Journey of the Spirit

by John Foxjohn

“I was looking for you…today.”

  “Worm told me. That’s why I’m here looking for you.”

  “Where were you?” Crazy Horse asked.

  “Around camp. Spent some time in He Dog’s camp.

  Black Shawl Woman laughed. Crazy Horse looked at her with that little knowing smile. “How is He Dog?” Crazy Horse asked in that taunting, joking way of his.

  “I don’t know, I didn’t see him. He may not have been in camp.”

  “He was in camp,” Crazy Horse said. “I talked to him for a long time…outside his lodge.”

  “Oh, really? I didn’t see him,” Hand said.

  “I saw you, Hand,” Black Shawl Woman said.

  “You did?”

  “Yes, I was by the river with White Antelope’s mother. We both watched you. That White Antelope is a pretty girl, isn’t she, Hand?”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Hand replied, embarrassed.

  Crazy Horse and Black Shawl Woman burst out laughing. Hand didn’t know that anyone knew of his interest in the slim, beautiful Lakota girl.

  “I wanted to talk to you…about something besides your girl friend, Hand.”

  “What?”

  Crazy Horse laughed.

  “You owe me…for changing the subject for you.”

  Hand waited for him to continue, hoping they wouldn’t notice the heat creeping into his face.

  “Several years ago, Hand, we attacked some soldiers…on the Holy Road when they tried to repair…the broken talking wires. Do you remember?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “We found some of the white men’s paper…with the talking on it. I can’t remember what you called it.”

  “Money.”

  “Yes, money. That’s what you called it. You told me…that it was like trading robes…for the white man’s goods.”

  “This is true.”

  “How does this money…work?”

  “The white men find what they want and they pay for it with the money.”

  “What’s pay?” Black Shawl asked.

  The questioned stumped Hand. He wasn’t sure how to answer. As the years zipped past, he’d lost many of his recollections of the white man’s ways. Although he still understood the language when he heard it, he hadn’t uttered a white word in years and wasn’t sure he could.

  “OK,” he said after long moments of thought. “The whites trade for what they want with the money.”

  “It’s too bad…we no longer have the money.”

  “What is it that you wish to buy?” Hand asked.

  “I thought we might take a trip…to the Yellowstone Country where Sitting Bull is. He told me he trades…with the Métis, people from the Grandmother’s Country, Canada. He gets guns…and bullets from them.”

  “When do we leave?” Hand asked.

  “It does us no good, brother. We no longer have…the white man’s money.”

  “Ayiee,” Hand said. “We do have it. I’ve kept it all this time.”

  Under a cloudy sky and drizzle, Crazy Horse, Hand, and several others left the next day for the Yellowstone country. They didn’t know how many guns and bullets they could get with the money, so ten of them, each leading an extra horse, crossed the Powder River.

  Hand believed it was dreaming to think they’d get enough guns and bullets for all these horses, but it was better to have too many than not enough.

  Sitting Bull again greeted the group like long-lost brothers. He sent a runner to the Grandmother’s country to tell them his friends wanted to buy the fast shooting guns and bullets with money. None of the Lakota knew how much money they had, but when Hand showed Sitting Bull the two large leather bags stuffed with money, his eyes lit up.

  “Ayiee.” he said. “You can buy many guns with this much of the white man’s paper.”

  Sitting Bull rode with Crazy Horse’s group to the place where they would meet the people Sitting Bull traded with. They had to wait for two days before traders showed up, but it gave them an opportunity to catch up on news with his people and the Hunkpatilia. When the traders showed up, the number of wagons surprised Hand. The four traders rode in two large, red wagons with two of them riding on each wagon.

  The wagons had high sides, unlike the white soldiers’ slow wagons, and these had two wheels. When Crazy Horse stood on his tiptoes beside one of the wagons, he could look over the sides.

  As the Hunkpatilia walked around the wagons, high stacks of the long, thin, gun boxes reached almost to the stop of the sideboards. The other wagon had high stacks of square boxes that held bullets. The traders didn’t speak the Lakota language, but one of the warriors that Sitting Bull had brought along spoke some of their language, and through the interpreter and sign language, they communicated.

