I sat in the shade of the teepee and watched the little boys practice their bows. For this they had hung a round buffalo leather shield on a tree, which they aimed at one after the other. It seemed everyone could choose their own distance. The older ones tried to outdo each other in how well they could hit from over fifty yards away. I squinted at the arrow, which whirred through the air and lodged dead center on the shield. That had been Chief Mazzukata's son, I now knew. Almost twelve years old and already an accurate marksman.
I turned back to the book on my lap, which I had almost finished by now. What an incredible stroke of luck that I bought it just before my mysterious leap here. Without it I would have been lost, because it had explained so many little things to me that I would not have understood otherwise. And it saved me from some blunders I might have made.
For the last two weeks - I had been counting the days so as not to lose track - I had sat with Ohitika and Tatanka Wakon every day and taught them English as well as I could. In return, I learned a few Lakota words. I don't know how I was doing in their eyes, but Ohitika was clearly a quick learner. Sometimes we could already communicate with rudimentary sentences. I could see in his eyes that he was still unhappy with his progress. He probably would have preferred to start quizzing me about everything I knew right away.
An elongated shadow appeared in my field of vision. I turned around, already knowing who was there. It didn't surprise me anymore that I hadn't heard his approach. He stood behind me for a while and probably also watched the boys who were still practicing diligently. Sometimes one of the kids would glance over at him after the shot, as if to see his assessment. Apparently they liked him. Ohitika's shadow nodded as the chief's son landed another hit in the center, and the boy beamed.
Then Ohitika sat cross-legged on the ground next to me and pulled out the small, sharpened stick we always used to scratch letters into the dirt. He started his ABC's and I nodded my head appreciatively.
"Ohitika—what does your name mean?" I struggled to piece together the words in Lakota while he concentrated on drawing. The book helped me a bit because it included some example sentences.
He looked up and put his right fist over his heart.
"Heart?" I asked, writing the word in the sand, next to it I drew a figure and an arrow pointing to her heart.
Ohitika shook her head. "Wichachante," he said, pointing to my painted heart. "Heart," he repeated.
"Ha," I said. That meant 'yes' and was pronounced with a nasal 'n' at the end.
It took him a while to make me understand that his name meant 'brave' or 'brave', at least that's how I figured it out in the end.
A few of the children now gathered around us and curiously watched the drawings in the ground. Ohitika gave them a friendly wink.
"Wakinyan-hihunji-win," a little girl said to me. She was the only one who dared to speak to me. The others held back shyly. She was maybe four years old and had big, dark, wide eyes and a doll's face.
I smiled at her even though I had no idea what she said.
"Your name," Ohitika ground out.

"My name?"
"Ha. Yes. New name in Lakota." He frowned, unable to express himself better.
At first I was honored to have been given a name — then I worried that it might be something like 'falls on your nose' or something equally unflattering.
"Wakin..." I tried and faltered as it had been way too long and complicated. "I think I'll stick with Malie for now," I said with a wry grin.
I don't know if he understood me, but the corners of his mouth twitched up and his black eyes sparkled, which caused a tingling deep in my stomach, as if I'd drunk a cola that was still bubbling in my stomach. To distract myself, I turned to the little girl and asked her what her name was. "Taku eniciyapi hey?"
"Zica," she said, tucking the end of one of her braids into her mouth. How cute! That meant squirrel if I remembered correctly.
Ohitika took the book and copied one of the words from it in the sand. Then he tried to say it and I helped him. Wihinapa eventually joined us as well, watching and listening while she mashed dark blue berries in a bowl that she probably intended to use for coloring. I was so engrossed that it took me a while to realize that a group of girls had gathered in front of a nearby tent, staring at us sullenly and whispering to one another. I had seen them many times in the village, they were all about my age and had largely ignored me until now.
When Ohitika also looked up and happened to glance her way, they all covered their mouths with their hands and giggled, turning away coyly. Aha, I thought, that's where the wind was blowing from. I'd seen enough girls at our school behaving like that. They were jealous because I was spending so much time with Ohitika while he wasn't even paying attention to her.
But I couldn't imagine anything. I'm sure he only bothered with me because he was forced to and wanted to learn something from me.
I got up to stretch my legs a little. Little Zica was still squatting next to me, playing with a carved wooden horse. She looked up at me questioningly and held her horse out to me. "Shunkawakan," she said. I nodded, smiling. I would have loved to see the horses up close. The mustang herd grazed a little way from the village and was guarded day and night by young men could stop briefly to visit her.
