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wave of smallpox took hundreds of additional Sioux and Cheyenne lives in the next few months.
    To escape the plague, the Sioux headed north, away from the Platte River country and up into Dakota Territory. As they approached the White River, Curly was riding with a small band of young warriors when they sighted a large Sioux camp. As the warriors approached, they realized the valley was unnaturally quiet. The tipis stood silent. No smoke curled up through the flaps of the lodges. No dogs barked. Nothing moved.
    One of the older warriors rode on ahead, calling out to the inhabitants. The rest of the band was not that far behind, now. The warriors’ shouts seemedto be swallowed up, and in their place was only the sound of the river lapping at the stones. Again he called, and again there was no answer.
    The young warriors dismounted, leaving their horses in the charge of three or four of the youngest, Curly among them. All calling out, the young Sioux spread out among the tipis. Still, there was nothing but silence in response. A deathly stillness gripped the warriors now. Curly could see them looking at one another, their faces confused, their bodies slack, as if something had sucked out the bones, leaving them sacs of blood and meat.
    One of the warriors ducked down to enter a tipi. The others watched. Seconds later, they heard a scream that curdled their blood. For a long moment, nothing happened. Suddenly, the warrior backed out of the tipi and ran to a second, then a third. The others, frozen in place, watched him, motionless as if they had been rooted to the earth. Only when he left the third lodge, did they begin to move again. Curly ran forward, ignoring Hump’s call to come back. Little Hawk, too, sat his horse, calling after his brother, but Curly paid no attention.
    He ducked into the first tipi he reached. And he screamed. The stench overwhelmed him, and he felt his stomach begin to churn. It was as if some demon were trying to claw its way into his gut through his nostrils.
    Backing out, he looked at Hump, his head shaking, his body beginning to tremble all over. For a moment, he thought he would be unable to stand, and caught himself on the verge of crumbling into a heap on the ground.
    He ran back to the horses. Hump jumped down from his mount. “What is it,” he asked, “What’s wrong?”
    “They’re dead,” Curly said. “All of them.”
    As abruptly as if someone had sounded a silent signal, all the young warriors raced away from the silent camp, their faces drawn, their mouths slack. No one spoke as they mounted up. When they were all back on their ponies, they exploded in unison, wheeling as one and thundering back up the hill toward the main body of the group.
    Old Smoke was at the head of the column as the young warriors roared across the plains toward him, screeching war whoops and shrieking in terror.
    The old chief rode ahead to meet them. Some thundered on by, unwilling to stop even there, miles from the village of the dead. But Curly, Hump, and Little Hawk reined in. Old Smoke waited patiently for the story to emerge. When he realized that disease, either cholera or smallpox, had wiped out an entire village, he gave orders for a change of direction. The members of the
akicitas
rode along the straggling column, informing the marchers that they would have to go still farther. They would make a wide detour around the silent village, putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the scene of so much death.
    When they finally found a place to camp, north of the Black Hills, the warriors were angry. Some said the diseases were deliberately being spread by the whites. Tales were circulated of blankets being infected with the white man’s magic then passedamong the Cheyenne. Others didn’t bother with such niceties. They simply swore revenge and vowed that they would not permit another white face to cross the plains in safety.
    Within two years, the diseases had all but disappeared, but