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

by Terry C. Johnston

  “And if the Hunkpatila go north on their horses, with their guns and women and children too,” Red Dog snarled, “then we know Crazy Horse will never bring them back here again.”

  “Perhaps that is where our path lies,” Red Cloud said softly, sensing the flutter of hope.

  “Where?” asked Woman’s Dress. “To go north too?”

  “No,” Red Cloud answered. “To convince the soldier chiefs that if they allow their shiny chief Crazy Horse and his warriors to go north with ponies and firearms and all their families … the Hunkpatila plan to go back on the warpath.”

  “Killing many, many wasicus!” Standing Bear cheered.

  Red Dog agreed, “Both soldiers and white women too!”

  “We might have time, before we go east,” Red Cloud suggested, “to start convincing White Hat and the others that Crazy Horse is really evil, that he has only fooled them into thinking he has surrendered.”

  Woman’s Dress clapped his hands ecstatically, finger-rings clattering together. “Oooo! I think we can plant that little story in just the right ears!”

  Red Cloud felt immensely proud of himself. “Yes, my friends, I think we can succeed at our plan. We can convince the soldier chiefs that Crazy Horse only came in to bide his time, fatten his horses on the early-summer grasses, to acquire ammunition not for the hunt but to renew the war … and then he will be gone one morning, right from under the noses of these sleeping dogs at Camp Robinson!”

  * * *

  Billy Garnett watched Crazy Horse carefully, intently studying every small move of the war chief’s facial muscles as the Oglala leaders sat beneath the awning in the afternoon3 heat, listening to the new agent who had just come to the reservation, Dr. James Irwin,4 and the agent’s special guests.

  There were times when Billy knew Crazy Horse couldn’t be listening, not staring off into the shimmering afternoon sunlight the way he was, his mind clearly drifting far, far away from these talks with Indian Inspector Benjamin K. Shopp, come from a long distance to make plans for the chiefs’ forthcoming visit to Washington City. Then Billy would translate a piece of dialogue for one of the white civilians who had been accompanied here by an army escort, and something would seem to prick Crazy Horse’s attention—immediately bringing him back to these talks. For a few moments Crazy Horse would appear to listen intently to Billy’s translation, his eyes often boring into the white faces as he listened to Garnett’s Lakota.

  And for an instant, all Billy could think of was that day when an unarmed Crazy Horse stepped between the two angry groups at the sundance grounds.

  “Brothers, you must stop!” he had shouted at those Oglala prepared to shed Oglala blood. “Can’t you see you are shooting at your own people!”

  Many talked of how brave Crazy Horse was in battle, whether it was luring the soldiers into the trap at the Battle of a Hundred in the Hand or at the all-day fight against General Crook’s column. But to Billy, Crazy Horse had never been braver than the day he stepped into the center of those hundreds upon hundreds. In the midst of all that confusion and madness, shouting and anger, any one of those infuriated Oglala could have fired his gun and killed the Northern chief without any man knowing exactly who had committed the murder. Yes, courage in battle against a known enemy was one thing … but to expose your breast to your own people, not knowing who really were your friends and who were those whispering against you and seeking your downfall, that was courage of an even stronger sort—

  “Garnett?”

  He blinked and turned his head slightly, finding a perturbed Lieutenant Clark calling his name a second time. “Yes, sir.”

  “We need you to translate what I just said to the chiefs,” the officer instructed.

  Clearing his throat, Billy apologetically asked Clark to repeat his statement.

  “As soon as we have laid down firm plans for our journey to Washington City,” Clark said, “General Crook has given his full permission for the Northern People to begin preparations for making a fall hunt.”

  Then it was no longer a rumor, something that could only be hinted at … then withdrawn because it was not a fact. White man’s promises. Only smoke on the wind.

  When he told the chiefs their hunt was going to happen, there were murmurs among the headmen. Happiness and celebration among the Hunkpatila. Concern and thinly veiled anger among the Red Cloud people.

  “And once you return from making meat for the winter,” Clark continued his declaration, reading from a piece of folded paper he had taken from inside his uniform, “the trip east will commence, at a time when the weather has turned colder.”

