Many moons ago, there was a young Indian brave,
Named "He Who Rides at Night."
His father had named him because the darkness
He preferred to the sun's bright light.
His people all tried to live in peace
On the land where tall grass grows.
Food was scarce and the children cried
In the cold of the long winter snows.
Pushed farther west, to the edge of their land
As the white man's numbers grew.
Faced with hunger and bitter cold,
The tribe had dwindled down to a few.
Treaties were broken, their land invaded,
By those in search of the shiny stone.
Buffalo hunters had slaughtered the herds
Until now, they were nearly gone.
High upon a hill, away from the camp,
He watched the white mans' camp fires glow.
They had finished the hunt and warmed themselves
From the cold of the falling snow.
The Chief had said, "We don't want them here,
They kill the buffalo with their thunder stick,
And leave the bodies to rot in the sun,
Nothing is left to feed our old and sick."
As the people were sleeping, the morning after,
All was peaceful and quiet.
The buffalo hunters had approached the camp
Shielded by the dark of the night.
A barking dog had warned the tribe
Of the danger that was ever near.
The sound of gunshots and thundering horse hooves,
Were all the people could hear.
Chief Red Moon, the old war chief,
Had said this day would come.
He knew his warriors would be no match
For the white man and his long rifle gun.
Women, children and unarmed warriors
were easy targets for the murdering men
They rode through the camp shouting and shooting
Again, again and again.
There were no survivors in the tiny camp,
The slaughter was a horrible sight.
Among the dead was a woman with child
And He Who Rides at Night.
Tall grass now grows where the camp once stood
And the wind hums a mournful tune.
Their spirits now ride where buffalo is plenty,
For the people of Chief Red Moon.