Journey of the Spirit

by John Foxjohn

  * * * *

  In the first week of moon of middle winter, December, the warriors left camp for the attack. Hand had a hard decision. Should he go on the raid, or stay with Cat?

  Her time was due within a week or two.

  He moped about, until Cat made the decision, telling him he’d done his part with the baby and couldn’t do any more until afterwards. He’d only be in the way.

  Wanting to stay behind with Cat, but filled with pride that Crazy Horse asked him to go with the decoys, Hand prepared his weapons. The fact that He Dog, Lone Bear, Good Weasel, and Little Hawk would also ride in the decoy party made him feel good.

  Crazy Horse took the ones he knew he could trust. He Dog, Good Weasel, and Lone Bear had been his friends from birth, and Hand had been a constant companion. Crazy Horse knew Hand would do what he told him to do, but didn’t trust Little Hawk’s judgment.

  Crazy Horse had talked to Hand many times about Little Hawk. He believed the little brother would be a great warrior if he lived, but he was too reckless and thoughtless, and he took too many chances. He thought Little Hawk behaved this way because he tried to show everyone he was as much a warrior as his older brother.

  Before Hand mounted up, he hugged his wife and she kissed him. “I’ll be mad if you go and get yourself killed,” she said.

  With an icy, unrelenting wind blowing in their faces, at times Hand thought they’d freeze to death before they reached the fort. As the horses crunched through the still morning, plowing through the snow, their breaths billowed up, resembling a fog bank.

  The quiet of the woods seemed oppressive. Wild animals had sense enough not to get out in this type of weather.

  Hand hid under his buffalo robe, the thick fur turned inside to help keep him warm, only part of his face sticking out. Crazy Horse had shown him how to put strips of the blanket around his feet before he put on the knee-high buffalo fur moccasins. Before leaving the main camp, they’d smeared their exposed skin with buffalo grease to protect it from the cold.

  It was a good thing it was too cold for flies.

  Upon arriving in a sheltered cove below Peno Creek, they built shelters with small saplings and wove branches into the frame. It didn’t take long for the snow to pile up, offering a wind block. The wall reflected the fire’s heat back to them.

  With everyone in place, the mirrors flashed, signaling that the slow wagons had left the fort. Warriors attacking the wagons moved out, and the decoys followed, three bowshots behind. As they rode single file, they remained behind the ridge, out of sight of the soldiers when the first group attacked the wagons.

  While they waited for the signal mirrors to flash, telling them a large force had left the fort to protect the wagons, the butterflies returned to Hand. For some reason, he suffered a sense of guilt—a small lingering doubt always came over him. Should he fight the whites?

  Thrusting the doubts aside, he wondered if Crazy Horse had the same butterflies before a fight.

  When the mirrors flashed, Crazy Horse led them along the ravine and out of sight. Leaving their horses behind, they crawled through the snow, looking over the lip to make sure the soldiers were where they wanted them. Crazy Horse whispered to Hand, “If we can get them to follow us into the trap, we’ll kill all of them.

  As the soldiers started to get close, they mounted their horses.

  “Remember. We aren’t here to fight at first,” Crazy Horse told the group. “Our job is to lure the soldiers into the trap.”

  Decoys rode out of the ravine, across the soldiers’ path. When they spotted the Indians, the soldiers opened up, their gunfire like breaking branches in the still, cold air. Crazy Horse turned his horse and the others followed his lead, acting as if they tried to get away, but holding the horses back.

  Believing they’d caught the Indians, the soldiers chased them.

  After riding through the trap, the decoys doubled back. All the soldiers fired as the trap closed. Hand turned to join in the fight, but the soldiers escaped. Hand, in disbelief, sat beside a furious Crazy Horse as the warriors charged out of the ambush with ropes, attempting to pull the soldiers off their horses instead of killing them.

  “Look at that,” Crazy Horse screamed in disgust, as the soldiers fled out of the trap. “They didn’t close the back of the trap. They were so eager to get horses that they let the soldiers shoot their way out.”

  The ride back to their village was long and quiet. No one in the decoy party wanted to talk. They’d risked their lives, but once again, overzealous young warriors spoiled a perfect ambush.

