Joseph M. Marshall III

by The Journey of Crazy Horse a Lakota History

  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.

  Back at the camps in the shadows of the Shining Mountains, the routine of life went on as usual. Children played within the circle of lodges, the most reassuring sign of all. Within them were the seeds of reassurance that the Lakota way of life would go on. Whatever happened, they had to be given the opportunity to fulfill their lives as true Lakota.

  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.

  Touch the Clouds’ fear and words echoed those of Young Man Afraid. There was a storm coming, and all the Lakota not taken in by the slippery words of the whites would have to stand together and prepare to fight to the end.

  Eighteen

  Old Lone Horns had been right. The issue of a price for the Black Hills was very much on the table at the council at the Spotted Tail agency.

  Messengers flowed back and forth from the agency to the northern camps of the “wild” Lakota, especially to the encampment of Crazy Horse. Since the start of the talks, hardly a day went by that someone didn’t arrive with a worn-out horse and yet another mouthful of significant news. And the news was never more than two days old.

  Spotted Tail, now a proponent of diplomacy in dealing with the whites, had somehow convinced them to have the council conducted at his agency. Now the issues important to the agency Lakota apparently had to do with who could ingratiate themselves the most to the whites. The talks had begun under an air of tension. Many fighting men from the “wild” Lakota opposed to selling the Black Hills had traveled to Spotted Tail to make their presence and their attitude known to those among the agency Lakota who were in favor of selling. The talks were delayed almost immediately when an especially aggressive contingent, led by Little Big Man, threatened to kill anyone who spoke of selling. Only the calm yet resolute words of Young Man Afraid had convinced many angry young men to put away their weapons. He diffused the moment, and perhaps saved the lives of the white peace talkers as well. The whites were shaken to the point of insisting that negotiations be conducted within the protective confines of the army stockade, out of sight and earshot of the militant young Lakota.

  Crazy Horse had been within half a day’s ride of Spotted Tail when he was told of Young Man Afraid’s intervention. He could understand his friend’s reasons for wanting to prevent bloodshed, but he wondered who it would help in the long run. When he heard that Red Cloud had named a price for selling the Black Hills, he knew that Young Man Afraid’s earlier warning was true. War was inevitable.

  Some called the meeting “The council to steal the Black Hills.” Nothing was settled, or finalized, however. The white peace talkers didn’t get their sale, but months later they were waving a piece of paper they called an “agreement” that, they said, gave them ownership of the Black Hills. The story of the paper was a galling thing to hear for the “wild” Lakota, but it was typical of the whites. A group of old Lakota, leaders far past the prime of their influence, had been called to the agency in the dead of winter and told to sign the paper. When those old men steadfastly refused, soldiers were positioned behind them with cocked rifles pointed at each of their heads. Still they refused. When the white peace talkers threatened to stop all the annuities for the agency Lakota and to immediately round them up for transport south to the Indian Nation, the old men signed. The agency Lakota had heard of that country, a place of hunger and disease. Besides, who would fault them for saving lives? No one did. The incident only served to further the resolve of Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull.

  As the snows flew, young men who had gone to visit relatives at the Spotted Trail agency returned with news that coincided with the “agreement” story. The “great father” had issued an order that all Lakota must move to the agencies by the end of the moon they called January—sometime in the Moon of Frost in the Lodge—or risk being hunted down by soldiers.

  Crazy Horse’s people had broken up into smaller winter camps along the Tongue River. Among them were He Dog and a few Sicangu Lakota families who had grown tired of the agency. Crazy Horse was glad to see his best friend, someone with whom he could speak freely about all that concerned them. In lodges up and down the valley, the news hung in the air like acrid smoke as the sun sank behind the western mountain ridges.

  The order given by the “great father” was nothing more than an idiotic notion. As ridiculous as it was for anyone to presume to exercise such control, Crazy Horse knew that soldiers would likely be dispatched to round up people. S
o be it. Armed conflict and the anticipation of it was part of interaction with whites. The probability of it was constant because of their attitude. He knew what the old men were thinking. An order that the whites knew would be ignored was simply an excuse for them to take action against the Lakota.

  Crazy Horse made plans to travel north to visit with the Hunkpapa Lakota and Sitting Bull, to discuss this latest foolishness unleashed by the Long Knives, and he asked Black Shawl to accompany him.

