Story Provided by William Purcell www.lakotawritings.com

I was but a child when in that dreadful winter of 1890 I witnessed the death of the last of our great chiefs. I was also there to bare witness as the Long Knives murdered every member of my own family as well. I can still picture it all in my mind's eye as if it had happened only yesterday. In the days leading up to the slaughter I remember having a strong sense of being afraid of an icy death. For the cold seemed to penetrate through even the thickest of buffalo robes. Snow lay thickly all around us and the air was heavy with the haunting clouds of whiteness that shrouded our every breath. Even when we huddled around the glowing embers of our campfires at night the cold still seemed to find a way into our bones. Being hungry, tired and afraid were also feelings that I can still recall from that time. But the overpowering memory that I can still recall is of feeling so utterly cold. Story Continues