by John Foxjohn
“I appreciate your honesty. I’m going to start moving my people to the agency,” He Dog said. “We’re going to go in slow so we can hunt and find grass for the horses.”
“When…will you start?”
“We’ll leave tomorrow after I get back.”
Hand shifted uncomfortably. “Can I ride with you to your camp?”
He Dog looked at him surprised. “Do you want to go in with us, Hand?”
“No. I’ll stay here with Crazy Horse. I have some friends I would like to say good bye to.”
Crazy Horse and Black Shawl Woman laughed.
He Dog looked confused.
“Hand…has a girl friend in your camp.”
“Ayiee.” He Dog laughed. “Who is this friend?
Hand knew he had to be blushing, as the heat crept into his face. “I—I’ve several friends in your camp.”
“We were referring to White Antelope,” Crazy Horse said.
“Ah, she’s a pretty one, Hand.”
“Can I go or not?” Hand said irritably over the joking about White Antelope.
“Of course you can ride with me.”
He Dog and Hand rode out the next morning. After several hours of trudging through the snow, and many times encountering snowdrifts too big to go through, they arrived at He Dog’s camp late that afternoon. As they neared the camp, Hand noticed something unusual. “He Dog, there are no scouts out.”
“Ayiee. It’s too cold to have them out.”
“But Crazy Horse has his out.”
“My friend has always been a little too cautious at times. Soldiers never attack in winter.”
Hand nodded. But he couldn’t help but think over the years at the bad that had happened when the people wouldn’t listen to Crazy Horse’s caution. Hand also knew that if he was in the soldier chief’s place, he’d attack the Indians in their winter camp. It seemed like the perfect time to him. He hoped the soldiers were not smart enough to think of this.
That night Hand went to sleep late in the robes by the fire in He Dog’s lodge. He’d spent a long time talking to White Antelope, and after their long talks, felt guilty in a way. It seemed like he demeaned the memory of Cat, but knew his lost wife would want him to find another wife, and he felt that she would approve of White Antelope.
He had thought about asking her father for permission to marry. He believed she also wanted this, but he held back. Everyone he had become close to, besides Crazy Horse, He Dog, and Good Weasel, died. Perhaps his medicine wasn’t good for the people around him. Maybe the spirits intended for him to languish as a survivor of his family and friends.
As Hand slept in his warm robes, screams from the outside jerked him awake. He leaped up, his robes entangled him and he fell. Shots spurred him to kick loose. He Dog struggled to dress.
Someone ran by screaming that the soldiers were attacking. In Hand’s haste to get the lodge flap open, he kept fumbling and couldn’t open it. He Dog yelled over the noise outside. He’d cut the back of the lodge and his wife and children fled.
As Hand darted through the small opening, bullets whipped through the lodge.
Outside, everything and everyone ran around in total chaos. Soldiers already rode into the village firing at the lodges and anyone that moved. He Dog’s voice rose over the tremendous sounds.
“Warriors, gather with me. Send the women and children up the draw to get away.”
As warriors gathered around He Dog, they returned fire to protect the women and children. Soldiers charged through the village on horseback. Black Feather, an old warrior, ran out in front of the charge, singing his death song and shooting his gun. His fire swept one of the soldiers out of his saddle, but if he hit any more, Hand wasn’t aware of it because the storming hooves trampled him.
With the warriors falling back to the high ground where the helpless ones fled, Hand and He Dog lay in the frozen snow shooting at the soldiers. All they had on were the clothes that they wore when fleeing the village. Even with adrenalin thrusting through his body, Hand shivered from the cold.
With the soldiers setting fire to their lodges, He Dog sprang to his feet. “Warriors,” he yelled, “are we going to lie here on this frozen ground and hide like women while they burn everything we own?”
Warriors assaulted from the hill on foot. Although outnumbered, the Indians had the advantage. As they charged out of the dark, burning lodges highlighted the soldiers against the snow. The soldiers, one and two at a time, fled the village. In minutes, the Lakota had the village back, but lost a lot of their lodges, clothing, food, and horses.
