Wolf Mountain Moon: The Battle of the Butte, 1877

and horses grazing nearby or clustered in their corrals. And between that fort and where Spotted Elk sat on his pony stood some hide lodges, more than two-times-ten of them scattered among the trees and brush south of the soldier huts, a thin column of smoke rising from each one.

“They must be the soldiers’ wolves,” Tall Bull explained, his eyes quick to hide any worry.

“Eyes and ears for the Bear Coat, eh?” replied Spotted Elk. “Who do you think they are?”

“Corn Indians,”^* Tall Bull answered. “Maybe some Yankton, come down from the Fort Peck Agency.”

“Then they are Indians who will know us,” Spotted Elk said. “We have nothing to fear.”

Tall Bull nodded in agreement, but his eyes showed fear. “What if they do not know us?”

“There is no reason to fear an honorable warrior,” Spotted Elk declared with a grin. “Even if he is your enemy.”

“We will have the white flag flying above us?”

Spotted Elk reached out and laid his hand on Tall Bull’s arm. “Packs the Drum wants to have the honor of going toward the soldiers first.”

Tall Bull tried to smile bravely, saying, “And he wants me to be among those who join him.”

“We have been friends a long time, you and me,” Spotted Elk said. “So I want to come with you.”

Shaking his head, Tall Bull said, “I think … you should stay back with the others and ride behind us.”

Spotted Elk swallowed hard, sensing the other man’s dread. “Are you expecting trouble?”

Tall Bull’s eyes went first to those delegates coming up the slope behind them now. Then he gazed at the open ground between them and the soldier huts. “No—I am not expecting trouble. Those soldier wolves must surely be honorable men … and the Bear Coat’s soldiers will see our white flag and know that we come in peace.”

As the entire delegation of chiefs and soldier horses proceeded down the bluffs to the banks of the Buffalo Tongue, they came across a wood-cutting party, then a small group of men watching over a herd of cattle. Alarmed at first by the sudden appearance of more than a dozen warriors, the wasicu prepared to fight until they saw the two white flags carried by Hollow Horns and Tall Bull at the end of their lances. With that, and by other signs, the Lakota made it known that the white men had nothing to fear, that they were on their way to the post to talk to the Bear Coat about surrendering, to talk over making a strong peace between their peoples.

The winter sun was climbing near midsky by the time Packs the Drum stopped them all to form his forward delegation. The five he chose would ride in ahead of the others, who would stay behind a respectful distance, accompanying the horses being returned as a gesture of goodwill.

“I will wait behind with the others,” Crazy Horse declared.

This was good, Spotted Elk believed. For a man of the Shirt Wearer’s status to allow five others to go ahead on such an important mission was a good omen.

“And I will wait with him,” Bad Heart Bull added. He urged his pony up beside that of Crazy Horse, taking a piece of stiff rawhide and some charcoal sticks from a parfleche he had slung over his back. “I will draw the picture story of this day when our chiefs go with such great hope to the Bear Coat so that our people can survive.”

“We will show the wasicu that we are as honorable in peace as you have been in war,” Packs the Drum confirmed to Crazy Horse, then ceremonially unwrapped his pipe from its otter-skin bag and placed it across his left arm, requesting the other four who would ride with him to do the same with their pipes.

“We will not only have the white man’s white flags flying over our heads to show we come in peace,” Tall Bull now explained to all the delegates, “but we will show them that we do not carry any weapons—only our pipes.”

At Packs the Drum’s signal Tall Bull brought his pony up on the leader’s right side. Then Red Cloth positioned himself at Packs the Drum’s left arm. On the far left rode Red Horses, and at the far right rode Bull Eagle, both men not only clutching their pipes and reins in left hands, but holding aloft their lances with smaller makeshift white flags fluttering in the stiff breeze nuzzling down the valley of the Elk River.

“Stay here until we have gone the distance of an arrow-shot,” Packs the Drum requested of the others. “Then you are to follow.”

Spotted Elk, Hollow Horns, and Fat Hide remained behind with Crazy Horse, He Dog, and the others, while the five set off about the time a knot of more than a dozen warriors emerged from the lodges erected along the riverbank. The Miniconjou chief did not feel good about the way the strangers suddenly showed themselves with great martial bluster, advancing with a swagger, all of them shouting and yelling—shields strapped to their upper arms, their right hands filled with weapons.

“This is not the way a man greets a warrior he honors,” Hollow Horns warned.

“Who can these men be?” Spotted Elk asked, worry making wings flutter in his belly. “Who are these strangers who act with such poor manners when we show that we come in peace?”

“Aiyeee!” gasped Fat Hide, who clamped a hand over his mouth. “Perhaps these are the Psatoka ^* from beyond the Greasy Grass country!”

“Look at them!” Hollow Horns grumbled angrily. “If these are Psatoka—they act like insolent children before our warriors!”

Spotted Elk turned to look at Crazy Horse a moment, finding the war chief’s eyes crimped into narrow slits of hate. The Psatoka had been enemies of the Titunwan Lakota back into many generations. Could such bad blood be set aside now? he wondered.

As the dozen strangers got closer and closer to the peace delegation, Spotted Elk’s heart began to thump all the faster in his breast, like the beating of a wounded bird’s wing. He glanced beyond the strangers, finding some three or four soldiers advancing on foot in the distance—trotting, in a hurry. There was much activity taking place at the first fringe of log huts beyond those Indian lodges erected on the right, where even more warriors stirred now, clearly a few women too, all of them beginning to emerge from the trees and leafless willow onto the open plain.

Too many of the strangers … more than ten-times-ten. Back and forth they shouted to those who came hurrying on foot to confront the five delegates. If they were indeed Psatoka, thought Spotted Elk, then there was reason for him to fear for Tall Bull and the other delegates.

For winters beyond his count the Psatoka had allied themselves with the wasicu. For many winters the Titunwan Lakota had been making forays deep into traditional Psatoka hunting grounds. Many were the scalps Lakota warriors had carried home from the enemy’s country. Hard and cold must be the hearts of the Psatoka warriors against all Lakota. Even Lakota coming in peace, with their pipes out, with the wasicu’s white flags fluttering over their heads.

“Perhaps there is nothing to fear,” Hollow Horns suddenly said, hope rising in his voice.

“Yes, look!” agreed Fat Hide. “The Psatoka are showing their hands to our men.”

“They want to shake hands!” Hollow Horns cheered.

Spotted Elk nodded, his heart leaping, and said, “This is a good sign!”

Just as the frost from those last two words hung in the cold air before his face, Spotted Elk watched one of the strangers clasp hands with Packs the Drum, then suddenly jerk, yanking the man off the back of his pony. As quickly, other extended hands locked on to Lakota arms and dragged the remaining four delegates to the ground, where all five disappeared in a swirl of horses’ legs, a flurry of blows, the bright glint of sunlight on metal blades, along with the lusty blood-cries of those who had ambushed the delegates.

From the trees to the right burst a sudden cry as the many Psatoka who had been watching burst into the clearing, sprinting past the ambush toward Spotted Elk and the others.

Crazy Horse yanked his Winchester from beneath his buffalo robe, trying to steady his prancing horse. “They are murderers!”

“We cannot save them!” Hollow Horns shouted as he wheeled his pony, jabbing heels into its ribs.

Quickly trying to stuff his pipe back into its sacred bag, Spotted Elk fought to pull his bow from its wolf-skin quiver with a handful of arrows. He would stay with Crazy Horse and He Dog as long as there was a fight.

“No!” Fat Hide snarled. “There are too many!”

Spotted Elk nocked an arrow on his bowstring. “We cannot leave them—”