by John Foxjohn
At last, Curly nodded. “The rider let me know…I must never wear a war bonnet, and I must…never paint my horse or tie up its tail like the others do before going into battle. I should sprinkle my horse with dust…and rub some dust over my own hair and body. After a battle…I must never take anything for myself.”
Crazy Horse leaned forward and took a couple pieces of wood off the fire so it would die before they went to bed. When he straightened up, deep frown furrows dug into his forehead.
Hesitantly, Curly continued, “All the while, the horse and rider kept moving towards me…but surrounded by an unknown enemy. Arrows and bullets…streaked toward the rider but fell away…without touching him. A crowd of people appeared, grabbing at him, the rider’s own people…it seemed. But the rider of my vision…rode right through them, shaking them off. A fierce storm came up…but the man kept riding. Hail spots appeared on his body…little zigzag streak of lightning on his cheek. As the storm faded…a small red-black hawk flew screaming over the man’s head. Still his people grabbed at him…pressing close to him…but he kept riding.”
When Curly finished telling of his vision, no one said anything for a long time. Hand wasn’t sure how he should feel about what he’d heard, and he didn’t know how to interpret it. His father had not believed in this kind of stuff. He thought back to a dream he’d had before they left Missouri. He was convinced that the Indian he saw in his dream was Curly.
Crazy Horse sat, staring into the fire. Everyone waited for him to speak. “Curly,” he said, “you received your vision without the proper preparation. You must have powerful medicine. To my knowledge, no one has ever had a vision as great as yours.”
“What does it mean…Father?”
“Son, it appears to mean that you’ll ride many different horses into battle, and they’ll die, but as long as you dress and act like the warrior in your vision, you can’t be killed by the enemies.”
“Why did my people try to hold me…back?”
“You saw this twice in your vision.” Crazy Horse said. “I think it has two meanings. First, some of your own people will attempt to hold you back from what you want, or what you might become. Second, you’ll die only if some of your own people are holding you.”
“Do you think all I saw in this vision…is true?”
While Crazy Horse stared into the dark, Curly did the same. No sound but the fire crackling disturbed their thoughts.
Hand, aware of the breeze blowing through the grass, glanced from one to the other, wondering when Crazy Horse would answer Curly’s question. He glanced at Little Hawk, who shrugged. Hand could see the impatience in his friend, but he knew the little brother wouldn’t say anything until spoken to by an elder.
“Yes, Curly, I do,” Crazy Horse said at last. “You’ve received a powerful vision. It’s even more powerful because you had no preparation. I think everything you saw and felt will happen.”
* * * *
The arrow sped through the air like a hawk diving for a mouse. In a large meadow, Hand and Little Hawk practiced with their bows on a lazy afternoon. In fact, they were having a contest to see who could shoot an arrow the farthest. Hand, bigger and stronger, won the first two, and this made Little Hawk more determined to win the next one.
Little Hawk puffed his chest out. “You got lucky. No way can you beat me.”
Hand leaned on his bow and grinned. Little Hawk would never learn. In most things, Hand lost, but Little Hawk couldn’t shoot as far as he could. “I’ve beat you every time.”
“You will not beat me again. My next arrow will go twice as far as yours.”
While the banter went on between the two boys, Curly and Lone Bear walked up. “Hoya…Is Hand beating you again?”
Little Hawk narrowed his eyes. “I’m going to beat him this time.”
Both older boys laughed. Lone Bear shook his head. “You’re never going to beat Hand. He’s bigger, and a lot stronger than you.”
He said the wrong thing to Little Hawk, and both boys knew it. They pushed him to see his grim-jawed, determined expression, and they weren’t disappointed.
“I will show you.” Little Hawk spat out the words as if they left a bad taste in his mouth. After notching an arrow, he raised his left arm all the way, pulling the bowstring back toward his ear with three fingers. The bow, bent almost like a horseshoe, groaned.