  Crazy Horse had been worried that the traders would try to take advantage since they didn’t have any idea of the trade value of the white man’s money, but Sitting Bull assured him that the traders would be fair.

  The trader in charge asked through the interpreter to see the money. When Hand brought out the bags, he clapped his hands and rubbed them together.

  Crazy Horse leaned over and told Hand, “It must be a lot of money for him to act this way.” Hand nodded.

  With the trader’s excitement, he lost some of his bargaining power. Crazy Horse knew that they had the edge. The trader started out talking about how hard to get and expensive the fast shooting guns were--how dangerous it was for him to bring them. The Lakota expected this. The Indians, raised as traders who often bargained for what they wanted, knew everyone that trades always tries to make what they have appear harder to get and worth more than it usually is. The other side tries to make the objects look less valuable so they can pay less for it.

  As the trader talked to Grey Wolf, the interpreter, he turned and asked Crazy Horse, “Do you wish to spend all the money on guns and bullets. Crazy Horse, not knowing much about this process with money, turned to Hand. “What do you think?”

  Although he didn’t know much more than his brother did, and Hand realized it was because he was born white, but it pleased him all the same. His problem, he knew about money, how whites used it, but not its value. In rural Missouri when he grew up, no one had money, and he was too young. “I think so. We may not get another opportunity.”

  “Yes,” Crazy Horse replied. “That’s what…we came for.”

  They spent the day talking to the trader through the interpreter over how many rifles and bullets they could get with the money. That night they had a big feast even though they had not settled on the trade yet. As morning broke clear and bright in the east, they resumed their trade talks, and before long, they’d reached an agreement.

  The trader laughed and told Crazy Horse that he must be getting ready to fight a war. Crazy Horse looked at him with his black, piercing eyes. “We’re getting ready to run everyone…that’s not Indian, out of this country.”

  Shifting from foot to foot, the trader laughed.

  As it turned out, they’d not brought enough horses with them to carry everything back, so they made two travois. The sight of all those guns and bullets excited Crazy Horse more than Hand had seen in a long time. “You’re excited,” Hand said.

  “Yes, this is good, Hand. We haven’t been able to fight the whites the way we should. Bows and arrows won’t stand up to their fast shooting guns. Now we can give them the fight they deserve.”

  The trip back to camp was a long, exciting time. When they reached the old camp, they found that the people had moved. It took them another two days to find them following the signs.

  The closer the group got to camp, the more apprehensive Crazy Horse became. When Hand couldn’t stand it any longer, he asked what was wrong.

  “Hand, the last time we returned…from a trip to the Yellowstone Country, they greeted me with the news that…my daughter had died. I’m afraid of receiving more bad news.”

  “Have you had a vision?” Hand asked.

  “No, edg
y.”

  After they arrived, the crier announced their return. This time, no one waited with bad news. But all the guns and bullets excited everyone. Not only could they fight the whites, the guns made it easier to hunt.

  Several days later, a young runner from the Red Cloud Agency wandered in to talk to Crazy Horse, but he had left camp, and He Dog greeted him.

  “Your news will have to wait,” He Dog told him. “Crazy Horse is out of camp.”

  “When will he return?” the runner asked.

  “Not sure. Hand, do you know when Crazy Horse will return?”

  “He should be back tonight or early tomorrow. He and Black Shawl Woman went to visit at Big Road’s camp.”

  The runner’s lips thinned to narrow slits. “I can’t wait that long. Can’t anyone else speak for Crazy Horse?”

  He Dog looked at the runner for a moment. Hand shook his head. Obviously this one doesn’t know Crazy Horse.

  “No one speaks for Crazy Horse,” He Dog said.

  “Are you afraid of him?” the young Indian said with a sneer.

  Many people had gathered around to hear what the runner had to say. He Dog shook his head. “Crazy Horse wouldn’t mind if we spoke for him. He probably would prefer it. Nevertheless, we choose not to out of respect. This is Crazy Horse’s camp and we’re his people. You don’t know Crazy Horse, do you?”

