Nineteen, The Journey of Crazy Horse

Crazy Horse couldn’t agree more. The threat to Lakota territory had to be stopped and at all costs. But the overall sense of unity that had prevailed at the Greasy Grass seemed to give way to complacency. Among the younger warriors, however, flowed a feeling of invincibility.

Around night fires throughout the camps along Goose Creek, they recounted their deeds in the Greasy Grass and Rosebud fights, one story leading to another, in an ancient ritual that served to strengthen the warrior brotherhood. The Sahiyela had identified the overall soldier commander at the Greasy Grass, known as Long Hair to some and Son of the Morning Star to others. The last was not a name of respect, as it was given because he had attacked a Sahiyela encampment just after dawn eight years past at a place called Washita. In the span of eight days, the Lakota and Sahiyela warriors had defeated two separate armies. Let them come, was the sentiment. We can defeat them all.

Crazy Horse knew the value of the sense of confidence earned from two hard-fought battles. It was the best weapon to take into a fight. Nevertheless, unless an overall plan was devised to anticipate and meet the threat of retaliation from the soldiers, all that confidence would be useless. To his dismay, however, there was no talk of planning. He heard, instead, the first indications of disagreement among the old men during the move south - toward the Shining Mountains. It was the kind of fundamental disagreement that left little room for discussion.

There were two widely divergent opinions. One side felt they shouldn’t pass up the advantage they had gained. Never had the Lakota so decisively defeated the Long Knives. Why, it was asked, did Three Stars retreat in spite of the fact he still had a large force unless he had a newfound respect for the fighting ability of the Lakota? Furthermore, the soldiers they had spared behind the barricades at the Greasy Grass would certainly report the fighting ability of the Lakota and Sahiyela to other soldiers. When an enemy was truly afraid, he was more apt to hesitate—and such an opportunity must not be wasted.

The other side agreed that Rosebud and Greasy Grass were indeed messages that the Long Knives would take to heart. However, they were in favor of waiting for them to send their peace talkers, as they certainly would. It was obvious, they said, that from now on the Lakota would speak from a position of strength because of their victories and that no more Lakota blood had to be spilled to win back the Black Hills. The Long Knives had learned a bitter lesson and would be cautious hereafter. This was nothing more than a false sense of security as far as Crazy Horse was concerned—something to be expected from the agency Lakota, who were in favor of friendly relations with the whites.

The idea of sending a large force to attack all the soldier outposts had been circulating among the warriors since the departure from the Greasy Grass. Crazy Horse and He Dog took the idea one step further. If different groups attacked Fort Caspar, Fort Fetterman, and Fort Laramie on the same day, the effect - could be devastating. It was bold thinking, yet the reaction to it was largely silence until someone fretted about who would stay behind to protect the women and children.

What was left of the largest gathering ever of Lakota had separated into several encampments along the eastern foothills of the Shining Mountains. Soon after the departure from the Greasy Grass, small groups began breaking away to head for the agencies. Sitting Bull, like Crazy Horse, was deeply disappointed because they were losing the strength of numbers. Staying together as long as possible would have been safer. But the Hunkpapa saw that it was the underlying fear of retaliation from the Long Knives that drove the agency Lakota back. They apparently felt it was the safest place to be. Before a month had passed, most of the agency Lakota were gone.

Crazy Horse understood that an unbreakable commitment was necessary to defend the Lakota way of life. For him, the symbol of such commitment was Gall, the Hunkpapa, who was one of Sitting Bull’s most loyal followers. Gall was a tall, imposing figure and an experienced leader. Both of his wives and a daughter were killed in the first attack on the Greasy Grass. He had found them when he’d hurried to his lodge to gather his weapons. Rifle fire from the initial soldier charge had carried into the Hunkpapa lodges at the southern end of the large encampment. In spite of his grievous loss, he led men in a counterattack, leading the charge that broke the soldier lines and began the rout that eventually ended with the soldiers retreating across the river, where they threw up barricades on a hill. Gall was also chiefly responsible for the defeat of Long Hair’s group of soldiers. He had led the pursuit that turned the attempted incursion across Medicine Tail crossing into another rout. Understandably, the man had kept to himself after the battle, staying close to his surviving children.

