THE KILLING SPIRIT: March to Wounded Knee (110)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MARCH TO WOUNDED KNEE



The march to Wounded Knee would take them from the high grounds of the Black Hills, through the Badlands of South Dakota, along Wounded Knee Creek to the site of the most famous and infamous massacre in American history.

For a hundred years, the massacre of disarmed men, women and children was known as the Battle of Wounded Knee until enough people were awakened to the lies of Manifest Destiny and the Indian Wars by such piercing works as The Strange Man of the Oglalas by Mary Sandoz and Dee Brown’s Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee. Ultimately, the truth was less disturbing than the stench of hypocrisy.

They would walk deliberately, mindfully, each step a remembrance of those who walked before them, each step a tribute to the fallen and a summoning of their spirits: Join us in the Ghost Dance at Wounded Knee!

Their first stop was Crazy Horse Monument, where they explained their intentions to the caretakers. When they saw that Jerico was among them, they were invited to address a gathering of tourists and pilgrims who had come to pay tribute to the greatest of Lakota warriors and spirit guides.

Jerico fought back the unease that gripped his limbs and settled in his gut, as if he was about to enter a battle, as he rose to speak.

“My name,” he began, “is Jerico Whitehorse.”

The people were enchanted, sitting quietly in a half-full auditorium where they had just seen a documentary film on the building of the monument. They were shuffling papers, chatting and coughing until they heard his name. It was as if the Pope or the Dalai Lama had just walked in the room. If any among them had not heard the tale of Jerico, they were enraptured by those who had.

“I have had a vision and a dream that I have shared with the men and women who stand at my side. They have also had a vision and a dream.

“We are answering the call of the spirit world and the cry of our ancestors. We are marching to Wounded Knee. It is our purpose to unite the people of all tribes to fight against a darkness that threatens our land, our water and the air that we breathe.

“We have seen this darkness, like a great cloud, sweeping over the land and across the seas. We have heard the innocent cries of children. We have seen the oceans rise and the four winds blow, swallowing villages, towns and cities. We have seen fires and floods, disease and starvation. We have seen towers fall and wars spread across many lands. We have seen children taught what should not be taught and weapons used that should not be used. We have seen the spirit behind this darkness and we believe it is time to act.

“We are marching to Wounded Knee and we welcome all who wish to join us. We believe in the spirit of Crazy Horse. We believe in the wisdom of the ancestors. We believe it is time for all enlightened beings, on the earth and in the overworld, to come together in one cause.

“Join us if you share our beliefs. If you cannot join us, tell others so they may join us.”

It was a simple speech but it spoke to the heart and Jerico understood that the dreamers were not alone. Many people had seen what they had seen. For some it was a dream; for others it was a disease, a sense of foreboding, or a shadow that darkened all aspects of life, from the leaders in the halls of power to the most mundane conversations over an evening meal.

A young woman, cradling a baby in her arms, choked back tears as an older man with native blood began to clap in a slow and measured tempo that captured those around him until the auditorium filled with applause.

A few joined the march, others would join later, and still others would spread the word, sharing Jerico’s message with friends and loved ones.

A couple that had only recently met at Turtle Mountain became the first to join the march. He was a mixed-blood Chippewa of North Dakota, as fair in complexion as Jerico, while she belonged to the Lumbee tribe of North Carolina, as dark-skinned as the tail feathers of a crow.

Her voice a lilting, slow molasses flavor of the south, she asked him if he was sincere. “Are we all welcome to join your cause?”

Her name was Robin Hunt. She was a missionary, traveling from council to council, trying to win recognition of the Lumbee tribe as Native American. In the course of the march, she would have much to say of her cause but for now she was thrilled to be included in his. Her companion, bearing the French name of Leroi Dupree (typical of the Chippewa), was himself a pilgrim in search of a cause. He was certain he had found it in Jerico and the march to Wounded Knee.

Word of the march spread out before them. The followers who had remained in and around Pine Ridge were ripe for the news. They mobilized, making phone calls, sending telegraphs, emails and issuing press reports. They offered rides and organized shuttle runs from Rapid City to Badlands National Park for those who wished to join.

By the time Jerico and the dreamers made camp near Hermosa, more than a hundred followers fell in behind them. The newcomers provided food and blankets, set up camps and made contacts with the locals who might otherwise object to such a gathering near their homes.

It was a peaceful assembly. Roughly half were identifiable as indigenous, while the other half was a fair representation of all races. There was music but it was subdued, respectful of their surroundings. It was warm and comfortable, with a pleasant breeze, and they shared a sense of wonder and purpose. They were united in a cause greater than their individual lives and none would disturb the pervasive feeling of harmony.

