Reap the Whirlwind (31 page)

“Likely that white fella riding out front,” Grouard said as he came alongside the trio hurrying with the rest toward Crook’s headquarters.

“You got any idea who that is?” Donegan asked the half-breed.

“Crook already knows who it is, who’s bringing them Shoshone in to join up,” Grouard explained. “Got the leaders’ names in a wire from Camp Brown.”

Of a sudden the white man leading the procession shouted his sharp order and set off at a smart trot. The rest came on his heels as precisely as any company of frontier cavalry, prancing along in a column of twos, a pair of American flags flying from staffs above the first pair of
warriors. Over the rest bobbed ceremonial lances fluttering with scalplocks and feathers, each man clutching a gleaming, well-oiled .45-caliber Springfield rifle across his lap as the eighty-one Shoshone loped up to Crook’s headquarters behind the three civilians from Camp Brown on the Wind River Reservation.

The leader came to a halt right before the Sibley tent where Bourke had raised Crook’s command standard that morning. His arm signaled to the ranks at his rear. The pair carrying the American flags turned on cue, the rest following as they came “left front into line.” As they did, a pair of civilians brought their horses up directly behind their white leader and halted on the open ground between the commander and the wide front of flowing, fluttering Shoshone headdresses, each man resplendent in buckskin and bright blood-red wool, brass buttons gleaming in the sun and everything adorned with sprays of feathers.

“I haven’t seen cavalry do that manuever so pretty in my ten years out west,” Seamus remarked to those watching with him.

“That white fella trained them well, eh?” Finerty asked.

“I’ll have to meet him,” Donegan answered. “Chances be, we rode the same battlefield years ago.”

“Yes,” Finerty replied. “I’ll have to get that man’s story myself.”

Above the quieting crowd a single voice now called out. “Do I have the honor of addressing General Crook?” asked the lone civilian out front of the Shoshone he had just brought in.

“You do, sir,” Crook replied, taking a few steps forward before he came to a halt again. “Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

With a salute that he snapped smartly away from his brow, the civilian answered, “Tom Cosgrove, General. Commanding—Shoshone volunteers, Wind River Agency.”

“Mr. Cosgrove, a damn fine pleasure to meet you,” Crook replied, saluting the civilian with a toothy smile. “Come down here and let me shake your hand.”

Kicking his right leg over the saddle, Cosgrove dropped to the ground, strode quickly to Crook, and they shook.

The general asked, “You brought how many with you?”

“I have eighty-one who remained with me. With five who journeyed to the Crow. I expect they’re here.”

Crook’s brow knitted. “I was told to expect more. Did some turn back?”

“About fifty, General. But I have eighty-six ready to fight”

“Do I detect some south in your voice, Mr. Cosgrove?”

The civilian beamed. “Yes, General. Texas. We might well have fought one another. R. P. Crump was my commander—Texas Thirty-second, sir.”

Crook beamed even more, stroking one side of his wrapped beard. “Happy we never did meet in battle—not against you or R. P. Crump. From everything I heard during the war, you and that bunch of Texas Rangers were as nail-tough an outfit as the Confederacy ever put into battle on horse. Mr. Cosgrove—I’m damned proud to have you and your volunteers with us!”

Straightening as his chest swelled, Cosgrove replied, “I’m proud to lead in these Shoshone irregulars, General Crook. Trained ’em myself. They’re ready to fight the Sioux. Ready as any man ever was to fight his mortal enemy.”

Moon of Fat Horses

L
ittle Hawk’s half-a-hundred returned to the great
encampment opposite the mouth of Muddy Creek on the Rosebud, shrieking with joy, shouting with fevered excitement, broadcasting their accomplishment in that aborted attempt to run off some of the horses from the soldier camp.

None of their number had been killed, although two ponies had been wounded—so Wooden Leg had had a lot of fun.

But now the Shahiyena and Lakota camps were eager for war. No more horse raids. No more to simply harass the soldiers. The goal was to attack the soldiers marching from the south, to sting them bad enough that they would choose to sit on their hands instead of marching to attack. Which was just what they had done to the soldiers up on Elk River. They had run off the pony herd belonging to the Raven People scouting for the soldiers. They fired random shots into the soldier camp, forcing the soldier pickets to hug their camp closely. It was good. Those soldiers were sitting tight, refusing to budge, on the north bank of the river.

All they had to do now was convince this second soldier column to turn back to the south.

Ever since Wooden Leg’s eleven had brought in the news of another army on the Tongue River, the Shahiyena’s medicine men had called for hunters to bring them all the horns they could harvest from buffalo bulls. With these the shamans were constructing special headdresses: caps of curly buffalo fur, the two horns reattached on either side, decorated with special earth paint that would guarantee the warriors who wore such a sacred headdress would be bullet proof.

But with the coming of news from far-ranging scouts that the soldier column was on the move again, this time to Goose Creek, the time for battle was at hand. Sadly, less than sixty of the powerful headdresses were ready for the Shahiyena warriors.

“Wooden Leg, you must come!” Crooked Nose hollered. “Crazy Horse is about to address the war council. They are planning our fight with the soldiers. Join me!”

It was a night Wooden Leg knew he would long remember, watching the unadorned war chief standing at the center of that great council of chiefs. Hundreds upon hundreds upon hundreds more of warriors gathered like the oaks of a mighty forest around that ring of old men and counselors. Along with Sitting Bull, still weak from his sundance ordeal, the mighty Hunkpapa were represented by Crow King and Black Moon. Big Road of the Oglalla was there to offer his wisdom. Spotted Eagle of the Sans Arcs. Miniconjou chiefs Touch the Clouds and Fast Bull. Inkpaduta, leader of the uprising in Minnesota, sat among that council to represent the dwindling numbers of the Santee and Yanktonais. And for the Shahiyena, Old Bear, Two Moon, and Charcoal Bear.