Gall would have dishonored the memory of his wives and his daughter if he had chosen to seek safety at the agencies. No one would have thought less of him if he had, yet he spoke for a united stand against the Long Knives. They are only men, was his assertion, and can be defeated.

Despite the best efforts of Sitting Bull, the people scattered. Some made excuses, saying it was time to hunt and make meat for the coming winter, which was more difficult now because of the scarcity of buffalo. Others unabashedly headed for the agencies. Sitting Bull finally headed north to more familiar territory.

Crazy Horse took his people east toward the Black Hills, finding a sheltered valley northwest of the mountains to hide the camps. From there, he led raids into the Black Hills. They operated separately, with He Dog, Big Road, Little Big Man, and Crazy Horse each leading a group of up to a dozen men. This tactic was effective overall, forcing the miners to think that hundreds of Lakota were raiding. A few Sahiyela had stayed with the Crazy Horse camp and their young men joined him in the raids. He was glad to have them along: they were fierce and aggressive and counted their share of kills.

On one of the raids, they found a large tent settlement. Crazy Horse was incensed. Not only were the miners coming in larger and larger numbers, but they were bringing their women and children. They were expecting to stay, to build their square houses, and to plant crops. The Lakota victories at the Rosebud and Greasy Grass meant nothing to these people. Or, perhaps, they hadn’t heard. More frightening, however, was the thought that they had heard but didn’t care. They cared more about gold.

Impatient and angry, Crazy Horse began to raid by himself and stayed in the mountains for days. Picking isolated camps, he positioned himself and would attack at dawn when the miners were groggy with sleep and their judgment was impaired, or just as they were bedding down for the night, exhausted from their day’s labors. In either case there was little opportunity for effective reaction. His expertise at close combat made up for his low supply of bullets, though he preferred the bow and his stone-headed war club. He worked silently and grimly, and without remorse. This was Lakota land. These miners were invaders. Their kind brought nothing but trouble. So, wraithlike, out of the morning mist or moving with the shadows of dusk, he carried on his war—alone, silent, and deadly. If Lakota fighting men - couldn’t take to the field en masse against soldiers, there were other ways to fight.

At night, he slept in fireless camps always high on a slope where he could hide his horse. He used the terrain to his advantage. He was, after all, a man of the Earth. Black Shawl’s dried meat and berry mixture sustained him, and gave him strength. He didn’t count the number of miners he had killed, but he - wasn’t doing it for the numbers. He was removing blight from the heart of all there was.

Crazy Horse was moving his people closer toward Bear Butte when news came of an attack against the camp of Iron Plume, further to the north near Slim Buttes. Iron Plume was friendly to the whites, but that didn’t save him or stop the soldiers from killing women and children. And that was not the end to the bad news. A thousand or more soldiers from Fort Fetterman were in the area. Crazy Horse, with less than two hundred warriors, - could do little more than harass them because they were all critically low on ammunition. But he did manage to confuse the soldiers with hit and run attacks, allowing them little rest, taking full advantage of the Lakota horses’ superior stamina and speed. When ammunition ran out, he withdrew. Word came later that the soldiers had released the women and children captured from the unprovoked attack on Iron Plume as a result of the continuous harassment.

Three Stars was the one said to have led the soldiers, although no one had actually seen him during the attack on Iron Plume. But as everyone knew, Three Stars was the overall commander stationed at Fort Fetterman. The man would undoubtedly be anxious to make amends for the Rosebud fight, and word came that the Long Knives were very anxious to avenge the defeat of Long Hair at the Greasy Grass. The agency Lakota were wrong.

