By Emily Davis • February 16, 2026 • Share
Thousands of women, children, and elders were forced from their homelands. Many were marched toward internment camps, while others fled west, trying to escape soldiers and militia patrols.
A small group of Dakota refugees gathered near Wood Lake, hoping the frozen cattails and marsh grasses would hide them.
Most were women with children. Most were starving. Almost none had warm clothing.
Among them was a girl remembered in Dakota oral tradition as Wičháŋhaŋ Ska, “White Light on Water.” Her father had been killed earlier that fall. Her mother was too weak to travel far. So White Light often walked the riverbanks searching for anything they could eat.
One day, her grandfather showed her something beneath an overhanging bank, a beaver den tunnel partly hidden by roots and ice. He told her quietly: “If soldiers come, go where the beaver goes. The river will guard you if you breathe slowly.” She never forgot it.
At dawn one bitter morning, they heard horses. Militiamen rode toward the marsh, rifles raised. They had been ordered to “clear out” any Dakota hiding near the lakes, no warning, no attempt at taking prisoners.
The first shots cracked across the frozen reeds. Women screamed for their children. Elders tried to run but fell in the snow. Bullets shattered ice as families scattered into the cattails.
White Light’s mother grabbed her wrist and whispered: “To the river now.”
They ran across the brittle ice until the bank rose before them. White Light slid feet first into the narrow entrance of the beaver den, her shoulders scraping the frozen edges. Her mother pushed her deeper, whispering: “Stay. Do not come out until the wind is the only sound.”
Inside, it was cold, wet, and cramped. She could smell mud and animal fur. Water pooled around her legs.
Above her, chaos continued. She heard….
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
