Turn the Stars Upside Down: The Last Days and Tragic Death of Crazy Horse

by Terry C. Johnston

  Finally the Bad Face Oglala had a chance to strike back at the soldiers who had marched north beyond the Shifting Sands River. On a freezing winter day a hundred foolish soldiers followed Crazy Horse and his decoys across Lodge Trail Ridge where the trap was sprung.4 Not one left standing. Not even the soldier dog slinking away through the snow until Crazy Horse shot it too. Nothing left alive.

  Yet the soldiers always came back again. And when they did the army never caught the warriors. Instead, the attackers inevitably found the villages of women and children, the old and the sick, those least able to defend themselves against bullets and big-throated guns. So it was that the warriors who had surrendered with Crazy Horse had come in to Red Cloud’s agency for no other reason than to save their families, to protect what they cherished most—the future of the Oglala people.

  On this third night he had been slipping in and out of dream, episodes of pain knifing through him, but he no longer had the strength to move enough to end the aching in his joints, the cold in his bones. Crazy Horse remembered Lone Bear, his oldest friend from childhood. The first friend to die, cradled in Crazy Horse’s arms after all the soldiers were cut down in the Battle of a Hundred in the Hand.

  He began to cry on that mountaintop, not aware that he was except for the warmth of the tears gently seeping from the corners of his eyes. Remembering too his dear and trusted kola, his best friend Buffalo Hump, dead more than six winters. Cut down in a raid they made against the Susuni.5

  There quickly followed more pain and loss. The sudden marriage of Black Buffalo Woman to his rival, No Water, losing the woman he had loved so strongly he was certain he could never love another, at least not near as much as he loved her. In a jealous fury Crazy Horse had ridden deep into the land of the Psatoka,6 coming back with a pair of scalps, the only two he had taken in more than five winters. Such fighting anger was the only way he could find to fill the ache of his hollow insides.

  Finally he suffered the death of his younger brother, Little Hawk—who had gone off with a war party to make a raid on the Susuni, but some wasicu miners had helped the enemy stand off the attack. The white men killed Little Hawk in that hot and bloody fight.

  Crazy Horse had ridden deep, deep into enemy country—looking for any wasicu he ran across, searching for Susuni warriors. He would kill every man he came across, or he would die. Eventually he turned back east, making a wide circle through the sacred Pa Sapa,7 because he had still not slaked his thirst for blood. Among the timbered shadows he had killed more than a dozen lone white men, miners searching for the yellow rocks that made the wasicu crazy. But none of these did he scalp. Instead, Crazy Horse left an arrow sticking in the earth beside the bodies, their faces turned to the ground.

  Perhaps it had been during that time of mourning, so many tongues wagged, that he decided to give back that prized and sacred shirt the Big Bellies gave to only four to wear. Maybe with so long an absence, so long a ride, Crazy Horse had decided a man’s life was too short not to reach for what he wanted most. So Crazy Horse talked Black Buffalo Woman into running away with him while her husband was off on a hunt. But No Water had come looking, taken back his wife, and nearly killed the woman-stealer.

  It was while Crazy Horse healed from the bullet wound that his friend the Wicasa Wakan, or shaman, named Chips made a wotawe,8 a powerful medicine bundle, for him. Inside a brain-tanned pouch Chips had placed the dried brains, heart, and claws of a spotted—or war—eagle.

  “This will make you safe from any bullet,” Chips had explained as he dropped the pouch cord around his younger friend’s neck.

  Gazing down at the powerful talisman, Crazy Horse had asked, “What about a knife? What if a man knows I am bullet-proof and tries to kill me with a knife?”

  “No worry,” Chips had vowed. “This eagle medicine I have made will protect you from a knife too. No blade can kill you … just so long as your arms are not held.”

