by John Foxjohn
Before sunrise the next morning, the warriors readied their weapons to hit the camp. Curly threw a few handfuls of dust over his pony and himself. Except for moccasins and breechcloth, he rode naked into battle — his long hair hanging free.
Before they left, Hump turned his horse and faced Hand. “You are to stay behind and take care of the extra horses. I mean it. You are not to leave this hill.”
With apprehension, Hand sat on the small hill while the warriors approached the village. Like all boys, he wanted to find out how he’d react in a fight. He thought he could do it, but he’d never know for sure until he took part in one.
As the raiding party approached the village, the sun peeked over the eastern hills. Without warning, an alarm shouted from the village.
They must have had scouts out that the Lakota hadn’t seen. Maybe someone had to relieve his bladder early.
As warriors charged the horse herd, the Arapaho camp resembled an anthill kicked over.
Situated on the hill overlooking the camp, Hand had a better view than anyone. Arapaho warriors sprinted to a group of rocks close to the village, and from Hand’s vantage point, he could tell that if they got in those rocks, his people would have a hard time.
Rifle shots cracked in the still morning air—puffs of smoke drifted up from the rocks at the edge of the village.
The Arapaho made it to the rocks. Hand’s fear and frustration mounted. He trembled and clenched his fists.
With nothing he could do, he said a prayer to Whankan Thanka to keep them safe.
Lakota warriors circled the rocks, hanging on the far side of their horses, and firing under their necks. He’d seen them do this and had practiced in the drills himself many times. He knew the reason they rode this way, but it seemed scarier with a real fight going on.
Warriors stopped circling and drew off a distance to get out of rifle range. One warrior left the Lakotas’ group to charge the rocks. Long, light brown hair billowed as he charged. Hand almost fainted.
Curly charged straight into the Arapaho’s guns. Hand screamed, “No, come back.” But Curly didn’t.
As the horse raced among the Arapahos, Curly leaned to the side and slapped one with his open hand, counting coup on the live enemy.
Hand, gripped in fear, wanted his friend to get away, but he didn’t. Curly turned his horse, still inside the ring of rocks with bullets streaking all about him, and struck another with his coup stick. Before he left the rocks to retreat to the waiting Lakota, he leaned all the way over on the side of his horse. Curly’s head appeared to be inches from striking the rocks. He struck another Indian with his hand.
Hand let out a deep sigh when Curly galloped away with arrows and bullets whizzing all around, but none touched him. How could he ride through all those bullets and arrows and not a one hit him?
With loud cheering from the warriors who honored his bravery, Curly raced back to the safety of the group.
Hand’s breath had almost returned when Curly wheeled his horse and charged again. Open mouthed, Hand stared in astonishment.
This time, two of the Arapaho rushed out from the rocks to meet his charge, both with guns blazing. Again, bullets zipped by like mad hornets—none hit Curly and he didn’t stop. As he got close, he leaned to the side of his horse and shot an arrow striking the Arapaho in the chest.
Curly whirled his horse around to face the second warrior who stood about ten feet from him. The Arapaho took careful aim with his rifle but as he fired, Curly turned his horse to the side and fired an arrow at the exact same time.
Blood burst from the back of the Arapaho’s head as the arrow went into his forehead all the way to the feathers.
Hand’s heart pounded and legs trembled when his brother jumped from his running horse beside the Arapaho he’d killed. As Curly’s horse ran away, he knelt beside the dead warrior, and with a quick circular motion removed the Indian’s scalp. He ran to the second one, taking his scalp, too.
Despite his sore throat from screaming, Hand continued when Curly started to run back to the Lakota, but slammed face first in the dirt as if an invisible force struck him in the back. Leaping from the ground, Curly ran in a limping motion, zigzagging like the lighting bolt on his cheek to rejoin the others.
Hand breathed a huge sigh when Curly stumbled back to the waiting Lakota. They got on their horses, rounded up the ones they’d captured, and fled toward the hill where Hand stood on rubbery legs. Most of the warriors raced past Hand, and he saw that they’d lost no one in the raid.
