Seventeen, The Journey of Crazy Horse

Death was not new to him. He’d been taught that it was part of life and that sooner or later everyone dies, as his mother had. Lone Bear, High Back Bone, and Little Hawk were gone, too. Men died in battle sometimes—and he was not surprised that they were gone, or at the way they had died as fighting men. But the bundle atop this scaffold was a harder reality. It was a reality that challenged the goodness in life. He fell across it and wept uncontrollably.

The news that awaited him fanned his anger even more. Soldiers had gone into the Black Hills—a large contingent, according to the sketchy reports from a few Lakota who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. A group, friendly to the whites, had been watching the column of wagons and soldiers when they were attacked. One of the Lakota was killed and another wounded. They somehow managed to escape to tell their story.

Lakota fighting men should have been there to attack in force. Every man in camp would have followed Crazy Horse, but they would have suffered heavy losses because they had few bullets and little powder. Soldiers were always well armed, and now the advantage of numbers was on their side. So they were able to travel through the Black Hills along their “Thieves Road” in relative safety to accomplish whatever task they were sent in to do. Every Lakota knew the soldier’s task was to find the gold, something the whites had always been willing to die and kill for.

Black Shawl fixed a meal for them and prepared the dried meat he would need to take along. He carefully inspected enough arrows to fill two quivers and counted his few bullets. Sometime after they had eaten, he took her hairbrush and gently brushed her hair, though it was not as long as it once was. In mourning for their daughter, she had to cut it to her shoulders. She accepted the gesture in the same spirit that it was given. From his paint bag, he prepared a little mixture, and, with the tip of his finger, colored the part down the middle of her head. He had painted it red. Tomorrow, after he had gone, she would walk among the people and they would see the coloring and know that she was a woman greatly loved. But for the coming night, they would hold off tomorrow and sleep beneath the soft, comforting buffalo robe. They would hold each other close, perhaps pretending there were no troubles in the world.

The next morning, Crazy Horse and a small group of hardened veterans set out east toward the Black Hills. Feeling relatively secure in their own territory, they traveled swiftly. They carried an assortment of firearms, a few muzzle-loading rifles, a few cap-and-ball pistols, and some breech-loading single-shot rifles captured at the Battle of the Hundred in the Hand eight years earlier. Powder and bullets were in short supply, however, so as a backup each man had a bow, some two, and at least one quiver of forty or so arrows. Lances, knives, and hand clubs for close-in fighting rounded out their arsenal.

One of the men suddenly spoke of his sister, a young woman who had been abducted by soldiers when the family had visited relatives near the post on Horse Creek years earlier during the height of white movement on the Holy Road. When she didn’t come home, the family thought she was staying with a cousin. Days later she returned, so withdrawn into herself that she spoke to no one for days. When she finally did, her story broke her mother’s heart and sent her father into a rage. Only the influence of her closest friend prevented him from taking revenge. Months later, the girl gave birth to a light-skinned baby with gray eyes. She would have nothing to do with the child and her mother finally gave it away to relatives who raised the boy. In the storyteller’s opinion, what had happened to his sister was happening to the Black Hills. No one could disagree, and so they rode on in silence.

Not only were these mountains the place of Crazy Horse’s birth, they were the center of the Lakota world, which carried far more meaning. The heart of everything that is. Sun Dances were done here near Bear Butte and on its summit; many boys on the edge of young manhood, and men seeking to rediscover their path, did the vision quest. No one knew how many Lakota were laid to rest here in these mountains—over countless seasons their flesh and bones becoming one with this most sacred of places. There was no way to own these mountains, not in the sense one owned clothing or a weapon. But this was a place to feel connected, truly related to everything that is. It was a place that owned the Lakota. Any of these truths were reason enough to protect the Black Hills at all costs.

The rumors and fears were true. Whites were in the Black Hills and were not hard to find. Along just about every stream, groups of them had set up strange wooden boxes through which they ran water. They were young and old, bearded, unkempt, and busy. Many of them simply dipped flat pans into the water and swirled it around. Watching from hiding, Crazy Horse and his men marveled at how much danger the miners were willing to face, how much discomfort they were willing to endure to find the gold. Gold, it was said, could buy anything for them including horses, dwellings, weapons, clothes, food, and women. It was a strange way to live, the Lakota thought as they watched the busy miners. Most of the little camps had no one on watch as sentinels to look out for any kind of danger. Finding the gold was apparently more important than their safety.

