Photographs of Crazy Horse also pop up now and again. I’m inclined to react to those who purport to have or know of an “authentic” photograph of him much the same way I would to anyone who wants to sell me the Brooklyn Bridge, or argues that Custer really won the Battle of the Little Bighorn. There is, of course, no way to state unequivocally that no photographs of Crazy Horse exist. But we should consider two factors when discussing this topic: first, he was very suspicious of white people in general and, second, he probably would not have sat or stood still (literally) for the minimum five or ten minutes required to pose for a photograph. A few people have suggested that a photograph could have been taken of him without his knowledge, but, again, given the photographic technology of the time it would have been impossible to take a “snapshot” of him. Furthermore, until he took his people to Camp Robinson, he was rarely in the presence of whites and only once anywhere in the vicinity of a photographer. From that encounter came the anecdote of his refusal to pose and the words, “Why would you want to take from me my shadow?”
Western writer Louis L’Amour gave him gray eyes and someone else suggested he was part white because of his brown, slightly wavy hair. (I think it was the same writer who postulated that the Lakota won the Battle of the Little Bighorn because Sitting Bull was secretly trained by Jesuits at a military school in Europe.) The “part white” theory explains, to some folks, why Crazy Horse was such an outstanding warrior and tactician. The white blood made all the difference.
Historian Stephen Ambrose called him a man of violence, and the subtitle of his book Crazy Horse and Custer labels him an “American warrior.” If Crazy Horse is an American, then Joe McCarthy is a friend to Communism, Ralph Nader loves Chevrolet Corvairs, and Kenneth Lay is the champion of the working class.
Larry McMurtry seemed mostly mystified with his slant on Crazy Horse and almost hesitant to write about him, but he did venture a point that I do agree with. Neither historians nor writers have an accurate insight into the deeds of Crazy Horse, much less his soul.
There will always be pretenders because Crazy Horse is many things to many people. Even among us Lakota there are tendencies to deify him. It’s difficult to say if the real Crazy Horse will ever outmaneuver the ethnocentric opinions, the paternalistic pronouncements of those who think they have the final word on history, or the plain, unmitigated hero worship. But strangely enough, each time a pretender steps into the limelight of someone’s ignorance, it is an opportunity to unveil the real Crazy Horse. For it was as a real person he left tracks both on the Earth and in the hearts of men and women who truly know him.
I have walked the ridge north of Buffalo, Wyoming, where he led several hundred Lakota and Sahiyela fighting men to victory over the infantry soldiers from Fort Phil Kearny in the Battle of the Hundred in the Hand, or Opawinge Napogna Wicayuhapi— also known as the Fetterman Battle or Fetterman Massacre. I went there alone on a cold December day and transported myself back to a like day in the Winter Moon of 1866. The wind stung my face and numbed my fingers as I walked the snow-covered ridge along the old Bozeman Trail. I could hear the deep boom of fifty-caliber rifles, the sizzling hiss of flying arrows, and the voices of men exhorting one another in Lakota, Sahiyela, and English as they fought or screamed in pain as they were mortally wounded. In the eerie aftermath of combat I could see Crazy Horse riding the slippery eastern slope of the ridge to discover his boyhood friend Lone Bear disabled by a grievous wound and face down in the snow. I could see Crazy Horse turn his friend over gently and brush snow and ice from his face and hair, and then his own features distort with anguish and grief as the young man died in his arms.
On more than one hot summer day I have stood and looked over the ridges and rolling hills along the Little Bighorn River north of where Ash (Reno) Creek flows into it and where, 128 years ago, another battle was fought.
Like Crazy Horse himself, the Battle of the Little Bighorn is still often misunderstood. It was, of course, reported as a massacre of the cavalry troops led by George Custer. In fact it was three hard-fought distinct and separate engagements over two days. More than half of the six hundred or more troops survived the battle, although Custer himself and the five companies he commanded (over two hundred men) were completely wiped out in the second engagement.
