Nine, The Journey of Crazy Horse

The enemy was positioned behind large rocks on the point of a hill near the Wind River. High Back Bone had led the Lakota raiding party deep into Snake country, but the men up on the ridge were not Snakes. Nonetheless, they showed a willingness to fight.

High Back Bone called the party together to plan an assault up the slope. The advantage clearly was with the unknown hidden enemy. The only cover on the slopes of the enemy hill was sparse sagebrush and small rocks, so a ground assault would be very risky. High Back Bone decided the best tactic would be to circle the hill on horseback and draw the enemy’s fire, causing him to use up his powder and bullets.

Though the Lakota managed to waste a few of their own precious bullets, the enemy on the hill did not fall for the trick. There was no choice but to dismount and use what little cover there was to advance up the hill. Two of the younger boys in the group were dispatched into a gully to hold the horses while everyone else spread out along the base of the hill. At a signal from High Back Bone, they began crawling. Halfway up, the enemy unloosed deadly fire, with the deep crack of gunfire echoing across the broad valley and bullets ricocheting off the rocky soil. Though no Lakota were hit, it was senseless to stay in the open. Someone managed to hit one of the enemy fighters as he moved from behind a rock, but otherwise the enemy was still entrenched. The Lakota moved back down the slope and regrouped.

There were two choices: call it a day and go home or make a mounted charge directly up the slope. The latter alternative was met with an exchange of intense, excited glances. High Back Bone decided they would position themselves all around the base of the hill and charge up from several directions at once.

Light Hair left his heavy muzzle-loader with the young horse holders. The new bow would be his weapon of choice since High Back Bone said there would be close fighting when they reached the top. A good bowman could send off more arrows in a short space of time and the rifle would be good for one shot at best. But he slid the six-shot pistol into his belt.

Waiting for his first taste of battle, Light Hair watched for the signal from High Back Bone, a stone’s throw to his right. He had stripped to his breechclout and moccasins, his hair loose in the manner of his dream and the lightning mark and hailstones painted on his chest. At the back of his head he wore the tail feathers from a red-tailed hawk, pointing down as when the hawk was about to strike his prey. Behind his left ear was the reddish-brown stone. In his right hand he held the bow, two arrows against his palm and a third clamped in his teeth. His quiver, bristling with arrows, was tied to the front of his waist to be in easy reach.

A shout came from High Back Bone as he urged his mount into a quick gallop to take him up the slope. Light Hair and the others did the same. Strangely, each rider had only a vague awareness of the others, though they could clearly hear dozens of hooves clattering on the rocky slope. Low, angry-sounding humming noises buzzed past their ears. The experienced fighting men knew it was the sound of passing balls from the enemy muzzle-loaders. The gunshots could be heard less than a heartbeat later.

Light Hair saw the large rocks getting closer with each jump of the horse. A man with a gun stepped out from behind a rock. Light Hair’s shot was pure instinct and he didn’t see if the arrow had hit its target. His horse pitched forward. The enemy who had stepped from behind the rock had managed to shoot the animal in the chest.

Light Hair rolled across the rocky slope. His horse was dead. His bow was gone. He quickly sliced the drag rope from his horse and ran down the slope, first in one direction, then another. A loose horse came out of nowhere and he managed to grab a handful of mane and swing on. There was gunfire from below and answering fire from the rocks at the top of the hill. The horse was rushing up the slope in blind panic and took his new rider in among the rocks.

With the pistol he snapped off a shot at a man who doubled over from the impact of the bullet. Gaining control of the horse, he raced down the slope, stopping to recover his bow. His quiver was still tied to his waist.

High Back Bone joined him, his horse winded. Together they charged up the slope again and in among the rocks. This time Light Hair used his bow and put an arrow through an enemy’s chest. Gunshots rang out from among the rocks and up from the slope. Bullets splattered against boulders or shattered small rocks on the ground. Unable to load another arrow, Light Hair used his pistol again, and another of the enemy went down.

Light Hair jumped from his horse to grab the hair of the dead enemy. A quick swipe with his knife separated a patch of scalp. As he ran toward a second body and grabbed another handful of hair, a sharp, smashing blow to his leg knocked him over. He went down in a heap but hurriedly regained his feet. Shouts and gunfire continued, bouncing off the huge boulders all around. Light Hair went from boulder to boulder as the gunfire waned, and then he hobbled down the slope.

The fight was over. Every one of the enemies had been killed. The Lakota rode among the rocks on the hill to make certain, and then they came down to gather around Light Hair. Most of them had seen him in the fight. Bullets and arrows had not touched him, except when he had tried to take the second scalp. His dream was true, they decided.