As Hand kneeled, firing at the retreating soldiers, He Dog ran and slid up next to him. “Hand, the soldiers are fleeing, but I need someone to take a small party, follow them, and steal our horses back. I need to stay here and see if we can save some of our belongings and take care of the wounded and dead. If you return and we aren’t here, we’re going to Crazy Horse’s camp.”
Hand leaped up to find some of the young warriors to go with him. Within minutes, he left the burning camp, on the soldiers’ trail. On foot, they traveled as fast as the soldiers’ horses in the snow and slush. He kept the warriors on the trail but to the west so the soldiers couldn’t see them on their back trail.
Several times that next morning, Hand led his group in hitting the horse herd and ran off a few horses. By the time darkness had settled in, they had most of their horses back. Many of the young warriors wanted to attack the soldiers, but this Hand wouldn’t allow. He told them that there were too many soldiers for them to fight, and they had to retrieve the horses.
As expected, when they returned, He Dog had departed the area. All that remained were dead soldiers stripped and lying naked in the snow, and the smoldering lodges burned to ashes. With the frightened horses to guide, it took Hand’s small group two days to make the trip to Crazy Horse’s camp.
Crazy Horse’s scouts met them far from the camp. One rode back to announce their return, and the other guided them in. Crazy Horse and He Dog waited for Hand at the edge of the village.
After reporting what they did, He Dog said, “Hand, you did a great job of recovering the horses. I owe you for that.”
“I did what I could.” A shiver of fear ran through him. He could tell by their expressions that something was wrong.
“What’s wrong?”
“Hand, four of He Dog’s people…were killed, and several wounded.”
“Whankan Thanka,” he screamed to himself. Please don’t let him say what I think he’s going to.
Words that Hand dreaded poured out of his brother’s mouth. “Hand, White Antelope was one of the ones killed.”
Unashamed tears poured from him. Again, he realized how the Lakota could hate the white man as much as they did.
Hand didn’t have time for grief. Crazy Horse doubled his scouts patrolling around camp. One group circled many bowshots out. The other group circled about two bowshots. Crazy Horse gathered warriors to leave camp and watch the soldiers—not to attack them, but observe their every move. He did this to make sure no one would surprise his camp as the soldiers did He Dog’s.
He Dog had insisted that he and several of his warriors should go and watch the soldiers. Crazy Horse didn’t want He Dog out of camp, but let him go. All the rest of He Dog’s people moved into the lodges with friends and relatives. Fortunately, they’d saved many of the robes and clothing and some of the food, but lost the lodges. After a heavy snowfall that night, the next day found the sun trying to peek through. With the exception of the crowded lodges that no one complained about, activities went back to normal.
Crazy Horse found Hand standing on the edge of the camp, looking over the snow- covered prairie.
“What happened with the…attack on He Dog’s camp?”
Several minutes passed as Hand thought about his answer. “I’ll tell you this,” he said. “He Dog’s courage and leadership saved all the people and that village.”
“Ayiee, Hand. He Dog is a gr
eat warrior…and leader. What I want to know is how…the soldiers hit the camp…without any warning?”
Hand hesitated before answering. Minutes passed as Crazy Horse waited on his brother’s answer. “Crazy Horse,” Hand said at last. “He Dog didn’t have scouts out.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Scouts weren’t out. He Dog didn’t think the soldiers would attack in this cold weather and it was too cold to have the scouts.”
Crazy Horse sadly shook his head. “He knows…better than that.”
“He does, but we aren’t going to say anything about this talk, are we?”
“No, Hand, we won’t say…anything, but I do need you to go find…He Dog and bring him and his people back to camp.”
“What’s your plan?”
“I’ve decided to move north…close to Sitting Bull’s people.”
“Ayiee, this is best.”
“I’ve already sent a runner…to Sitting Bull, so he should know we’re coming.”
Two days later, Hand brought He Dog and his people back to camp. The women had everything packed and ready. They’d traveled for a day when a visitor from the agency found them. He told them the whites who attacked were part of Three-Stars soldiers. They reported that they’d hit Crazy Horse’s camp and destroyed it.
