The location of the gold mine was a huge group of mountains, from the top of the mountain to the bottom of the mountain, it was almost a bare mountain of gold.

When the sun shines, as long as the angle is right, you will find that the whole mountain is a golden color.

It is not for nothing that the Sioux call Mount Brak a sacred mountain.

In the evening, the turtledove climbed the watchtower on the hill behind the school, and looked over with a telescope, just in time to see the golden appearance of the place.

Negotiations with the Oglara tribe must be accelerated.

It is impossible to hide the news of the gold mine for too long, and when the news of the gold mine spreads, God knows what the negotiations will turn into.

Turtledoves don't have that much time to waste with them.

Truth be told, every day he spent away with his Tonatyus legion was the people of the turtledove tribe hungry to feed them.

Every bullet is two meals a day for the tribesmen.

Every piece of clothing is the sleepless day and night of the tribesmen.

He thought that he would have to wait three more days at most, and if the Oglara tribe didn't come within three days, he would have to go through it himself.

If the mountain doesn't come to me, I'll go to the mountain!

……

In spring, the grass is abundant on the great plains.

The sea breeze blowing from the Atlantic Ocean was unstoppable across a wide area of three thousand miles, and did not stop until the Rocky Mountains, five hundred miles to the west.

The sea breeze brings moist air, the sun shines at more than 40 degrees north latitude, the mountains are weak, and the water system is uniform, making this the most suitable place on earth for grazing and farming.

The bell of creation is nothing more than this.

In the evening, smoke rises from the grassland.

A shepherd who returned late played the xylophone, and his hoarse voice was like smoke, drifting away without knowing what to do.

In front of a huge yurt, shirtless women were sitting around a bonfire with an iron pot on top of it, and a choking smell of herbs emanating from it.

The women watched with a look of sorrow as they watched one male tribesman after another come and go from the door of the yurt.

They didn't know what the men were talking about.

It's just that from time to time there are bursts of heart-rending coughing sounds from the yurt, which tug at their hearts.

The old chief of Oglala, his body is getting weaker and weaker day by day.

In reality, however, the situation was worse than the women had imagined.

On a large bed in the yurt, a scrawny old man was half-sitting, leaning against the head of the bed.

April isn't warm, but it's not cold.

The old man was covered with two blankets, but the stove still needed to be lit in the yurt.

The smell of sweat and urine churned in the air, mixed with the smell of strange herbs.

The old man's eyes were slightly closed, his mouth was slightly open, and his shriveled chest was lying down, and it was clear that he was wrestling with death.

It took a while for a few indistinct bytes to come out of his mouth:

“…… Go on......"

"Yes, Chief!" The man standing next to him had a page in his hand, looked at it, frowned, and continued to report on the important ones.

“…… After this spring's frosts, fifty foals died, accounting for 70% of all foals; At the same time, as the price of livestock continues to fall, it is expected that this year, the tribe will have to reduce the number of sheep, horses and buffalo......"

“…… The corn fields have been damaged by the Cheyenne people, and the seedlings planted last month have been damaged by 80%, and another poor harvest is expected this fall......"

“…… In addition, the tax officer updated the tax rate, increasing the poll tax and livestock tax by 3 times this year. We have been contacted by Blatter Bank and Camanche Bank saying that they can help us with a loan, but that we need to use the land south of Brack Hill as collateral......"

The man paused at this point, for he noticed that the chief seemed to be asleep, and was not listening to him.

As soon as he stopped, the old man lying on the bed asked, "Do you want to keep reading?" Why stop? I'm listening—"

At this, the old man coughed again, and finally spat a large mouthful of dark brown thick phlegm under the bed.

Then he lay back panting.

"Keep reading!"

"Uh......, chief, I'm done." The man by the window closed the paper in his hand. He could only pretend not to see the remaining large page.

"Oh!" The old man took a deep breath. Probably reminiscing about what I had just heard, my eyes were open, but there was no focus. For a moment, there was no speech.

After a while, the old man asked, "Hookepah...... How so? ”

The man beside the bed hesitated for a moment and whispered, "They still insist that there is no need for the Summer Seven-Colored Flame Council to be held again. ”

"What do you think? Needle Grass Priest? The old man asked.

"I think—", the priest of the needle grass glanced at the old chief on the bed, hesitated for a moment, and whispered, "The original seven tribes, on the way west from the Great Lakes region, have already broken three branches, and then they were barely replenished, and they died in less than a year. Until now, the seven-colored flames were simply not together. ”

"Oh," said the old chief on the bed, closing his eyes. "So you think so!"

The authority of the Council of the Seven Flames is now so thin that it is almost forgotten.

When the old man was young, he did not hesitate to go to war with countless tribes, just to be able to keep the seven-colored flame from being extinguished.

However, the Sioux tribal alliance migrated again and again, and the seven-colored flame that had just been lit would often be extinguished again in less than half a year.

The old chieftain, who had been fighting all his life, was finally powerless.

"Priest of Needle Mao, I really didn't think about why, we worked hard all our lives, but in the end, we were still a fragmented Sioux ......"

"Chief, maybe that's fate."

"Destiny ......"

The old chief coughed again, and after a long time sat back on the bed.

He sighed angrily, and looked at the top of the yurt with lost eyes.

"Destiny...... Is it to bring us to destruction? Priest of needle grass, could it be that the blood sacrifice of hundreds of thousands of people of our Sioux tribe could not save this fate of destruction? ”

The priest did not answer, and he did not know the answer.

"Get some sleep, Chief. It's getting late, it's time for you to rest! ”

"Alas!" The old chief sighed again. But he thought of another thing and asked, "Is Hongyun gone again?" ”

"Yes."

"Needle Grass Priest, I miss him so much—"

"I'll send someone to find him." The priest replied.

"Forget it, forget it, that's all I said. Let him go! It's okay to go! Let him go wherever he wants...... Young man...... When I was younger, when he was his age......"

The old chief on the bed said that he had slept and fell asleep.

The needle-grass priest beside the bed waited for a while before slowly walking out of the yurt.

Night had fallen, and the bonfires on the prairie flickered in the night wind, like cold stars in the sky.

The needle priest suddenly felt a little cold, he wrapped the tattered trench coat on his body, and for a moment, he didn't know whether he should step on his left foot or his right foot first?

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