As the day gave way to a moonlit summer night, the camp was visited by the state police, who tried to maintain their standard bureaucratic intransigence but they could find no reason for alarm. There were no complaints, no disturbances, and no signs of alcohol or drug abuse.

When they came to Jerico’s campfire, he was receiving visitors among his new followers. They came in groups of four, waiting patiently for their turns with the quiet, reluctant leader. He answered their patience with his own, offering words that came to him as naturally as the rain falls from the sky.

Curiosity was insatiable. They asked about his history, his childhood, his parents, his heritage and education, his friends and loved ones. Jerico answered as if they were blood brothers and sisters. He told them about Marie and a heart that could only be mended in the overworld where all wounds are healed. He told them about the lost boy as if it had never been told before. He told them about life in the desert and the ways of the coyote. He told them about White Buffalo Woman, the Buffalo Stone, the Apache dreamers and his visit to the overworld.

A white man with shaggy hair and a full beard asked pointedly if he had returned from the dead.

“I returned,” replied Jerico, “to tell you there is no death. There is only life, here and hereafter.”

A young native woman asked why, if there was no death, it was wrong to take life.

“It is wrong,” said Jerico, “because our hearts tell us it is wrong. It is wrong to cause suffering and to trigger the cycle of revenge.”

A warrior with an AIM tee shirt, eyes grim and voice challenging, asked what he intended to do for Leonard Peltier.

“No one is free as long as Leonard Peltier is behind bars,” said Jerico. “His incarceration makes prisoners of us all.”

“These are words,” replied the man, eyes now flaring with the seed of anger. “I asked what you would do.”

“Sometimes words are all we have,” said Jerico. “Sometimes they are enough.”

The man jumped to his feet and four men emerged from the shadows on all sides of the campfire, their native faces illuminated in dancing firelight.

“Do you know Leonard?” he challenged. “Have you visited him in his cell? Do you know how he lives, how he suffers while you and I walk free?”

“I have visited him,” said Jerico.

“You lie! Leonard is a friend of mine! He knows no one by your name!”

Jerico remained calm as many were drawn by the voice of accusation. The four men drew tighter so that all could see they were AIM warriors. The oldest of them spoke in a quiet but firm voice.

“I also know Leonard Peltier, brother,” he said. “He would tell you to sit down.”

The man drew back and seemed to shrink as he gazed around at menacing faces, at people who did not share his doubts and did not appreciate his manner of speaking.

“I have visited him,” said Jerico, “in my dreams. I know his suffering. I know we must all do what we can to free him.”

The warriors pulled the man aside and took him in at their fire circle. He was allowed to remain in camp on the condition that he would make no more trouble. In time, they were certain he would overcome his rage by learning where it took root. In time, he would become one of their bravest warriors.

The night was filled with spirits, drifting in and out of half a dozen fire circles on the rolling foothills of South Dakota. In every circle, people spoke among themselves and listened to the wind. In every circle, the presence of the ancestors was acknowledged in prayer and meditation.

At the camp of Jerico, an elder woman of the Brule, far older than her life on earth, asked in her native tongue if he had come to kill the evil spirit that haunted her people for a thousand years. She had known this spirit since she was only a child and feared him as she drew nearer her death song. Grandfather passed her words to Jerico’s ears, where he allowed them to settle and stir his thoughts.

“I know this spirit,” he said as the fire sparked and danced before him. “I have seen his work. I have felt his presence and cried out for vengeance. I know his greed, his misery and his thirst, but I have learned that this darkness was once a gift. It was intended to give our ancestors a common enemy. It was intended to unite us against him but it has failed.”

Jerico gazed around the camp, its spirit of good will unbroken, its chain of common purpose building, and wondered why the killing spirit had not worked its way among them.

“I believe this spirit knows it has failed and holds us all to blame. I believe he will escalate his acts of harm until we can no longer ignore him.”

His gaze settled on the deep pools of wisdom and suffering that were the Brule woman’s eyes. He shared her sorrow and the salt of her wounds.

“Our people have paid a great price,” he said, “but it is a price that gives us the strength we now possess. We have survived. We will survive. Those who have joined the killing spirit may not.”

The woman seemed pleased with this answer for a calm settled over her, her tears dried in a breeze, and her fear was released.

“Will there come an end?” she asked.

“We cannot know until the end comes,” he answered.

A white woman, hair shrouded in a crimson scarf, crossed herself as she stepped from the moon into the firelight, hands folded as if in prayer, voice as meek as a child though she was a mature woman, asked, “What is sin?”

