People were constantly coming to his home to talk and the old men called him frequently to the council lodge. Consequently, it was difficult for him to be alone with his thoughts. And solitude had always been one of his best allies. So he sought out the solitude of the prairies or the mountain slopes. He needed the reassuring silence broken only by the passing breeze or the distant howl of a wolf. In such places, he could gather his thoughts and pile them up like stones and then examine them, one by one.
His friends and relatives thought he shouldn’t wander off alone as much as he did. They worried after his safety, but also in their minds was the feeling that a leader’s place was with the - people. Many wondered what pulled him, what drove him to the solitude of a cave or a hidden camp, or to the shadowy place just below the crest of a ridge. They didn’t know what he felt. They - could only watch him ride away yet again.
Black Shawl wondered most of all, even as she silently prepared and packed food for him to take along. But she kept her fears to herself. They Are Afraid of Her would smile as he swept her into a close embrace and played with her—especially when they played with her favorite toy, the stuffed doll made of deer hide with a face painted on it. She smiled and giggled in great delight as her father pretended to rock the doll to sleep. But the smile would fade quickly from her little face as she watched him lead his horse away through the circle of lodges. Crazy Horse worried that she was so thin—that she sometimes didn’t have the energy to play and would fall asleep in his arms.
They watched him in painful silence, his wife and daughter, as he would ride away, their eyes fixed on his back. He could see their faces in his campfires. But he could also see the pile of stones that were his thoughts, the burdens he carried, the many problems he had to solve. When a man belonged to the people, he no longer belonged to himself. How does one explain that to a four-year-old?
One of those stones was larger than the others. It was a giant growing larger with each passing year—a giant that had forced even Sitting Bull, the powerful Hunkpapa leader, away from the Great Muddy, pushing him west toward the Elk River country. Sitting Bull had refused to travel to the last treaty council at Horse Creek near Fort Laramie in the year the whites called 1868. He had sent word that he would never touch the pen to any treaty paper the white man had.
Sitting Bull knew what would happen, Crazy Horse was certain. The whites would use that treaty as a way to control the Lakota. They drew lines on a paper to outline the picture of the land, something not unknown to the Lakota. But the idea that an imaginary line could define where the land begins and ends was laughable—as if the line would somehow show up on the land. Even more laughable was the rule that the Lakota had to live in one part of the land and obtain permission from the whites to hunt in the other. Their thinking was laughable but it was their thinking and they had the power of numbers, many soldiers with many rifles, many wagon guns, and plenty of powder.
Part of the answer was to fight. There could be no other way, and it was coming to that. The whites understood force, how to use the threat of it effectively. Soldiers were always part of the treaty talks, prominently displaying their weapons and firing their thunderous wagon guns that splintered trees. Those wagon guns could obviously knock over several men at once. Therefore, behind the words of the white peace talkers was the killing power of the soldiers. As a whole, whites were willing to kill to get what they wanted. That had always been obvious to Crazy Horse. To put up a strong resistance and defeat them, Lakota fighting men had to meet force with force. They would have to kill as many Long Knives as possible, as many as it would take until they understood that coming into Lakota lands would always be dangerous. There could be no other way. But there was the unsettling probability that too many Lakota men would die before they could kill enough soldiers. If that happened, who would protect the women and children, and the old ones? Who would provide for them?
Some of the younger men were getting restless, anxious for some type of action. But most of them didn’t understand that fighting the whites would be different than going against the Crow or the Snakes. The young ones barely into manhood - couldn’t remember a time when the white men were not a constant threat and the objects of animosity, or the topic of heated conversation in just about every lodge among the “wild” Lakota. Perhaps it would be wise to shape the young men into different kinds of fighters, some of the older men said to Crazy Horse. The Crow and the Snakes understood the philosophy of being a warrior, that defeating an enemy didn’t always depend on taking his life. Defeating one’s enemy meant being better on a given day, overpowering his mind and spirit with the strength of your own being and the power you carried in your own spirit. Such victories were honorable. That certainly wasn’t the philosophy of the whites. So perhaps it would be best to teach the young men, the new crop of Lakota fighting men, that whites didn’t understand honor, that they only understood killing. He had said as much to the old men in the council lodge. His words were received with silent, somber nods because they all understood the kind of adversary they were facing in the white man.
Crazy Horse returned home to resurgent rumors that miners were going into the Black Hills in violation of the rules set down in the Horse Creek treaty. Gold was the reason. Ah, yes, gold, the white man’s god. It was because of gold that the man called John Bozeman had laid out a trail for wagons from Deer Creek, just north of the Shell River to the south, northward through the Powder River country east of the Shining Mountains and on north into Crow lands.
