by John Foxjohn
“I know. I think I saw the gun in No Water’s hand before anyone. I stood and watched,” Hand said.
Before dawn, Crazy Horse’s fever broke and he rested peacefully. They moved out that morning with the wounded warrior bundled on a travois. Good Weasel and Hand rode beside the travois. Several rode in front and back, and they had both flanks covered. As the trip progressed, they had to stop often so some of the women could wash off the blood that drained out of his mouth and bullet holes. He looked frightful. It appeared that his whole head had swollen. The front of his face had lost its light complexion—it turned dark and bruised like he had been trampled by an enraged bull. The medicine man had told them that the bullet had somehow missed his teeth, but broke his jaw.
“What do you think of Black Buffalo Woman?” Good Weasel asked.
Hand scratched his ear. “What do you mean?”
“What do you think about her leaving the way she did? Do you think she was right in running away?”
“No, I don’t. No Water was gone by the time she left, and he’d never have shot her because she’s too important to him. She ran. As far as I’m concerned, Crazy Horse is better off without her.”
Painful memories of Cat flooded through him. He knew that if someone had shot him, Cat would’ve stayed by his side. She would not have run away like a scared rabbit.
“I agree,” Good Weasel said. “She ran the first time something bad happened. She’s worthless.”
As the sun reached three hands above the tree line, they arrived at Spotted Crow’s camp. With a sigh, Hand knew that his brother would be safe there. He sent Good Weasel back to their main camp to bring Worm. Tensions boiled between the Smoke Clan and the Bad Faces as Crazy Horse healed. Crazy Horse’s many loyal supporters all wanted to avenge the shooting. Black Buffalo Woman had run back to her people asking for protection from No Water and the Bad Faces. Hand believed that open conflict between the two groups would break out—he hoped for it.
With the warriors of both groups in a constant state of readiness, no one went anywhere without their weapons. Now, Worm stepped in. He and Black Twin worked together to calm the tensions and get the two groups focused on settling the argument. No Water had sent some horses to Worm for Crazy Horse. Hand learned when Worm accepted the horses, he signaled that the argument had ended, and they could have peace again.
After Black Buffalo Woman decided to go back to No Water, the problems appeared over, but Hand knew that Crazy Horse would never forget.
He himself wouldn’t, and he knew the Bad Faces wouldn’t.
Several suns before Crazy Horse returned to his lodge, No Water packed up his lodges and small following and took them to the soldier fort, where he’d stay. Hand silently applauded this move. With No Water and Black Buffalo Woman around, the stress would never ease.
The people believed they had angered Whankan Thanka, and he took his revenge on them. No one thought the bad news was over, either. Little Hawk’s party was two moons late in returning.
Fourteen
Little Hawk’s death devastated the Hunkpatilia. With Crazy Horse recovering in small doses, the news thrust their entire lodge into despair, especially Crazy Horse and Hand. Both felt guilty—Crazy Horse because he believed that if he hadn’t run off with Black Buffalo Woman he’d have been with Little Hawk and could’ve controlled his rash behaviors. Little Hawk had asked Hand to go on the raiding party with him. He’d agreed at first, but had changed his mind to go with Crazy Horse. Hand believed he could’ve controlled Little Hawk’s wild streak because the young warrior would listen to him at times, and he worshipped Crazy Horse.
After the raiding party returned, Black Shield, with tears in his eyes, sat and told them what happened. They traveled for a moon looking for the white people who dug the gold. When they found the camp, the whites outnumbered the Lakota. They attempted to convince Little Hawk that the camp was too strong, and they needed to bypass it and find a smaller group. When this argument didn’t work, they tried to persuade him to scout the area because there might be more whites close by. Again, he refused. He told them that the white men bunched up in one camp for their protection. There wouldn’t be another camp this close by.
A larger party surprised them the next morning when they were getting into place for the attack without any real plan, except to attack and run off the horses.
