Joseph M. Marshall III (24 page)

He awoke in a lodge unfamiliar to him, but he knew the strong, old face that appeared as his eye cleared and he could see. One eye was still swollen along with the left side of his face. Old Spotted Crow, his uncle, the brother of Long Face, nodded a greeting and held him down as he tried to sit up.

“She is back with her people,” the old man said in answer to the question on his face. “My cousin Bad Heart Bull made it so. No one will harm her.”

He had been in and out of sleep for three days, he was told. The swelling on his face had gone down a little, but he would have a scar where the bullet had opened his face from the corner of his nose down to the jawline. There will be black powder in the scar from the pistol, Worm had indicated.

Two very fine horses were tied outside his uncle’s lodge, sent by No Water as a gesture of peace. Take them, his father advised, to soften the anger of those who would take revenge in your name. So he did, and the young men who wanted No Water turned over to them set aside their anger and put away their bows and guns. Now the only worry was Little Hawk, away on a raid into Snake country. Worm sent a young man to find him and give him the news—that his brother wanted peace among the Oglala most of all, and that that was why he had given back the woman who had been in his heart since boyhood.

When the fever caused by the wound finally broke, Crazy Horse rode back to his mothers’ lodge and put himself in their care. One cleaned his wound with her special medicine and the other fed him good buffalo stew to make him strong again. And when he slept, they sang the soft lullaby only a mother can, for they wanted to heal the wound in his heart as well.

The man returned from the Snake country saying he had not found Little Hawk and some wondered if he had tried at all.

Day by day he grew stronger as his face regained its narrow shape and the wound was not as tender to the touch. Finally came the day when he was strong enough to ride along on a hunt, even if all he did was watch a buffalo chase from a hill. Young men came to exchange a few words of greeting, glad to see him well again. But no one said anything at all about Black Buffalo Woman and the trouble that almost caused Oglalas to spill each other’s blood. Then one night the young men who had gone into Snake country with Little Hawk slipped back into camp. The raiding against the Snakes did not go well. On the way home, Little Hawk was killed by whites in an unexpected attack.

The news was like a war club to the stomach. As his mothers began to weep softly, Crazy Horse went out to stand alone in the night. His brother had been killed while he had been chasing after his own selfish needs.

The next day he saw No Water unloading meat at the lodge of a relative. Seeming to sense Crazy Horse’s anger, No Water jumped on his horse and galloped out of camp. Perhaps unable to contain his anguish over both the loss of the only woman he wanted and the death of his brother, Crazy Horse grabbed the nearest horse and gave chase. Across the broken land, he kept up the chase until No Water plunged his horse into the Elk River and escaped to the other side.

Not many days after that, the council of old men met, influenced by the relatives of Red Cloud and No Water. Crazy Horse was to return the Shirt, they decided. His actions over the woman endangered the peace of the Oglala like no outside enemy could, they said, and could not be overlooked. Though there was anger in his own lodge—and from the young men—at this trickery, Crazy Horse gave back the Shirt. Soon after that, the lodge of No Water moved far south to another camp and whispers were made behind the hand that Red Cloud was to be given the Shirt.

But the angry whispers that flowed from camp to camp opened the ears of the council of old men. It would be just as dangerous to name another Shirt Wearer since the people didn’t agree that it should have been taken from the light-haired one, and the old men didn’t want to be the cause of bad blood by their actions. So they solved the problem by letting it lie, never to pick it up again. Never again would the Oglala have new Shirt Wearers.

High Back Bone returned from the north two months later and listened with hard eyes to the news of Little Hawk. News of the trouble over Black Buffalo Woman had already reached him, even far to the north. But there was other news as well. Old Spotted Crow and He Dog had talked to the family of Red Feather, a young man who thought well of Crazy Horse. There was a strong woman in that family, the older sister of Red Feather, who was still unmarried well past the time when women were. It was her choice to say yes or no to the offer made, and so Black Shawl became the wife of Crazy Horse.