  Their hunt would come in the Moon When Leaves Turn Brown, Garnett told the whispering leaders there in the buzzing summer heat of that late morning. And the journey east would take place in the Moon When Leaves Fall. By the middle of October, Crazy Horse would be taken east, wooed by the power and majesty of the government and cities, railroads and long graded pikes that connected one center of commerce with another. But if there was any reason to suspect that Crazy Horse had not been converted—exactly as Red Cloud had become a dependable leader—then the war chief might never return from his visit. Instead, with him far away from the protection of his friends and his people, the army could slap iron shackles around his wrists and ankles, throwing him into a boxcar bound for the Dry Tortugas, that death prison Billy had heard so many whispers about.

  Clark leaned over to put his head close to Garnett’s ear. “Why don’t Red Cloud and his friends seem happy about this news? After all, they’ve gotten what they wanted. Crazy Horse has agreed to go east with them.”

  Garnett shrugged. “No telling what it will take to make any of ’em happy,” he confessed, not willing to venture his opinion, his fear.

  “Then let’s tell them about the feast,” Clark suggested as he leaned back.

  “Yes, by all means,” Irwin agreed, turning to the Indian Inspector.

  Shopp rubbed his hands together, saying, “Mr. Garnett, I want you to tell these men that I am very pleased with how much work we have done today, making our plans for the trip to see President Hayes. So pleased that I have been authorized to conduct a feast.”

  Billy translated that, and the murmuring immediately ceased. Shopp and Garnett had every Oglala’s attention.

  Continuing, the Indian Inspector said, “I can provide three cattle for a great feast, together with some coffee and sugar too. We want the Oglala to dance and sing and eat their fill—for this feast is a chance to celebrate our new friendship, after so much misunderstanding and war.”

  “When?” Billy turned to the white men after Woman’s Dress asked the question.

  “As soon as you decide you want to hold it,” Shopp replied. “The cattle can be here in a matter of a few days.”

  This time No Water asked a question: “Who will host the feast?”

  “H-host?” Shopp echoed the word, bewildered.

  Clark was quick to explain the tradition to the civilian official, that even a feast given by the white man such as this had to have an Oglala host. Someone who would be honored by being selected.

  That’s when Young Man Afraid got to his feet, taking a step closer to the white men as they sat on their canvas stools. “It would be a good thing to have the feast held to honor Crazy Horse.”

  Garnett translated, watching the eyes of the white men, and the Oglala too, narrow on the war chief as Young Man Afraid pressed on.

  “It has been a long time since he came to this agency, a long time without a feast to welcome him. We should hold the feast at Crazy Horse’s lodge.”

  The white men muttered among themselves a moment, their voices barely above a whisper, as Clark helped Irwin and Shopp understand the nuances of Sioux custom. “If we allow the feast to be held at Crazy Horse’s lodge,” the lieutenant explained, “that would make him the symbolic giver of the meal. A very great honor.”

  “Yes,” Shopp said, nodding agreeably.

  Garnett quickly translated
the announcement into Lakota, “‘Crazy Horse will be given this very great honor to host this feast on the white man’s cattle—’”

  At that moment the rustle in the crowd silenced Garnett’s translation, and drew the attention of the white men. Like them all, Garnett watched as Red Cloud and three others rose to their feet in the midst of the gathering, turned, and shoved their way out of the group. Purposefully, the trio followed their chief past a crowd of curious onlookers to take up the reins to their horses. Behind Red Cloud, the trio—No Water, Woman’s Dress, and Red Dog—mounted and rode away as the first whispers from the Crazy Horse people broke the stunned silence.

  Young Man Afraid was asking his question again, a little louder now, so Billy concentrated on translating. “‘Then it is decided?’” he asked the civilian officials. “‘Crazy Horse is to be honored by this feast?’”