  That night, with much wailing in the camp, the women slashed their arms with knives as soon the war party arrived back with their dead. Many put ashes on their heads in mourning. A sad time prevailed. They’d lost more warriors than soldiers killed.

  Hand saw the relieved sigh on Cat’s face when he rode in. They held each other for a long time, not aware of the cold, or anyone around them, content to hold each other close. The baby’s kicking brought them out of their embrace.

  To allow for the mourning of the dead, the leaders postponed the council, but many were angry over the ambush and argued amongst themselves. Some believed Yellow Hand, who had led the attack, had done right in letting the warriors try to pull the soldiers off their horses.

  After three suns passed, they called the council. Hand hadn’t asked Crazy Horse if he’d go, assuming he wouldn’t because he usually didn’t go. He knew the way the leaders conducted the ambush disgusted his brother.

  As Yellow Hand related the tale of the raid, telling about the dead soldiers and how many horses they’d captured, he justified pulling the soldiers off their horses rather than shooting them.

  Hand didn’t know Crazy Horse was there until he rose and spoke. “This isn’t the way to fight soldiers.”

  A hush fell over the council. Not only Crazy Horse’s words, but the fact he had spoken surprised everyone.

  Red crept up Yellow Hand’s face. Glaring at Crazy Horse, he said, “You have no right to speak at this council.”

  Mans Afraid rose. “Crazy Horse is a shirt wearer. He does have the right to speak.”

  Red Cloud nodded. “Go ahead, Crazy Horse. What do you have on your mind?”

  Angry words spat out of Crazy Horse’s mouth like a fast shooting gun. “We’ll never run the white soldiers out of our country like this. Sure, we captured some horses, but not many. We killed a few soldiers, but not many. The only way to run these whites out is to kill them. We have to stop thinking about capturing horses, taking scalps, and individual honors. We have to fight for the people. If we’d shot the soldiers off their horses we could’ve had the horses and dead soldiers at the same time. All we have is the women’s mourning over the losses that were not necessary. In the end, we lost the horses and the soldiers got away.”

  This unexpected long speech left everyone in the council stunned. That was the most words Hand had ever heard him speak in a crowd.

  As he finished the fiery speech, arguing broke out around the council fire. From the talk, it was obvious to Hand that many agreed with his brother.

  When Mans Afraid rose to speak, the talk and arguing tapered off. “I agree with Crazy Horse. Death to all the soldiers. This is the only way we’ll ever run them out of our hunting grounds.”

  Hump rose to speak. “I’ll lead the next attack on the soldiers myself. This time we’ll follow Crazy Horse’s advice. He will lead many of the soldiers to their deaths. We’ll kill them all this time. Nothing will escape our ambush.”

  A great cheer arose from the young warriors around the council fire, “Kill them all.”

  Eleven

  After Crazy Horse’s speech, the Big Bellies agreed that another attack would take place in seven days, this time to finish the job. When they started out again, it had seemed warmer, but before they made it to Peno Creek, the temperature dropped, even colder than before.

  Unlike the last time, the soldiers wouldn’t chase the decoys over the r
idge. Runners came in from the fort that the white chief had told the soldiers not to chase the Indians.

  As they huddled around the fires at night talking, Hump advised patience. The soldiers would get careless and sooner or later, would do what they were told not to.

  A sick sun attempted to brighten the next morning, but couldn’t make it through the dense clouds that lined the sky. As the day peeked in, temperatures plummeted and the Lakota knew a blizzard headed their way. They couldn’t stay long, or they’d freeze. It had to be soon or wait for better weather in the moon of greening grass.

  The warriors attacked the wood wagons and fled. Signal mirrors flashed, and the decoys moved to their place, but for some reason, the soldiers’ relief party was late in coming. When they did come, the white chief sent many soldiers. Most rode, but some walked.

  Riding single file, with Hand fourth in line, the decoys drew fire, but they were too far away to get hit.