  “No, I’ve heard he’s just a warrior.”

  “Just a warrior!” He Dog almost screamed the words. “Is a buffalo just an animal?” He Dog’s words boomed. “Son, Crazy Horse isn’t just a warrior. He’s the people’s warrior.”

  “Ayiee” The gathered people yelled. The young runner looked around. As the gathered people chanted, “Crazy Horse, Crazy Horse,” the effect Hand’s brother had on people made him swell with pride. People in the Hunkpatilia and all Lakota tribes strived to gain attention and power—searched for it like a dog hunting a lost bone, but not Crazy Horse. He was born with a gift from Whankan Thanka. Hand believed this had driven Little Hawk more than anything had. The little brother had loved Crazy Horse, but at the same time, was jealous because he hadn’t received the special gift instead.

  The next morning, Crazy Horse and Black Shawl Woman returned and He Dog escorted the messenger to Crazy Horse’s lodge.

  “What’s your name?” Crazy Horse asked in his mild tone.

  “I’m Spotted Elk. I’m Red Cloud’s cousin.” he spoke with pride.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Crazy Horse said with a straight face.

  Good Weasel and Hand turned their heads to keep from laughing.

  “What do you mean?” Spotted Elk asked, confused.

  “I’m sorry the only thing you have to brag on is being Red Cloud’s cousin.”

  “Red—Red—Red Cloud,” The runner stammered, trying to find some words to answer with. “Red Cloud is a great chief,” he got out.

  “What is it you…came for?” Crazy Horse snapped.

  “They sent me to tell everyone that the white man wants you to come in. They want to buy the Black Hills from us.”

  The runner jerked back as Crazy Horse leaped to his feet. “You had the guts to ride out here and tell me this?”

  “Ye—ye—ye—yes,” he stammered. “The white chief sent me to tell everyone.”

  “OK, you have told me. I’ve a message for you to take back,” Crazy Horse said through clenched teeth.

  “To the white chief?” asked the runner.

  “No, not to the white chief, you idiot, I want you to take a message back to all those so-called chiefs hanging around the white man’s agencies, taking the white man’s handouts.”

  Crazy Horse moved close to the terrified runner. Hand knew that Crazy Horse’s looks and his soft voice had deceived the messenger. Crazy Horse leaned down, his face inches from the runner’s face. “You tell them this. ‘There is only one thing worse than spilling Lakota blood and that’s letting the white man or any men have our He Sapas.’ You tell them that.” He spat the words. Specks of spit splattered on the petrified runner’s face. Hand didn’t think it was possible, but Crazy Horse leaned even closer to the runner. “You had also better tell them this. I’ll personally kill anyone who sells or gives away our He Sapas. I won’t send people to do it. I’ll come myself.”

  Dead silence hung in the lodge. Hand felt sorry for the runner. After all, he only delivered a message but he delivered the wrong message to the wrong person. One thing was for sure, the runner had better be glad he hadn’t delivered this message to Sitting Bull, Gall, or some of the others, who would’ve reacted even more explosively. The shaking runner dashed out of the lodge and on his horse in seconds. Moments later, fading hoof beats raced away.

  As the runner’s dust disappeared, Good Weasel walked up beside Hand. “I feel sorry for him,” Hand said.

  “Yes, I do too.”

  Hand’s eyes widened. “You do?”

  Good Weasel turned to leave. “Yep, he’s going to have to walk back to the agency because he’s going to kill that horse getting away from here.”

  After Good Weasel walked off, Hand watched the retreating dust for a long time. He wasn’t thinking about the runner, but the whites who offered to buy the Black Hills. Crazy Horse wasn’t joking about killing anyone who sold the He Sapas.

  Hand also knew that he wouldn’t be alone. Sitting Bull would be right there with him. The agency chiefs would be too afraid to sell the hills. The white men could either forget the Black Hills or take them. Fighting and dying no longer held the appeal it once had. Why couldn’t the whites just leave them alone?

