In a sacred manner I live my horses are many

When he had his first taste of the firewater he had not taken to it. It seemed to burn his whole throat as it went down and he had very nearly spat it out. The trader at the post had given it to them in exchange for some robes and a few others goods. Still after the initial burn had began to see why people seemed to go crazy for it. It made them all feel warm inside. Indeed after a few more swigs from the bottle they had all danced and sang and had a good time generally. Had he known where the path of alcohol would lead him he would not have partaken in that first drop. Still he had not seen for several years the dark things the firewater led to. How it caused brothers to fight against each other, how it broke up families how it destroyed lives. By the time he had seen and recognized this he was already addicted himself and he understood why the traders and other white men pushed it on his people so much. Because it placated them, made them fight among themselves, made them stupid. He never thought it would come to this though. That they would all be rounded up unto barren, meager plots of land like animals. That a great majority of them would be killed off by bullet and bayonet, disease, and starvation. The whiskey seemed to make him forget about all that. It seemed to make it go away, if only temporarily. A brief respite in an existence which had long since lost its luster. Sometimes he wished the soldiers had killed him so that he had not become what he was now. A weak pathetic old man living off scant rations and scrounging every last cent for a drink. He had been a warrior in his youth, a fighter, a great hunter and provider. He had the respect and esteem of his tribe and was revered by all. Now he was nothing. He was someone the other old ones used as an example of what not to become. He was a cauldron of shame, self loathing, and despair. Yes it would have been better to have been killed, with honor.