The Long Knives had learned a bitter lesson, and they were aggressive, not hesitant. He Dog and Crazy Horse were angry that their idea to attack all the forts had not been taken seriously. For that matter, they could have taken the initiative and carried out their plan on their own. Men would have followed them. How many would have been the only unknown factor, and any amount of speculation about the outcome now would be useless—just as much as blaming anyone.

Crazy Horse decided to relocate to the upper Tongue River area where elk were reported to be plentiful. He laughed wryly at a bit of news that drifted up from Red Cloud. The agent there had taken away guns and horses from the agency Lakota, following the orders of Three Stars. What did the Red Cloud - people do, he wondered. Did they stand aside quietly like obedient children while the agent confiscated guns and drove off the horses?

Sometime in the Moon When Leaves Fall came more news. Scouts who had been along the old Holy Road had seen soldiers leaving Fort Fetterman with buffalo-hide coats and heavy fur caps, a sure, unsettling sign of a winter campaign. A man sent by Sitting Bull arrived with equally disturbing news. A new fort had been built to the north at the confluence of the Tongue and the Elk rivers. The Long Knife in charge there was one called Bear Coat, with the white name of Colonel Nelson Miles. Sitting Bull’s men attacked their supply train and drew first blood. Bear Coat then asked to talk with Sitting Bull. While they were talking, his soldiers attacked the Hunkpapa encampment, destroying winter meat stores and driving off some horses.

Uneasiness came to live in the Crazy Horse encampment. All the news was of the Long Knives escalating their war against the Lakota—a thousand soldiers to the north, a thousand in the south at Fetterman. Furthermore, every soldier was armed with a rifle and a pistol, and spare ammunition was transported on pack mules or in supply wagons. But if the soldiers had an endless supply of ammunition, there seemed to be an endless supply of whites overall. There was only a limited supply of Lakota.

Crazy Horse sent several small raiding parties out essentially to scrounge for rifles and ammunition. Procuring ammunition had always been a significant problem because of the wide variety of rifles. A few Lakota carried lever-action repeating rifles similar to the one given to Crazy Horse. Others had breechloaders, many captured at the Rosebud and Greasy Grass, and there were still a number of single-shot muzzle-loaders that fired round lead balls. But percussion caps to ignite the powder were harder and harder to find. Crazy Horse had carried a back-loading rifle during the Battle of the Hundred in the Hand, with only four round balls.

The threat posed by the Long Knives was the most persistent problem Crazy Horse had to face as a leader, requiring most of his attention. But, in addition, life had to go on and winter was coming. Hunters were busy, but hunting weakened the camp’s defenses because the hunter was also the warrior. So Crazy Horse advised the men to coordinate their hunting so that at least half of the able-bodied fighting men were always in camp. Every man hunted as though for two families, bringing in more meat than usual.

The encampment was in a constant state of alert, more so than usual. Early in the Winter Moon the scouts spotted a group of - people approaching through the first heavy snowstorm, a heartrending sight. They were Dull Knife’s Sahiyela and most of them had no winter robes, many of them suffering from frostbite. As they were brought into camp, they began to tell their story. Soldiers had attacked them ten days earlier. Their winter encampment along a fork of the Powder River had been burned, including all their winter food stores, and their horses scattered. The men did what they could to fight back, but many had been killed and were left behind where they had fallen. Some of the badly wounded had died during the long trek northward. What little food anyone had managed to grab as they fled their homes had been rationed carefully, but it had been so little.

The Crazy Horse people opened their homes to feed and clothe the Sahiyela, and went to work healing wounds and treating the frostbite. The damage to their spirits would be much more difficult to heal. The Sahiyela children often had difficulty sleeping, and many of the adults seemed unusually withdrawn.

Crazy Horse allowed the Sahiyela to rest as long as they needed before the encampment moved further up the Tongue to a more defensible location. Hunters were sent out to replenish meat supplies. Dull Knife informed Crazy Horse that he was forced to consider giving in to life on an agency if it meant his - people would be safe from facing continual conflict with the Long Knives. The Sahiyela, he reasoned, were not as numerous as the Lakota; the number of fighting men was far fewer. The fact of the matter was, Dull Knife thought, the Long Knives far outnumbered the Sahiyela and Lakota combined. He was afraid they would not stop until every Lakota and Sahiyela was on an agency, or dead.

