"The Buffalo gave us everything we needed.  Without it we were nothing. Our tipis  were made of his skin. His hide was our bed, our blanket, our winter coat. It was our drum throbbing through the night, alive, holy. Out of his skin we made our water bags. His flesh strengthened us, became flesh of our flesh. Not the smallest part of it was wasted. His stomach, a red hot stone dropped into it, became our soup kettle. His horns were our spoons, the bones our knives, our women's awls and needles. Out of his sinews we made our bowstrings and thread. His ribs were fashioned into sleds, for our children, his hoofs became rattles. His mighty skull, with the pipe leaning against it, was our sacred alter."

 ~John (Fire) Lame Deer~

  The following lines are taken from my Novel
         ~ Wind In The Grasses Dancing...

With the arrival of evening an assortment of enticing aromas rode the wind like a hawk. While brains, tongues, and the gristle surrounding the nostrils were a real delicacy, kettles brimmed with buffalo stew, wild turnips and onions. Humps roasted slowly on the fires. Whole sections of ribs stood broiling by the hot coals. Water boiled in paunches with kidneys, hearts and livers.

Nothing of the sacred buffalo was laid to waste.

The thick fur would be fashioned into warm robes and soft blankets for winter. Hair would be used in the making of a headdress, or as filling for pillows and saddles, insulation for winter boots, stuffing for balls-spun or woven into halters and ropes-braided into bracelets. Soft wool was packed into a cradle board for absorption.

The hide would be tanned as buckskin for leggings, breechclouts, belts, moccasins, shirts and dresses, pouches, gun cases and quivers, pipe and paint bags, winter robes, and coverings for the lodges.

Bones would be made into knives and awls, or as tools in the carving and scraping of hides. As saddle trees, shovels, war clubs and quirts, toys for the children. A shoulder blade could be shaped into a handy ax. Canon bones would be used as fleshing tools while those smaller bones would be made into needles. Ribs would be used as sled runners, scrapers and arrowheads. Hip bones, as paint brushes. The skull, stuffed with sage, would be used for ceremonial purposes such as the Sun Dance. Horns would be crafted into toys, headdresses, drinking vessels, spoons and ladles for soup, some holding as much as four cups.

Rawhide would be made into skin parfletches, pouches and boxes ranging in a sizes from a small envelope to large containers resembling chests that were used in the carrying and storing of utensils, dried meats and turnips, as well as a variety of personal items. Those used for ceremonial objects were elaborately decorated with beads and quills, while others would be specially shaped for items such as the war bonnet.

Rawhide would also be used in the making of drums and rattles, the soles of moccasins and fine lacing. For belts, thongs and armbands, saddles, stirrups, cinches and ropes, cases and pouches for knives and bullets, the webbing of snowshoes. Even the hides taken from the neck of the old bulls would be useful in the making of War Shields.

Muscles would be turned into sinew to be used as thread, or in the making of arrows and bowstrings. Hooves and feet would be shaped into rattles. Some boiled to glue for feathering arrows, or preparing soup. Stomachs and paunches would be fashioned into vessels for cooking, or for storing and the carrying of water. Bladders would be made into small Medicine bags or pouches for quills and sinew, while the scrotum would serve in the making of rattles. The brains, in the tanning of hides.

The tails would serve as a whip, or for switching flies and gnats from the faces of sleeping infants, or in decorating the outside of the lodges. Even the dried buffalo chips were useful as fuel.

The Sacred Buffalo had given to the Lakota all that they needed for a comfortable, happy existence. But due to the greed of the white man, these once mighty herds were fast diminishing from the prairies. A decline that had begun when the mountain men had journeyed west and began to make trade with the Natives. By 1830, 25,000 buffalo were killed annually, and by 1854, in order to supply the growing demand for robes, the annual rate had increased to 150,000. Yet, even this did not pose a threat to the buffalo’s demise. Nor did their predators, the wolves and bears. Nor disease. Nor sub-zero temperatures. For each year the herds thrived on the plains, replenishing their numbers and escalating to an incredible 60 million head.

The Lakota, as did many of the tribes of the plains, looked upon the buffalo with great reverence and regarded him as a brother, for their very existence solely depended upon the harmony in which they lived with this sacred animal.

The white man however, saw the buffalo only as a commodity. With the trails of wagon trains and the progress of the railroads, the advancement on the west continued and it did not take long for the white man to discover that through the extermination of the buffalo he could eventually eliminate the "savage" from the plains. A concept that resulted in the heedless slaughter of millions of buffalo.

