by John Foxjohn
A Cheyenne warrior named Big Crow, lying in the snow next to Hand, rose up. He walked up and down the ridge between the soldiers and the Lakota with his war bonnet trailing, bullets striking the rocks around him. Hand yelled for him to get down, but Big Crow ignored him. Hand held his fire to stop from hitting the chief.
He shook his head as Big Crow gestured at the soldiers with his rifle, taunted them, pulling down his buffalo leggings and breech cloth to shake his rear at them. Hand’s heart raced faster. This wasn’t doing any good. It was only a matter of time before a bullet hit him.
Hand didn’t have long to wait before a bullet struck the Indian in the backside as he bent over. The bullet angled up, exited out his stomach, tearing a big, gaping hole. As he lay in the snow, Hand and a couple of others ran out and dragged him behind the rocks.
At that moment, Hand hated the soldiers, but he admired their courage to crawl up that hill through all the ice, snow, freezing temperatures, and hail of arrows and bullets to fight.
With the weather worsening, Crazy Horse moved among them, “We’ll leave soon. Blizzard’s coming. It’ll help us. There will be no tracks…to follow and the soldiers won’t chase us in what’s coming.”
As snow hammered in enormous, stinging swirls, Hand, out of arrows, fired his rifle. He wished he’d counted to see how many bullets he had. He knew it wasn’t many. He hadn’t thought about arrows being ineffective.
Wiping ice and snow off his face so he could see, he shook his head as soldiers pushed on, crawling, tripping over dead bodies. He wondered what drove them on. Hand’s people fought to give the women and children time to escape. What did the soldiers die like this for?
The Lakota retreated from their fighting positions. Hand and several others stayed behind to cover them. A few soldiers pushed over the rim, and Hand aimed and fired, but his gun clicked empty. As he used the empty gun as a club, sweat poured off Hand’s face. He half turned. Good Weasel fought on the ground, a soldier on top. Hand strode forward, swinging his gun. The stock shattered the soldier’s head, sounding like a ripe melon busting.
After Hand helped his friend up, Crazy Horse fired his rifle close to Hand’s face. Powder burned his cheek and he slipped in the snow. Someone grunted behind him as bullet made contact with clothes and flesh.
Good Weasel ran another through with a lance. All fighting sounds stopped. Wind whistled. Wounded cried out. Hand bent at the waist, resting his palms on knees, breathing in great gasps. Sweat froze on his face.
The remaining warriors ran from position to position to make it seem that there were more of them as others left. Finally, He Dog, Crazy Horse, and Hand brought up the rear far behind the others to make sure that the soldiers didn’t follow.
Through the bitter cold and raging blizzard, they escaped. Exhausted, the rear guard rode bent over, frozen sweat embraced their skin. Hand’s mouth felt as dry as sand, and he didn’t believe he could lift his arms. As bad as it was, he had a good feeling about riding the protective rear with these two great warrior friends.
Nineteen
Snow, ice, and wind bit into Hand’s face as he slogged along, leading his horse. His mare, from lack of food, stumbled and collapsed. Hand had no choice but to walk. The horse would die under him if he kept riding. With his eyes heavy from exhaustion, he bent and rubbed snow on his face and put another handful in his mouth. His teeth hurt from the cold. All night they traveled through the storm toward the White Mountains, or Big Horns. The soldiers had tried to follow, but turned back. Big Crow and two others died on the trip. The people stopped long enough to erect their burial platforms and moved on.
Hand’s stomach grumbled from hunger and he found a small amount of dried meat in his pouch. He took a small bite, but didn’t chew. He let it sit in his mouth. When a woman with three small children stumbled by, he gave her his last food.
He stood in the snow as the tribe moved past, and his feet hurt from the cold. His moccasins had holes in them, but he had nothing to repair them with, let alone make new ones. Scorched and patched, their lodges offered little protection, even if they’d had time to put them up. Women and children wore moccasins and tattered clothes worse than his.
