The old chief sat before the journalist, his face was slightly creased with age, and he offered his pipe to the white man with the notebook. His brown eyes were wise and calm, and he must have been magnificent in his youth. He was still impressive and handsome even in his sixties. His log cabin was cozy, warm by a fire inside of a cast-iron stove, and well from many kerosene lanterns.
"So, you have found our small village. May I ask why?"
The young man was an earnest youth, nervous and unsure. He had white-blond hair and vivid, earnest blue eyes. He exuded a truthful and curious nature. "Sir, I have come here to do research for a series of articles. I hope to record the Native American point of view regarding The Battle of Little Big Horn."
"The Battle of Greasy Grasses..."
"Yes...Yes Sir...Yes, Chief..."
"Call me Soaring Hawk...at my age honorifics are ridiculous. My brother, if he decides to speak to you...and he is a man of few words...you will have to address him properly. He guides us now as I am too old."
"Cloud Chief."
The old man smiled softly. He was obviously devoted to his brother. "That one is more formal than I."
"I see. Soaring Hawk. I wish to assure you that the privacy of your location will be kept. I will not disclose it."
"Thank you. We do intermingle with whites at times, at least we have raised our children to do so. The more education given to them, the more contact, is the only way we have survived, and our neighbors have always been discreet. We were lucky in our choice to settle here."
"So many have not been as lucky."
"True. The Battle was a good one. We were able to count coupe on many of our enemies and save thousands of women and children from extermination. It was a good day for us. But our people, who did not follow, they have suffered greatly."
"I think the world needs to hear your truth about it. Custer and his men have been glorified and your people demonized. I would like to give your side a voice."
Soaring Eagle smiled. "And you also wish to sell newspapers." He gave a chuckle. "I understand white man's commerce. I also sense that your heart is a good one. You may ask your questions."
"Please tell me what you remember about that day."
"That day...that hot, still day..."
Early that June morning it was already hot as our enormous encampment began to arouse from their sleep. Many thousands had spent the night dancing the Sun Dance brought to us by Chief Sitting Bull. Even in his sixties, he was the last to retire.
Many were just waking, but the women had stirred up the campfires and washed clothes while their children were playing at the Redbud River. They wanted to get them done so that the sultry day would dry them quickly.
A young boy was sent to gather up grazing horses and return them to the campground. He was proud of himself. This was a great responsibility. He was a year or two away from proving himself a warrior and was anxious to show his parents that he could be counted upon. As he rounded a bend, he found himself facing Crow scouts and several armed soldiers and he had no chance. One of the men aimed straight for his young heart and pulled the rifle's trigger. The shot rang out and the young boy collapsed. Those that saw it happen, watched the soldiers ride toward them. They wanted the horses and saw their opportunity to begin to kill. The women in the river began to gather the terrified children and dashed toward the protection of the encampment. Other shots rang out and this time a woman and several children fell dead on the dusty ground. All the others made it back. raising the alarm.