The insight of a man like Dull Knife was difficult to ignore. He was a man who always considered the overall welfare of the - people above all else. But the implication that the Sahiyela and Lakota should consider that a viable alternative was survival under the control of the Long Knives was a bitter thought. Given the fact that the soldiers were conducting a winter campaign contrary to their usual habits was, in and of itself, cause for concern. But the fact that it was occurring after their losses at the Rosebud and the Greasy Grass was an unmistakable indication of their intent. Moreover, Three Stars’ decision to disarm the agency Lakota was the most telling fact. He couldn’t risk being flanked if the “wild” Lakota resisted successfully and the young hotheads at the agencies decided to join the fight.

They talked—the old men and the younger leaders of the fighting men—about this alternative, but it was like bile in the mouth. They all agreed that a leader had to consider all the alternatives, to find the path of least resistance, if necessary, in order that the people could survive. And it was coming to that. For most of the “wild” Lakota to be on an agency under the control of the Long Knives was to merely exist—it was simply being alive, not living. That it had to be an alternative was like a black cloud across the face of the bright full moon. But it hadn’t happened yet, the younger men pointed out, and it wouldn’t happen as long as Lakota fighting men had the will to resist. Nonetheless, the old men countered, wouldn’t it be wise to determine if the Long Knives might be willing to avoid continuous armed conflict? If so, then perhaps the “wild” Lakota could use that willingness to their benefit and pick the location of their agencies in return for “surrendering.”

The idea was debated long and frequently. Strangely, an opportunity presented itself when messengers arrived bringing word from Three Stars, who had given his assurance that the “wild” Lakota would be allowed to select the location for their own agencies if they signed a peace agreement. The only drawback was that it included agreement to the sale of the Black Hills. In spite of deep-seated suspicions, Crazy Horse agreed that this important issue should be discussed face-to-face with the Long Knives.

He Dog and Big Road suggested that Bear Coat (Colonel Nelson Miles) would likely be the man in charge of agencies in the north, just as Three Stars was in charge of the Red Cloud and Spotted Tail agencies in the south. And it would be preferable to live in the north in the Powder River area. Consequently, early in the Moon of Popping Trees, a delegation of eight good men were selected to meet with Bear Coat.

Crazy Horse and a large detachment of Oglala and Mniconju warriors escorted the delegation north to the fort on the Elk River. From a low bluff, the eight rode in unarmed and under a white flag of truce while the escorts waited. In the space of a few heartbeats, however, any opportunity to honorably discuss the possibility of northern agencies for the “wild” Lakota died unexpectedly.

A group of Crow scouts met the emissaries just outside the walls of the fort, making friendly gestures to indicate their peacefulness. As the eight Lakota rode past them toward the gate, weapons were drawn suddenly and the Crow opened fire at point-blank range on the unarmed Lakota and then fled on horseback. Crazy Horse charged down from the bluff but stopped when mounted soldiers emerged from the fort. Instinctively, the Lakota emissaries turned their horses and galloped for the safety of the bluffs and the protection of the escort warriors. Only three rejoined the warriors. Five lay dead on the ground near the gates of the fort.

Crazy Horse pulled his men back further up the bluffs, wary that the soldiers might open fire with their cannons. But there was no firing of any kind. Instead a group of soldiers went in pursuit of the fleeing Crow scouts while one soldier approached the bluffs, obviously trying to assure the waiting warriors that the soldiers had nothing to do with the ambush. The man’s courage was admirable, but the damage had been done. The treachery of the Crow may have surprised the soldiers as well, but there was no way to know.