When they stopped that night, everyone huddled close to fires, talking about what to do, discussing the possibilities. To make matters worse, if that could’ve been possible, messengers and runners from the agencies continued to pour in to try to talk them into surrendering and coming into the agencies. Hand didn’t believe that his people would surrender, but as hosts, they had to feed the messengers and they didn’t have enough to feed themselves.
After arriving at the Little Big Horns, they found a few buffalo hidden in a wind-protected draw and killed several. The meat took the edge off their hunger, but wasn’t enough to feed all of them.
One morning soon after the buffalo kill, the crier raced through camp announcing that a large group of people approached. Sword from the Red Cloud Agency led thirty people into camp.
The Hunkpatilia watched the visitors approach, and the women ran out to meet them, calling to friends and relatives that they hadn’t seen in awhile.
Sword delivered the presents the agency had sent, coffee, flour, and sugar, and the Hunkpatilia added buffalo for a big ceremonial dinner.
Hand savored his hot coffee—sniffing the rising steam. It had been a long time since he’d tasted that wonderful flavor.
After the big meal, they held a council. Sword stood in the lodge and waited for it to get quiet. “Brothers, I was sent here by the little chief scout we call White Hat, but the whites call Clark. He has heard of the bad time the Hunkpatilia are having this winter, and he sent these gifts to Crazy Horse and his people.”
Murmurs of thanks went around the lodge, but Sword held up his hand for silence.
“White Hat sent the presents to see if the Hunkpatilia would come to the agency,” Sword said. “If you’ll bring your people in, they’ll give them all they need, and you can return here, because the Hunkpatilia will be given agencies in their own country.”
Crazy Horse looked Sword straight in the eye with that fixed, unblinking gaze of his and stated, “If you’re looking for someone to surrender, you had better talk to He Dog or Big Road—you’re talking to the wrong one. I won’t accept the white man’s gifts that you have brought as a lure to me. ”
He turned away and didn’t say anything else.
The next morning, after the visitors left, Hand sat on a rise attempting to repair his moccasins without any material. The task was useless, but he had to try. He hadn’t painted in many months and he missed it. He didn’t have time, and he had too much to do. He could no longer trade his paintings to others for things he needed. No one had anything extra to trade.
Crazy Horse found Hand and sat beside him. Crazy Horse buried his face in his palms and Hand stared out over the open plain.
Without looking up, Crazy Horse said, “We’re moving at noon.”
“Why?”
“Our visitors could’ve been followed, and…we need to leave.”
Hand adjusted himself on the ground and put his moccasins down. He would’ve never thought of that, but it made sense. If he led the soldiers, he would send out the messengers and follow them. That was why soldiers had so much trouble finding Crazy Horse’s camps. He thought like they did.
A moon passed after Sword left. Hand sat with He Dog by his lodge with the sun beaming high in the sky. Both had said goodbye to Crazy Horse as he left that morning to go again to the hills. When a crier sped through announcing yet another group of friends coming in, they walked to the camp’s edge to greet the visitors they’d have to feed.
“I hope they bring their own meat this time,” He Dog said.
“Yes, we’re really running low. Who is it?”
“Looks like that half-breed trader’s son called Big Leggings,” He Dog said.
“Ah, isn’t he the one that betrayed Sitting Bull and is an interpreter for the soldiers?”
“Yes, he’s the one. We can’t trust any of the whites,” He Dog said.
Big Leggings led his group up to them as Big Road walked up.
“Hoya. He Dog, Wrong Hand, Big Road—we’ve traveled far to talk to Crazy Horse.”
“You’re out of luck,” He Dog said. “Crazy Horse isn’t in camp.”
Big Leggings turned his attention to Hand. Speaking in English that he knew the others couldn’t understand, he said, “Hand, you are white. You and I need to talk. We are the same.”
Hand stared at him for a long moment without speaking. He understood the words, and knew what the half-breed meant, and it insulted him. Did Big Leggings believe he could stoop so low as to betray his brother and people like the half-breed had? He wanted to drag him off his horse and crush the wind out of the traitor.
