Between Two Worlds
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 6: The Journey of Johnny White Buffalo
The entire tribe had gathered in the great circle as the sun reached its zenith, their faces painted with joy and reverence. Chief Mahpiya Luta—Red Cloud—stood tall in his war bonnet and ceremonial robes, his weathered hands raised toward the sky. The winter wind carried the smoke of sacred sage across the assembly as he began to speak, his voice carrying the weight of authority and gratitude.
“Hear me, my people! Today we see the power of Wakan Tanka, the Great Spirit, who moves in ways we cannot always understand. Our daughter, our Warrior Princess Winona—she who was stolen from us like the sun stolen by night—has returned to us like the dawn!”
A chorus of voices rose in agreement, and several women made the high, trilling calls of celebration that echoed across the valley. Johnny stood beside Winona, overwhelmed by the ceremony and trying to follow the Lakota words he was still learning.
Red Cloud continued, his gaze moving from Winona to Johnny. “But she did not return by her own strength alone. The Great Spirit sent her a protector—this white man who stands before us. Johnny McKenzie, the Waseca who chose to become more than basic.”
The chief’s voice grew stronger, carrying to the edges of the gathering. “This young man looked upon our daughter in chains and saw not a captive to be pitied, but a person to be freed. He asked for no reward, expected no gratitude. He risked death from slavers, death from cold, death from starvation. He suffered injury and hunger, yet never turned back. Through the Thunder Basin, across the trackless prairie, up the mountain valleys—he brought our Warrior Princess home.”
Johnny felt his cheeks burn as hundreds of pairs of eyes studied him. He had not expected such a public acknowledgment, and the weight of their attention was almost overwhelming.
For forty-six days, they walked together through the land of death. When she was weak, he carried her. When he was injured, she tended to him. When food ran short, they shared what little they had. When the cold sought to claim them, they kept each other warm with courage and determination.”
Red Cloud paused, letting the magnitude of the journey sink in. “This white man has proven his devotion to our people through his actions. He shall be called Šúŋka Ská—White Horse—and he shall be welcomed as a son of this tribe, to earn his place among us through his deeds!”
The murmur that ran through the crowd was approving, though Johnny could sense they were waiting to see what those future deeds might prove.
The celebration that followed was unlike anything Johnny had ever experienced. But it was Winona’s quiet words, spoken just for him as the crowd began to disperse, that stopped his world completely.
“There is something else you must know,” she said, her dark eyes dancing with mischief and something that might have been nervousness. “Something I did not tell you before.”
“What?” Johnny asked, though he was distracted by the ongoing festivities around them.
“My father ... he is not just any war chief, Johnny. He is Wapaha Ska—White Feather—one of the most respected leaders among all the Lakota bands. And I...” She paused, biting her lower lip in a gesture he found achingly familiar. “I am what your white people call princess. A warrior princess of the Lakota.”
Johnny stared at her, his mouth falling open in shock. “You mean ... you’re actually...?”
“A princess, yes,” Winona said with a small shrug, as if it were no more significant than mentioning the weather. “Daughter of a war chief, trained in both warrior ways and healing ways. Did you think my father taught fighting skills to just any girl?”
Johnny continued to stare, his mind reeling. All this time, through their desperate journey, their growing love, their shared hardships—he had been traveling with royalty. A real, honest-to-God princess.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he finally managed.
Winona’s smile was gentle but knowing. “Would it have changed anything? Would you have treated me differently?”
“I ... no, but...” Johnny struggled for words. “Jesus, Winona. I’s in love with a princess.”
“You are in love with me,” she corrected softly. “The rest is just ... how you say ... meaningless words.”
After the jubilation of Winona’s safe return to her parents and people came the next step—the step that Winona and Johnny feared most. Would the tribe, and more importantly, her father, accept Johnny and allow him somehow to prove himself worthy to marry their Warrior Princess?