  “Yes,” Agent Irwin answered, his faced pinched with a little irritation at being put on the spot by Young Man Afraid as the whispering grew around them. “Crazy Horse will be the host.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  July 27, 1877

  When Frank Grouard stepped into the dim lamplight of the cramped office, he had been invigorated by the mile-and-a-half ride through the black, starry night, summoned to Red Cloud Agency from Camp Robinson, the post where he was a sometimes translator for the army.

  “What’s the rub?” he growled at the four civilians huddled around the desk in the yellow corona of light put out by a small lamp.

  Grouard glanced at the lamp, thinking they could have turned up more of the wick … so they must have purposefully wanted to keep the light dim.

  “We need you to translate for us.”

  “Who are you?” he asked the speaker.

  “James Irwin—”

  “So you’re the new agent,” Grouard interrupted. “I thought Garnett was your agency interpreter. Why’d you go and drag me out of my bedsack?”

  “Agent Irwin already told you, Grouard,” a second, fleshy-faced man said with no small amount of irritation. His ample cheeks were clearly flushed with something other than the mid-summer night air.

  “I take it you can’t find Billy?”

  “He might be off visiting one of the camps,” Irwin declared, pressing his hands together.

  With a snort, Grouard responded, “You’re afraid he’s get-tin’ a little cozy with them Oglalas, are you?”

  In the dim lamplight, Irwin stretched out his arm, indicating a darkened corner of the small office. Waving his hand, he gestured two men forward—but they came only as far as the edge of the light. Frank stared at them suspiciously, clearly Indians. The smell of them, moccasins too, and both had blankets pulled over their heads and shoulders, concealing not only their faces but anything particular about their hair, or feathers, or their shirts too. This pair certainly did not want to be identified … and coming here in the middle of the goddamned night, when few, if any, people were up and about the agency. When a man should be wrapped in his blankets, dreaming deliciously about warm legs and willing—

  “These two have come knocking on my door,” Irwin continued to explain. “Since none of us can speak Sioux, and we don’t find Garnett in his bed next door, I sent a runner for you over at Robinson.”

  Turning to the pair without another word to Irwin, Grouard asked in Lakota, “Why are you here?”

  “We came to speak to the agent.”

  Try as he might, Frank could not put a finger on that voice, especially since the speaker used a whisper to further disguise his identity. He pointed to the disheveled Irwin. “This one is the agent.”

  “We know.”

  Scratching at the side of his cheek, Frank asked, “What is it you want to tell him?”

  He listened to their terse and angry words, then turned to the white men. “These two come from chief Red Cloud himself.”

  “Is there trouble?” Irwin squeaked.

  “Maybe will be,” Grouard replied, “if you hold some feast for Crazy Horse. That’s what they’re angry about.”

  Shopp leaned an arm on the small desk. “Angry about the feast?”

  “They say you shamed Red Cloud today,” Grouard explained.

  Irwin nodded. “So that’s why he got up and walked away in the middle of our making plans with Young Man Afraid.”

  “Young Man Afraid? He’s the one who gonna do his best to make all sides come together,” Frank said. “He’s a good talker, that one. A fair man—fair as they come.”

  “So what is Red Cloud’s argument against the feast?” Shopp inquired.

  Volving a sore shoulder, Grouard answered, “Seems the feast is a good idea—but they want you should make Red Cloud the host, ’stead of Crazy Horse.”

  Irwin drew in a long breath, while he stared at the shadowy, blanketed forms. “They tell you why they have a problem with Crazy Horse?”

  “He hasn’t been at the agency for long,” Frank told the white men after the pair explained their protestations. “This feast is a great honor you give away. I know that my own self. So I gotta agree with ’em: Crazy Horse doesn’t deserve such an honor.”

  For several moments Irwin and the others fell silent; then the agent said, “I just remembered someone telling me that you spent time with the Crazy Horse band a few years back, didn’t you, Grouard?”

  He shrugged. “I never tried to hide it.”

  His face growing more animated, Irwin took a step closer to Frank, saying, “Then you must know enough about Sioux practices to give me some solid advice on this matter. You’re saying it isn’t a good idea to go against Red Cloud and his friendlies about this feast—”

  “I said I agree with these two Injuns here,” Grouard interrupted.