He took a couple of deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself before speaking in his people’s language. “You’re wrong. The blood in my body is white. Your blood is half-and-half. That’s where the similarities stop. My spirit is Lakota. Yours is white. Unlike you, I am not trash who betrays friends and family.” Hand smiled. “If you don’t like those words. Step off your horse and we’ll discuss it further.”
Big Leggings’ smile disappeared, replaced with a tight mouth. He stared for a moment, but turned his gaze away from Hand. He spoke to He Dog, “Do you know where Crazy Horse is, or when he’ll be back?”
This time Big Road replied, “No we don’t know where he is, and we don’t know when he’ll be back, either.”
“That’s too bad, because we have heard of your hunger and have brought you two pack horses loaded with food and supplies from Three Stars.”
“How did you find us, Big Leggings?” Hand asked.
He laughed. “Now that wasn’t easy. Two hundred and fifty of us traveled from the agency and spread out looking. Spotted Tail traveled with us, but he stopped to hunt and should be here soon. May we get down and have a council in the lodge? It’s cold out here.”
He Dog spoke after a long pause, “That won’t be necessary. You won’t be staying and we can’t take the goods you brought.”
“You can’t take them!” exclaimed Big Leggings. “Big Road, will you take these gifts of food to keep your people alive?”
Big Road looked straight at the half-breed. “These aren’t my people. They’re Crazy Horse’s people,” he spat out the words.
“We have to wait for Crazy Horse’s return to say what must be done. This you know. It’ll get colder this night so you had better move on before it does,” He Dog said.
The group left but not in a good mood.
“Well, at least we didn’t have to feed them,” Hand said, and the others joined in his laughter.
As usual, Hand sat near his fire that night when Worm, along with He Dog, interrupted his thoughts. The moon of popping trees, February, inched in.
“Hola. You’re thoughtful tonight,” Worm said.
“Yes, wondering what went wrong, and what’s going to happen.”
“That’s why I must to talk to you. We need you to go to the hills and talk to Crazy Horse. He needs to be here. Many things need to be decided and his people need him here in camp to lead. They’re lost without him”
“How will I find him?”
“Hunters talked to him yesterday about a half a day’s ride from here, and the hunter will show you. He shouldn’t be hard to find.”
“Ate, what’ll I say to him?”
“You’ll know, and Crazy Horse will listen to you.”
“I’ll try,” Hand said.
As the sun suspended in the eastern sky the next morning, Hand left with the scout. Before the sun reached high overhead, they made it to the foothills. When Hand climbed to the top of the hill, Crazy Horse, sitting on his blankets, waited. Hand rode up, but his guide turned away.
Hand sat his horse for several long minutes waiting for his brother to speak. “Please, get down and sit with me. Father…sent you, didn’t he?”
“Yes, but I wanted to come.”
“Why…do you think I need to return to camp?”
“Your people need you, and many are worried.”
He must have noticed the concern in Hand’s voice and the fear for him on his face. He said, “Hand, I have to plan…what’s best for my people and…I can’t do that with all the people asking me…what I’m going to do. All the messengers from the agencies. The truth is…I don’t know. Don’t worry, because I know where the caves…and holes are and I can feed myself. I’m OK, but lack of understanding…has wounded my spirit. Maybe out here by myself, my spirit…will lead me in the right direction.”
Hand crossed his legs and leaned forward, surprised at how much his brother said. He had to be worried a lot, and confused as to what to do.
“What do you think? What should…I do?”
Hand closed his eyes. He had dreaded this question and knew it was coming. On the ride here, he’d tried to think of an answer, but he couldn’t. He realized why Crazy Horse had so much trouble coming up with the right answer. The right answer didn’t exist. “That’s a hard question, and it’s difficult to answer, but this I know, the wild and free days are over for us.” Hand took a deep breath. Our hunting grounds are gone. Our He Sapas are gone. Only the buffalo’s white bones are left. How will we live as free Lakota? I’ll go and do anything you ask—even die for our way of life with you if you ask, but that way of life’s already dead. We can’t defeat the white soldiers and they’ll keep coming like the ragweed in the spring. They won’t go away. My loyalty lies with you and always will.”