The Christians have arrived, the dreamers thought.

“Doing harmful things,” Jerico answered.

“What are harmful things?” she pressed.

“When the wolf hunted the buffalo,” he replied, “he took the weak, the old and the sick. He took only what was needed and the herd was strengthened. When the Lakota hunted the buffalo, he did so in the manner of the wolf. When the white men with long guns hunted the buffalo, they killed whole herds, stripped them of their skins and left their bodies to rot in the sun.

“Is the killing of buffalo a sin?”

“What about abortion?” a voice from the shadows asked.


The white man’s politics, the dreamers thought. They believe the world must live in their nightmares. Their god demands that we bow to their fears.

“Those who believe in the spirit,” answered Jerico, “have no fear that the spirit dies with the flesh. The spirit survives and is spared a life in which it is not wanted. It is given the gift of new life.”

The woman who spoke of sin was dissatisfied with his answer. Jerico saw that she was consumed in anguish, struggling with demons that spoke only to her.

“We are sinners!” she raged. “We must be punished!”

“If there is harm,” said Jerico, “then there is sin. If the sin is in the mind, then the mind must punish. We will be judged by our deeds, not by our thoughts. In the end, we sit in judgment on ourselves. If we have to look too hard for sin, it does not exist.”

The woman allowed her tears to flow, gave thanks, and left their circle less certain than she was, less determined to bear the cross, and grandfather said, “It is good.”

A man with a southern drawl asked about David Koresh and the massacre of Branch Davidians at Waco, Texas.

“The blood of the innocent is a torrent, a river, a tidal wave of suffering. Does it surprise you that the wasichu kills women and children? It does not surprise the Lakota. Does it surprise you that justice does not exist for those the Great White Father does not favor? It does not surprise the Indian nations.”

A political activist from Portland, long black hair tied back, asked about foreign policy, the indigenous movement in Chiapas, Kosovo, Rwanda and the sanctions in Iraq.

Jerico was not tuned to the political beat but he answered without pause: “The war against the indigenous peoples never ended. What the wasichu cannot steal with false treaties, the wasichu’s warriors will take by force and the killing spirit will reign with impunity.”

An officer of the state police stepped forward and politely inquired what their intentions were. Grandfather explained that they were marching to Wounded Knee where they would hold a Ghost Dance. He wanted to know the route they would take and grandfather showed him on the map.

“Is it your intention to take half of South Dakota with you?” he asked.

They looked out and saw a dozen more fires in the camp. Their numbers were growing by the hour. Reports had already raised the alarm at headquarters in Rapid City and Pierre. Police were being mobilized and the governor was considering calling up the National Guard. This officer was called upon to issue an on-site report.

“We welcome all who wish to join us,” grandfather said.

“I’ll see what I can do,” the officer replied.

He shook hands with Jerico and lingered in his gaze before he departed.

It was growing late, the Moon of Cherries Ripening falling from the sky, so they put out the fire and slept. As the dream of the firebirds receded, it was supplanted by the dream of the Ghost Dance at Wounded Knee.

When they awakened in the early morning sun, their number was 2,000 strong and growing. They marched on in a great procession beneath blue skies tinted with billowing white clouds. There were no vehicles on the path before them, as the state police had closed the road, clearing the way to their destiny.

Soon helicopters were flying overhead, some police monitors and others from the local media. Reporters with portable cameras began joining the march, rushing through the procession, pleading for interviews from the leaders. Jerico marched on in silence. He would answer to the people but he would not answer to the media.

They marched on, each step deliberately taken, each step summoning a memory of Martin Luther King’s March of Freedom, Gandhi’s march to the sea, the Cherokee Trail of Tears, and the Long Walk of the Navaho.

More and more reporters joined them, some supporting the cause, others seeking to exploit it, recalling the feeding frenzy of fear mongering that helped to incite the massacre of 1890.

When they reached Red Shirt, a town named for the guardians of the Lakota, and crossed over onto Indian land, they stood on the high ground and looked out at those who followed. The road was filled shoulder to shoulder, stretching back as far as they could see, and still their numbers grew.

The sun was low in the sky when a ranger from the Badlands offered them a place where they could set up camp and they agreed. State troopers, called to quell an uprising, formed a chain to help transport food and water to a vast encampment under the stars.

When all were fed and settled, grandfather led a prayer for the multitudes and a hundred drums began to beat as one.

The dreamers whispered among themselves: Somewhere among the gathered throng, the killing spirit was watching.