Standing alone to address them, Crazy Horse spoke.

“We have stopped the soldiers to the north. They are afraid to cross the Elk River to fight us—their hearts are like water. And now our wolves have gone to the south to see and count for themselves the soldiers who march against us. They say the ground is black with them, their white tents like great patches of old snow spread across the prairie at Goose Creek. Now more of the Raven People have joined Three Stars’s soldiers. We are told the Snakes are on their way to join in this fight against us.”

“But we knew they were our enemies,” Big Road said.

“Yes,” Crazy Horse agreed. “What stings me most is that our wolves tell me they saw two guiding the Raven People back to Three Stars’s camp. Two of the French trader’s sons who will guide the soldiers against our villages: the one called the Big Bat; and my old friend … the Grabber.”

Instantly there arose a great outcrying for the half-breed’s blood, a call for his capture and painful torture as partial repayment for his betrayal. Eventually the Horse quieted them.

“I say we do not wait for the soldiers to attack our villages. I say our warriors ride to attack them!”

The crowd responded mightily, challenging the chiefs.

“What is the village to do without the warriors here to protect us?” asked one of the old men.

Another shouted, “Yes—what if the Raven People or the Snake attack us while our warriors are away fighting the soldiers—what then, Crazy Horse? Would you have our people scattered across these hills like the dust from a puff-ball?”

“He is right,” cried a third reluctant chief. “We must keep our mighty warriors here. Let them stand as a wall around our camps. As a fortress between the people and those soldiers of Three Stars when they attack!”

“This is talk of women!” Big Road hollered back at them, standing at the edge of the inner circle. “You speak like old, frightened women!”

“Let’s go right now!” came the cry from the hundreds of young warriors gathered in a great ring around the council.

More and more took up the cry as the first began to turn and press backward, perhaps eager to catch up their war ponies and ride south. Then, with one gesture from his hand, Sitting Bull dispatched his many, mighty
akicita
to stop the impetuous warriors.

His voice still weak, the Bull told the assembly, “Wait. There will be fighting soon enough. First I would hear the words of Crazy Horse. My heart tells me the Hunkpatila war chief has words that will inspire the hearts of warriors all.”

“Hoye! Hoye!” the crowd rumbled their approval.

The Horse waited for the clamor to grow silent. When only the insects were heard scritching among the green branches of the rough-barked Rustling Trees along the creek, he spoke again.

“I say the older warriors and chiefs will remain behind in camp—to guard our women and children and the sick ones. I would ask Black Moon and Crow King to remain behind … to lead the older warriors if the need should arise to defend our camps. While they remain here with the older men, I will take the rest—they will follow me south!”

There arose a sudden and exuberant outburst as nearly every voice was raised, warriors singing their blood songs and vowing on their lives to carry death to the soldiers.

Crazy Horse quieted them, then continued, “But you must heed my words: this will be a far different kind of war we must fight. Some of you will remember the winter we spent near the Piney Fort. Those of you will remember how I told you then that we must no longer fight only to count coup. Instead, we knew we had to fight to kill. These many winters later, the white man once more sends his soldiers against us. These too are men without homes. Men without wives and children. We warriors have both homes and families to protect.

“Like the fight of the Hundred in the Hand … this too will be that sort of battle.

“The soldiers are coming to kill us, our families. To kill our women and children. We, then, must drive them away for good. If we cannot drive them from our hunting ground … then we must kill them. Kill them all.”

That evening after the council proved no different from all the previous nights through the last three moons as the village slowly moved from camp to camp. Families feasted other families, there was dancing and singing and celebration as men brought out their weapons, cleaning the guns, sharpening the axes, hawks studded with long nails, knives, and buffalo lances. Everywhere the girls stood waiting in their best blankets as the young warriors strutted through the many camp circles, showing off their finest regalia, singing out their exploits. And those yet unproven warriors? They shouted loudest, proclaiming just what they
vowed to accomplish in their first battle against the soldiers.

Sadly, there were a few who did not share in the full measure of these festivities as the warriors prepared to ride south to victory. In each village were those who saw this summer’s gathering as the last any of them would share before being rounded up, corralled, and driven in for all time to subsist on the white man’s flour and moldy pig meat. While chiefs like Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse proclaimed the camp would fight to the last man, vowing that the white man would never divide and conquer their great assembly, promising that the Lakota and Shahiyena would stay free and roaming forever … nevertheless there were those who recognized this summer’s fight as the final swan song before their great peoples went down to defeat.

Their few voices, however, were silenced, drowned out with the merriest celebration. A few of the gloomiest of the Lakota people were even preparing to leave, taking down their lodges and packing up, when Sitting Bull’s camp police, the
akicita
, showed up to slash the bindings on their travois, to bully and threaten those who would depart. No one would be leaving the camp, the
akicita
declared. Sitting Bull would not allow it. For now there would be a united front against the coming white assault on this last great hunting ground.

So united and celebrating, readying themselves for the coming fight, the village moved on up the Rosebud a few miles each morning. Then yesterday the Shahiyena chiefs had turned away from the Rosebud, leading the wide march of travois twelve miles west up the divide of the Chetish Mountains,
^*
to Sundance Creek,
^†
which would take them down toward the valley of the Greasy Grass River
^‡
on the far side.

With each new sun the ponies grew sleeker, made stronger on the tall grasses nourished by the spring rains.

Even old Black Elk, the aged cousin of Crazy Horse, had come in from the Red Cloud Agency at long last. His
arrival brought great joy—for the venerable old man was proclaiming that this time he had come to fight to his death, preferring that to selling away the Paha Sapa to the white men as the agency chiefs were preparing to do.