Crazy Horse forced a half smile, laying his hand on his brother’s shoulder, and spoke with a deep sadness. “You’re white but you have lived…as one of the people, and no one has been more loyal…to us or me than you have. We were wary of you because of the betrayal of the half-breeds, but…that has not been the case. You know my heart has been sad…about what to do.”
Hand nodded his head in understanding.
“Do you think the wasicu will let our people…live in peace if I surrender?”
His question caught Hand off guard. Did he ask the question as his brother a Lakota warrior, or as a white? It didn’t matter in the end because he couldn’t think like a white. He hesitated for a long time before answering. He had to be honest with Crazy Horse. Tell him what he thought, or at least, what he believed. “I don’t think the whites will leave the people or you alone, and you have enemies among your own people.”
Crazy Horse didn’t say anything for a long time, staring into the sky. When Hand didn’t believe he would speak, his brother said, “You’re right, and I wish it wasn’t so, but the Bad Faces…are all at the agency, and No Water is…a vengeful person.”
“Yes, and there is a lot of jealousy about you. I know this isn’t of your doing, or anything that you have wanted, but the jealousies are real, and so are the people behind them. They see you and see what they want to be, but haven’t been chosen, or don’t have the courage, or character to be what you are.”
“What am I?”
“You’re the people’s warrior.”
“I’m glad you found me, Hand. I know what I must do. Let’s ride back to camp.”
On their trip back, the two brothers rode side by side, one full-blooded Lakota who looked white, and the other, full-blooded white who looked like an Indian.
After crossing a fast stream, Crazy Horse stopped his horse and looked at the grass that had started to turn green. Hand sat beside him as both horses grazed.
“Hand, do you remember…this place? It has always had a special meaning to me.”
Hand dropped his head. He did remember, but didn’t want to. The significance left his stomach churning. “Yes, it is called Wounded Knee Creek.”
They were quiet for a long time. Birds flew and swooped overhead and bees swarmed around a hive in a tree not far away.
“Remember the promise…you made to me.”
“Yes. I remember and I’ll
keep it. How did this creek get its name?”
“Many years ago…we had a great warrior named…Many Moons. He led a war party who attacked and defeated…a large number of Snakes at this creek. During the battle, an arrow…hit Many Moons in the left knee, went through, and pinned him to his horse. We’ve called this creek Wounded Knee ever since.”
* * * *
The sun lit the sky longer each day, and a lot of the snow swam away from the heat. With cold nights, they still kept the lodge flaps down and rolled up during the day to let the lodges air out. Many of the women hung robes out to clean as the Moon of snow blindness, March, wandered in. Some of the people had slipped off into the night to go to the agencies, but most had stayed. Crazy Horse, at first, made the camp police turn anyone back. He had the horses and weapons taken from the ones who wanted to leave, but after their return from the hills, he had canceled that order.
People could leave if they wanted to, but most didn’t. Crazy Horse seldom went out by himself, but not for long when he did go. Hand knew the reason for this, and so did Worm, and He Dog. The Lakota constantly asked the three what their strange man planned. No answer came from the ones that knew, and only rumors and guesses from everyone else.
They had camped in the White Mountains close to where the fight at Greasy Grass took place. Crazy Horse and Hand watched young boys practice with the bow. They laughed about how hard it had been for Hand to learn to use the bow left-handed. A runner trekked in to tell them that a group of their people approached from the agency, and Spotted Tail himself led them.
With a strange expression, Crazy Horse turned to Hand. “Would you tell Spotted Tail that…” he took a deep breath. “Tell him that I give him my word…I’ll bring my people into the agency.”
Crazy Horse walked off, mounted, and rode out of camp.
As Spotted Tail and his people rode in, Worm, He Dog, and Big Road met them. Again, the women let out a big clamor to see friends and family who they’d not seen in so long.
Hand walked up as Spotted Tail spoke, “Hoya. “I hope my nephew is here, and I’m not thrown out of camp.”