Snake Killer raced in on a wounded horse and jumped as it keeled over. Hump raced up with Curly on the back of his horse. Hand ran to the horse herd and picked one out for Curly because his horse had run away. He led the horse back as Hump cut the iron-tipped arrow from the back of Curly’s leg. Hump went to Snake Killer’s dead horse, cut a piece out, wrapped the wound with the meat and tied it on with a piece of green hide.
Lone Bear raced up. “They’re coming. We’d better get out of here.” Lone Bear glanced at Curly. “Your horse must have been crazy to carry you through all that fire.”
Curly jumped up and mounted his horse. “Hump, get them out of here. I’ll bring up the rear and slow them down.”
“Are you sure you’re up for the rear guard?” Hump asked.
“I’m OK. Get them out of here.”
“No more heroics. Slow them down, but do it fast,” Hump said.
Hump mounted his horse, and Curly slapped Hump’s horse on the flank. The horse bolted away.
“Remember what I said, Curly,” cried Hump as he raced away.
Hand stayed with Curly, as did Little Hawk, Lone Bear, and Good Weasel. The Arapaho charged them on horseback, and the rear guard fired several arrows. Hand’s first arrow hit one of the warriors close to the front. The warrior didn’t fall, but swayed low on the horse and held on.
After the flight of arrows made the Arapaho turn back, the five Lakota rear guards ran to their horses. The Arapaho saw them flee and took up the chase again. As the Lakota raced out of rifle shot, Hand turned and hollered to Curly that the Arapaho were on better horses and would catch up.
“There’s no way we can get away from them,” Hand yelled over the pounding hooves.
Curly grinned. “They won’t catch us because I have a few tricks you don’t know about.”
Hand frowned. Leaning close to Curly’s horse, he yelled, “What tricks?”
“You watch and do what I do.”
Curly guided them straight for a group of hills to their west, and away from the main group of fleeing warriors. Dust billowed behind them as the enemy charged their horses. Large divots of grass and sod exploded up from the horse’s hooves. Hand prayed Charcoal didn’t hit a hole and go down.
As the rear guard ran their horses up the first hill, Curly slowed to a walk. Hand glanced over his shoulder. The Arapaho gained on them. When the rear guard reached the top of the hill, Hand again glanced back. Now, individual faces bobbed above the running horses.
As they crested the hill, Curly yelled, “Let’s run them.” With a kick in the flank, the horses sprinted down the hill. But to Hand’s dismay, at the bottom of the hill, they walked the horses.
“Have you lost your mind? They’re almost on us,” Hand yelled.
Curly yelled back, “No, I have my entire mind. You’ll see.”
Curly’s group continued the same tactic time after time, and the enemy fell farther and farther behind until they stopped altogether. As the raiders walked their horses up another hill, the Arapaho turned to leave.
The rear guard caught up with Hump’s group an hour later. After changing to fresh horses, they headed home in a cheerful mood.
Hand rode beside Curly on the long ride back. Curly was too quiet. Something bothered him. “What was that all about back there?” Hand asked.
“Back…where?”
“When we fled from the Arapaho.”
“Oh, that. People run horses…opposite of what they should. Mos
t people run up hills…let the horses walk down the hills…like the Arapaho did, but that tires a horse…too much. It takes more effort for the horse to run up a hill…than it does to run down.”
“How did you learn this?” Hand asked.
Curly laughed, “By running up and down hills myself…try it on foot sometime…you’ll see.”
Hand couldn’t argue. Curly’s tactic had tired the Arapahos’ horses, but put ten years on him. He wished he’d known what his brother planned before.
Pain etched on Curly’s face from his leg, but he uttered not one word. They rode beside each other for a long time without speaking, as was Curly’s way.
“Curly, what’s wrong? Is something bothering you?”
Silence continued, and at first, Hand thought Curly was so deep in thought that he had not heard his question. “Curly, did you hear me?”
“Yes. I heard you…I’m trying to figure the best way to answer…I did something wrong.”
“What’d you do wrong? You showed more bravery than anyone I’ve ever seen or heard about.”
“No, I wasn’t talking about that.” He held up the two scalps that he had taken. “This is what…I did wrong.”