Crazy Horse laughed. “The whites even lie…among themselves.”
“Who is Three-Stars?” Hand asked.
“He’s the soldier chief the whites call…Crook. We call him Three-Stars because he has…a star on his hat and two on his soldier shirt. He’s supposed…to be a great fighter.”
After several slow days of travel, the Hunkpatilia made camp on the Powder River. A runner from Sitting Bull joined them with the message that the medicine man traveled to meet them. With the Hunkpatilia and Hunkpapa camps a couple of bowshots apart, they found out that Gall’s camp was also close. After a short council between Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse that involved all the leaders, including Hand, they sent runners to bring all the Lakota leaders into Crazy Horse’s camp for a great council.
As the days warmed in the Moon of snow blindness, March, they met and agreed to send runners to all the Lakota and Cheyenne agencies asking warriors to join them and fight with Crazy Horse. Hand had expected many warriors to respond to the summons, but in his wildest dreams, he’d never expected the thousands who poured into their camps. The camps grew so large that they had to pack up and move every couple of days to spread out.
As time went by, with the warming temperatures, even more warriors rode in. Many of these new ones, Hand didn’t know. While he stood outside Worm’s lodge enjoying the sunshine and talking to Good Weasel, several Indians approached, and one of them stopped, his gaze taking in Hand’s bulk. “Who let this white man into our camp?”
The Indian wore a huge feathered bonnet, and carried the fanciest gun Hand had ever seen, and glared at him. Except for the wood, the gun was silver and it had beautiful designs on the wooden stock. As he stared at the gun, the Indian yelled, “Hey white man, did you hear me talking to you?”
“I heard you. It would be hard not to the way you’re yelling. But you have one thing wrong,” Hand said.
“What’s that?” he said with a sneer.
“I’m a Lakota.”
The antagonist stepped closer. “You aren’t a Lakota. You’re a lying white man.”
Good Weasel stepped between them. “Jack Red Cloud, I see that you haven’t met Wrong Hand.”
“Why would I want to meet him? If we’re going to kill whites, we should start with this one.”
“How many whites have you killed, Jack Red Cloud?” Crazy Horse’s voice startled them.
“This isn’t any of your business, Crazy Horse.”
A tight smile lined Crazy Horse’s face. “That’s where you’re wrong, Jackie Boy. You see, this is my camp. I decide who’s in it and who isn’t. I decide who is killed and who isn’t, and if anyone is killed in my camp, it won’t be Wrong Hand.”
“I don’t like being called Jackie Boy, and what’s this white man to you?”
Crazy Horse’s lips thinned to threads. He took a deep breath and paused a moment. His eyes threw spears. “Well, Jackie Boy, it so happens that this white man, as you call him, is my brother. That’s right, my brother. He’s more of a Lakota than you’ll ever be. You stand there with that bonnet full of coup feathers that don’t belong to you. You’ve never counted coup on anyone in your life, but Hand has counted many coups. There you are with that fancy gun that doesn’t belong to you. The great white chief in Washington gave it to your father because he accepts the crumbs they hand him. You have never done anything in your life. I’ve a good mind to let Hand take care of you. You’d better get out of my sight before I change my mind.”
Jack Red Cloud stomped off.
“Thank you—I take it he’s related to Red Cloud,” Hand said.
“He’s his son, and worthless.”
The next day they moved again, this time close to Rosebud Creek, where they’d have the Sundance. After settling in, Hand wandered along the creek, one of his favorite areas. He liked to stroll through the thick bush along the creek’s bank. In bloom this time of year, the rose bushes produced flowers in all colors from deep red, pink, yellow, to white as clouds. Hand and Cat had spent many hours picking them, smelling the delicious fragrance. At times like this, he realized how much he missed his wife. Although he mourned for White Antelope, he knew what had stopped him from asking for her hand. He couldn’t escape from his wife’s love. He wondered if he ever would.