  “A-agree … about Crazy Horse not hosting the f-feast?” Irwin stammered.

  Frank nodded. “Yeah. But mostly, I agree with what they was asking me to tell you about Crazy Horse.”

  “There’s something more?” Shopp asked.

  “It’s true what they told me to say to you: that Crazy Horse isn’t a friendly. He ain’t an agency Injun at all. By no means.”

  “Explain yourself,” Irwin ordered.

  “He might’ve come in to surrender, but Crazy Horse ain’t given up—not by a long shot, gentlemen.”

  Irwin sighed sourly, staring at his cluttered desk. “I had come to wonder if he truly was reconstructed or not. From his sullen and morose behavior, everything points to the fact that he hasn’t really given up his backward, marauding ways.”

  “This is sad,” Shopp groaned. “Very, very sad. After all the plans we’ve made to take him east with the others.”

  “We can still do that,” Irwin suggested, hope registering in his voice. “No reason why we can’t. He’ll be under our complete control, away from his warriors and his people. He’ll be ours to convert to the fold … or ship off to prison as General Sheridan recommended we do.”

  “You ain’t ever gonna make a agency Injun outta Crazy Horse,” Grouard reminded them. “Not the way you done it to Red Cloud.”

  “Grabber,” one of the two visitors whispered his Lakota name for emphasis, then began to tell him more.

  Frank thought of old friends like He Dog, Little Big Man, and all the other closest allies of Crazy Horse as he listened to the visitors’ snarling epithets against the Northern People. Then he turned back to the civilians and informed the white men, “If Clark goes ahead with Crook’s plan to give them Crazy Horse people a hunt sometime in September … these two here are right.”

  “Right about what?” Irwin demanded.

  “Crazy Horse and the rest of his warriors won’t ever be coming back to your agency.”

  “Won’t come back from the hunt?” Shopp squealed in dismay. “But … they’ve given their word to us they would return when the—”

  “What’s the word of a bunch of bastards been killing, scalping, and stealing all their lives? You gonna trust their promise?” Grouard demanded. “When it’s the easiest thin
g to them warriors to lie to you … then turn right around and raise your hair in the next breath.”

  “You’re telling me Crazy Horse will lie to us?” asked an ashen-faced Shopp.

  Frank explained, “You fellas ain’t been out here long, so you don’t know the truth of the tale. Clark can tell you, others too. Just ask ’em. But for now I want you to remember how the other chiefs throwed Crazy Horse away. Took his shirt from him, all his power as a leader, because he had disobeyed ’em. One thing for sure, the chiefs don’t have no more faith in him now than they did when they stripped him of his shirt. If his own people can’t trust him … how do you figger you can?”

  After a long moment, Shopp eventually leaned toward the stunned Irwin. “James, maybe they’re right.”

  Nodding slightly, the agent said, “With all this less-than-flattering talk about him, maybe we should be very, very cautious—even wary—of this Crazy Horse.”

  “I think it best that we cancel the feast,” Shopp suggested, “until we can sort things out and see where his loyalties really lie.”

  “By all means,” Irwin agreed, looking up from the floor now, a deep furrow between his eyes as they came to bear on Grouard. “Tell these two they can carry my word back to Red Cloud. Assure the chief there won’t be any feast, not for now. And certainly not with Crazy Horse as the honored party.”

  After he had translated that good news to the two blanketed visitors and the Lakota had slipped out the door and back around the corner of the agent’s office, disappearing into the night, Grouard thought it was time to reassure the white men about their misgivings and distrust of Crazy Horse.

  “You’re doin’ the right thing,” Frank stated emphatically. “Anything goin’ on with Crazy Horse and them warriors who stick real close to him—why, it’s bound to stink to the heavens soon enough.”

  * * *

  Red Cloud waited among the tall pines on the long, gentle slope at the base of Crow Butte, watching from the mid-morning shadows as a pair of horsemen approached. He turned to smile knowingly at the two old friends who had joined him here after they had reached their decision over breakfast. He found Red Dog and No Water were smiling too.