  Sitting Bull had already gotten word of the order and he was not surprised by it, but he didn’t like its implication. He would send out a call again, he said, to ask the people to gather and talk. Everyone needed to be of a like mind against this new threat, but, more important, nothing could be done effectively unless the agency Lakota would come to their senses. Somewhere in the area of the Greasy Grass valley, he thought, would be a good place for a large gathering. There was usually good grazing in the floodplain, especially if the snowfall was good over the winter. He would send out word in the Moon When the Geese Return that he would take his people to the Greasy Grass in the Moon When Horses Lose Their Hair. He hoped that the right people would come, mainly the men who could influence others. Time would tell.

  After several days Crazy Horse and Black Shawl returned to their own camp.

  The day when all Lakota had to report to the agencies had come and gone. The northern camps were nervous, watching the horizons for the first sign of the soldiers they had heard had been gathering at Fort Fetterman. Winter relaxed its grip and a span of warm days melted the snow and thawed the ice on creeks and rivers. He Dog took advantage of the opportunity to head for the agency; his contingent of eight Sicangu Lakota families were mostly women and children in no condition to outrun mounted soldiers. Before he left, Crazy Horse had ridden up into the hills, unable to watch his closest friend give in to the agency, though he understood all too painfully He Dog’s reasons. The spaces vacated by eight lodges were not as big as the holes left in the hearts of the relatives who watched their loved ones riding away slowly and uncertainly, looking back frequently.

  Winter came back, swooping across the Powder River country without mercy. When the blizzards stopped, an exhausted messenger leading a horse with legs gashed by crusted snow stumbled into the Crazy Horse camp. Soldiers had come north and attacked Two Moons’ Sahiyela camp north of the forks of the Powder River. Crazy Horse immediately sent out scouts, and less than a day out, they found the Sahiyela struggling through the snow. With them were He Dog’s Sicangu Lakota.

  The soldiers had appeared suddenly out of a storm. Their mounted attack was well coordinated, coming from several directions at once. The Sahiyela had felt relatively safe because they were not part of the current difficulty involving the Black Hills. But they would never feel safe again.

  Most of the fighting men were still asleep when the attack came, and most of them were armed only with bows and arrows. Many women and children managed to escape and hide in the gullies west of the camp. The Sahiyela and the few Lakota fighting men with He Dog retaliated swiftly and managed to slow down the soldiers long enough for their women and children to move out of harm’s way. But the camp was burned and most of the horses were driven off. Food, clothing, and robes were lost. Miraculously, only a few were wounded and two killed.

  The Crazy Horse camp received the refugees. Two Moons and He Dog informed Crazy Horse that Indian scouts—perhaps Crow—had led the soldiers. One of them was a man they all knew as Grabber, the son of a black-skinned man. He would know where the favorite locations were for winter camps. And so, it had begun.

  Scouts who had stayed behind to follow the soldiers learned they were part of Three Stars’ contingent. Three Stars was General George Crook, who was at Fort Fetterman. Crazy Horse, Two Moons, and He Dog decided to move their people north to join the Sitting Bull encampments. The combined force of fighting men grew to around three hundred. Sitting Bull’s people had traded with the Gros Ventures for rifles and bullets. It was good news at a time when such news was needed. Let them come, was the sentiment among the fighting men. Let the whites come.

  Sitting Bull sent out his carefully chosen messengers to announce that the people should gather near the Chalk Buttes in late spring, entreating them to speak wisely and clearly to the leaders among the Lakota as well as the Dakota and Nakota. He wanted his messengers to appeal to their sense of pride, especially to those who were surely disenchanted with life on the agencies.

  Two Moons decided to keep his people with Crazy Horse’s camp. He Dog decided it was better to die a free and “wild” Lakota. He advised Crazy Horse to send a message aimed at the young unmarried Lakota men languishing on the agencies. Unattached as they were, they could leave anytime, and their response to Crazy Horse’s call could influence the agency Lakota to heed Sitting Bull’s message. It made good sense.

  Early in the Moon When Horses Lose Their Hair, Sitting Bull moved his people north to the Chalk Buttes. Shortly thereafter, the first arrivals from the agencies began trickling in. By the beginning of the Moon of Ripening Berries, the encampment was estimated at three thousand people, including approximately four hundred fighting men.