Hand sat, removed his paints and brushes and painted a clump of red roses near the creek. He’d discovered if he took a deerskin, scraped it clean, and rubbed buffalo brains and intestines into the leather, it softened like cloth. He tied the wet skin to willow hoops. When the hide dried, it stretched tight, creating a canvas.
Tears rolled down his cheeks when he glanced at the painting. Among the red roses, Cat’s smiling face peeked through.
Later, he took the painting to Cat’s mother and presented it to her.
* * * *
After the start of the Sundance, Sitting Bull decided he needed to give Whankan Thanka a sacrifice. As the medicine man sat on the ground, another holy man, using a knife, peeled away fifty pieces of skin from each arm. Expressionless, Sitting Bull sat as blood dripped down and pooled on the ground. After the holy man removed all the skin, Sitting Bull walked away from the camp, to the prairie and started to dance, attracting a big crowd. He Dog walked up beside Hand.
With the hot sun beating down on the old medicine man, he used small, shuffling steps as he chanted a song. Sweat gushed from him, as if rain had drenched him.
“Why is Sitting Bull dancing like that?” Hand asked.
“He’s asking the Great Spirit to give him a vision,” He Dog said.
“How long will he dance?”
“As long as he’s able or until he receives the vision he’s asking for.”
With blood flowing down his arms, Sitting Bull danced in circles. He flung his head backwards, gazing into the heavens. After a long time, he stopped and stood frozen, both arms stretched toward Whankan Thanka.
That night around the fire, Sitting Bull told about his vision.
“I’ve seen the white soldiers coming. They were not riding as they normally do. They rode in the clouds and surprised us when they started to fall into our camp. The Great Spirit will give us a great victory over these white soldiers, but he warned that he’ll turn his back on our people if we take any spoils from the victory. We’re to touch nothing that belongs to the soldiers that fall into our camp.”
With Sitting Bull’s vision so clear and unmistakable, Crazy Horse decided not to take any chances. He sent Good Weasel and five warriors to watch the soldiers.
“We can’t take chances…any more. We can’t depend on our scouts…we need to watch these soldiers.”
Two days later Good Weasel charged in with lather flying from his
horse. Crazy Horse and Hand sat outside the lodge, reminiscing about the old days. The talk stopped and they leaped to their feet when Good Weasel raced in. His explosive speed attracted attention, and people gathered to hear what he said.
“Three-Stars is on the way with a large force of soldiers and about four hundred Indian scouts.”
“Who are the Indian scouts?” Crazy Horse asked.
“Most of them are Crows.”
“They’ll find us here,” Crazy Horse said.
A buzz of talk sped through the gathered crowd. Most agreed the Crows would find them. Crazy Horse sent some runners around the huge camp to bring the leaders to a council.
After the leaders gathered, Crazy Horse had Good Weasel tell them what he had seen. Several council members leaped up in panic.
Red Hawk yelled, “We need to pack and scatter.”
Sitting Bull stood to talk. “Brothers,” his voice reverberated throughout the lodge. “As you know, I’m a Holy Man—I’m not a war chief, so I can’t advise you on this matter.” His voice captivated the listeners, causing the ones who stood to sit. His voice reached out and pulled the warriors from their panic.
“We’re very fortunate,” he continued. “We have many warriors here, but one stands out in front. He’s a warrior of all the people.”
He paused, and everyone looked around at Crazy Horse.
“I propose we make Crazy Horse the war chief of all the people, not just the Oglala.”
An enormous roar burst from the gathered crowd. Chants for Crazy Horse shook throughout the lodge. Crazy Horse hung his head as first one, and the whole crowd chanted for him to speak.
As he rose from the rear of the lodge where he watched, respectful silence and anticipation invaded everyone.
“Brothers,” his soft, shy voice opposed that of Sitting Bull’s. “I can tell you what I think…and what I’ll do. You can decide…what you want to do. I’ve told the Lakota for years…we can’t fight these white soldiers like we do…the Crows and Snakes.”
Most of the people nodded in agreement. They knew that the strange one had always counseled to fight in a different way.