The reality of Winona’s status sank in gradually over the following days. Johnny watched how the other tribal members deferred to her, how they sought her counsel on matters of healing and tribal lore, how even seasoned warriors treated her with a respect that went beyond mere courtesy. She was not just the daughter of a war chief—she was a leader in her own right, trained from childhood to help guide her people one day.
And somehow, impossibly, she had chosen him.
But her status also made their situation more complicated. When Winona stood before the people and the council to explain Johnny’s bravery and resourcefulness—how he had prepared their escape in secret, protected her throughout their long, arduous journey, how he had been her strength during the toughest parts of the trek despite his injured knee—Johnny could see the mixture of admiration and concern in the faces around them.
“Not fearing tribal rejection, he spit in the face of death and vowed to the Great Spirit to bring me home safely,” Winona declared, her voice carrying across the council circle. “When I shivered with cold, when I was thirsty and hungry and tired, he urged me on. He never faltered, never complained, never asked for anything but the chance to see me safely returned to my people.”
The response was positive, but Johnny could sense the undercurrent of worry. A white man courting any Lakota woman was complicated enough. A white man courting their princess was something else entirely.
It was Wičháȟpi Iyóhaŋmi (Shooting Star) and his wife Ptesáŋwiŋ (White Buffalo Woman) who stepped forward to offer a solution. They had watched Johnny during his first weeks in the camp, seen his genuine respect for their ways, his eagerness to learn, his protection of their people.
“We will take him in,” Shooting Star announced, “on account of his Lakota heart. He brought our Warrior Princess home, not fearing death to protect her. This shows the spirit of our people lives within him.”
They gave him the name Šúŋka Ská (White Horse) and provided him with the tools he would need to prove himself: three horses, a Spencer repeating rifle with ammunition, blankets and buckskin to complement his bison coat. More importantly, they gave him the patient guidance he needed to understand his new world.
Daily, Winona gave him language lessons, teaching him not just words but the subtle meanings behind them, the cultural context that gave them weight. She taught him the rituals and customs of the Lakota people, helping him understand the spiritual significance of ceremonies he had witnessed, the proper way to address elders, the complex relationships between different families and clans within the tribe.
Johnny threw himself into learning with the same determination that had carried him across the Thunder Basin. He made it his job to ride lookout whenever women or young girls needed to forage outside the tribe’s perimeter, earning respect through his vigilance and his obvious commitment to protecting the most vulnerable members of his adopted community.
One day, about three weeks after his arrival, that commitment was put to the ultimate test.
He was riding lookout when he spotted a young girl who had wandered outside the tribal perimeter, alone and vulnerable about fifty yards from the nearest group of foragers. Johnny started to move in her direction to guide her back to safety, but then he saw them: three riders approaching from the ridge above, white men moving with the quiet stealth of predators.
Johnny’s blood ran cold as he recognized the hunting pattern—the same methodical approach he had seen used against Winona months earlier. These men were not here by accident. They were specifically hunting for captives.
Johnny pulled his Spencer repeating rifle from his back and took aim at the rider closest to the girl. “Stop right there!” he hollered across the distance.
The lead rider wheeled his horse around, his hand going to his pistol, but Johnny was ready. The .52 caliber bullet took the man square in the chest, the impact so violent it threw him backward off his horse like a rag doll.
Johnny quickly cocked the lever of his Spencer and took aim at the second rider, but the remaining slavers had seen enough. They turned and fled down the ridge, having no stomach for a fight against someone who could shoot back.
Johnny had no intention of shooting men in the back as they retreated, but the gunshot had served its purpose. Within minutes, three Lakota warriors arrived on horseback, summoned by the sound of the rifle shot. The young girl ran to Johnny, tears streaming down her face, and he quickly dismounted and helped her onto his horse.
One of the warriors rode with Johnny and the girl back to camp while the other two retrieved the dead slaver and his horse, bringing them back as proof of White Horse’s actions. But more importantly to the tribe, Johnny had spilled white man’s blood to protect Lakota blood—the ultimate test of where his true loyalties lay.