  As Crazy Horse had instructed, they lashed their horses as if trying to get away, but held the horses back. The soldiers chased them to Lodge Trail Ridge, but stopped as they’d done in the past. Crazy Horse turned and charged straight at the soldiers. Several in front tried to shoot him, but none of their bullets hit him. Less than a bow shot away from them, he whirled his horse around, stood, and exposed his bottom.

  More shots from the angry soldiers flew past, but none hit him. Hand charged his horse, with Little Hawk right behind him.

  Soon, all the decoys charged and retreated in a zigzag fashion so the soldiers’ bullets wouldn’t hit anyone.

  The plan appeared to have failed. The soldiers wouldn’t chase them. Then, one charged out of the ranks and the others followed. Several times, they stopped and started to turn back, or to wait until the foot soldiers caught up, but each time Crazy Horse charged back at them, and they continued. The mounted soldiers dashed right on the decoys’ heels as they fled through the ambush. As the last of the foot soldiers entered the ambush, the rear closed like one of the white men’s steel traps. This time, no one tried to pull soldiers off with ropes. Warriors charged out of the ambush with one thought on their minds, to kill all the soldiers.

  Many of the white soldiers fell on the first rush. Several gathered to take shelter behind their horses. Two of the white men, not soldiers, took shelter in some rocks. They were the only ones who had the fast shooting guns. Arrows and bullets whistled through the still, cold air. Bark and splinters flew.

  After going through the ambush, the decoys wheeled to get into the fight. Battle sounds reverberated in Hand’s head—screaming horses and men alike, shriek of the wounded or dying, and snapping bullets.

  The decoys charged, shooting, firing their arrows, and striking with war clubs. Lone Bird, who rode beside Hand, flew from his horse with the force of a bullet. Over the maddening battle noise, Crazy Horse’s voice rose, “Hoyhe. It’s a good day to die. We must end this now.”

  Crazy Horse charged straight at the rocks, into the wall of lead from the fast shooting guns. Bullets zipped past and snow churned up from the horse’s hooves. One of the whites tried to reload. Crazy Horse leaned over on his charging horse, swung his war club and crushed the man’s head. As the other one turned to take aim at Crazy Horse, He Dog ran him through with his lance.

  Sounds of the fight died, leaving nothing but the yelping of the victorious warriors.

  Crazy Horse raced up to Hand. “Have you seen Lone Bear?” he asked.

  “No. I haven’t seen him since we joined in the battle.”

  “Where was the last place you saw him?”

  Hand pointed to a large clump of bushes to their left. “Over there where we turned to charge.”

  At that moment, Hump rode up. “We need to leave. Blizzard’s rolling in, and more soldiers are coming.”

  “ Where are the soldiers?” asked Crazy Horse.

  “The ridge, but they haven’t started down yet.”

  “I have to find Lone Bear. Hand, go with Hump.”

  “No, I’ll stay with you and help look.”

  When the other warriors left, Little Hawk and He Dog stayed, too, and like Hand, they refused to leave without Lone Bear. He Dog found him. In a clump of bushes by a big tree, he sat, eyes open and a huge hole in his chest. Nothing could save their longtime friend.

  With every breath, bubbles floated out of his mouth. Through ragged breathing, he asked if they’d killed all the soldiers. When Crazy Horse told him they had, his eyes glazed over and the spirit left him. All of the young warriors shed unashamed tears.

  * * * *

  As snow blew in their faces, Hand rode beside Crazy Horse in the lead. They approached to the edge of their camp, and reined their horses in hard.

  Worm stood in the cold, his eyelashes frozen.

  Hand’s heart beat faster. His throat tightened. Something bad was wrong to get Worm out in this weather, waiting on them.

  Crazy Horse pulled up beside Worm. “Father. What’s wrong?

  A thought occurred to Hand. Please don’t let something be wrong with Cat and the baby.

  Worm’s gaze lingered on Hand—tears rolled down his cheeks, freezing almost instantly. “Hand…” Worm lowered his head.

  Hand clutched the horse’s mane with both hands. He didn’t want to hear. Maybe if he didn’t hear, it wouldn’t have happened.

  “Hand—Cat Woman and the baby died in childbirth.”

