Unknown Lodge

Be it a curse or a blessing, I often wondered to myself. A mixed-

blood, a half-breed, they called me. It rolled off the tongue as

naturally as the cry of a newborn babe. It became every part of the

natural order of things and yet could ever and only be unnatural.

Still, it was unquestioned, it was undisputed, it was an

afterthought. If an Indian was a savage, if an Indian was

subhuman, if an Indian was without rights, than a half-breed was

an abomination. He was a creation of ill-fate. He was never meant

to be. The half-breed is a whole new kind of being. Though useful

in bridging and navigating the gap between languages, cultures,

and religions, we are shunned and deplored. It goes without saying

that we are somehow different and so we live as an outcast of

fraternity. It is not as if we are pointed out and cast aside, rather

there exists an unsaid stigma against those of mixed blood. It has

crept into the hearts and minds and context of these times so

thoroughly, so adequately, that it emanates in every manner of

feeling and doing and being. This prejudice, if you will, has been

branded into society and is so overwhelmingly accepted and

practiced that even those with the aforesaid stigma do not argue its

definition but rather take shame in their distinction. I and my

family have fought hard with this distinction of owning the blood

of both Indian and white, but it is something with which we have

yet come to terms. Yes, we make our living and we get along, but

not without the inescapable notion that we are somehow

unwholesome, unwanted, and disregarded. My very own wife,

Mary, has kept hidden her identity as a Cherokee mixed-blood.

She would rather live a life of disguise than to face the negative

intercourse that comes with being known as both Indian and white.

My sisters too, have sought to hide or change or manipulate who

they are. Both Madeline and Harriet have married and both have

transformed their names so they sound more white: Madeline’s

from Rassicot to Roscoe and Harriet’s from D’Yonne to Young.

And I am no less guilty than my sisters or my wife. I can recall as

a boy my grandmother saying, “Remember always, you are an

Indian.” How she might shudder and cry to know what has

become of my identity. It is not that I am shut off from my native

heritage. It is not that I do not find pride, respect, and curiosity in

my background. Indeed, I share familial ties with the great Chief

Little Crow. Rather, the white way is the only acceptable way.

The way of the wasichu seems the only way to live and succeed

and thrive. The native tradition is looked down upon and thrust

aside in the name of progress and so-called destiny. And so I live

in the manner of the whites. Not with pure intention, but in a

somber conciliation of what must and can only be.

My reminder of this disparaging reality visited me last

night while among the fun and folly of that effervescent Indian

lodge. What a gift I can say it was to so be so freely associated

with my native kin in such an atmosphere of amusement. Here,

with the Dakota, I feel unencumbered by what ought to be and

what not ought to be. There are no expectations to live up to, no

manner of dress or speak that is unacceptable, and no standards on

how to live. There is instead a circle of living and a certain

unspoken respect and dignity for everything in that circle. Thus I

find a feeling of being unshackled whence I never realized I was

imprisoned. With my Indian brethren I am made full of life,

cheerfulness, and sociability. Not the less, the struggle continues

in my innermost being not knowing how or if to embrace my

Indian blood.

July 26, 1857 - - We made our way cautiously that morning in

search of the forewarned lodge. It is not as if one hundred

mounted warriors with an ox team and a load of materials could

move soundlessly over the prairie, but there was an unspoken

understanding that inconspicuousness was necessary. Even the

elements seemed an ally in our mission. The air was brisk and

calm, almost autumn-like. And the cloud cover was thick and grey

allowing little light to pass through. The birds too cooperated and

were less numerous that morning. The entire scene felt strangely

ominous.

We came within striking distance of the lodge just before

mid-day. “I need six men to make a charge on the lodge,”

announced Little Crow. A brief meeting was held between Little

Crow and the other chiefs or band leaders. They conferred for

several minutes in what appeared to be a passionate discussion.

But before long they agreed upon the six men to advance upon the

lodge. The six included three of Little Crow’s advanced guard

while the others were young men of varying loyalties.

The lodge was within a small grove that grew alongside a

creek bed. The plan was to surround the lodge and leave no place

from which to escape while the six men crept upon the camp in an

act of surprise. And so we moved silently and spread ourselves

along the edges of the grove. From my vantage point I could only

catch a glimpse of the lodge and could detect no real movement.

The six chosen warriors also spread themselves out so that they

might come from all directions. Like snakes they slithered along

the ground without so much as breaking a twig. We simply waited

as the stealthy warriors went to work. We were instructed to wait

upon the war cry at which time we would descend like locusts

upon the lodge of unknown Indians. The time passed slowly as I

waited to hear the war cry. There was not much to feel nervous

about, for we greatly outnumbered our potential opponents and we

had the advantage of surprise. Still I could not avoid a feeling of

apprehension. I would not describe it as fear, only as uncertainty.

“Heee!” came the loud shriek of the war cry as it echoed

like a ball bouncing off the trees. In a snap the warriors pushed

ahead holding their rifles high in one hand and screaming in such a

manner to strike fear in the heart of any man. In and out and

through the long shadows we descended quickly upon the lodge.

Little Crow, being the first to enter the open area, came to a sudden

halt, and like a chain reaction, so too did all who followed. There

we were, a tight knit circle of over one hundred warriors primed

for conflict while leaving no means for escape. But the scene, as I

came to realize, was anything but threatening. The six Dakota

warriors who went in advance had the unknown Indians

surrounded and huddled helplessly together. These men, women,

and children appeared frightened and rather harmless. One of the

warriors began asking questions. “Who are you? Are you

associated with Red End? Why are you alone from your band?”

But there came no answer. The small huddled group was too

startled to reply and all that could be heard were the cries of the

young children.

“Lower your tomahawks,” said Little Crow.

The tension was broken and the warriors backed away.

Everyone became relaxed like a tight string suddenly being

released. Little Crow approached the frightened group as they

began to console each other as any family might.

“From what band do you belong?” Little Crow asked

bluntly.

“We are Sisseton,” cowered one of the men, still huddled

next to his family.

“What brings you to this region of the Yankton?” Little

Crow continued his questioning.

“The trade,” answered the man quickly. “We have traded

goods with the Yankton and we are returning to the homeland.”

“Pardon the intrusion,” said Little Crow with a change of

tone. “We seek another.”

Little Crow turned away with a sigh in his expression. It

was somewhat of a disappointment to make such an extraneous

discovery. We had been traveling many days and we were anxious

for results, though we knew it was too soon. But it was also a

relief, at least for me, to know that we avoided a potential conflict.

In reality, I do not think anyone as a part of this expedition sought

a great battle which might risk or claim lives. We had a duty to

fulfill and it went little further than that. For the Dakota it was a

matter of survival; something that must be endured in order to

provide for themselves and their families. We had to hide our

disappointment, apprehension, and frustration. We had to press

on.