Crazy Horse was one of several combat leaders who had a definite impact on the outcome of that battle. The others were Gall, Crow King, and Black Moon of the Hunkpapa Lakota, Big Road of the Oglala Lakota, Red on Top of the Isanti Dakota, He Dog of the Sicangu Lakota, Touch the Clouds (about seven feet tall, it was said) of the Itazipacola Lakota, and Two Moons and Wooden Leg of the Sahiyela.
If we look at that battle as only a military action—or, as many white historians like to say, “an episode in a clash of cultures”—we limit our awareness. Any battle or conflict is, at the very least, an interaction between two (or more) distinct groups of people. An interaction between people is a human endeavor driven or caused by human characteristics such as obedience, loyalty, greed, anger, curiosity, fear, patriotism, and so on. If we consider these as factors then we cannot help but put a human face on such an interaction or endeavor. Having gone that far, we need then to look into the soul represented by that human face. When we’ve been touched by the souls of those who have gone before us we will gain a new perspective on history and we will likely realize that the phrase “clash of cultures” does not begin to describe it.
Walking the hills above the Little Bighorn River on a hot June day can provide an insight into the souls, the humanity, of both sides of that conflict. To feel the hot breeze and the burning sun on your face, to feel the same dusty soil beneath your feet, to gaze on the same landmarks such as Medicine Tail Coulee and Last Stand Hill and Sharpshooter Ridge, and to watch the sunlight flashing off the slow-moving river puts you in touch with a particular event in our collective past—an event that will never change no matter how long or how vociferously we debate the details of that conflict, and it will remain a part of each of us who goes there. At some point most of us will dare to wonder how it felt to be there. How did it feel to hear the continuous gunfire? How did it feel to run through the dust on that hot day? How does one react to the sound of bullets hitting into the flesh of one’s comrades? What did the mothers, wives, and grandmothers in the great encampment, or as they fled from it, think, knowing that their husbands, sons, brothers, and grandsons were facing an enemy who always had more guns and more bullets? Surely some of them paused to look toward the gunfire across the river, trying to see something through the cloud of dust. Surely some of them paused to pray, clutching their children and grandchildren to them, wondering if their loved ones lost in the dust were alive. And surely even as the soldiers were dying, many of their final, conscious thoughts were also of loved ones far away from the dusty hills and ridges that would become a final resting place.
The Little Bighorn Battlefield National Monument contains and preserves some of the actual 1876 battle site, but there is much more than the tangible physicality of the place, more than geography and landmarks. Marble headstones to mark where soldiers fell and the mass grave atop Last Stand Hill are powerful reminders, but there are some things from the past that are not as tangible. Stories are there, riding on the breezes, sometimes flashing in the sunlight, but always reaching across the gulf of time. To learn these stories one must know as much as possible of the moment in time they originated. One must also be willing to shed skepticism, put aside the arrogance of the present, and forget the ethnocentric bias that too many times obscures the truth. And then the truth will come, likely in bits and pieces, but it will come.
Crazy Horse was not perfect or so overwhelmed with righteousness that he was incapable of dark thoughts or doubts. Nor was he impervious to all the foibles of being human. He was very human. He learned his lessons, he laughed, he loved, he was - driven by loyalty, anger, patriotism, and he did his best not certain it would be good enough. He knew cold and hunger and fear and self-
doubt. Seeing men die in combat and losing a daughter made him much too familiar with grief. As a very young man he lost—twice—the woman who was likely the love of his life, so he knew the bitterness of heartache. He knew the responsibility of leadership on and off the battlefield, and the satisfaction of a job well done. Walking among the shadowy pines of the Shining Mountains he enjoyed the fresh, exhilarating scent of pine mingling with fresh air. From below the sky-lines of many hills he watched the setting sun bathe low autumn clouds with an impossible hue of lavender and felt the presence of Wakantanka. In the Moon of Falling Leaves he reveled in the high, lonesome call of the snow geese heading south for the winter, and probably wondered what it felt like to fly and see the land from their perspective. In short, he was a man like many others, and in many ways he was a man like no other. He will always live in my mind and my heart as a quiet man, a humble soul, a good husband, a loyal son, a doting father, an unrelenting warrior.