The tactics Crazy Horse and his companions used were simple, yet effective. After observing isolated miners’ camps to determine their numbers and weapons, they positioned themselves and swept in. If the terrain was rough and offered good cover, they sneaked in close on foot before they attacked. In open areas with little cover, they charged in on horses. In either situation, they used their lances and war clubs and the silent bow quite effectively. Rarely did any miner react quickly enough to fire a gun, which worked in the Lakota’s favor. Without gunshots to warn anyone else in the area, miners in the next valley or watershed remained oblivious and thus vulnerable to attack.

It was only a matter of time, however, before the whites began to discover the bodies left behind by Crazy Horse’s attacking force. But by then, the number of miners in the northern part of the Black Hills had been considerably reduced. After a wild shot by a terrified miner wounded a good man, Crazy Horse decided their foray was over. It was time to go home. With a string of pack mules they had captured, with many usable items still in their packs, such as butcher knives and iron cooking pots, they turned their horses westward. The most valuable booty, however, was rifles, pistols, and bullets. One of the men had given Crazy Horse a new kind of repeating rifle he had found, one that could be fired nine times before it had to be reloaded.

It was necessary to attack the miners and kill them. They were trespassers and thieves, not honorable enemies. The tactics they used were the only way to fight them, especially in the Black Hills. Strike hard and fast, inflict as much chaos and as many casualties as possible, and withdraw swiftly. That kind of fighting would play to the Lakota’s strengths and skills as fighters good at close combat. Crazy Horse spoke these thoughts to his companions as they rode home, and they listened and agreed. They had seen firsthand what could be done. If enough Lakota fighting men could be persuaded to fight in the same way, and if enough bullets and powder could be obtained, the whites could be driven away.

Crazy Horse found the duties of leadership waiting at home. The council of old men wanted to hear about the raiding, and so he told them. The pack mules, as well as the items in the packs, were given away to families who needed them. Crazy Horse spent long days in the council lodge with the old men; sometimes they talked far into the night. He felt a sense of restlessness at doing nothing but talking, especially given the sense of satisfaction from the successful raids against the miners in the Black Hills. But he realized that he was at a turning point in this life, a time when his experience was broad and he had much to draw on. He wasn’t ready to stop leading men in the field, but it was clearer that common sense and good thinking were as effective as dynamic, action-oriented leadership. He had a newfound appreciation for the wisdom of the old men. Yet the sense of restlessness wouldn’t dissipate.

Worm came to visit and got around to urging his son to exercise more caution when facing the enemy. Crazy Horse’s companions had told of their actions against the miners in the Black Hills and described how their leader was always the first to charge. Worm was concerned that his son was too reckless, admonishing that he had more than a family to worry over him. A leader had many families to think of and shouldn’t forget there were matters to attend to other than leading fighting men. There were other men capable and qualified to do that. But the old man’s underlying concern was his son’s state of mind after the death of his daughter. Recklessness was Crazy Horse’s way as a fighting man and it served to inspire other men to fight harder. Yet it was only natural to wonder if recklessness could now be a way to seek death, a way to challenge his boyhood vision, in a way, especially after the unexpected death of a beloved daughter. Worm understood only too well the confusing swirl that grief caused.

Crazy Horse listened to his father, taking no exception to the older man’s words and concerns. Worm was right. The nation was split, the sacred hoop of the people was broken. There were now two kinds of Lakota, those living on agencies and the few still living the true path. Without good leadership, the two factions would remain divided and the situation would get worse before it got better, if at all. That was the reason the whites sent soldiers into the Black Hills. They knew the Lakota couldn’t mount an effective resistance with most of the able-bodied men languishing on the agencies. Now the Loafers were suggesting the Black Hills were lost.

Crazy Horse knew what his father was trying to say. A leader had to consider issues bigger than his personal burdens. One of the old men on the council had suggested that the future of the “true Lakota,” as he put it, rested with Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse. In the opinion of that old man, the Loafers were tainted, by and large more interested in pleasing the Long Knives so that annuities and food rations would be provided. Therefore, they - could no longer be regarded as true Lakota, or trusted to act for the good of the nation. The old man, speaking for all the old men, was pointing out that a responsibility beyond the two hundred families in this encampment rested on Crazy Horse’s shoulders. Of course, he could walk away from it if he chose. But now, perhaps more than at any other time before, the Lakota needed strong leaders.