Then an uninvited visitor stepped in front of us. Ohitika rose immediately upon recognizing Thokala-gleschka. He was naked except for the loincloth and belt that held a knife. The look he gave Ohitika was cool and deliberately superior. The two measured each other with obvious dislike, and I remembered Wihinapa implying that the competition between them was long-standing.
Thokala-gleschka said something from which I only caught the word for horse. Ohitika nodded curtly and replied, "Hau."
Then Thokala-gleschka walked away with measured steps. The eyes of the girls, who were still standing together in front of the other tent, followed him.

The next day I found out what Thokala-gleschka wanted from Ohitika. In the morning, before the day's heat reached its full force, practically the entire village gathered along a treeless stretch just outside the grove. Here began the prairie. The rolling grassland stretched to the horizon and a gentle breeze swayed the grass like the waves of a green ocean.


If I understood Wihinapa correctly, the young men would be having a horse race here. The excitement of the villagers was contagious. This was apparently a big event for everyone. Even the warriors had come, including Chief Mazzukata; they stood together in groups and seemed to be making bets. The women were also among themselves, as were the children. I had noticed before that men and women here had very few points of contact in everyday life and tended to keep to themselves. It probably seemed all the more unusual to the others that Ohitika was spending so much time with me. But that couldn't be changed now.
I noticed the furtive glances of the other girls and women, including some men. In the village I was still the parrot among sparrows. Even the chief glanced in my direction, his expression serious but not unfriendly. Was he happy with my progress? Did Tatanka Wakon teach him about it?
Even if I felt uncomfortable, I tried to ignore the looks and was excited for the race to come. At the beginning of the race track, the participants were already lining up with their Mustangs, all in a long line. I couldn't see Ohitika from here because the course was a few hundred meters long and we stood relatively close to the end to see who finished first. This was marked by a spear rammed into the ground with an eagle feather hanging from it. The track was bumpy but as we were standing on a hill we could see all the way to the beginning. One of the older warriors blew a whistle carved out of bone and the shrill sound went through my marrow and bones. At the same moment the line of riders began to move.
The people around me cheered and let out shrill screams—typical Indian screams. I winced. Wihinapa's cheeks burned as she looked at me. A moment later she turned back to the racetrack. A few riders were already emerging, quickly leaving the others behind. Surrounded by a cloud of dust, they raced toward us. Again and again they dived behind a bump and appeared seconds later on the crest.
And now I recognized him. Ohitika was among the horsemen at the forefront. His dappled horse raced across the grass, mane waving, neck stretched out. The sight was fantastic. He sat glued to the back of his Mustang like he belonged there. His body compensated for every movement of the horse beneath him as he tried to make himself as light as possible, hunched over to reduce wind resistance, reins long.
I heard myself shouting and cheering him on, in English, but no one was paying attention at the moment. Halfway through, it became apparent that the race was actually being held between two people: Thokala-gleschka and Ohitika.
I wouldn't mind if Ohitika took a swipe at this arrogant guy and I couldn't help but jump up and down with excitement.
They raced side by side, head to head, their legs almost touching, the distance between them was so narrow. Wihinapa grabbed my hand and squeezed it, not realizing she was doing it. I held onto her and screamed and hooted. Just two more hills. Come on Ohitika!
They were close enough now that I could hear their hoarse calls as they urged their mustangs themselves. Thokala-gleschka kept slashing at the behind of his poor gray horse with a willow switch. His face looked distorted. Eventually, Ohitika got a nose-length advantage and soon they both disappeared into the valley behind the last hill before the finish. This had a sandy and quite steep slope. Here the riders would have to slow down in order not to slip with the horses and deftly find the best way to descend.

Hands clasped over my mouth, I hoped and waited for Ohitika to be the first upstairs. My heart was pounding as if I were on one of the horses myself, dashing across the prairie. I tasted the dust on my tongue that the wind carried to us.
Then finally, a shock of black hair over the crest of the hill. Yes! It was Ohitika. He climbed up on his piebald and seemed to whisper encouraging words in his ear just before the end. But his rival was still hot on his heels.
I bit my fingers with excitement as they began the perilous descent down the sandy slope. Ohitika had already spotted the best spot—a stretch with some tufts of grass promising a foothold—and was heading toward it. The cheers were now deafening.
I looked at Thokala-gleschka just an arm's length behind him, whose face now showed desperate anger. It was a dangerous mix. People who were in despair often did imprudent things. I understood that it was a matter of honor for him to win. He had always lost out against Ohitika.