As they fought to break away, the large camp, now alerted, poured out like a giant anthill that had been broken open. Little Hawk assembled a rear guard to protect them as they fled, and charged the whites several times by himself in the hopes of diverting their fire away from the fleeing Lakota. The last time, they shot him off his horse and he didn’t get up. Four of the Lakota warriors died trying to retrieve his body. With too many enemies nearby, and faced with the certainty of all their deaths if they remained, they had to leave him behind.
When Black Shield left, no one uttered a word in the lodge. Unlike the other Lakota who wailed and slashed their bodies with knives and placed ashes on their heads and faces, Worm’s lodge didn’t mourn Little Hawk in this way. Crazy Horse didn’t believe in this. Neither did Hand, and the family honored their wishes.
To add insult to injury, several days after the report of Little Hawk’s death, Young Mans Afraid came by the lodge of Worm to tell Crazy Horse that the council had stripped him of his shirt-wearer status. He said that the council had all agreed that Crazy Horse had broken his shirt-wearer’s pledge and put himself and his desires above the best interests of the people when he had left with Black Buffalo Woman. Crazy Horse sat and looked at them without saying anything. Ina thrust the shirt at them and they left. At that moment, Hand believed that Crazy Horse could care less about that shirt, or the status it represented. His brother did not do anything for reward or recognition.
Several suns passed as Crazy Horse continued to heal. Worm, Crazy Horse, and Hand sat in the lodge after they ate their morning food.
“Father, I need to speak…with you.”
“What’s bothering you?” Worm asked.
“I have to go bury Little Hawk.”
“Do you feel up to it?” Worm asked.
“Yes I do, and it has to be done.”
“How many will you take with you?” Worm asked.
“Father,” Crazy Horse paused for several minutes.
“I’m going by myself.”
Hand leaped to his feet. “Wait a minute! I’m going with you.”
Worm leaned back in his wicker seat, taking out his pipe and special tobacco blend. After pulling a twig out of the fire, he lit up, taking several large puffs to get it going. As required, both Crazy Horse and Hand waited for the lit pipe before continuing.
“No, Hand. It’s better that I…go alone this time.”
Deep lines creased Worm’s face. “Do you think that’s wise?”
“Yes, this is something…I have to do alone.”
Worm nodded. “If I was up to the ride I’d do it myself.”
“You should let me go with you,” Hand said.
Crazy Horse grasped Hand’s shoulder. “I can’t let you go with me…this time. I need…to do this myself.”
Later that evening, He Dog, Good Weasel, and Hand teamed up on Crazy Horse to let them go, but it did no good. He was determined to go by himself.
The next morning Crazy Horse left the village, and several days later, the village moved, leaving behind buffalo heads to show him where they’d gone. After two moons, he returned with fourteen horses and eight guns. No one knew who Crazy Horse took them from and he wouldn’t say. He only said that he had found Little Hawk and built a scaffold for him in a place where no one would find him.
Several days later, a runner traveled from the agency. This wasn’t anything unusual, but this one told that the white soldiers were upset. They believed a Lakota war party had killed several miners south of the Platte River. This was strange news. There were no Lakota war parties in that area. The messenger said that many white miners died, th
eir horses and weapons gone, but none had their scalps taken or any body parts missing.
The soldier chief found it peculiar that although a gun had killed them, all the dead miners had a single Lakota arrow in them, as if the war party wanted to send a message. After the messenger left, everyone agreed, someone had avenged Little Hawk’s death. It wasn’t hard to figure out that the large war party must have had one person in it. Hand and friends called Crazy Horse “War Party” for many suns after that.
A moon later, a large hunting trip assembled. He Dog, who had his own camp, brought many of his hunters with him, and of course, Good Weasel and Hand tailed along with Crazy Horse.
After ten suns, the successful party returned to find several scouts waiting, to escort them back into the camp. They didn’t know what to make of this unusual occurrence. Most of the time a couple of scouts met the people returning, and one would ride to announce the return, while the other stayed with the party. Before long, the runner trotted back to announce that they needed everyone at the council lodge.