The ambush at the fort on the Elk River seemed to signal that nothing but difficulty lay ahead. Even the weather seemed to turn against them. Blizzards whipped the land, filling every gully with snow. Crazy Horse moved his camp further up the Tongue on a plateau below a line of sheltering bluffs. Throughout the Powder River region, the encampments of the “wild” Lakota dug in to wait out the winter, hoping that the Long Knives were doing the same.

The harsh winter should have been a deterrent, at least providing a brief respite from worrying about the Long Knives. But it was not to be. Two agency Lakota carrying a bold message from Bear Coat found the Crazy Horse camp. If the “wild” Lakota moved in to the agencies they would be given food but would have to give up weapons and horses. The message immediately revealed heretofore unspoken fears and opinions. To the surprise of those opposed to moving into the agencies, many more were in favor. The debates were long and heated in nearly - every lodge, but, in the end, the council of old men turned down the offer and the messengers were sent back with their reply. Under cover of night, however, several families struck their lodges to follow them. Shortly after sunrise, Crazy Horse and several warriors caught up with the runaways.

The people knew Crazy Horse was a man formidable in battle, his often heart-stopping exploits told by men who saw him in action. Most of the people, however, saw him every day as a quiet man, one who worked hard to look after the welfare of all, a generous and gentle man. No one had ever seen him as an angry man, so it was a shock when he ordered the runaways’ weapons confiscated and their horses shot. But a greater shock was that the loss of weapons and horses, or Crazy Horse’s anger, didn’t deter those who seemed driven to take their chances at the agencies. When a few families left, this time in broad daylight, he - didn’t attempt to stop them. Instead, he rode off into the hills alone to seek out the one friend that would never betray him—solitude.

Winter remained relentless, as did the Long Knives. Late in the Moon of Popping Trees, soldiers entered the valley of the Tongue. They knew that many of the “wild” Lakota winter camps were situated there—the Itazipacola, the Mniconju, as well as the Oglala—because it was common knowledge among the agency Lakota, and among their Crow scouts as well. The soldiers, led by hundreds of Crow and Snake scouts and a few Lakota, struck the lower camps first, with two cannons. The best that the Lakota defenders could do, with their pitiful supply of bullets, was to fight a delaying action while the women and children fled upriver. The soldiers kept coming.

Messengers reached the Crazy Horse camp further up river. The only tactical option was to form a defensive line against the soldiers while the women quickly struck their lodges for a prolonged flight to get as far away from the soldiers as possible. The soldiers came out of the morning fog, and then paused as two cannons were brought up on the line and opened fire. Some of the Lakota moved downslope to within bow range and began to harass the soldiers with showers of arrows lifted high to rain down among them. Infantry soldiers attacked, crossing over the ice at a bend in the river, pouring heavy fire into the advancing Lakota. Cannon fire boomed in the frigid morning air. The Lakota, maintaining cover as they moved, launched a mounted and foot assault and were quickly in the midst of the surprised soldiers. In close combat their heavy buffalo-hide coats were a detriment. The Lakota inflicted heavy casualties before they withdrew, suffering three killed. They had accomplished their objective, to disorganize the Long Knives and stop their advance so that the women and children could get as far away as possible.

Crazy Horse’s people kept moving in spite of the freezing cold as Crazy Horse and several men fought a rearguard action, but the soldiers didn’t pursue. Eventually the Lakota turned northwest for the region of the Big Horn River. Though they had successfully fought off the Long Knives, their sense of security was gone. The soldiers had attacked Crazy Horse’s camp—a lance thrust at the heart if there ever was one. Another thrust came only days later, but not from the Long Knives.

The people had fled the Tongue River camp carrying only what was absolutely necessary, mainly lodge poles, lodge coverings, and little else. Most of the food supplies were left behind. While many of the men were out hunting, help arrived from a most unexpected source—Lakota from the agency. Thirty - people, including women, led by Sword came with food and blankets, but also with a message.