The whites were willing to risk their own lives to get gold. Gold was the reason for their interest in the Black Hills, the heart of everything that was to the Lakota. The center of their world was apparently now coveted because of the misfortune of gold. It was the heated topic in the council lodge. The consensus was that something must be done. But the Lakota were too scattered—too scattered over the land and too scattered when it came to the issue of the whites. One of the old men suggested sending word to the agencies, a call to young men to join the “wild” Lakota under Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull. Everyone agreed, so it would be done. Meanwhile, Crazy Horse would lead a raid against the Crow to give their young men something to do, and to keep their edge as fighters. Doing nothing wasn’t good, because it took away the edge, the sharpness. A good fighting man needed to remain taut, like a good bowstring. Without a good string that could remain taut, the best-made bow was useless.
Crazy Horse invited a few young men to go north into Crow country. Most of them were inexperienced and untested. Some of them probably wondered why the greatest fighting man among them, probably among all the Lakota, would invite them to accompany him. They soon deduced Crazy Horse’s rationale, but were still grateful for the opportunity to learn from him.
The raiding party left the encampment in the Greasy Grass valley and went north toward the Elk River. This time of the year, the Crow moved away from the sheltering slopes of the mountains, usually to hunt buffalo. Surprisingly, however, the Lakota had to cross the Elk before they picked up fresh sign of human movement. They had seen several buffalo, so perhaps the Crow had a few more to hunt than they did. Keeping a wary eye on their back trail to the south, they kept moving north, staying east of the foothills of the mountains, looking for an encampment with enough horses to make a little raiding worthwhile. Not far from a bend in the Elk, they finally found a sizeable but well-guarded herd in a small box canyon. There was an encampment beyond it, a small one. The Crow always had more horses than they really needed. But as Crazy Horse studied the Crow camp through his farseeing glass, something caught his attention. The meat racks were empty and no women were busy scraping fresh hides, which was always a sure sign the hunting was good. In fact, not only was the camp just a few lodges in size, there was not much activity overall. Most of the people in sight were the boys and young men guarding the large horse herd grazing in the thin meadow of the box canyon. Something wasn’t right.
From all outward appearances, the Crow camp
was small and poor, with few women and children and only a few boys and young men guarding the herd. What wasn’t in the camp was the more bothersome fact. Crow men, like the Lakota, were in the habit of picketing their best warhorses next to their lodge doors. There were none here. Where were the older men? Were they out on the hunting trail, on a raid, or simply hiding in the foothills all around?
Crazy Horse explained that they might have walked into a clever trap. He sent the young men in twos back to their horses, cautioning them to move silently and stay out of sight. They had to call on all the skills they had to move unseen and silently through the gullies and dry creek beds, using every stalk of the sparse brush for cover. He was the last to leave, scanning the terrain around his hiding place as he waited. Soon after, he rejoined his raiding party, where their horses were hidden in a pine-choked bowl below a ridge, and his suspicions were confirmed. Scanning through his farseeing glass, he spotted several groups of armed Crow, waiting and watching their own encampment.
The young men were worried and anxious, nervous to be so deep in enemy country and outnumbered. But they waited for darkness, taking their cue from the calmness of their leader. Crazy Horse devised a plan and whispered it to the young men as they waited for dusk to turn into deep, friendly darkness.
Each man would take his turn at scouting a path in the darkness for the distance of a good bowshot, then return and lead - everyone to the farthest point he had gone. After that, the next would go and so on until they were well out of danger. Crazy Horse did the first scout, returned and led them through the darkness. When he called for volunteers, he was encouraged that all of the young men tossed down a stick as a sign to go next.
Dawn found them out of danger. Slipping away from under the noses of the enemy was no small feat, a solid victory in itself. The young men had done very well. They voiced no fear, nor did they complain. In among this group very well could be the man who would succeed in leading the Lakota to drive out the whites once and for all. Crazy Horse knew it would be that kind of fight, one that would test the resolve of good men for years, perhaps generations, to come.
A day later they spotted an old, crippled buffalo cow. How she had managed to escape the wolves or human hunters was a mystery. But in spite of her lean flanks and the dragging front leg, she had not lost her dignity. Knowing she couldn’t run, she turned and faced the hunters as they approached her on horses. As their arrows drove into her sides, she bellowed and charged the nearest horse and rider. Her pursuit was so persistent the young Lakota had to whip his horse into a gallop to stay away from her. The cow finally gave in to her age and loss of blood, collapsing among the sagebrush.
It was a subdued feast after they butchered and skinned her. Drag poles were cut and tied together, the meat wrapped in the hide and loaded. The raiders, briefly turned hunters, set out for home. They had not battled the Crow or taken horses, but they had learned important lessons and were bringing home a little meat as well.
The encampment had moved from the valley of the Greasy Grass, leaving signs pointing in the direction they had gone, off to the southeast toward the Tongue River. There, along the bluffs above the floodplain, was the new encampment. Smoke from the cooking fires rose like wavering thin lances on a calm late afternoon. Riding into camp, the raiders noticed the first people to greet them smiled thinly, almost afraid to look in their direction. Worm emerged from his lodge and moved deliberately to meet his son. He was haggard, appearing as if he hadn’t slept. His shirt hung in tatters, a sign of mourning.
“This is a time for you to be strong, my son,” said the old man.