“What’s going on?” Hand asked Crazy Horse. “What has happened in the camp?”
He shrugged. “I’ve been with you. How should…I know?”
He Dog and Good Weasel both rode up. “Do you know what’s going on?” He Dog asked.
Crazy Horse gave them that annoyed look of his that they all knew so well. “Listen, I don’t know…any more than you two.”
After that, they rode in silence the rest of the way to camp and the council lodge. It appeared that most of the village had turned out to the council lodge, but no one yelled or chanted. As Hand looked out the corner of his eye, He Dog and Good Weasel exchanged long looks and both shrugged.
Young Mans Afraid stepped out of the lodge, motioning for Crazy Horse and He Dog to follow him in, the rest needed to stay outside. They wouldn’t get any argument from Hand—staying outside sounded like a good idea.
When Crazy Horse and He Dog sat in the seats of honor beside the Big Bellies, they relaxed some. As Old Mans Afraid rose from his seat, he draped the sacred red blanket over his left shoulder by his heart, as was the custom. People remained quiet inside the lodge. Old Mans Afraid removed the sacred pipe and tamped the special tobacco blend into it, lit it and smoked it in the direction of all four of the scared paths. When he finished, he passed the pipe to the other council chiefs. After the pipe made the circle, Old Mans Afraid set it down on a beautifully tanned buffalo hide.
“Ah, you have returned. It’s good that you did. We had a council meeting while you were gone.”
Good Weasel leaned over and whispered to Hand, “You don’t think they’re going to kick us out of the tribe, do you?”
“Can they do that?” Hand whispered back a little too loud.
Mans Afraid looked at him. One look out of those glaring old eyes shut him up in an instant. He continued, “The council decided while you two were gone that we need to have the Lance Bearers restored in our camp.”
Whispered murmurs ran through the people at the council lodge. Hand leaned over and asked Good Weasel, “What’re the Lance Bearers?”
Good Weasel, not wanting to incur the wrath of Old Mans Afraid, raised his hand to quiet Hand, but whispered, “I’ll tell you later.”
After Crazy Horse and He Dog stood, the crowd parted to let two warriors enter the lodge. Each carried a beautiful long spear pointing toward the sky. The spears, like none Hand had seen, had parts of scalps and feathers tied to the tops close to the points. These spear points were twice as long as normal ones, and made out of some kind of blue-gray rock and beautiful.
As the spear bearers handed them to the two warriors, Old Mans Afraid spoke, telling the spears’ history, the great honor that they bestowed on the warriors, and their duties and obligations to the spears and the people.
When the ceremony ended, all the people gathered around the two warriors. Good Weasel and Hand beamed with pride. They knew Crazy Horse and He Dog deserved this honor. He Dog, right in his element, loved the attention, glorified in it. As soon as Crazy Horse had the opportunity, he slipped away.
A few suns later, Crazy Horse and He Dog decided to get their warriors together and raid the Crows. This time, the two leaders would ride at the head of the warriors carrying the lances. After leaving camp, they traveled across the plain—knee-high grass where pheasant flushed as the horses walked through, toward the Powder River. He Dog and Hand scouted out front of the raiding party, heading west. When they found a southern horse trail that crossed their path, they knew that they were close to the Crow reservation.
“Let’s leave sign and follow this trail,” He Dog said.
“Do you think it’ll lead us to the Crow village?” Hand asked.
“It may. They made this trail this morning.”
After piling some sticks up in a tepee shape and beside it another stick to show the direction they went, they followed the trail, but a distance to the side in case the Crows watched their back trail as the Lakota did. When they approached a series of low hills, they stopped to make sure their people had followed.
“The camp will be to our east,” He Dog said.
“Why to the east?”
“The creek that we’re going to cross ahead bends to the east. There isn’t much water to the west and they’ll need water.”
