War Party at the River

Early in my life I had a friend, Nathan, that lived down the road from our little farm. Nat’s mother was a pretty Sioux Indian woman. Her grandfather, “Spotted Owl”, lived with Nat’s family. He was very old and spent most of his time sleeping and looking off into space. He loved to tell stories of his past life on the prairie of South Dakota. The Indians and the bison freely moved across a sea of grass in the 1840’s and the air was free of the Blue Coats, that would come like locust later. Marauding tribes roamed the prairie stealing horses, capturing women and raiding camps. War between tribes was common. Great Grandfather’s life stories lived when he told them and Nat and I rode right with him. He loved the “war party” story and we loved hearing him tell it. His eyes would shine and his weak voice would grow strong and chills would climb your spine.

We had been on the trail of the Pawnee four moons. They had raided our camp, took many horses and a hand (5) of women and girls during their raid. Our main hunting party had been away hunting tatonka (bison). The large number of men being away made it easy for them to attack us. I was young and the hunt was my first as a chase rider.

The escape plan of Pawnee was to split into small groups. The tactic made them harder to find. The tracker “Wind in Grass” knew they would gather at one place to cross the river and he found the location. “Wind in Grass” points the way to “Runs Like Wolf” and “Little Calf” prepares to alert the war party for the crossing. “Runs Like Wolf’s” wife is one of the captives along with two of his daughters. We readied ourselves for the attack. This was my first battle and I was frightened and brave at the same time. It would be a great day to die.

We circled them a short distance from the river and the attack was swift. They had not expected us. There was only two hands (10) of them against three hands (15) of us. The women were split away by two riders and then we attacked. I made my first coup and a kill for scalp. That day I grew from a boy to a man. The women revenged themselves on the dead bodies. We returned home with great celebration.


Foote note: ‘Spotted Owl” died when I was seven. My mother said the newspaper said “Spotted Owl” was over a hundred years and very old.