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

by Terry C. Johnston

  He was beginning to doubt that the Lakota and the whites would ever understand one another.

  * * *

  “General Crook wants your help,” Clark was droning on, finally getting around to the purpose of this council being held in the largest room they had along officers’ row, the drawing room in Colonel Bradley’s house.

  Seamus Donegan sat against the wall, right behind the few soldiers who huddled up front with Clark and the two interpreters. Frank Grouard had invited him along this afternoon, claiming that the Irishman would get a chance to see most of the war chiefs the army had been fighting on the northern plains gathered in one place. The second interpreter brought in today was Louie Bordeaux, a half-blood trader’s son, who was known among his mother’s people as Louis Mato, or Bear. Bordeaux had received a good formal education in Hamburg, Iowa, before returning to Brulé country. The delegation he had accompanied upriver from Spotted Tail Agency was led by Crazy Horse’s own uncle, Touch-the-Clouds.

  “How tall is that one?” Seamus had whispered in awe at the back of Grouard’s ear when the huge chief ducked his head to enter the room earlier.

  “Clark told me he goes over seven foot,” Grouard had said softly.

  Donegan now watched Clark pace back in the opposite direction, his body tense, appearing a bit impatient too, as Grouard painstakingly translated Crook’s request for help from Sioux scouts.

  “The Nez Perce have broken away from their reservation far to the west,” Clark finally continued. “The army does not really know where they are going, or what they will do. But the army intends to catch them, and force them back to their homes. It seems they are heading for the Yellowstone River country. This is the reason why General Crook can’t allow you to go north on your hunt.”

  Clark took a long breath after Grouard finished that part of translation; then he pressed on, “The general wants to enlist scouts from both agencies to go with him when he goes after the Nez Perce.”

  Grouard finished and the room fell silent, save for the breathing of all, and an errant cough from time to time. The Sioux were fidgeting, glancing at one another in bewilderment. Donegan had no idea why they appeared so furtive, almost suspicious of what had just been told them. Even Crazy Horse, and the two on either side of him. Seamus recognized He Dog at Crazy Horse’s right, but he could not remember ever having seen the older man who sat next to Crazy Horse’s left side.

  Finally that older man spoke up, and Grouard translated, “Little Hawk wants to ask: Crook says for them to go north with him … to scout against the Nez Perce?”

  “Yes,” Clark answered emphatically.

  Then Little Hawk asked, and his words were interpreted, “‘The soldiers want us to … to fight?’”

  Again Clark answered enthusiastically, “Yes. You go north to scout for Three Stars. You will be with us to fight the Nez Perce.”

  Interesting, how both groups of Sioux talked that over among themselves. At one side of the room sat Red Cloud himself, the older chief who had orchestrated the many attacks on the Bozeman Road forts. And at the other side of the room sat Crazy Horse, Touch-the-Sky, and their loyal supporters. Voices low and their hands gesturing emphatically, both sets of Sioux appeared to be tearing apart Crook’s proposition into very fine pieces indeed. How different this was from anything Seamus could have ever imagined: watching the war chiefs and headmen argue and debate among themselves in hushed tones, as if any of the white men with them in that stifling room could not grasp that tense atmosphere of give-and-take, despite the language barrier.

  Finally the quiet discussions faded and the older man sitting beside Crazy Horse spoke to Grouard.

  Frank translated, “Little Hawk speaks the words the others have decided.”

  “Go ahead,” Clark prompted, rubbing his hands down the tops of his thighs in anticipation.

  “‘The white man and the soldier chiefs wanted the Northern People to come in,’” Grouard said. “‘They came in and untied the tails of their ponies in peace. The White Hat came to their camp and wanted to take away their horses and guns—so they gave those to the soldiers too. Very soon you wanted Crazy Horse to go see the Grandfather with Red Cloud, and he said yes to that. Then Three Stars gave the Oglala a buffalo hunt, but that’s been taken away. Now the White Hat wants them to go to war.’”

  Grouard took in a sigh, pausing in his translation, his eyes moving from Clark’s face, to those of the warriors gathered around Crazy Horse, He Dog, and Little Hawk to his left. Frank continued Little Hawk’s speech, “‘When we came here to the White Earth agency, we untied our horses’ tails. We came for the peace you said we would have for our women and families. Tell Three Stars that we have done everything he has asked of us, but we do not want any more war. Instead, we only want to go north to hunt buffalo and make meat for the winter.”

  Seamus immediately saw how that refusal struck Clark. The lieutenant’s eyes narrowed, and that grin of anticipation quickly disappeared as his face turned to stone. Even though one of the headmen who sat beside Red Cloud was rising to take his turn at speaking, Clark rudely cut him off.

  “Grouard, you tell them that’s impossible!” he growled. “Tell these chiefs that the army can’t allow them up there!”

  From one face to another, Seamus watched how the mere tone of those words immediately slapped the Sioux. Even though they had no way of understanding a single word Clark was hissing at them, there could be no mistaking the meaning behind what the lieutenant was saying.