Sword, gracious as ever, assured Crazy Horse’s people that it was his idea to intervene because he didn’t want his friends and relatives dying when peace and a good life could be had so easily. If Crazy Horse would come in—meaning surrender—his - people would be given food, clothing, and blankets, and then he would be allowed to return to the Powder River area to claim it as his agency. This was the offer from a soldier named Clark, called White Hat by Sword, who spoke for Three Stars.

One of the thirty agency people was Woman’s Dress, garbed in fine clothes as usual. He had given in to the agency long ago, which was not surprising. No doubt he had ingratiated himself to Three Stars or whoever else had power to give Woman’s Dress the status he could never earn among his own people. Anyone who considered Woman’s Dress anything more than a fop was not to be trusted.

The future had revealed itself again. Young Man Afraid had finally given in. Only he and Sitting Bull were stubborn, or perhaps foolish. How could anyone continue resisting when even a brief battle used up the bullets that took several days of scrounging? Half the people who followed him wanted to go into the agency; they were tired of running from the soldiers, tired of being hungry, tired of seeing relatives die. They stayed because they believed he had an answer of some kind, something that would solve the problem of the soldiers.

Sitting Bull had an answer. He was going up to Grandmother’s Land—Canada. The Long Knives couldn’t pursue him over the border, and there were still buffalo to hunt. It was an answer, and perhaps the right one for the Hunkpapa. But it also brought a sense of foreboding.

No more soldiers came. Winter slid into the Moon of the Hard Times and it was a struggle just to find fresh meat. Hunters stalked rabbits as diligently as they did the elk. There was a feeling in the encampment, an unspoken one, weighed down with sadness and even more uncertainty. The old ones would walk to the crest of a hill on a windless day and stand, simply staring out over the land. Black Shawl was alone much of the time. She would find a hindquarter of elk or deer at the door of her lodge some mornings, or sometimes rabbits. She knew her husband was not far away, simply far enough so he could search for answers amid the solitude he so cherished.

Crazy Horse knew what would happen, what had to happen. There was no solution that could rid the Lakota of the Long Knives. Dull Knife was right; the Long Knives would not stop. Their objective was to place each and every Lakota on the agencies—or as one old man said, whoever was left alive. And that was the issue that was the basis for agonizing inner turmoil. For him to die fighting to the last was perhaps his fate; his vision told him that. But what of those left behind? Facing an enemy on the field of battle was one of the most daunting tasks any human being was required to do. But what about facing the Long Knives day in and day out in the confines of an agency at the mercy of their will? The only reassurance was that they would be alive to face it. Perhaps that was the best they could hope for. What of those who had died defending the Lakota way of life?

The breaks along the Big Horn River offered good shelter, usually a cut bank or a low bluff facing away from the wind. In such places, a man could sit and think. He could dig a deep pit to hold glowing embers after the flames of the fire burned down, and with a heat reflector opposite him a man could sit under a thick robe through the long nights, adding wood to replenish the coals. In such places a man could imagine that ghosts would come and sit as though warming themselves.

The living did find him. He Dog and Little Big Man came carrying the worry of his father and his wife. They saw that he was well, perhaps a little thin, but that his spirit was troubled. They joined him at the fire and talked of victories past, of good hunts, of good men, of the good life of the free, buffalo-hunting Lakota. In a voice barely louder than the crackling fire, Crazy Horse told them that, for the sake of the helpless ones, they must seriously consider going into the agency.

Crazy Horse returned to the encampment to learn that his life had taken a strange twist. Thinking to help settle his restlessness, his Sahiyela friends had arranged for him to take a second and younger wife. Unselfishly, Black Shawl agreed, but the young woman, whose family initially also agreed to the marriage, fled at the sight of Crazy Horse. He didn’t pursue her or take insult but thought it best to give her back to her family. He and Black Shawl did eventually take in a widow, a Sahiyela. She helped keep the lodge in order and performed the chores Black Shawl - could not. She, in effect, become a sister to them both.