The crusade was begun with the white man taking only the tongues and the hides, while meat that could easily have sustained a hungry village, was left to spoil. Hides weighing as much as 350 pounds would often bring $3.00 to $4.00 a piece. A small price for such a magnificent creature with so much to offer.

By as early as 1870, the herds had dwindled from a thriving sixty million to a mere five and a half.

THE BUFFALO HUNT

By the Moon of Making Fat, the bellies of the buffalo had grown heavy from the new grasses, and while the bands were still gathered to share in the drying and the storing of the meat for the long months ahead, the Summer Hunt would be the first big kill of the season. The young cows would be the first to be singled out for their tender meat, and their thin skins, softer, lighter and easiest to tan.

... A good hunt was essential. Without a plentiful harvest, the People would have to hunt through the deep snows and the bitter winds of winter when the animals, with little meat on their bones, would themselves be foraging for food.

... a large buffalo herd had been spotted moving up the Greasy Grass. While excitement buzzed through the village, Red Badger, Prairie Dog and Moonbeam made ready their weapons, mounted, and rode off to join the first group of hunters. Little Willow, tending to Dancing Wind, remained behind in the village, while Rainbow joined in the hunt, accompanying a group of women from the north side of the camp. They waited now, just beyond the ridge, not far from the hunters.

Downwind from the grazing herd, Prairie Dog eagerly waited, his belly pressed to the grassy slope, while the hot sun drummed its rays on his naked back. He was anxious now to make a big kill, for there was more riding on his skills, than just providing for the winter stores. He had set his heart on winning the hand of Laughing Otter.

To his right was Moonbeam, more eager than himself. For last summer, during the Moon of Making Fat he had broken his arm while stealing a pony from a young warrior of the Snakes. This would be his first Big Hunt.

Prairie Dog fixed his stare upon the burly beasts. Massive creatures whose small eyes, burrowed in thick tufts of wool that limited their visibility, relied heavily upon their keen sense of smell. While some lie resting, others moved at a leisure pace, cropping bunches of grass, and occasionally sniffing the air for signs of danger.

As the young braves started out with the first group of hunters, Prairie Dog, stripped to his moccasins and breechclout, and with nothing more than a rope about his pinto’s jaw, crouched low to the animal’s mane, stealing along the outside of the herd, while waiting for the signal to charge.

When the signal went out, he withdrew several arrows from the quiver at his shoulder, and rushed the border of the drove. An old bull, sensing the danger, stopped his chewing, wrinkled his nose, and sniffed the scent of the intruder. His tail shot to a vertical position sounding the alarm, his haunches twisting and bucking as he sped off. The herd bolted with him, a thundering of hooves, rumbling the length of the valley.

The hunters closed in with whooping and shouting, driving and weaving the frantic beasts into a tight circle. The air was thick and heavy. Billowing clouds of dust rose above and about them. When a fat yearling attempted to break away from the frenzy of pounding hooves, Prairie Dog rushed in, releasing his arrow at a distance of little more than a bows length. The point swiftly met its mark, piercing the back of the animal’s left shoulder. She dropped with a thud.

Ecstatic with his kill, he thundered away in pursuit of a hefty cow, while Moonbeam, charged with excitement, shot after a young bull. The first arrow lodged in the neck. The animal bellowed, continuing his driven pace, when the second point barely skimmed the upper shoulder. But as the third struck just behind the last rib, he lurched forward, sliding to a stop, as his head slammed the earth.

It was a good hunt. When the chase was run, the valley floor was flecked with rich shades of mahogany, walnut and coffee. The women, with their drags in tow, trilled songs of gratitude, as they descended the slope to the join the hunters.

Prairie Dog stood above the woolly beast, a broad smile lighting his features, his blade drawn and glinting in the sunlight. Having offered his prayer, he cut the liver from the dead cow, sinking his teeth through the raw muscle, still steaming and dripping of warm blood... Prairie Dog had demonstrated the skill and stamina, the patience, cunning and speed required of a successful hunter. Tonight they would sing his praises.

...As the butchering continued, children frolicked nearby in the tall grasses re-enacting the events of the hunt, while long knives gleamed in the sunlight as hides were removed, the meat cut into small pieces, folded in the skins, and loaded onto the travois. 