  Sixteen

  As the news of the whites’ attempts to buy the Black Hills spread from camp to camp, angry talk made its rounds. The Hunkpatilia moved into winter camp on the headwaters of Goose Creek. Indians living around the reservations left in droves to join those opposing the whites. As the camp swelled with people, He Dog moved his camp about a half a day’s ride away from the main group. They had too many people in one area to graze all the horses and to hunt.

  Word came that the agency chiefs became too afraid to sell the Black Hills to the whites. Sitting Bull and Gall had all sent back messages similar to Crazy Horse’s. They would kill anyone who signed to give the He Sapas away. For once, the agency chiefs knew when to listen. Rumor said that the white men sent to buy the hills had stormed away, reporting to the white chief that he needed to do something about the hostile Indians. The Lakota had put up with a lot from the whites, but their attempt to take the Black Hills had pushed the Lakota too far.

  Early in moon of middle winter, December, word came to the Hunkpatilia that the whites were no longer going to let them remain in the Powder River Country. All Indians had to come into the reservation by January or the white man would send the soldiers to drive them in or kill them. They no longer had a choice to stay free.

  This news upset many of the Lakota. As cold as Hand had seen it in a long time, ice and snow blanketed everything, forcing them to chop holes in the thick ice that covered the creeks so the horses could drink.

  As Crazy Horse and Hand huddled by the fire in Crazy Horse’s lodge that night, a scratching came at the closed lodge flap. He Dog stepped through the lodge opening.

  “Have a seat…warm yourself.”

  “Thank you. It’s very cold outside.”

  “Ayiee,” Crazy Horse said.

  Black Shawl brought He Dog a large horn of her stew without asking if He Dog wanted to eat. “The hot stew will warm you even if you aren’t hungry,” she said.

  Crazy Horse and Hand smoked their pipes while He Dog warmed himself and ate the stew. Hand wondered what would make him ride as far as he had at night and in this cold. Surely, something must be very wrong at his camp.

  With the pipes out and He Dog finished eating, Crazy Horse, as puzzled as Hand, asked, “What brings you to my camp…at night in this weather?”

  He Dog started slowly. “We have been very good friends all our lives.”

 
Crazy Horse nodded his head in agreement. “Yes. The best of friends all our lives and I feel honored to call you a friend.

  “Thank you. I feel the same,” He Dog said. “You know I would go anywhere with you. Follow you into any battle as I have many times. I did this because I wanted to, not out of obligation.”

  Crazy Horse nodded his understanding.

  “People in my camp want to go into the reservation.”

  “How do you feel…about that?”

  Hand sat, looking back and forth between the two friends, surprised at He Dog’s statement. He knew that it could not be out of fear or disloyalty. He Dog was a great warrior and no one displayed more loyal or dedication to Crazy Horse.

  “I personally don’t want to go. However, I’m in a dilemma. Do I keep my people here and fight with you, or do I do what I think is the best for my people?”

  No one said anything for a few moments. Hand broke the silence. “He Dog, do you really believe that it’s best for your people to go to the reservation? Do you really believe the whites?”

  He Dog thought on this for a long time before he replied. “Yes, I do. The whites have always lied to us on everything, except one thing. Every time they have said that they were going to kill us, they have tried. This, they have never lied about. I’m afraid for my people. I’m not afraid for myself, this you know.”

  Crazy Horse nodded. “Your courage is…unquestioned.”

  “I’m afraid that the soldiers will hit our camps this spring when we’re in our lodges sleeping. They’ll kill the women, children, and elderly like they did at Sand Creek and Blue Creek. Now that this little soldier chief they call Custer is here, we can expect nothing else from him.

  Minutes hung suspended like the cold air outside while they waited for Crazy Horse to speak. He lit his pipe and leaned back in his wicker backrest. “If you’re asking me…for my council, I would miss you here…with me. In spite of this, you and I have sworn an oath that we’d always…do what we think is the best for the people. I believe in my heart that it’s best to stay away…from the white man. I can see no good in being around the white soldiers. But, if you truly believe…in your heart that this is what’s best for your people…you have to take them to the agency.”