He paused and released the arrow with a big swish. The arrow traveled much farther than his other two had. This reminded Hand that Little Hawk always did his best when challenged, and both the older boys knew it.
The arrow’s smooth flight arched high, reached its peak, and streaked toward the ground, quivering as it stuck.
When it hit, Little Hawk strutted around with a big smile.
“Hah, that was a pretty good shot, but Wrong Hand…can beat it with ease.”
“We will see,” Little Hawk said.
“I think Wrong Hand can beat it, too,” another voice cut in. Everyone turned. High Back Bone, called Hump, had walked up.
“A lot you know. I do not think he can beat it,” Little Hawk said.
Curly shook his head. “OK. Show him, Hand.”
Hand notched his arrow, held the bow with his right hand, and pulled back all the way with three fingers. As he released the arrow, the string pinged, and the arrow left with a much louder swish than Little Hawk’s.
Hump cocked his head. “Hola!”
The arrow appeared to stay in the air for a long time as it arched up and up, and its awe-inspiring flight made the boys gasp. It landed so far they could barely see where it stuck in the ground almost twice as far as Little Hawk’s arrow had gone.
Curly smiled at Hand. “Hola. Hump…do you think you could beat Hand’s shot?”
“Noooo, and I have sense enough not to try.”
Little Hawk’s lips curled in a frown. “He beat me this time, but the next time I will beat him.”
This made everyone laugh, except Little Hawk, whose face turned the color of red buffalo berries and he stomped his foot.
Lone Bear wiped laugh tears away. “What brings you out to the arrow shooting, Hump?”
“We thought you would’ve been getting…your things together for your big raid tomorrow.”
“I don’t think I have enough men for this trip and I need about three more to go with me.”
All of the boys jumped up and down, yelling, “Take me. Take me.”
Hump stood, hands on his hips, grinning at their excitement, but didn’t say anything. He laughed as they carried out their animated performance. With a serious expression, he tapped a finger on his cheek.
“I could use three more warriors. Can I ask you a question?”
All four of the boys yelled, “Yes,” at the same time.
Hump nodded. “Do you boys know where I can find three more men to go with me?”
Hump took off running and laughing, and all four boys chased, screaming in their best war challenge. He didn’t have a chance to get away, even if he hadn’t been laughing so hard he couldn’t run fast. Lone Bear, one of the fastest runners in the village, dived and grabbed Hump from behind. As Hump fell to the ground, the rest piled on, laughing and wrestling.
When they became too tired to roll around anymore, they lay laughing for several minutes.
“Wait a minute.” Little Hawk cried out. “You said you needed three, but there are four of us.” He gave Hump a defiant stare. “You aren’t about to go without me.”
“Or me,” cried Curly and Lone Bear.
“Hey. I want to go too,” Hand yelled.
Hump held up his hand to quiet them. “Curly, Lone Bear, and Little Hawk can go, but Hand, you need to stay.”
“Why can they go and not me?”
Hump glanced at Hand and took in a deep breath. “They have been on raids before, but you haven’t, and this one’s too far to take you as a go boy.”
“What does a go boy do?”
“They hold the extra horses for us and go
and do anything that needs to be done, gather wood for the fires, that sort of thing.”
“But I can do that.” Hand’s voice sounded like someone kicked him in a bad place.
“I know you could, but this is too far, and you’ll have to stay here.” His firm voice and the cast of his face left Hand no room to argue the point anymore.
“Boys, you need to get your weapons together. We’re leaving early in the morning. If you aren’t ready we’ll leave without you,” Hump said.
As Hump walked off, the boys were all excited, except for Hand. Curly noticed the depressed look. He grasped Hand’s shoulder. “Don’t feel bad…maybe you can go on the next one.”
“You could’ve spoken up for me.”
“What would I say? Hump’s mind…was made up.”
“You could’ve told him you wouldn’t go without me.”
Curly laughed, and the three happy boys walked off talking about what they needed to do, leaving Hand to sulk.