The old women who had watched the light-haired one grow into a good man were satisfied that such a match had been made. So they pitched a new lodge close to that of his mothers, and it was good to see the wife of their headman set the red willow tripod to the right of the door and hang his warrior things from it. Such a thing showed the people that he was walking the path of life with a good woman.

Soon after the new lodge had been pitched, the new couple had ridden off together south toward the Sweetwater. It was a long and arduous journey, dangerous too, into enemy country. But everyone knew that Crazy Horse was riding to find what might be left of his younger brother. They returned more than a month later and Black Shawl quietly told Red Feather that they had found the bones of Little Hawk and put them on a scaffold hidden from any enemy. Behind them came stories of Lakota raiding against miners sifting for gold in the cold creeks. Many had been killed but not scalped, and each body had a Lakota arrow impaled in the heart.

Crazy Horse said no words in response to those stories as he sat smoking his short-stemmed pipe, the sign that he had lost a place of high honor. But the young men in his camp noticed that he walked straight again with the sure step of a man who knows where he is going and where he has been. He did not sit in the council lodge with the old men, however, so he was not there when Red Cloud came to speak to them. He had been to see the “great father,” riding for many days in the houses pulled by the iron horse. He talked of the rows of square houses in the towns of the whites, towns so large that a man would need a good horse and half a day to ride across one. It was easy to see that he was deeply impressed by the ways of the whites and of the things he had seen, among them buildings so large that a man with a strong bow could not send an arrow across from one side to the other. These things the old men heard with raised eyebrows. But when he talked of the treaty paper, they all leaned in close.

The land has a new beginning and a new ending, he said. New pictures of the land had been drawn and new territory had been set aside for all the Lakota to live in for as long as the grass grows and the rivers flow. Where, they asked, might be this new territory? East from the Great Muddy to west of the Black Hills, was the reply, and north from above the Running Water to a line that crosses east and west below the Knife River.

“What of the Powder River country?” a young man wanted to know.

The Powder River would always be Lakota hunting grounds, was the straight-faced reply, but “we must move our camps to the new territory that the whites call the ‘great reservation.’”

Throughout the Oglala camps, as in the Hunkpatila council lodge, there was anger and much debate. Clearly Red Cloud had agreed, in the name of the Lakota, to the whims of the peace talkers written on their paper. In return, he had been given his own place to live, his own agency. The young men felt that the paper had no power over the lives of any Lakota. They said, We are Lakota and these are our lands and we will not move our lodges here or there because one man made a mark on a paper, a paper with words that could not be known or understood by even the wisest Lakota. The white man can use those words, change those words, to fit his truth and his needs, was the angry sentiment.

The council at Bear Butte had given him the power to make his mark for the Oglala, Red Cloud reminded those who questioned him. That was true, some agreed, but in looking back, it was not the right thing to do.

Red Cloud returned to his own camp but kept away from Fort Laramie until the whites called him in to take charge of the distribution of wagonloads of goods. Many of the northern Oglala camps came to see what things the whites were giving in return for the power to tell the Lakota what to do and where to live. Ignoring the threats and ridicule of some young men, Red Cloud gave orders and the goods were placed in four very large piles—three for the headmen that he knew would stand behind him, and one for himself. So Long Knife Horse, Man Afraid, and Red Dog came forward to claim the goods for their camps. It was said there were over five thousand Lakota there.

There was one headman who had not brought his people down, and his absence was a loud message. Crazy Horse is doing the right thing, many of the young men said to one another. His power has grown the old way, in the hearts and minds of those who follow him. Perhaps, some said, I will take my family north and pitch my lodge in his camp.

Sitting Bull sent a message from the north when he had heard the white peace talkers say that Red Cloud now spoke for all the Lakota. No one speaks for my people but me, Sitting Bull had said, and even then only in words they tell me to use.

In the Moon When Leaves Fall, after the autumn hunts had been made and the meat containers were full, High Back Bone gave in to restlessness and invited Crazy Horse on a raid into Snake country. They rode over the passes of the Shining Mountains and crossed the Wind River into enemy lands. Here a rain came and turned the land into an endless bog. Horses were sliding and falling to their knees. Cold, wet moisture seeped beneath the robes and dampened the powder, and worse, made the bowstrings lose their tautness.