  Warm weather seemed to improve Black Shawl’s health and state of mind. As Crazy Horse’s people prepared to break camp and move north, she sat with her husband on a hillside. The - people, with no objection from Sitting Bull, thought he should be the overall leader of the Lakota. Few men in the past had ever held such a position—no one in recent memory, in fact.

  Black Shawl knew it was a responsibility he already had. Not many men could walk through the circle of lodges and make - people feel better simply because he passed by.

  They both knew that difficult times lay ahead. The future was uncertain, and to help ensure the survival of the true Lakota way of life, the evil that had been nipping at their heels and flanks had to be driven back, if not destroyed. That evil was the Long Knives. A large part of the answer to that problem was for all the Lakota to think alike and combine their efforts. And Crazy Horse, Black Shawl knew, could bring people together.

  More and more people arrived almost every day. The horse herd was growing and eating down the sparse grass around the buttes. Some young men said perhaps there were as many as seven thousand head. Sitting Bull was already at work, inviting the older leaders to his own lodge or to the roomier council lodge. He was an impressive and charismatic man. A slight limp from a gunshot wound to his hip during his days as a young fighting man served only to give him more credibility. He had earned nearly seventy battle honors, more than any man at the gathering except Crazy Horse. Now past the age of fifty, he had a solid reputation as a wise leader and counselor, enhanced by his status as a medicine man. He was immensely pleased at the response to his message and announced he would conduct a Sun Dance. Spiritually, as well as psychologically, it was the right thing at the time. It could only serve to unify the people and add to the feeling of strength and pride that seemed to be growing as quickly as the horse herd. It was that kind of insight that made him an influential leader.

  The encampment moved west across the Powder and the Tongue into the valley of the Rosebud, and across it as well, turning at the northern slopes of the Wolf Mountains into the broken country near the Greasy Grass River. The long procession moved in the old way, with the holy men leading the way carrying the embers from the council fire, while the warrior groups rode on each flank and brought up the rear. Each day, the lodges were pitched before sundown and were ready to travel at dawn. They finally came to Ash Creek and followed it west. There the old men selected a place.

  While Sitting Bull was hard at work for the hearts and minds of the people, Crazy Horse sent scouts in all directions. The feeling among the military leaders was that the biggest threat lay to the south, from Three Stars’ army. Nonetheless, scouts went as far as a day’s ride in every direction, a distant first line of defense. To the north were the Crow, but they were not stupid enough to attack such a large en
campment defended by several hundred fighting men. Given the “great father’s” order, Crazy Horse kept his eyes and ears—in the person of his scouts—concentrated - toward the south.

  Preparations were completed for the Sun Dance. Sitting Bull - didn’t lack for participants, stalwart young men offering their sacrifice of pain and flesh on behalf of the people. To set the tone, Sitting Bull himself offered one hundred bits of flesh, fifty from each arm—a real and symbolic sacrifice not lost on the - people.

  The effect of the Sun Dance, the most holy of Lakota ceremonies, was to rekindle a sense of unity and remind the agency Lakota that the true path of the Lakota way was still very much alive and viable. Sitting Bull fell into a trance, and after he awoke he described dead, wounded, and bleeding soldiers, and their horses falling headfirst from the sky into a Lakota encampment. Soldiers falling into camp became the watchwords for victory.

  The growing encampment buzzed for days with speculation on the meaning of Sitting Bull’s vision. Interpretations varied but the unmistakable message was definitely victory over the Long Knives. When scouts returned to camp one evening with word of a large column of soldiers heading north, the news was not unexpected and it was received as a precursor to the eventual validation of Sitting Bull’s vision. Most of all, there was no sense of panic.

  The scouts were taken immediately to Crazy Horse. By late afternoon, he took their report to the council lodge. Three Stars was bringing an army north, probably in keeping with the “great father’s” order. The column was likely in the area of Goose Creek in the foothills of the Shining Mountains by now, Crazy Horse deduced. Riding with the Long Knives were Crow and Snakes, old enemies to the Lakota—over two hundred according to the scouts’ estimates. Three Stars’ army was three to four days away. Of course they couldn’t know of the gathering on Ash Creek and must not be allowed to come close.