With a queasy feeling in my stomach, I watched him as he too slid down the slope on his horse. Ohitika gained more and more lead. Then it happened: a split second in which Thokala-gleschka's willow rod lashed out at the hindquarters of Ohitika's piebald with such unexpected force that the poor animal jumped forward in fright, lost his footing, and stumbled his forelegs. It hurt me just to watch. A collective groan went through the crowd.
Ohitika quickly recovered from his surprise and helped his horse regain his balance. But in the meantime, Thokala-gleschka had slipped past him, reached the safe level ground, and rushed on toward the goal. Such a crap!
More riders now appeared on the crest of the hill. Ohitika urged his confused piebald horse again, but one of its forelegs was lame.
He only finished third, but still held his head up, without a trace of anger or disappointment on his face. In that moment, I couldn't help admiring him, even if I couldn't share his composure.
Disgusted, I turned to Wihinapa, who looked disappointed, but not upset or angry like I expected. Didn't she see it? Was I the only one who knew what happened? That hadn't been fair!
I tried to make Wihinapa understand me, but gave up quickly because she looked at me completely blank. Without hesitation, I marched forward to the finish post, where the last of the racers were now arriving, all on sweaty and dusty Mustangs with flaring nostrils and trembling flanks.
I pushed through the crowd, looking for Ohitika. He was examining the ankle of his piebald, which was standing with its head hanging down and its fur covered in dust.
Before I could reach him, the chief stepped forward and spoke. He gestured for Thokala-gleschka to come to him. He handed the reins to one of the boys and walked slowly towards the chief with a satisfied expression on his face. The chief was holding an eagle feather that he had loosened from the spear and was about to hand it to the younger man. So he actually hadn't seen that Thokala-gleschka had used unfair methods. And now would he achieve victory while Ohitika's horse was injured? I really couldn't allow that.
It wasn't until later that I realized how incredible what I was doing had been — at least from the perspective of the villagers. As a girl, and a non-tribe at that, I dared to stand up to the chief and interrupt him, talk to him without being spoken to and look him straight in the eye instead of my face shamefacedly to turn to the ground. A Lakota woman would never have dared to do that.
But at that moment I did not think of the foreign customs of this people; only of what I had seen with my own eyes, of Ohitika's injured mustang and Thokala-gleschka's smug expression on his face.
"Stop," I shouted, in English, but it still had the desired effect.
Suddenly everyone fell silent and stared at me, the chief's gaze bored into me with particular intensity.
I swallowed, but now there was no turning back. I took another deep breath and wanted to speak the truth vigorously - but only hot breath came out. I had no idea how to express myself in Lakota and Tatanka Wakon wasn't here. Now I felt myself blushing, up to my hairline. A glowing lightbulb in the middle of the summer prairie. Everyone's eyes were on me, Thokala-gleschkas flickered with barely suppressed anger, and even Ohitika glared at me so badly I wanted to crawl into a prairie dog's den.
I looked at his pinto and an idea came to me. I pointed to the animal's croup. Everyone followed my outstretched arm with their eyes, but didn't seem to understand. Timidly I started moving again. Wihinapa tugged at my sleeve, her eyes wide and shaking her head in silent pleading, but I jerked myself away and continued toward the horse. The bystanders backed away from me, making room for me as if I had the plague or something worse.
Heart pounding, I searched the horse's rump for the proof I needed, both for the chief and for myself—to prove to myself that I hadn't just imagined it all.
But I knew what I had seen.
And there it was! A red welt on the pinto's croup where the willow switch had struck it. Ohitika's eyes darkened even more as he and the chief examined the wound with a very serious expression on their faces. Mazzukata turned to Thokala-gleschka. He seemed to understand at once that that welt could only be his hand - for they had all seen that Ohitika wore no crop and that Thokala was the only one close enough to him.
Mazzukata spoke to him, then to Ohitika, who only gave a short, grim reply. I would have liked to know what they said. Finally, the chief made a final gesture with his arm, and the bystanders slowly dispersed and the conversation resumed. What happened now? Had he declared the race void? It seemed that way. And would Thokala receive his just punishment?
Mazzukata gave me a stern look from his sharp-featured face, but said nothing further. Ohitika also left with his Mustang without looking back at me. That hurt me a little. Didn't I just help him? What had I done wrong again?
I turned away — and looked straight into the eyes of Thokala-gleschka, which could have sent out lightning. And I knew if he hadn't hated me before, he definitely hated me now.