The Red Cloud and Spotted Tail agencies were near the source of the White Earth River, fifteen to twenty days of travel from the Tongue River and Big Horn River region. Such a trip was not easy in warm weather, but certainly more bearable than traveling that distance in cold weather. And this winter was particularly harsh. Even so, another group arrived from the Spotted Tail agency—Crazy Horse’s uncle Spotted Tail himself, and a hundred people. They had come to convince Crazy Horse to come in to the agency.

There was fresh meat taken along the way by Spotted Tail himself, along with many gifts, and visiting with relatives not seen for several years. Not unexpectedly, the travelers from the agency spoke highly of it, carrying the promise from Three Stars brought earlier by the young White Hat Clark. If Crazy Horse came in, his people would be given food, clothing, and blankets, and they would be allowed to return to the Powder River country, which would be the Crazy Horse agency.

The visitors were invited into the lodges of their relatives, so over the days of visiting the same message was repeated: food, clothing, blankets, and their own agency. The buffalo were gone, the Black Hills were lost, and so was the old life. Crazy Horse listened to his uncle speak eloquently for the good sense to yield to the inevitable. Three Stars had sent a man he thought would have the greatest influence on him. Or perhaps Spotted Tail had taken it upon himself to talk to him. Either way, Crazy Horse knew he was probably seeing the last peaceful overture. If he refused, he was afraid the soldiers would come again and keep coming until they killed him or enough of his fighting men to make further armed resistance impossible.

But it was the unspoken thoughts that weighed on him the most, the thoughts not given the substance of words in his presence because his people knew he would be angry and hurt. Many, perhaps most, of them were thinking that the wise course would be to go into the agency. They were tired of being chased, tired of seeing their relatives die, and tired of always sleeping uneasily. Though those thoughts were not directly spoken, no caring person could ignore the pain of uncertainty in the eyes of the women who had lost a son or a husband or a grandson. Who - could forget how many of Dull Knife’s people would sit staring vacantly into a fire? Spotted Tail spoke quietly of these realities in the lodge of Black Shawl and Crazy Horse—the same kind of realities that he had to face and base his decisions on.

Spotted Tail was still an imposing figure in spite of the burdens of leadership for over twenty years. Crazy Horse couldn’t help but recall the troubles after the Grattan incident, when Woman Killer Harney had come with his Long Knives and carried out a sneak attack on Little Thunder’s camp on the Blue Water, and Spotted Tail had led the counterattack against the soldiers, killing several in one memorable hand-to-hand fight before he was seriously wounded. Then he had offered himself to be punished in the place of several men who had been unjustly accused by the Long Knives, and was sent to the Leavenworth prison. Something had changed him. Something that now compelled him to speak for the very people he had wanted to wipe off the face of the earth. Perhaps whatever it was would change them all.

For the last time in his life he sought the comfort of solitude. But he found no peace, no answers for the turmoil that drove him to seek the shadowy places and the lonely, windswept ridges. Even the nearly endless view of mountains blending with the plains under a bright winter sun couldn’t hold back the darkness he knew lay ahead. One day flowed into the next like early morning mist on the water. His ignored his own hunger even as he took his mare to a bare hillside to let her graze.

The land seemed unchanged, but it had been. There were new trails or old ones with new tracks—tracks not made by moccasins, drag poles, or unshod horses. There were new tracks made by wagon wheels, the iron horse shoes, and the stiff boots of the soldiers. And there were the forts, little islands of fear and arrogance, like pimples on a clean face. What the land itself might think of such changes, he didn’t know.

Out of the swirl of windblown snow came an old man to sit at his fire. He was a holy man and a grandfather. He had come with a bag of pounded meat and questions in his eyes. Over the fire they sat through the night absorbing every bit of heat they could, surrounded by the melodious baying of wolves and the strident barking of coyotes. They talked of the past because they knew it and it validated who and what they were. They said little of the future because it was a visitor without a face. Sometime after sunrise the old man fell asleep. When he awoke he gathered his buffalo robe around his shoulders and rode away.