  Still, the medicine bundle could never protect his heart from grief … a hollow, cold, devastating grief so deep and unremitting that nothing could touch it. All that he had ever held precious was torn from him. And then in the cold darkness of this vision-quest night, he shuddered as he remembered They Are Afraid of Her. His daughter born of Black Shawl. Upon his returning from a long hunting trip with He Dog and the Grabber, some friends had stopped him outside his lodge where he could hear Black Shawl sobbing. “What has happened?” he had demanded of them. Then he asked, “Where did you put her body?”

  Back he rode, three days, deep into enemy country, with only the Grabber at his side. When he finally found the lonely scaffold, Crazy Horse climbed atop the bower to lie beside the still, cold body of the little child, remaining there in the wind and the rain for more than three days as he cried himself dry. Shriveling like a puckered, fallen fruit.

  Some say he never was the same after losing that precious daughter. Others claimed his strangeness had started years earlier, with the loss of his kola, Hump. A few would admit he had become even more strange with the loss of Black Buffalo Woman to another suitor, followed so quickly by the death of Little Hawk, and finally—when the man had little left to lose—his daughter was ripped from him. Cholera had claimed the girl in less than a day. How hollow was the hole inside him when he thought of cholera, and smallpox9 too—together they were the double-fists that had become a curse the wasicu spread among the defenseless Lakota and other tribes of the prairie.

  If the army could not kill off their women and children by attacking the villages at dawn, without warning, when the fighting men were away … then the white man would send his pestilence among the proud peoples of the plains.

  From the moment he climbed down from that scaffold to rejoin the Grabber, leaving the tiny body of They Are Afraid of Her to the winds and the relentless turn of the seasons, Crazy Horse rarely spoke in public anymore. Instead, he relied upon others to speak for him in councils with other chiefs, especially in parleys with the white man. Over the years, He Dog and Little Big Man—both trusted friends—had come to recognize the many moods that Crazy Horse could express without much change in the expression on his face. Those two became his voice in the noisy crowds as he rarely spoke above a whisper. That alone was why so many found as remarkable his bellowing that put a stop to the sham battle the day of the first sun-gazing dance. Few of the Hunkpatila could remember hearing the sound of his voice, so few friends did he speak to in the last handful of winters.

  Perhaps that was a mistake?

  Perhaps.

  “Ah! You are here, and ready to talk to me again,” he said in a rasp to his spirit guardian. For the last three days and nights Crazy Horse hadn’t opened his mouth to utter a sound. Not a drop of water had passed his tongue, spilled down his throat. His own voice sounded so foreign and hollow to him.

  If you always leave it to others to speak for you, then others might say something you never would have said for yourself.

  He opened his eyes, sensing the breeze coming up on his cheek, in his hair—an awareness he hadn’t had in more than a day. And he suddenly realized his body was in torment, lying as he was on the shards of rocks and stubby grass. In the sky above him was a sight he could not remember seeing for three nights. Stars. Hung in their familiar patterns all across the black dome of the heavens. And atop them all was the dim, milky canopy of tiny, dusty lights that tracked across the void in an arc, as if someone had scattered handful after handful of dry, glistening snowflakes.

  He smiled, his dry, sunburned lips cracking painfully. It did not matter now. For some reason, he was beginning to re-feel things around him, re-sensing his world, for the first time since he had arrived at the top of Beaver Mountain. And it reminded him that he really hadn’t been feeling all that much of anything for a long, long time. Not since deciding to surrender. Not really.

  Sometimes hurt can remind us of who we are, Ta’sunke Witko. You were not meant for an ordinary life.

  “What sort must I live?”

 
That is your decision from this point forward. No matter what you decide, make it your choice—not the choice of others. The white man, or the Oglala. Do not let them decide for you. There is greatness at hand—

  “I never craved the adoration of others.”

  I said greatness, Ta’sunke Witko. The adoration you receive only comes because you have achieved greatness for your people. Let your voice be heard by the white man. Decide how best to get what you want, and speak your voice.

  “Will you take this pain from my heart if I do?”

  No. That pain from all the losses you have suffered has already scarred your heart. It will remain with you, no matter what joy you will come to feel.