Those who had remained in the village, and had not attended the hunting party, were busy preparing the racks for the strips of meat. The hot winds of summer would dry them quickly, hardening them to jerky, and bringing to the palate, the sweetest of flavors. Others were feeding hot bed of coals for roasting the fat humps. Or hanging paunches of water from tripods, into which they were placing hot stones from the fire to boil the liver and kidneys.

Soon the feasting would begin, with the choicest of meat being first offered to the hunters. Songs, laughter, and dancing would follow. Young men would seek a few moments with a pretty maiden wrapped in his blanket, while stories of praise would be told of those who had killed their first buffalo. Wolves would howl in the distance, indulging on what little remained of the butchered carcasses, while scouts would keep a watchful eye, should the cry of the animals alert the enemy of a successful hunt, and of the feasting of the village. It had been a good day. No one would retire to bed without a full belly.

... Old bulls grazed with their heads low to the earth, majestic in appearance with their large humps and their thick, broad chests, many weighing well over 1500 pounds. Some as much as 2500, while newborn calves, still wobbly on their legs, were a mere 30 or 40 pounds in contrast.

... a tawny calf who had strayed a little too far from his mama, began to bay, until the old cow grunted a series of low guttural sounds. With the toss of his head, he twisted his rear in a feisty buck and scampered toward her, stopping just short of her flank. He bent low, his front legs splaying to the sides, while he nuzzled closer, his nose impatiently hammering her belly as he sought her warm, sweet milk.

Nearby, came the low throaty rumble of a bull. A most eerie sound. For rutting season was drawing near, and the bulls were rejoining the herds of cows and calves. By early July, the low-pitched roar would become more frequent, and in a matter of weeks, would mount to a constant rumble that could easily be heard for several miles.

Frolicking beside the water, a small group of youngsters were playing the familiar game of tag, while butting their heads in mock battle. Others romped and splashed in the rushing current.

An old bull moved to a cluster of small mounds where the constant chatter of prairie dogs appeared to go unnoticed as he sniffed the earth, pawing and striking with his horns, before dropping to his side and wallowing in a choking cloud of dust. Loose clumps of wool sloughed from his back. A young cow with a different method of grooming, pressed her flank to a strong cottonwood, scratching in a slow rocking motion until thick gnarls of hair broke free, adhering to the bark.

As they ascended the divide between the valleys of the Tongue River and the Rosebud, the emerald grasses below were speckled with browns and tans, as a herd of buffalo, nearly a thousand, lumbered through the waving sea of green. William sat his horse, breathless.

Newborn calves, some weighing but a mere 40 pounds, with their tawny coats, a rich contrast to the deep brown of the cows, stuck to their mother’s sides like glue. Older calves, having dropped in April, had wandered as far as 40 or 50 yards from their mothers, romping or sleeping in a tight circle with others of their own age. Their coats of buff were beginning to darken, while the slight curves of their shoulders were indicative of the humps that would later develop.

...Shouts suddenly rang from the Crow and Shoshone. As they shot past William, his adrenaline began to race. Racing with the thousands of thundering hooves as the herd ran in unison, many dropping in their tracks, while the crackle of rifles echoed the length of the valley. The earth shook and rumbled. A blinding wall of dust feathered its way to the clouds.

The General however, was quite livid in trying to keep his men within their ranks. For his Indian allies, in their flurry of the hunt, had more than likely, alerted the Sioux scouts of their advancement. Any fool knew better. Wherever the buffalo ranged, especially a herd as enormous as this, a hunting party would not be far behind. Nor would the enemy.

...There was a flash of bright light, then suddenly he was swallowed in darkness. Then out of the darkness came the thundering of hooves and a Spirit Buffalo. A bull, fierce and mighty, loping across the prairie.

He had been so immersed in the sheer beauty of the creature, that he had shown no fear when it stopped dead in its tracks. Nostrils flared red. Streams of vapor spilled forth from the Sacred beast. He snorted, pawing at the earth, his tail pointing to Father Sky as if he would charge. Clouds of dust billowed up, and around him.

Their eyes locked, and suddenly the Spirit Buffalo was speaking in Lakota. He turned, and as he did, a symbol appeared on his side. A blue circle with four red lines connected by two red diagonals. On either side of the circle, were two bolts of yellow lightning…

Dancing Wind turned from his musing, and when the council meeting had ended, he joined his cousins, and a few warriors of the Cheyenne. Though he listened to the words of the others, his mind was still focused on his Vision. On his Medicine.