That night, Hand moped. It wasn’t fair. He could shoot as straight and as far as anyone. Even Hump had said he couldn’t shoot as far as him, yet he wouldn’t let him go.
It didn’t help the boy’s feelings when Curly and Little Hawk busied themselves, preparing their things. Crazy Horse taught them all the little tricks, what to take, how to carry it.
Hand knew both boys had been out as go boys, but he should be able to go too. The boys didn’t say much—they let him sulk in peace. Angry, Hand went to the men’s side of the lodge and curled up in his blankets.
Before the party left the next morning, Hand, still mad, decided to see them off. Warriors gathered in their finest war clothes—faces painted in their medicine colors. Most wore a full crest of feathers on their bonnets, scalps hanging from their coup sticks, and their hair braided and tied with otter skins. They made an awesome display of courage.
Curly, the last to make an appearance, surprised everyone. His hair hung loose to his waist. He had no paint except a small lighting bolt on his right cheek, some light hail spots painted on his body, and a single hawk feather in his hair. As Curly mounted and started to leave, a smooth, round brown stone hanging from his left ear in a buckskin pouch, swung back and forth.
Something occurred to Hand. Both Curly and Little Hawk had gone on their first raid as go boys by sneaking off and following the raiding party until they were far enough off that the party leaders wouldn’t send them back.
He could do the same. How far should he let them get? He’d sneak off about a half a day’s ride behind and follow. He nodded to himself. That’s what he’d do.
He decided to wait until the sun rose straight overhead, but it didn’t move fast enough for him.
While he sat outside the lodge, Crazy Horse and Ina came out and told him they needed to gather roots along the creek bank. Perfect. It’d make it easier to sneak off.
As they started to saunter away, Crazy Horse stopped and turned. “Did you pay attention when I told your brothers last night about what to carry and how to carry it?”
“Yes, Ate.”
“Don’t forget it.”
He knows. How can he know?
Crazy Horse smiled as if reading the boy’s mind, “It might be hard to realize this, but I was a boy your age once.” He walked off.
Hand had his gear together in minutes, and in a few more minutes, he left the village on Charcoal.
They had camped on the west side of the Tongue River between the Tongue and Pumpkin Creek. Hand followed the warriors’ trail west through dense vegetation, without much trouble.
He loved this time of year. With the trees and all the bushes green, wild flowers grew amongst the lush grass, and the air had a crisp, clean scent. Bees and birds of all kinds swarmed through the forest, calling to each other.
After crossing the Rosebud River that got its name for all the wild roses growing along its banks, he crossed Big Horn Creek.
Hand sat his horse for several minutes, a clear blue sky with the beginnings of grey in the east suspended over his head, and running water gurgling over rocks. Fish leaped out, trying to nab insects as they hummed close to the bank.
As nightfall started to swallow daylight, he gigged his horse forward to catch up with the others. He was far enough away from camp now. They wouldn’t send him back. Following the trail, Charcoal climbed higher into the hills. He should see their fire soon and go straight to them.
Hairs stood on the boy’s neck. He had an odd sense of danger. He shivered, remembering he had this feeling before the attack on the wagon train.
He eased Charcoal to a stop. As he sat on his horse, he glanced around, turning his head to the left, and right, looking out the corner of his eyes. Curly had taught him, a person picked up movement better out of the corners of the eyes. His heart pounded.
After several minutes of searching the bushes, listening for unusual sounds, he released the reins on Charcoal. The horse walked forward. Hand paid close attention. Experience after the attack on the wagon train had taught him the horse was a better sentry.
Charcoal showed no signs of distress, but the danger sensations wouldn’t leave. He let nothing scare him again. Charcoal would sense danger if it existed.
They went forward, and again the hairs stood on his neck. With a dry mouth, his pulse throbbed in his head.
Something was wrong. He’d had these feelings before and ignored them when he shouldn’t’ve. Paying close attention to Charcoal, he gigged him forward, leaning to rub the horse’s neck, ready to jab his heel in the flank to get away. There’s not a horse alive that can outrun Charcoal.