  Hand looked at the sky. Blackness seemed to move across his vision. He could see small spots of light—then nothing.

  * * * *

  That winter, one of the coldest anyone could remember, found both Crazy Horse and Hand sullen. Heavy with guilt, both spent a lot of time by themselves. Worried, Worm attempted to talk to both, one at a time, and together, but nothing he said pulled them out of their mood.

  Crazy Horse blamed himself for Lone Bear’s death. As the decoys’ leader, he felt responsible for everyone. The fact that he’d grown up with Lone Bear made the grief worse.

  Hand felt responsible because he’d left his wife in her time. Deep down, he knew he couldn’t have done anything if he’d stayed in camp, but it gnawed at him that he wasn’t there to say his last goodbyes.

  Images of his parents and friends flooded his thoughts. He wasn’t with them when they died, either. Now, he felt guilty about all of it.

  One friend after another attempted to talk to both, but nothing helped. In their attempt to help, everyone kept reminding him of his guilt. At last, Hand decided to leave camp for a while. He didn’t tell anyone because they would’ve tried to talk him out of it, or insisted on going with him. Their company would not accomplish what he needed. With some pemmican, sleeping robes, and his paints, he snuck away.

  Riding east toward Laramie, he kept to low ground and didn’t skyline himself on ridges. When he stopped to let the horse graze, he leaned forward, rubbing the horse’s neck. “We need to be careful old boy—too many Crows in this area. They’d love to get my scalp.”

  At his voice, the horse raised his head, but the grass interested him more. Hand shook his head. “Charcoal listened better.”

  He dismounted to stretch his legs. His horse’s head jerked up, staring to the west. Hand stroked his muzzle, took the reins and eased away. He breathed easier when they made it to the tree line and out of sight.

  When they reached a creek, he kneeled and drank beside the horse. After staking him, Hand sat on the bank to paint, pausing occasionally to listen and watch the horse.

  He wanted to paint Cat’s face, but couldn’t. Instead, the creek, high grass, and wildflowers made their way onto his canvas. He needed to find a way to make different colors. He could get the basic ones, but he didn’t have the right colors he needed for flowers growing at this unknown creek.

  When darkness made it impossible to finish his painting, he put the paints into a special bag that Worm had made for him. Eating pemmican from his pouch, he stood beside his horse, rubbing his neck. “What should I do?” he asked the horse. “Is
there a curse on me? Will everyone I love die and leave me by myself?”

  “Does the horse talk to you?”

  Hand spun and dropped to one knee. His hand streaked for his knife, heart lodged in his throat. When he gained his breath back, he gasped, “You scared the life out of me. How’d you get here with out me knowing it?”

  Crazy Horse, staring at the ground, scuffed his toe in the grass. “I’m on the way to…my special place.”

  Hand’s eyes widened. “You have a special place?”

  Minutes passed before Crazy Horse answered. He took a deep breath. “Yes. Follow me.”

  Hand, leading the horse, walked behind his brother. He didn’t know where he was taking him or anything about a special place. All these years and he’d never heard this mentioned from his brother.

  They walked for a couple hundred yards to where Crazy Horse had tied his horse. Hand mounted when his brother did. He realized that his question about how Crazy Horse snuck up on him went unanswered. He thought about asking again, but decided against it. His brother had ignored it once and he would again.

  An hour later, in full dark, Crazy Horse pulled up and dismounted. After staking the horses by a creek, his brother led the way through a clump of bushes and ducked low to enter a cave. Hand followed. Within minutes, a fire lit up the camp.

  Erie shadows danced off the rock walls. Hand held up fingers, wiggling them to make figures dance as Crazy Horse sat cross-legged, poking the fire with a branch.

  Tired of playing with shadows, Hand asked, “What is the name of this creek?”

  Minutes passed without a reply. Close to the fire, rocks on the ground sparkled, and a thin gray powder covered the walls. Long ago memories flirted in Hand’s mind. At last, he nodded his head emphatically. Saltpeter—his father had told him about the powder. Whites used it to make gunpowder.

  “This creek is called…Cankpe Opi Wakpala, Wounded-knee.”

  “Why is it special for you?”