Disturbing news came north from the Red Cloud agency, and perhaps within the story was the very reason for the need for strong leaders. The white Indian agent, a diminutive but brash man by all accounts, had insisted once again that all the Lakota living within treaty-designated territory be counted. When that notion had first been voiced, Red Cloud himself had answered with a resounding “no.” When the agent decided to withhold food rations until the agency Lakota complied, Red Cloud refused again, warning that the agent was running the risk of fomenting unrest among some of the younger men. But to prevent hardship for the women and children and old people, two younger leaders—Young Man Afraid and Sword—complied and allowed their camps to be counted. Some of the “wild” Lakota who had been encamped closely to the north of the agency to visit their agency relatives broke camp and hurried away to avoid detection. The agent had his count: ten thousand Lakota, it was said. But, sadly, it was becoming clear that Red Cloud’s influence was waning and his judgment was in question.

Ten thousand Lakota, and within that number just over a thousand fighting men, more than enough to wipe out the whites at the agency. Crazy Horse marveled at the power the white agent must have, or the power Red Cloud no longer did. If a thousand Lakota warriors had overwhelmed the soldiers at and around the agency and taken control, the message such an action would have sent across Lakota country would have been loud and strong. But the agency Lakota, apparently seduced by the rations of poor longhorn cattle and a few blankets, let the opportunity pass.

Crazy Horse was sickened by the implication that the Loafers empowered the white Indian agent to that extent. It was hard to believe that so many grown and capable men would stand by while a small group of whites—surrounded like a small island in a river—held sway over them. As the months went by, the circumstances indicated that perhaps the agency Lakota would have been wise to take some kind of action when there had been the opportunity.

Because the buffalo were few, the “wild” Lakota hunted during the autumn for deer and elk to make meat for the winter. When the snows came, they were prepared because the old ones warned of hard times; the horses grew their winter hair early, the bears were unusually fat, and the geese flew south early. When the howling winds came, the Crazy Horse people tightened their doors and ventured out into the deep snow only when absolutely necessary. Overall, they were more fortunate than the agency Lakota.

Deep snow kept the freight wagons at the railway stations with the annuities and food rations intended for the agencies. No white herders would risk life or limb to drive the longhorn cattle from the rail terminals to the agencies. The “wild” Lakota were at least free to hunt if their meat ran low; at the agencies, the people living the “good life” under the care and protection of the whites had to eat their horses to survive, and they shivered throughout the long winter.

Crazy Horse and the old men agreed that they should keep an ear to the ground. Red Cloud’s trip east would certainly affect - everyone because the whites didn’t understand, or simply ignored the fact, that there were different opinions among the Lakota. The camp moved south, with some of the young men going directly to the agencies to remind the agency Lakota, especially the Red Cloud people, that there was still another way to live.

Red Cloud, it was learned, was making the trip to persuade the powers in Washington to remove the little agent from his agency. Crazy Horse could only smile wryly at the news. He saw it differently. Going to the seat of white power was the same as saying that living on agencies was the future for the Lakota. Perhaps some did actually say that to the “great father.” When all was said and done, it didn’t matter who the agent was on the Spotted Tail agency or on the Red Cloud agency. As long as there was an agent and the Lakota accepted annuities, the whites were in control. But when Red Cloud and the others returned—and there were many supposed headmen who made the trip—the news they brought back incensed the “wild” Lakota. The “great father” wanted to buy the Black Hills.

The two friends agreed that something needed to be done and that in all probability a war with the whites the likes of which they had never known lay ahead. Crazy Horse left Young Man Afraid’s camp with a heavy heart but at the same time with a sense of vindication. Not everyone was in agreement with Red Cloud and Spotted Tail’s approach to dealing with the whites. They had all but stepped aside to let them come, Spotted Tail basing his position on the fact that there were too many to fight. There was a very difficult choice facing all the Lakota: one’s life or one’s freedom. Better to lie a warrior naked in death than to be wrapped up well with a heart of water inside. This was the creed by which he had lived as one whose calling was to protect the people and the Lakota way of life. Living on an agency under the control of whites was not Crazy Horse’s definition of life or the Lakota way. It was Spotted Tail’s right to make a choice, and Red Cloud’s as well. Overall, he thought no less of them, but he was firmly convinced they were wrong, and because of who they were, they had the power to mislead many people. If war was on the horizon, as Young Man Afraid had said, then it was a war to defend all that was right and sacred; it was not a war to infringe on others and take their land. Such a war must be fought with all the skill and commitment possible. It was the only way.