There will always be some kind of debate about Crazy Horse. What exactly did he do at the Battle of the Little Bighorn? Did he have special powers through his vision? Why was he such a private person? Even his contemporaries were divided over their opinions of him. Then and now, however, there is probably one factor that most of us can agree on. He was a leader. Whether he came into it by accident or by design, whether he was good at it or not, he was a leader. And he led by example. Lakota culture - wouldn’t allow him to do it any other way and neither would his own character and personality, because he was not an authoritarian. If there is one thing and one thing only that we can learn from him, it would be leadership by example. He didn’t invent it but he used it and it worked for him.
The time of Crazy Horse is past, but his leadership style is not passé. Those of us who study him without the obtuse filter of cultural bias see him not as legend but as an example. An example of making the best of the talents and abilities one has, at the very least.
The current moment is fleeting, the past grows with each passing moment, and tomorrow is shaped by what we do today and what we are willing to learn from yesterday. The basic difference between us and our ancestors is technology. The fact that we can perform a task more quickly because we’ve improved on a tool only proves that we, at least in one instance, have become more efficient, but it doesn’t necessarily mean that we’ve grown wiser. And if there is one aspect of our modern society in which we cannot afford arrogance, it is in the development of our leaders.
Crazy Horse didn’t rise to the pinnacles of leadership because he came from an influential family, or because he recited his record of heroic deeds publicly, or because there were no leaders among the Lakota. He rose to leadership because he actually led. He didn’t direct or point to where others should go while he waited. He led.
He has been called a mystic, that he had powers because of his vision. Perhaps he was a mystic and perhaps he was given power through his vision. One thing is certain: he believed what he saw in his dream and his power came from that belief. And it wasn’t necessarily otherworldly power. Crazy Horse used a power that was available to most warriors and warrior leaders of his day; the power of example. He went first, he took the lead, he was the first to face and meet the challenge. When he had to be daring he was, sometimes to the point of recklessness as it certainly appeared to most of his fellow warriors. It is what set him apart from other leaders. But the other factor that enabled his rise to leadership was his humility.
Crazy Horse was truly humble about his achievements. Both those traits endeared him to many and evoked jealousy in some. He understood that what is accomplished in the name of and for the people belongs to the people. He set aside his reputation. Why, I’ve often wondered, did he do that? Was it because he was so shy and humble that he shunned the public limelight? That is certainly part of it in my opinion, but I think there was another reason.
I can still recall the quiet, utterly respectful statement made by one of those old men, that day in my boyhood by the Little White River, as they sat and talked of the old, old days and of Tasunke Witko. Wankinyan ihanbla ske, one of them said. They say he was a Thunder Dreamer. I had felt a shiver go through my body. Even at the age of six I knew that a Thunder Dreamer had powers because the Wakinyan, the Thunder Beings came to him or her in a dream or during a vision quest. Such a person literally had a vision that was a connection to the most powerful natural element on the Plains and spiritually becomes a heyoka, a wise fool, or a sacred clown, if you will.
A heyoka is a walking contradiction. His or her behavior at times may seem crazy or against his or her own character, but in behaving contrary to good sense or one’s basic character or habits, the heyoka is actually performing a spiritual ceremony. A heyoka sacrifices his or her ego and reputation for the sake of the people. I believe that Crazy Horse was a Thunder Dreamer. That was his journey because the Wakinyan came to him in a vision, and that vision showed the way he was expected to live his life. The vision likely didn’t provide specifics, only that he was to walk the path of giving as opposed to gaining. That would seem to explain why Crazy Horse always wore plain clothing and never donned a feather bonnet, which he was certainly entitled to as an accomplished warrior. That would seem to explain why he didn’t participate in the waktoglakapi, the telling of one’s victories. He did, in fact, sacrifice his own ego and reputation for the sake of his people. And in doing so he was honoring his journey.