Hand looked at him puzzled, “It’s the way of the people to take scalps.”
“It’s the way of our people…it’s not my way.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You know that I had a great vision. The Great Spirit told me many things…in the vision, but made one point clear to me…I could never to take anything away from a battle…like these scalps.”
They forded a fast-running creek while they talked. Hearing a noise, Hand glanced upstream where a couple of beaver played by a small dam. One of the beaver spanked his tail on the water with a resounding slap. The other beaver and several Hand hadn’t seen until then, dived under the water. He wanted to return to paint the beaver when they slapped their tails to warn of danger.
“The Great Spirit punished me…for taking these scalps,”
“How’d he punish you?”
“Did you see me ride though all the bullets…and arrows without being hit?”
Hand nodded. “Yes I did. It was great.” Could he show as much bravery in the face of danger? He was proud he’d stood beside the rear guard and fought, but it wasn’t the same as what Curly did.
“I saw this in my vision. The Great Spirit has told me that…I can’t be harmed if I do as he has told me.”
Hand rode for a couple of minutes without speaking. He believes this, he does. Hand had to admit—he did ride through all that fire. “The Great Spirit has told you that you can’t die?” Hand asked.
“No. He told me that I couldn’t die in battle…if I do everything he tells me. I can die by the hands of my own people…but I have to do what he has told me.” Curly held the two scalps up. “I didn’t receive a wound…until I took these scalps. The Great Spirit put the arrow in my leg…to punish me for disobeying.”
This was a long speech for Curly. It amazed Hand how his brother could be so brave in a fight, and so hesitant to talk. Hand watched in amazement as his friend threw the scalps away. “What’re you going to do?” Hand asked.
As Curly rode ahead, he replied, “I’ll always obey the Great Spirit…I won’t forget again.”
When they arrived at their village, Crazy Horse came to his son and helped him to the lodge.
He removed the meat covering Curly’s wound, applied a poultice of ground leaves, root of the hops plant, along with ground up calamus. Hand knew that the hops plant healed infections, and the calamus helped with fever.
That night, the village held a big feast. They ate the prepared hump ribs and the broiled buffalo tongue which the women served at big feasts because it was the best part of the buffalo.
All the warriors who had gone on the horse raid stood around the large central fire waiting for the storytelling to begin. Curly kept glancing around as if he looked for someone.
Hand walked over, “Don’t worry. She’ll be here.”
Embarrassment flashed across Curly’s face. “Who’ll…be here?”
“Black Buffalo Woman. Who else?”
Curly huffed up. “I wasn’t looking for her.” He Dog, who stood by Curly, grunted when Curly said this. Everyone in camp knew that Curly was lovesick for Black Buffalo Woman, but he wouldn’t admit it.
As the night’s activities started, buffalo dancers in their finest buffalo headdresses pranced out and started their impressive, rhythmic steps and movements duplicating the buffalo. Horns on the headdresses captivated the audience as they swayed and bobbed with the beat of the drum. One dancer dressed in the yellow calfskin imitated the movements, steps, and actions of a buffalo calf.
Dancers left, and warriors who had participated in the raid strutted forward to tell of their brave actions. Curly eased to the shadows. One warrior after another stepped forward and delighted the cheering people with tales of their actions.
He Dog, who had not been on the raid, went to the shadows and pushed Curly into the circle, but Curly backed out without saying anything. Next Hump and Snake Killer pushed Curly into the circle, and again he stood there for an instant then withdrew to the shadows.
Several people approached Curly trying to get him to tell of his accomplishments, but he shook his head and remained in the shadows casting an occasional glance at Black Buffalo Woman as she did to him.
As Hand turned to leave the fire, he stopped short. A young girl stood before him. With black, unbraided hair cascading below her shoulder blades, bangs just below her eyebrows, he’d never seen a more beautiful person. On her slender body, she wore a white buckskin dress with a necklace of shells strung around her neck.
“Hello Hand,” she said. “I’m Little Cat, Mans Afraid’s niece.”
