Lakota were grateful for that wealth. Careful preparations were made before bison hunts, and ceremonies were conducted to ask the bison for the privilege of the taking and use of his flesh. After the hunt the hunters respectfully thanked the animals for the gift of their lives, and asked forgiveness as well. But it didn’t end there. As a further demonstration of respect, the Lakota used every piece of the bison. Hides were used for winter robes and tipi coverings. Horns were turned into cups, ladles, and spoons. Sinew—the ham-string cord—was dried and used for thread and bowstring. Hooves were boiled to make glue, and the hair was twisted and made into cord and rope, and the like. Nothing was wasted. As a final act of respect, anytime a Lakota found a bison skull, he or she would be certain it faced the east to meet the rising sun so that the spirit of the animal could be in unison with the rhythm of life.

Respect for all forms of life, unfortunately, is not a common value in many cultures today. It is easier to respect someone stronger, faster, smarter, or richer. Likewise, it is easy to respect someone who is as much like us in every way possible. Respecting someone with different beliefs, different dress, or different customs, or something entirely different from us is not easy. Perhaps that is the tragic reason Luther Standing Bear’s cautionary sentiments have come to pass.

In December of 1998 thirty-one wild horses were shot and killed in a place called Largomarsino Canyon, a rugged area just east of Reno, Nevada. Details of the killings brought to light by law enforcement investigators ignited local, national, and international outrage. Each of the victims had been shot in the hind legs or the stomach, or both in some cases. Some of the victims were pregnant mares, one of which went into labor after she was wounded but expired before she could completely deliver her foal. Autopsies performed by several local veterinarians corroborated the preliminary evidence. The shooters, it would seem, wanted their victims to experience a painful, lingering death.

Thirty-three horses in all were killed. Thirty-one were found dead in Largomarsino Canyon and two, found shot and badly injured, had to be put down.

Three. suspects were arrested and charged, initially with shooting twenty-eight horses. A district judge later ruled that the evidence could support only one charge. The remaining charge amounts to gross misdemeanor and carries a penalty of one year in the county jail and a fine of two thousand dollars.

Regardless of the outcome of this case, the fact remains that wild horses were shot in such a manner to cause a slow, painful death. What would motivate or drive anyone to carry out such a horrific act? Possibly arrogance, a sense of impunity or invincibility, a lust for killing, or perhaps just plain boredom. Perhaps the more relevant question in this case is “What values are lacking in anyone who can kill horses in cold blood?”

A friend of mine wrote of an incident during a hunt in Alaska. He and two companions, all accomplished hunters and guides, had been stalking Dall sheep. Two rams had eluded them, but by sheer luck they managed to surround a third. According to my friend the ram probably had never seen humans in his life, and his initial curiosity turned to confusion. As the three hunters closed in on him, he frantically jumped from rock to rock but had nowhere to go.

My friend wrote of the incident: “Two of my hunting partners and I once came face-to-face with the line that separates hunting from mere killing. In that situation we had a chance to murder a full-curl Dall sheep, but turned down the opportunity.... In all my days of bowhunting, I have rarely felt pity for an animal because they usually have all the odds in their favor. But I felt pity for this sheep, and I knew I couldn’t shoot him.... Had we chosen, I feel certain we could have drawn the net tight and killed him as he jumped frantically around the rocks. Instead, we opened it and let him go with shouts to be more careful next time.”

John “Jay” Massey was the name of my friend, a world-class bowhunter and guide as well as a primitive bowyer and arrow-smith. Jay died of cancer in 1996. Though he professes to have felt pity for the Dall ram, what Jay had was a profound respect for everything that was part of the natural environment. He let the ram live because he understood that all life is sacred, and he didn’t kill simply because he could.

What separates a Jay Massey from someone who can kill thirty-one horses? The obvious answer is a respect for life, a respect for all living things. And how does one gain or learn that respect? One hopes it is by example: unfortunately, that’s how arrogance, hatred, prejudice, and a long list of other undesirable traits are taught and learned as well.

There is a black beetle who lives in our house. He wanders seemingly aimlessly about, but I’m sure he knows where he’s going. Perhaps he’s looking for a companion because, so far, he’s alone. We’ve named him Bailey and we allow him the run of the place. A time or two I’ve picked him up and placed him out of the way of our foot traffic. I suppose it would be easy to toss him out into the yard where the blackbirds and magpies are waiting.

Our daughters were curious about Bailey, and one of his appearances elicited a strident “Oh, yuck!” and a few semihorri fied screams. But by and large they tolerate him because we adults do. One of them asked if he was still around because he hadn’t put in an appearance for several days. Amazingly, he seems to have outwitted the bat that was flying around in our family room a few days ago.