  “Black Shawl—will she ever understand about the trader’s daughter?”

  If that is who you want, you will help Black Shawl to understand why you need a second wife.

  “And taking that long journey east with Red Cloud?”

  Will they give you your own agency if you do?

  “White Hat and Three Stars promise me that first I must go east. Not till I return—”

  Do you trust them?

  “I have to trust someone,” he answered in resignation.

  Do you think you will get your agency if you refuse to make the journey?

  He clenched his eyes in realization. “No.”

  Two can play at the game Red Cloud has been playing with the white man. It is a game even your uncle, Spotted Tail, has been part of. You can learn to get what you want from the wasicu too. If all it takes for you to get what you want is to make that trip east, then you will get an agency for your people, and that buffalo hunt in the Powder River country too.

  “But … I must do what is right for the People.”

  There are more ways to be a good leader than by refusing everything. What do you truly want, Ta’sunke Witko? Ask yourself what that is … and then go after what it is that you want most.

  What he wanted was to laugh, to cry, to shout—but it would be too painful, and close to impossible as weak as he was. “Wh-what I want most is to return to my old country, live out my last days in peace, riding the back of a good horse—with proud friends and happy people in my camp. The way I remember—”

  It hasn’t been like that for a long time. If those old times are what you want … you won’t have them again until I am freed from your body, until I can finally spread my wings and fly high over the land where you once rode your horse.

  “But if you are freed … then that means—”

  Yes, Ta’sunke Witko. I won’t be freed until you have taken your last breath. Only then will your spirit be free once more.

  For a long time he lay there, sensing the pressure of every stone against his back, buttocks, and legs, against the hard bone of his skull. Every now and then he sensed the breeze coming up, brushing across his cheeks, and realized he had been crying.

  “I am ready to face what will come now,” he said, after what seemed like hours had passed and the brilliant stars overhead had wheeled all the way from one horizon to the other.

  Not till the sun is given birth for its new day. By then you will truly be strong enough to walk this last road that will ever be laid out before you.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Early July 1877

  Seamus took a long, lingering look at the Indian, feeling himself being appraised. Then the dark eyes shifted to the doctor, Fanny McGillycuddy, then finally landed on the young woman who had accompanied the three of them on their ride out to the Crazy Horse camp.

  “Tell him I am glad to see him,” Valentine McGillycuddy instructed the half-breed trader’s daughter, Helen, better known as Nellie, Laravie. “Explain that I’ve come to see how Black Shawl is healing.”

  The moment the young interpreter began to speak in Sioux to Crazy Horse, she was interrupted by the approach of four women. One of them raised her arm and waved in greeting. The other three were carrying deadfall limbs they had been collecting from the nearby hillside. Donegan swung out of the saddle a moment before McGillycuddy handed him his reins and started toward the quartet of women.

  “Black Shawl!” cried the doctor in a cheerful yet somewhat concerned tone.

  Helen Laravie likewise shoved her reins into the Irishman’s big paw and took off at a sprint to catch up to the physician.

  Looking down at his hands filled with reins, then back at the scene, Seamus turned with a shrug, looking for the war chief—and found him already starting toward his wife. Black Shawl stopped beside her lodge while her three companions continued on around to the far side, where they dropped their load of branches, dusted their hands and dresses, then inched back over to stand near the one white visitor who hadn’t as yet dismounted.

  “Seamus, you’ll stay close?”

  That soft plea from Fanny McGillycuddy brought Donegan up short. He turned and saw the concern on her face, there beneath the gauzy black veil of her pale green hat she had pinned atop her tightly wound curls. The three Sioux women dared to take another step closer, whispering to one another as a handful more Sioux bystanders closed in on the sole white woman among the visitors.

  Behind Donegan, McGillycuddy was asking, “Ask her why she’s on her feet, working so hard to gather wood.”

  “She feels better,” Helen replied. “Your medicine helps her sleep.”