How did she know his name? He hung his head and kicked dirt with his toe. He wanted to talk to her, but words wouldn’t come out. Sensing his discomfort, the girl said, “I have to go. I hope we can talk, soon.”
Hand nodded and mumbled, “Me too.”
She smiled and left. No wonder they called her Little Cat. She had graceful, feline movements.
Turning away, Hand walked into a small tree. A laugh embarrassed him even more. As Hand turned, Curly stood in the shadows. Now he knew what Curly went through.
The next morning, Hand slept late after the long night of celebration. When his eyes snapped open, everyone had left the lodge except his father. When he rolled over, Crazy Horse prepared his medicine for a sacred ceremony. Hand had seen him do this many times, but it surprised him. The people usually knew of these rituals days in advance.
Crazy Horse wrapped his braids in the special otter skins blessed by the Great Spirit, took up his finest ceremonial blanket and put it across his shoulder, and walked out of the tent.
Curious, Hand followed. As Crazy Horse walked around the village, he sang in a loud voice. People hurried out of their lodges to listen. “My son has done a brave thing, a courageous thing, and he’s indeed a great warrior, and will be a great leader of our people. From this time on, call me Worm. I give my brave son a new name, a name that has been in my family since creation. I call him Tashunke Witco, Crazy Horse.”
Six
Far below, a fast moving river wound its way through the valley. Hand leaned forward and patted Charcoal’s neck. The horse turned his head and gave him a walleyed stare. Hand’s companion, Little Hawk, sat his horse beside him. The comrades were not only adopted brothers, but rivals, too. They competed in everything, each with the intent of besting the other in any contest they could think of.
On this hot spring day, they decided they wouldn’t compete. They’d go swimming. Hand knew that as soon as they hit the water, Little Hawk would try outdoing him in something. He also knew he’d try his best not to get beat.
Inviting water sparkled and glittered even from this distance and streams of sunlight twinkled as they filtered through the green treetops surrounding the bank.
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nbsp; The Lakota had camped close to the foothills of the White Mountains, a favorite spring camping area.
Covered with low tangled bushes, steep bluffs led down to the river. Blackened trees and stumps lay on the ground where lightning had set the trees on fire two summers before. Now, green growth intermingled with the harsh landscape. Most of the trees had burned off, but many lay on the ground, half burned, and covered by the low growth that sprang up after the fire.
Time had flown past. Hand still rode Charcoal, but the horse had aged, and it hurt the boy to see it. He’d been the boy’s constant companion all the horse’s life. Hand remembered him as a colt, the way he used to feed him sugar lumps, and wondered if the horse remembered.
Several summers had passed since he’d had sugar to feed Charcoal, but the horse had adjusted to the Lakota way of life like Hand had.
Crazy Horse told Hand several times he needed to train another horse, but somehow he couldn’t do it, or think about replacing his friend, no matter how old Charcoal got. The horse represented all Hand had left from his previous life. He knew old Charcoal couldn’t speak or understand him, but he liked to pretend the horse could. After all, he’d told him all his secrets and problems, and the horse always listened as if he understood. Hand knew one day he’d have to stop using him, but there still wasn’t a horse in any Lakota village that could outrun old Charcoal, at least for short distances.
Little Hawk yanked on his horse’s reins. “Let us go down.”
Although the same age, the two boys differed in many ways. Like most of the Lakota, Little Hawk stood tall and slender, with a sharp angular face and nose, ropy muscles and flat chest.
Over the years, Hand had grown into his large feet and hands. When standing beside Little Hawk, Hand’s shoulders stretched twice as wide. With bulging biceps and huge barrel chest, he’d have no competition in a strength test. If Hand looked into a mirror, his father would have stared back at him.
Besides the boys’ physical differences, their temperaments also contrasted. Hand liked to sit and watch the beauty of nature, the rivers, meadows, and even the ice-covered hills. He’d sit for long periods gazing at birds as they flew from tree to tree, or swooped down on unsuspecting insects. He thought about ways to capture their flight and beauty on the hides with paint. His painting skills had increased, and he no longer needed to make warrior things. Others traded arrows, spears, and clothing to get him to paint their lodges.