Mni wiconi - Water is life

Chapter 1

Leo Little Bear fled under the mercilessly burning sun, which parched the land as much as his throat. Prairie grass whipped his legs. Dust swirled through the air as his feet touched bare patches of the once lush prairie. Destroyed by the white man's greed and mismanagement. Pretty much like his own people.

Behind him, the engines of two pick-ups howled like hungry wolves. The men in the back of the trucks hooted and fired sporadically into the air. He knew them. The doors of the vehicles were emblazoned with the logo of the security company that the engineers had hired to protect the construction work. To eliminate troublemakers like him.

Leo redoubled his efforts. Sweat trickled down his temples. His long, black hair blew in the wind like the remains of a tattered flag. His heart threatened to burst, his breathing was labored. He had served this country, and how did they repay him?

Betrayal. Persecution.

Was this how the Cheyenne felt at Sand Creek? Or his ancestors at Wounded Knee?

The white men would only be satisfied when the last redskin had been erased from the earth. When nothing reminded them of the people and traditions of the past. But that would soon no longer be his problem, he thought bitterly.

The blood rushed in his ears. The hum of the engines came through clearly. They were catching up, despite the uneven terrain over which he was running. Something whizzed past his face by a hair's breadth. He swerved. Like a rabbit fleeing from a coyote, he zigzagged on. At the same time, he waited for a bullet to pierce his back or smash into his skull. His resistance was useless.

But something was wrong. They could have killed him long ago. Were his pursuers hoping that he would break his neck or succumb to a heart attack? So that the FBI would not get involved?

The cry of an eagle echoed across the prairie. Wind started blowing, pushing against him. His legs burned, carrying him with difficulty. Nevertheless, he kept running. Just don't give up.

The men's jeers sounded spiteful in his ears. They knew he would not last much longer. They hunted him down like a mangy coyote that had stolen a chicken.

His thighs trembled. He buckled, stumbled. A sharp pain shot from his ankle to his lower leg. He picked himself up and carried on with this futile attempt of getting away. Tears of rage burned in his eyes. The terrain in front of him blurred. His foot hit something soft. His knees gave way. He fell, landing on all fours. Dust swirled up around him. He curled his trembling fingers around the dry grasses until his knuckles shimmered almost white. Waited for the redemptive bang that meant his death.

Nothing happened. A dead silence fell over the expanse. He pressed his lips tightly together, suppressing a cry of despair. What were the white coyotes waiting for? For him to surrender to them?

Breathing heavily, he struggled back onto his aching legs, swaying for a moment like a blade of grass in the wind. Slowly he raised his hands, turned around as if in slow motion and froze.

Impossible!

He rubbed his burning eyes. His pursuers had vanished like snow under the returning heat of the sun in spring. Instead of shouting, an old Lakota song reached his ears. It was sung to tune the spirits to the happy outcome of a battle. Quieter at first, then louder and louder, it echoed across the endless prairie. Leo frowned in confusion. Were his senses playing tricks on him? Caused by the news that had reached him about the protests in the construction area?

He dropped his arms powerlessly. His chest heaved irregularly. The wind whistled around his ears, making him shiver. His sweat-soaked clothes clung to him like a second skin. If he had only imagined the men, what had he stumbled over? It had felt like a dead animal. He did not know anyone who would leave their prey behind. Too many residents of the Standing Rock Reservation relied on the old way of life to supplement the meager food supply. A bad premonition crept over him.