Hand nodded. It made sense. They rode with care, but almost walked right into the Crow camp. After turning off on a small game trail, their horses threaded through the woods, away from the trail they followed. As the trail made a large turn to the west, they rode into the outskirts of the camp before they knew it. After dismounting, they crept away, leading their horses, hands over their nostrils so they wouldn’t call out and alert the camp.
When they made a bowshot distance away from the camp, tying the horses in the bushes, they snuck back. The camp surprised Hand. It looked like a Lakota camp with the woods to their rear, open plains to the front, and lodge openings facing east. The lodges were in circles. Crazy Horse had told him that the Lakota did this to make it hard for someone to attack them.
He Dog leaned over to him and whispered, “It’s a large camp, but they were careless. They should’ve had some scouts in the woods watching their back.”
Hand agreed, but was glad they didn’t. After they slipped away, they rejoined the main group in late afternoon. When they reported what they saw, Crazy Horse decided to hit them in the morning at first light. He sat down with He Dog and Hand. “What’s the camp look like?”
He Dog took out a half-woven rope and worked on plaiting it as he spoke. “It’s located between the Big Horn and Little Big Horn Rivers, and sits in an open end of a horseshoe-shaped line of woods. It has a deep gully on the west away from the trees and about a bow shot away from the camp.”
Crazy Horse tapped a stick on his foot as He Dog spoke. Hand stared at the ground—embarrassed he’d missed the gully west of the camp.
“What do you think…Hand?”
He hesitated, not comfortable in helping construct battle plans or giving advice in this regard. “Shouldn’t be a problem. Their camp is set up the way we set ours up—facing the plains—back to the woods.”
Both He Dog and Crazy Horse nodded. Hand wondered why Crazy Horse smiled when he said this.
“Good observation,” He Dog said.
Crazy Horse nodded. “He’s learning.”
After conferring with He Dog, Hand, and Good Weasel, Crazy Horse decided they’d ride single file down the gully and spread out along the gully, charge their horses up the lip and into the camp. He emphasized that they should stay on line as they charged into them as the white soldiers liked to do.
When grayness appeared in the sky the next morning, the Lakota positioned themselves for the attack. Crazy Horse and He Dog climbed up the gulley on foot and observed the camp for several minutes, lying on their stomachs.
When the light started to creep into the sky, Crazy Horse and He Dog returned, mounted, and brought their weapons out. Th
is signaled everyone to get ready. Now, the butterflies, as big as bats, found their way into Hand’s stomach.
Crazy Horse raised his arm, signaling, and they charged up the gulley and onto the open plains. Thunder of the hooves echoed on the open prairie, and the butterflies left Hand as a cry of alarm spewed from the Crow camp.
With the booming Lakota war cry, they hit the camp at full speed. As the Lakota swept through, the sleepy Crows tried to get out of their lodges—most half dressed. The ones that got out first were unlucky. After rushing the camp, Good Weasel and several other warriors hit the horses while the main body attacked the camp.
Sweeping through, Hand spun his horse and raced back, weaving in and around lodges, making it hard for the defending Crows to get a clear shot. Exploding guns, cries of pain, yells of anger, and yelping of the warriors excited him. Scared before a fight, his fear always disappeared, replaced with a joyous feeling once he engaged in battle. He couldn’t explain it. Years before, Crazy Horse had told him that he felt invincible, like Whankan Thanka put on earth to fight.
Hand didn’t believe the Great Spirit had put him here to fight, but combat furnished an awareness of sounds, smells, and fulfillment he didn’t experience otherwise.
After the second sweep, the Crows fled. With women and children moving out first, they set up a large rear guard and put down a base of fire until the charging Lakota stopped. The rear guard turned to catch up with the others.
The Lakota chased with a few warriors wounded, but inflicted heavy casualties on the rear guard. They continued to chase them all the way back to the agency, where the Crows forted up with the white soldiers.
Several bowshots away from the fort, with Hand out front charging beside Crazy Horse, one of the Crow warriors stopped and turned to fire. Something hit Hand as if a horse had kicked him. He had a sensation of flying through the air, and then darkness.