Crazy Horse, the Thunder Dreamer, will always live in the shadows of my mind, sometimes waiting in the margin of my awareness and sometimes stepping into the focus of my awareness. I will always see him as a man, but sometimes there is that mist that flows around him. Perhaps his bones have turned to stone, as he said they would. But his spirit has risen because he does live in the minds of many Lakota, and also because he has found his place in our hearts. And that, I believe, is the best place for him to be because the human heart is stronger than stone.
Tasunke Witko!
Lakota wica!
Hokahe!
A Story:
The Lightning Bow
A thin covering of snow had fallen over the land in the first days of the Winter Moon. The Bow Maker wandered, searching the never-ending prairies for just the right young ash tree. It could be no wider than his forearm and straight and at least as high as he was tall. He could no longer walk as fast as he did in his youth. There were many strands of gray in his nearly waist-length hair. But he still had endurance and could maintain a steady pace, thus he went from one valley to the next. Though they were now leafless he could still easily spot stands of ash trees in the bottomlands along creeks and rivers, for that’s where they grew in abundance. Years and years of experience told him in a heartbeat if a tree was straight enough and had the spirit to make a powerful bow. So he kept searching.
The right tree was waiting somewhere, he knew. It was only a matter of time. But as he traveled he wondered if he would live long enough to see that it would be cured properly. Every ash tree that was split into staves then had to be air-dried for five years. Then, and only then, would the stave be ready to be made into a good bow. Whatever is to happen will happen, he told himself as he journeyed on.
The Bow Maker no longer had the strength of his youth, but he had the strength of wisdom that comes from the journey of a long life. The old ones know that wisdom and experience are the greatest strengths of all. So he traveled on, watchful for enemies but unafraid, secure in the knowledge that he had lived a good, long life and that he was ready for the next.
In a wide valley where he remembered playing as a boy and hunting as a young man the Bow Maker found an expected gift. A once sturdy ash tree, many times as tall as a man, had been split in two. One half lay on the ground. The Bow Maker cried out in joy for he had found what he thought he would never see in his lifetime, an ash tree split by lightning. Such a tree had been dried and cured in one heartbeat by the awesome power of the lightning sent down by the Thunders. A bow made from such a tree would have power like non
e other.
The Bow Maker found a secluded spot and made his camp. He made offerings to the Thunders and smoked his pipe, and then he set about splitting the lightning tree into staves for bows. He worked for several days and made several staves, each of the proper length and width. One of them felt different in his hands when he held it. It was no longer or wider than the others yet there was something about it that made him want to touch it. The Bow Maker could feel a certain force, perhaps the spirit of the Thunders themselves.
Though the days and nights were growing colder the Bow Maker decided to stay in his camp and build a bow out of the stave he liked. He worked and worked, slowly and patiently. With his tools of stone, bone, and antler he shaved and then shaped the stave until it became a bow. He sang songs as he worked calling on the skills taught to him by his father and grandfathers, and he sang songs of honor to the Thunders and their power. In his weathered and rough hands, hands that had turned many staves to bows, this bow of the lightning tree took shape. It was thickest around the middle, where it was two fingers wide. From the middle it gradually tapered to each end where it was the size of the tip of his little finger. Each limb or wing was as equally long as the other, and as graceful.
The Bow Maker worked using all the skills and the knowledge he had gathered in his lifetime. As he watched the bow take shape he marveled at its feel and balance. Never in his lifetime had he made a bow as fine. When he tied on the sinew string and drew it back for the first time, he knew it was the most powerful as well. Pulled back and drawn to an arc, it resembled the thinnest new crescent of the new moon. It was appropriate, for as all bow makers know, the moon is the mother of the bow.
Joseph M. Marshall III Page 29