The incident transformed Johnny’s status within the tribe overnight. No longer was he just the white man who had rescued their princess. Now he was White Horse, the adopted son who had proven he would kill his own kind to protect his new people.
But even with this newfound respect, Johnny knew that formal challenges lay ahead. He was deeply in love with Winona—had been since those desperate nights crossing the Thunder Basin—and she had made it clear that she returned his feelings. But she was a warrior princess and tribal healer, daughter of the respected war chief Wapaha Ska (White Feather) and the medicine woman Chumani (Dew Drops). Their courtship would require more than just mutual affection.
Despite risking his life to steal her away from slavery traders, despite their forty-six-day journey together, despite shedding blood to protect the tribe, Johnny had yet to undergo the formal adoption ceremony that would make him truly Lakota in the eyes of all the people.
More importantly, he had never proven himself through the vision quest that would mark his transition to Lakota manhood and make him eligible for marriage to someone of Winona’s standing.
The Council’s Decision
The matter came to a head when Winona’s father formally challenged Johnny’s standing in the tribe. At the evening council, White Feather stood and spoke with the measured authority of a man accustomed to being heard:
“This white boy has rescued our princess and returned her to us safely. He has drawn white blood to protect our people. For these things, we honor him. But he remains wasicu—white man in his heart and spirit. How can my daughter marry one who has never been truly adopted, who has never received his vision, who has not proven the spirits accept him as one of us?”
The council listened respectfully as others voiced their opinions. Some warriors argued that Johnny had already proven himself in battle against his own kind. Others insisted that blood could not be changed by ceremony alone, that a white man would always be white regardless of what rituals he underwent.
Finally, Chief Red Cloud raised his hand for silence, and the great circle fell still.
“White Horse has shown courage and loyalty beyond question,” the chief said thoughtfully. “He has bled for our people and shares our grief and joy. His heart beats with ours when our children laugh, when our elders speak wisdom, when our warriors face danger. But White Feather speaks wisdom also. If this young man wishes to marry among us—especially to marry our Warrior Princess—he must first become one of us in the fullest sense. He must undergo the hanblečeya and prove that the spirits accept him as Lakota.”
The chief turned to Johnny, his weathered face grave but not unkind. “White Horse, you have lived as our son, and we have welcomed you as family. But now you must choose your path with full knowledge of its cost. Will you undergo the trials to become truly Lakota, knowing that you may not survive, and that even if you do, some will still see only your white skin?”
Johnny stood, his heart pounding so hard he was sure everyone in the circle could hear it. In broken but determined Lakota, he replied: “Honored father, I have no other people. The spirits led me to Winona and through her to her people, who became my people when I had nothing and no one. I was a white man without a tribe, without purpose. I choose the path of the Lakota, whatever the cost.”
The Adoption Ceremony
The formal adoption ceremony took place under the full moon three days later, when the spiritual power was said to be strongest. Johnny was stripped of all his clothes and painted with sacred symbols by Ptesáŋwiŋ, the woman who had agreed to become his adoptive mother.
Red ochre marked his forehead with the symbol of the four directions, acknowledging his place in the sacred circle of all existence. White clay outlined his face like a skull, representing his death as a white man and his willingness to leave that identity behind. Finally, yellow paint traced lightning bolts on his chest, symbolizing the spiritual power that would be needed for his rebirth as Lakota.
The entire band formed a great circle around the sacred fire, their faces solemn in the flickering light. Chief Red Cloud began the ceremony with prayers to Wakȟáŋ Tȟáŋka, asking the Great Spirit to witness this transformation and judge whether it was genuine.
“Today, we bury the white boy Johnny McKenzie,” the chief declared, his voice carrying to every person in the circle. “His old life dies here, in this sacred fire. From these ashes, let Šúŋka Ská—White Horse—be reborn as true Lakota, if the spirits will it.”