High Back Bone took the scalps from him and cleaned the wound in his lower leg. Someone rounded up Light Hair’s new horse, and they all rode away from the hill, a few new scalps dangling from lances or belts. Horses and guns were the prize, as well as the emergence of a new warrior among them.

That night around the fire, the full impact of the battle settled in like an uninvited and unwelcome visitor. Men had been killed. Light Hair had killed two men, the second and third human beings he had ever killed. The first was the Omaha girl in the country far to the east three years past.

Ghosts, the old warriors said, were the price a fighting man paid to follow the path of the warrior; somewhere behind the noble and espoused traditions, somewhere behind the achievements and the glory the ghosts waited. And they would always be there. Their dying would forever be part of the path of the man who took their lives, whether the act was honorable or justified or not. Their faces, and often their dying moments, could not be forgotten, unless the heart of the warrior was made of stone. And few could boast of that, though many might have secretly wished it to be so. Somewhere people they didn’t know—wives and daughters, mothers and granddaughters—would mourn. They would wail and gash themselves, their hearts torn in anguish. The path of the warrior was indeed strewn with broken hearts like so many stones on a long and winding trail.

The victory dances honored the warrior and the victory stories reaffirmed the tradition of the warrior, but very little, if anything, could chase away the dark memories that always lurked. The ghosts would always dull the edge of arrogance and bring a cold feeling at the most unexpected moments. Such was the price of being a warrior.

High Back Bone sent two of the young men ahead to announce their victory in the Snake country against an unknown - people. The encampment was waiting with smiles and laughter and songs. The victory was a good one because only two men had been wounded, no one had been killed, and young Light Hair had passed his first test.

His mothers fussed over him after his father treated the wound in his leg, although High Back Bone already had taken good care of it. His father quietly reminded him that though his victories would be many, he was never to take a scalp or boast of his deeds. That was why he was wounded, his father believed. A Thunder Dreamer must always do the opposite of what people expected. Though the people would expect him, as the warrior he now was, to claim the scalp of his enemy, one who was a Thunder Dreamer had to take a different path. Light Hair must walk the path of humility rather than the path of glory.

That night there was a victory dance. High Back Bone and the others described the battle and their parts in it. Four enemy warriors had been killed. Guns and horses had been captured. Everyone waited for the son of Crazy Horse to tell of his deeds, since according to the other men, he had turned the flow of the battle. But the boy hung back, reluctant to talk. Some thought it a little strange.

The celebration went far into the night, but Light Hair retreated to his parents’ lodge to rest his injured leg. Long days of riding had not helped ease the pain, so he welcomed the opportunity to be still, and to think.

The events of the past days had happened so quickly, beginning with the woman’s ceremony for Black Buffalo Woman. The family of Red Cloud was well known in many Oglala camps, and as his niece she would be courted by many young men who wanted the influence of such a family to help them in their ambitions. Light Hair knew that was how things worked for such families. It was the way influence was increased. No suitor would be allowed to stand outside her lodge unless he was from an important family.

Morning came with a gray light. The injury was more painful and had kept him awake through the night. The camp was into its usual routine. Horses were being moved from one end of the encampment to a meadow close by where the grass was still high. Dogs barked, children ran about and threw their laughter around. Light Hair’s mothers were busy outside, cooking, it seemed. His sister came once to bend over him closely, so he pretended to sleep. Little Cloud came to look as well, and left.

The sun was high when he finally roused himself. The pain in his leg had diminished somewhat and he had managed to doze a little. He sipped tea from the horn cup someone had left by the fire pit and finally dressed. He stepped out from the lodge and was surprised to see a crowd gathered in the camp circle; at the edge of it stood his father, wearing his best medicine robe decorated with long strands of horsehair.

A trilling arose among the women. His mothers stood behind his father, gentle smiles on their faces, and unmasked pride as well. Crazy Horse lifted his voice in a warrior’s honoring song, joined by his wives and Light Hair’s sister. After the song came more shouts and war whoops and trilling. Crazy Horse lifted his hand and walked forward and faced the crowd.

“I give my first son a new name this day,” he said, raising his voice. “I have heard the story of the brave things he did. I am proud, his mothers are proud, all of his family and friends are proud of our young man. So this day I give him a new name. I give him the name of his father and of his fathers before him. From this day forward I call him Crazy Horse!”

From somewhere in the crowd a drum pounded and another honoring song was raised and the crowd surged forward. High Back Bone, Little Hawk, He Dog, and Lone Bear were among the many who came forward smiling.