When the horse’s ears perked up, Hand stopped him, and again spent several minutes scanning the trees and brush around him. He let the horse graze on the grass while he tried to pick up any little sound, anything out of place. Still nothing. Why did he have these feelings? If a threat existed, why didn’t Charcoal sense it?
Charcoal, content to eat, turned his head to look at Hand. The boy again leaned forward and rubbed his neck. “There’s nothing wrong. I’m acting like a baby, not a Lakota warrior.”
Determined no hazard existed, Hand pulled Charcoal from the grass. He’d see his friends’ fire soon.
Charcoal stepped forward—past a large clump of bushes on the right. Hand caught a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye. He tried to swing around. Someone crashed into him with jarring force.
His body, propelled off the horse, hit the ground with a thud, knocking his breath out. As he gasped to regain air, someone sat on his chest.
He ground his eyes closed, waiting for death.
Five
Laughter snapped Hand’s eyes open. He struggled, but let his head fall back when Hump said, “Hand, if I’d been a Crow after a scalp, you’d be dead.”
Moments passed while Hand recovered his breathing, and his heart somehow found its way back into his chest. He knew it had left his body. He hoped he hadn’t messed on himself.
“Get off me. I can’t breathe with you sitting on me.”
Curly reached a hand to help him up and he stood on shaky legs. His face burned while the warriors laughed. “What’re all you laughing at? You scared half the life out of me.”
“I think we scared more than half the life out of you,” Good Weasel said.
Hand’s gaze jerked down, but he sighed when he saw he hadn’t peed on himself. The warriors noticed, and this brought on another fit of laughter.
He ground his teeth together. Laugh, now. He’d get them back for this if it took the rest of his life.
When the laughter died, Curly said, “Hump did the same thing to me…when I followed. It’s a valuable lesson. He’s right…If he’d been the enemy, your scalp would be drying in someone’s lodge.”
Hand gave them an exasperated wave. “Oh, OK. I’ll pay more attention in the future.”
“See that you do,” Hump said, “on the way back to the village.”
Hand’s dejected expression made them burst out in laughter again
.
“You’re making me go back?”
Hump laughed. “Curly, does his face remind you of that old spotted dog in the village?”
Curly laughed so hard he almost fell over.
“Do you know what his look reminds me of, Curly?” Hump asked.
“No, what?” Curly stammered through his laughing.
“The expression on Little Hawk’s face when we told him he had to go back,” Hump said.
“I did not look like that.” Little Hawk no longer laughed.
Hump straightened. “Oh, yes you did. Let’s find a camp.”
After Hand mounted Charcoal, Hump said, “I’ll tell you something. For his age, Hand is good. A couple of times I thought for sure he’d spotted us.”
Although Hump’s words soothed his bruised ego, he swore he’d never discount his feelings again. Now he knew why Charcoal wasn’t alarmed. He knew the people and horses. Knew they weren’t dangerous.
Night air turned cold because the war party had climbed high in the hills before camping. Hand had looked forward to the warm campfire. Something about a campfire soothed and comforted him, like painting did. He thought better, gazing into the dancing flames, but discovered they had to eat pemmican and not have a fire because they didn’t want to give their position away. Of course, in all his haste to sneak off, he had left without his sleeping robes.
* * * *
The war party traveled for several days searching for a reported Arapaho village with many horses. Hump, who led the raiding party, had sent out scouts. After crossing the Wind River, with the sun staring them in the face, the scouts reported in—they’d found the village sitting in a small valley about half a day’s ride farther west.
They’d never been this far west and it made some of the warriors nervous.
This close to the enemy camp, Hump kept everyone in the wood line and away from clearings so no one would spot the party before they arrived.
That night, within sight of the Arapaho camp, they made another cold camp, no fires or noise. Everyone knew how well sound traveled at night.