  “Not so tired anymore?” he asked Black Shawl.

  Donegan watched how the Sioux women whispered to one another with amused interest. Every few moments one of them would stretch out an arm and point at Fanny’s one boot, just barely sticking out from the bottom of her long dress as she sat perched atop her side-saddle.

  “No, she gets sleep from the medicine you give her,” Laravie explained. “Can you give her more until her cough is no more?”

  “Of course,” McGillycuddy answered. “I brought some right here. Tell her that. But first, I want to listen to her chest again—like I’ve done every visit—and have her cough for me too.”

  One of the more daring of the curious spectators took a step toward Fanny’s horse, dropped to one knee, as if attempting to peer up at the animal’s belly, at the sole of the white woman’s lone visible boot. The squaw wagged her head and stood, scooting back among the growing crowd. There had to be more than three dozen women of all ages now, and at least half that many children huddled in among their knees or against their hips, everyone chattering quietly, but in a growing clamor.

  “Over here,” McGillycuddy instructed. “By her teepee. The two of us can sit right here in the sun while I examine her.”

  Glancing over his shoulder, Donegan watched how the physician was getting Black Shawl settled on the ground at the foot of her lodge, a few feet from the open doorway, while Crazy Horse and the young translator exchanged long glances. Helen stepped up beside McGillycuddy when the doctor dropped to his knees and worked at the clasp on his scuffed brown valise he positioned beside Black Shawl’s bare legs.

  “Seamus!”

  The instant Fanny squealed in horror, Donegan wheeled back around to find one of the women lifting Fanny’s dress and petticoats several inches. He stood there in horror, not knowing what to do.

  “Should I kick at her?” she asked in desperation.

  “Best not,” he whispered harshly, inching closer to the bold Sioux woman, hoping to drive her away with intimidation. “I … think she’s just curious.”

  With one finger, the middle-aged woman pushed against the one boot they all could see hanging down the side of the white woman’s horse. Reassured that it was indeed filled with a foot, she raised the thick layers of flowing cloth beyond the top of the boot and found Fanny’s ankle enclosed in a tight cotton stocking. The moment the wrinkled woman began to daringly raise the dress and petticoats even farther, about to expose Fanny’s calf, Seamus moved forward, wagging his head.

  “No,” he said firmly, approaching the woman.

  There was no misinterpreting that word. She dropped the white woman’s clothing and leaped back as all
the dark eyes fixed on the tall Irishman. He stopped in his tracks and glanced at Mrs. McGillycuddy.

  “I’ll wager you’re safe for a while, Fanny.”

  “S-safe?” she stammered, her voice almost a squeak of fear. “What w-was she d-doing?”

  He started to smile just to think of the childlikeness of it; then when he gazed at her frightened face again, his smile immediately disappeared. “Don’t you see, Fanny—to them you’ve just got one leg.”

  “One leg?” she echoed.

  “There,” and he pointed to the left side of her horse where she had both legs propped over their side-saddle supports.

  Both legs were concealed with yards and yards of green satin, puffed up by layers of petticoats Fanny had put on for this ride out of Camp Robinson to the Crazy Horse village. With her right leg positioned higher, its boot and all completely hidden beneath the layers of cloth, it was no wonder the Sioux women believed the white woman had but one leg! And with all that curiosity from all those women and children, it was certain one of them would work up the nerve to take a daring peek for herself—if only to report to the others what did or did not lie beneath a white woman’s dress.

  “They can’t figure out you’re on a side-saddle, Fanny,” he explained, containing the chuckle he felt about to overpower him. “All they see is your one boot. Far as they’re concerned, you’re a one-legged white gal—er, white woman.”

  She peered down, quickly examining the situation, then raised her eyes to face him. “If you would be so kind as to turn your head and avert your gaze for a moment, Seamus.”

  “What for?”

  “I am going to raise my dress and petticoats just enough to show them I have two legs.”

  He could finally smile, because Fanny was smiling too. “Good for you!”