Crazy Horse and the young men who accompanied him went home by way of the Black Hills and managed to harass a few miners. But they were low on ammunition, not to mention anxious to return to their families. So they reluctantly avoided further contact even though miners were easy prey. The news awaiting them made them wish they had carried out more attacks while they had the opportunity. The “great father” was sending his peace talkers to persuade the Lakota to sell the Black Hills. A solemn promise was sent ahead. They would bring with them wagon after wagon piled high with gifts to show their good faith.

More than ever Crazy Horse felt the weight of responsibility. He was afraid that armed conflict with the whites on a scale never before seen was imminent. They were determined to have the Black Hills and would pressure the old men leaders among the agency Lakota to give their consent. He knew most of the old men among the agency people understood that one or a few men couldn’t speak for all the Lakota. More important, those old men understood what the Black Hills meant to the people. But most of those old men didn’t have much influence with the whites. A refusal from them would mean little, unless Red Cloud and Spotted Tail stood with them. Perhaps, suggested some, Red Cloud and the headman who had gone east had already sold the Black Hills. The only hope was that the very real possibility of losing the Black Hills would at least philosophically unite the Lakota. It would serve as the one issue behind which enough fighting men could stand. Sitting Bull, it seemed, had already realized that, sending out his call to gather. Crazy Horse understood the rationale behind the Hunkpapa Lakota leader’s message. Among the “wild” Lakota were not enough able-bodied men to put in the field against the whites. Most of the Lakota fighting men were on the agencies eating beef and pork and losing their edge as fighters. Meanwhile, the white peace talkers were coming to talk the Lakota into selling the Black Hills. Crazy Horse agreed with Sitting Bull’s logic: no matter what the agency Lakota did, the Black Hills and Lakota lands were not for sale. If the land were to be lost, and since the buffalo were already disappearing, the last vestige of being Lakota would disappear. So Sitting Bull was right. The first battle was for the hearts and minds of Lakota fighting men, because anything that was still meaningful to the Lakota—land and the way of life—must not be given away for meaningless words written on a paper and wagon loads of trinkets. Therefore, enough fighting men had to join the side of right because the next and final battle would be to defend the land—because defending the land was to defend the true Lakota way of life.

A few older boys were playing the Arrows-in-the-Hoop game, trying to shoot arrows through a wooden hoop rolled on the ground. Not far from them several girls watched over babies strapped in cradleboards. One child was conspicuous by her absence. She would be approaching her fifth year if she were down there with the rest of them. But she wasn’t. She ran and played in memory, where her scurrying footsteps raised no dust, only melancholy sighs.

More news came from the agencies. The white peace talkers had set a time and a place for their council. They would come in the Month of Leaves Turning Brown, the one they called September, to Red Cloud’s agency. A few fine gifts had been sent ahead with the white messengers who brought the news to the agencies, including a silver-trimmed repeating rifle for Red Cloud from the “great father” himself. Many old men among the “wild” Lakota could do nothing but raise their eyebrows at that bit of news. Some reiterated the thought that perhaps the Black Hills had already been sold when so many Lakota headmen had gone east to Washington. That would mean, then, that the council set for the Month of Leaves Turning Brown would be nothing but a meeting to decide the payment, if that hadn’t already been decided, too. Those fears were given substance with the arrival of a Mniconju band under the leadership of Crazy Horse’s old friend Touch the Clouds.

Touch the Clouds’ father, Lone Horns, had been one of the old headmen who had gone to Washington. He had come home with a broken heart, the son told Crazy Horse. Lone Horns had been practically the only Lakota voice in Washington to speak against selling the Black Hills. He had been so discouraged at all that had gone on regarding the Black Hills that he had fallen ill upon his return, and didn’t recover. He had died a broken old man.