The scouts returned, having found a large camp—one that would not expect enemies to attack in this rain, High Back Bone thought. But Crazy Horse advised caution. There were only three rifles among them and bows were useless in the rain. For the first time in their friendship, High Back Bone scoffed at the younger man. If anyone was afraid, they could wait, he said; he would go on alone.

They split their force in two, High Back Bone leading one, Crazy Horse the other. But as they approached the camp, Crazy Horse held back because the horses had no good footing. High Back Bone rode to him angrily with a scolding.

“If you do not want this, you can go back, but I will stay and fight!”

They attacked, but the Snakes were too many. The two Lakota groups were too far apart to regroup and the mud was too deep, their horses tired. Somehow they managed to hold back the determined counterattack. Crazy Horse, High Back Bone, and Good Weasel, with their rifles, were the rear guard as the others retreated. First one fell back, then another, managing to keep the Snakes at bay. But several Snakes on fresh horses suddenly were able to surround High Back Bone, and Crazy Horse saw his old friend take a bullet in the chest. Still, the old warrior pulled out his pistol and emptied it at the onrushing enemy until they overran him. Crazy Horse rode in to rescue him, but his horse was too tired from pulling himself out of the mud and the enemy fire was too much. Good Weasel finally intervened, grabbing the rein to his horse.

The rain turned into snow as they rode toward home. Sometime in the night, they found a sheltered place and built a warming fire while the horses rested. Crazy Horse sat huddled beneath his robe, alone with thoughts of his old friend and teacher. Their last words to each other had been in anger. And the one who had taken him from boy to man, the one who had given him the skill to be a fighting man and the heart to be a good man, lay dead in the mud.

Crazy Horse rested, and when their horses had regained strength and the snows stopped, he and his brother-in-law, Red Feather, returned to recover the body of his old friend. Coyotes had already scattered the bones about. They wrapped them in a good elk robe and took him home to his family.

Crazy Horse smoked his pipe and pondered all that had happened since he and He Dog had carried the lances against the Crow. Much had been taken away, it seemed. First, Black Buffalo Woman, then his place as a Shirt Wearer. Now his younger brother and his oldest friend were gone. He took little comfort in knowing they had died on the path they had chosen. There was only emptiness where they had been. Perhaps these things had come to pass because he had not fully honored the calling to be a Thunder Dreamer. Though he had learned the importance of honoring the old ways from his father and uncles, and his mothers, he was not one for ceremonies or standing in front of the people. But if he must live a life of sacrifice, he would. As a Thunder Dreamer, he did not belong to himself, he belonged to the people. It was not what he wanted for his life, but it was what life wanted from him.

The old men suggested they move to Rosebud Creek because the buffalo were moving in great herds, and it was always good to make more meat since the old weather women were fearful of deep snows coming. South of the Tongue, it seemed, there were fewer and fewer buffalo, which worried some of the old men. So they moved and camped close to the Mniconju and Itazipacola. The snows were deep and the winter winds did howl, but there was plenty to eat and there were many long visits in the lodges of relatives and friends, and long nights of storytelling from the old ones.

In the spring, they moved back south a little to find good grazing for the horses to grow fat and strong. An old woman, a relative of Black Shawl’s family, had come to live in the lodge of Black Shawl and Crazy Horse. Many people came to visit in the lodge of the headman, and all needed to be fed, and, for this, the woman of the lodge needed help. Especially since she was expecting her first child.

In the south, Red Cloud was still arguing with the Long Knives and peace talkers because he wanted a different place for his agency. Some of the young men from the Crazy Horse camp rode south to see for themselves, Little Big Man among them. There were many Oglala camped around the fort, they saw, all waiting for the annuities from the whites while the women made soup from the meat of the longhorn cattle. With the annuities came a new agent, a “little father” not known to Red Cloud and one not so turned by his words. Perhaps, some suggested wryly, Red Cloud should travel east and speak with the “great father” about this.