I tried to coax the bat out through an open door, not sure exactly how such a thing could be done. The bat hid someplace in an unreachable crack or crevice in our log house, and my search with a flashlight yielded no clues. Then he or she flapped through our bedroom one night. Putting on work gloves, I tried to catch him or her as he or she cavorted about the room while my wife sensibly retreated beneath the covers. The bat finally alighted on a log wall—head down, of course—and I was able to grab it. The bat was not pleased at the turn of events and let me know in no uncertain terms with a series of low squeals as I tossed him or her out into the night. It would have been just as easy to attack the bat with a fly swatter, but strangely, at the moment I was about to grab it, I felt as though my grandparents were watching. And as I watched the bat fly off into the cool night air and turned to walk back to the bedroom, I felt taller somehow and at peace with the world. It’s amazing, and reassuring, what a little respect can do.

What kind of examples influenced the killers of thirty-one horses? It is enough to say that those examples were not remotely associated with respect—and to ask whether any segments of their community or society in general nurtured or encouraged their personal values.

Wild horses have been a part of North America for several hundred years. They number in the thousands and their range is now predominantly public lands in several western states. They’ve been harassed and killed since about the turn of the century, sometimes directly sanctioned and enabled by the federal government. One mustanger recalls killing as many as eight hundred wild horses in the course of two or three days.

Wild horse herds are in direct competition with domestic livestock for forage and water, and are therefore considered by many ranchers as an expensive nuisance. That kind of local sentiment had to have had some influence on the killers of those thirty-one horses. Perhaps there was outright encouragement or sanction, or perhaps it wasn’t necessary. The obvious, long-entrenched negative feelings toward wild horses in some segments of the ranching community could have been regarded as implied support or encouragement. In any case, we are left with the chilling reality that wanton killing of wild horses is not a thing of the past, and that old attitudes are sometimes impossible to change. But even more frightening is the ominous possibility that the cold-blooded murder of thirty-one horses is a sign that we have lost the essential virtue in our relationship with anything or anyone we define as different: respect.

Some people regard the killing of thirty-one horses as nothing more than a regrettable incident—a symptom of western mentality. Others think it is a violation of the sanctity of life. If there are those among us who can, in cold blood, shoot and kill a form of life obviously regarded not only as different but also inferior, should we be surprised at horrible incidents such as Columbine or the dragging death of Willie Byrd?

At the other end of the spectrum, the practice of respect doesn’t grab headlines, but perhaps it should. A rancher strongly opposed to the reintroduction of wolves into Yellowstone National Park listened as fellow ranchers tried to shout down the person spearheading the effort to put wolves back into the park. With hat in hand he stood and quietly reminded everyone present that she had just as much right to be heard. When a young marine faces withering enemy gunfire to rescue a fallen comrade, for whom he has loudly and frequently expressed his dislike, and is wounded severely in the process, another marine is forced to ask, “Why would you do that for someone you don’t like?” To which the grievously wounded Marine replied, “I may not like him, but I respect him.”

My grandparents gave me numerous reasons to respect them for who and what they were, and still are, to me. Because of them the story of Koskalaka and the Deer Woman is especially meaningful for me. I’ve never literally seen the Deer Woman, but she’s figuratively crossed my path a time or two. Koskalaka resisted her because of the deep respect he felt for his grandmother, and I certainly can identify with that. But there was an instance in my early childhood when both my grandparents taught me a lesson about respect without saying a word.

They had volunteered to clean an old rural church. We traveled to it in our horse-drawn wagon early one morning and spent the entire day working in the church. We swept the floors, mopped, dusted, and washed windows. That was the least of the chores. A swarm of honeybees had taken up residence in one corner of the building and could obviously be a hazard for any two-legged types.

My grandfather built a small fire near that corner outside of the building and piled green grass on it to create heavy smoke. To my surprise, the smoke drove the bees from their hive, but they were none too happy at the disturbance, and my grandfather was stung several times. Some of the bees found their way inside and collected against the windows. My grandmother gathered them up by hand and released them out the door. Though she was stung a few times, she managed to clear them all out without killing or injuring a single one.

Later, when the priest had learned of what happened, he scolded my grandparents and told them in no uncertain terms that they should have used liberal doses of insecticide to kill the bees. “After all, they are only insects,” he said. In more ways than one, that episode had to have been the most painful lesson my grandparents ever taught: a lesson I remember each time I see a honeybee.

Respect for his grandmother certainly did save Koskalaka. Respect enabled Jay Massey to make a choice based on his reverence for life. It enabled enemies to set aside generations of animosity and conflict and live in peace for a time. It enabled warriors to acknowledge the bravery in battle of an enemy, though his kind were especially hated for their arrogance. And it saved the life of a would-be horse thief because it was an innate part of his character.

Of all virtues, respect is arguably the one that consistently creates itself in its own image. My grandmother suffered a stroke while still a young woman. A medicine man came to heal her. He prayed and gave her medicine and told her she would be well again and live a long life. But to remind her to live a good life, Wakantanka—the Great Mystery—would send someone to help her remember. That morning, at sunrise, she opened the door to the sweat lodge and saw that someone—her helper. It was a tiny screech owl, also known as a burrowing owl because it lives with the prairie dogs in their burrows. The screech owl was sitting on a post. My grandmother asked me always to be kind to the screech owls because they were her helpers. I respected them for what they meant to her and I never harmed one.