The village was unusually quiet. Worm pointed to the lodge next to his own. “Go,” he said, “go comfort your wife. Be strong for her.”
Inside the lodge, Crazy Horse found Black Shawl, her hair loose, her dress torn, her forearms gashed, her eyes swollen from weeping.
Like many Lakota after a certain point in life, Crazy Horse was prepared for his own death. But no one could ever prepare for the death of one’s child.
Reflections:
The Legacy of Leadership
Honest self-awareness should be an ingrained characteristic in a leader. Crazy Horse had many positive characteristics as a person and as a man, but I believe that the stepping stone to his rise and his growth as a leader was that he knew himself as well as he could. It was a direct consequence of the mentoring process that began at the age of five or six and continued for ten to twelve years. Its methodology was simple: one teacher (at a time) for one student, so the focus was entirely on the student. The lessons, the exercises, and the information were directed at developing the skills and abilities to be a hunter and a fighting man. At the end of those ten or twelve years emerged a young man who had all the requisite physical skills and basic knowledge necessary to begin fulfilling his role as a hunter/warrior.
Young Crazy Horse, while he was still known as Light Hair or Jiji, had a superb mentor by the name of Tanitahu or Backbone (of a buffalo). He was called Hump (also mentioned as High Back Bone), a Mniconju Lakota married into an Oglala family. Hump took a liking to the quiet, light-haired boy and became not only his mentor but his lifelong friend as well.
Hump taught the boy all the requisite skills, of course, but the ultimate lesson was self-reliance. The standard by which any boy was measured was, of course, the teacher. A good teacher didn’t make things easy. A wise teacher taught the student to handle failure rather than to revel in the momentary euphoria of success. A wise teacher taught the student that what he held in his mind and heart were more powerful than any weapons he might carry in his hands—in other words, that knowledge and character win the battles more often than the bow, the lance, and the gun, that in the end the most powerful weapon a warrior takes into battle is himself. Therefore, each warrior must know honestly what he can and can’t do and always strive to learn more from every experience.
It would be safe to assume that Crazy Horse, like all his peers, was eager to take his place as a fighting man, the warrior. When his dreams of becoming a warrior were fulfilled, they were replaced with dreams of being as good a warrior as he could be. There were certainly dreams of glory, of performing deeds that would bring individual recognition and honor to one’s family. But dreams of glorious deeds invariably are crushed by the unexpected realities of war and combat. (One of the best non-Indian books on this topic is The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane.)
The mentors that guided the young Crazy Horse and his peers through their learning process didn’t say “don’t dream of glory” or “reality is different than dreams.” They knew that experience was the best teacher of all, so they simply placed young men into situations that would teach them the realities of being a warrior. There was glory to be had, of course, if one was willing to take the necessary risks, but young men soon learned that achieving glory was a small part of the path of a warrior. Dreams of glory dissipate with light speed when one catches sight of a live enemy intent on harm and mayhem, when the first shots are fired, and when one realizes that one’s life is measured in mere heartbeats. Dreams then become plain unbridled hope that one will survive from one heartbeat to the next. Difficult situations obviously make or break one. At these moments the untested warrior battles his own inexperience while he endeavors to face the enemy. But if he somehow remembers even some of what he has been taught, he will live through the moment, and learn something about himself.
There will always be the philosophical question: Are leaders born or made?
While he was still a boy, Crazy Horse and some of his peers were taken on raids and patrols into enemy country. They were generally given menial but necessary chores to perform, such as gathering firewood for the camp or holding the horses. But in return they had the opportunity to observe experienced warriors in action, whether it was a scouting patrol or actually facing an enemy in the field. Over time and several outings they learned resilience, endurance, good judgment, courage, and perseverance—all the qualities th
at would keep them alive and enable them to fulfill their roles as protectors and providers. Just as important, they learned about their own strengths and weaknesses.
Most boys, therefore, basically learned the same lessons and were given the same opportunities to perform as fighting men. So how does a Crazy Horse emerge from a broad cultural blue-print and set himself apart? Perhaps he is testimony to the premise that some things cannot be taught. Perhaps there is something innate that some have and others don’t. Men and women who coach young athletes point out that, while skills and methodology can be taught to any athlete, the physical attributes of speed and quickness are frequently the difference between a good athlete and an outstanding one.
Many people dream of becoming leaders, while others shun the opportunity even when it falls into their laps. General George Patton, of World War II fame, certainly sought the responsibilities of leadership and reveled in its rewards and prestige when he was successful. Crazy Horse, on the other hand, was not as quick to grab the opportunity when it came and literally had no desire to talk about his exploits. But both were exceptional leaders, and their accomplishments could not have been achieved without a certain amount of basic ability, as well as the experience of winning and losing. What is less obvious is that both of them also had inherent characteristics only a few of us have. Those characteristics enabled them to perform daring and reckless deeds and make bold decisions, and to inspire others to follow them. What those characteristics are by name or label is often difficult to identify, but the consequences they enable are not difficult to see.
Joseph M. Marshall III Page 19