  “There’s fighting going on up there! It’s preposterous to think we’d give them permission to go hunt now! General Crook needs them to go scout—just the men! No hunting with their families along,” Clark continued to grumble, Grouard hurriedly attempting to capture this phrase or that.

  “The whites, the settlers and townspeople—if they see the Crazy Horse people wandering around up there,” Clark was saying, his voice even louder and more strained, as he leaped to his feet and gestured emphatically with his arms and shoulders, waving them over the seated Indians, who watched him with horrified eyes, “what are those whites going to think? They’re going to think the Oglala have broken off their reservation and gone to war! Then where is that going to leave everyone? They’ll cry for the soldiers and we’ll be in a real goddamned Indian war; that’s where we’ll be!”

  From the looks on some of the copper-skinned faces, Seamus could read something of what they were suffering. With the loud yelling and the harangue Clark was giving them, it was as if they understood they were being scolded, parent to child. Donegan felt embarrassed for the young lieutenant, even ashamed for the way he had lost control of himself in this delicate situation.

  “There can be no hunt!” Clark repeated, his face gone livid with anger. “You must do what Three Stars commands of you. Go scout for him, and go to Washington. You must do what he tells you!”

  Grouard struggled to keep up, staring at Clark’s face as he turned the words into Sioux for the Indians.

  “If you don’t go to scout for him,” Clark’s volume dropped a little while his words became tense and threatening, “there will be no buffalo hunt. And … there will never be an agency for Crazy Horse.”

  His voice quickly fell away and he stood there above the delegates, dramatically enfolding his arms across his chest as Grouard finished his translation.

  None of the delegates spoke, not so much as a whisper, as they sat in silence and mulled over the tongue-lashing they had just been given by the young officer. It was some time before anyone said anything, so it stunned Seamus when it was Crazy Horse himself who stood and began to speak.

  Grouard translated for Clark, “‘Little Hawk told you my words. We came here for peace. We are tired and want no more war.’”

  Quickly looking around the room, Donegan saw how most of the Sioux watched this slim man with a mix of awe and reverence, how the power of his presence and the strength of his being had command of that room, even held Clark’s rapt attention. Only R
ed Cloud, and that handful of those men seated closest around him, looked at Crazy Horse with something approaching scorn, or jealousy, even outright hatred itself.

  “‘You, the White Hat, and old Three Stars too,’” Grouard went on with his running translation, even as Crazy Horse was speaking, “‘and the new white agent—you have all told us lies. Not just one lie, but one after another, like knots on a rope.’”

  Clark started to respond to that, but he suddenly shut his mouth like a man who thought better of it.

  “‘You have made promises, but they were as empty as the cold wind,’” Grouard translated. “‘Still … we want to do what you ask of us, because we came here to make a peace with you. If Three Stars wants us to go north to fight the Nez Perce…’” and Frank paused, concentrating on what Crazy Horse was saying, “‘then we will go north and fight until a white man isn’t left.’”

  That slammed Donegan in the belly with the force of a man’s boottoe. Fight until a white man wasn’t left?

  Was Crazy Horse so angry about the broken promises and the lies that he was saying he and his warriors were going to use the trouble along the Yellowstone to break out and go back on the warpath?

  “N-not a white man left?” Clark shouted in fury.

  The fire in the lieutenant’s words clearly shocked Crazy Horse and the other delegates, as if they had no idea that this bold, direct challenge to Clark would make the white man so angry. It was almost … almost as if the two men weren’t understanding the other. As if they did not really know what the other was saying … as if Frank Grouard had made a terrible mistake in his translation.

  For the first time Donegan noticed that the interpreter appeared momentarily flustered. Then the older warrior stood beside Crazy Horse, gesturing, and Frank translated.

  “They can’t understand why you’re yelling at them. Little Hawk’s saying Crazy Horse just told you he’d do what you want—”

  “What I want?” Clark had turned shrill again, loud. “I want them to scout for Crook and this son of a bitch, high and mighty Crazy Horse, says he’s going to ride north to kill every white man he can find? That’s what I want?”

  Suddenly Donegan looked at the second interpreter, the trader’s son named Bordeaux, and recognized a look on his face that said all was not as Grouard had represented it—

  One of Red Cloud’s men suddenly leaped to his feet, pounding his chest with a fist and pointing at Crazy Horse, his face gone red, spittle foaming at the corners of his mouth.

  “His name is Three Bears.” Grouard’s voice grew loud over the noise of so much pandemonium. “He says if Crazy Horse wants to kill anyone … then Crazy Horse should start by killing him!”

  “He didn’t say anything about killing white men!” Bordeaux roared, lunging up from his seat behind Grouard and Clark, leaping in front of Frank to wave an accusing finger. “You’re a goddamned liar!”

  Grouard slapped it out of the way as Clark jumped between them.

  The trader’s son from Spotted Tail’s agency growled something at Grouard in the Sioux tongue.

  “You shut your damned mouth, Bordeaux!” Frank hissed. “If you know what’s good for you—”

  “Tell Clark that you twisted the words around!” Bordeaux said, shaking with the first flush of anger. “Tell him!”

  Clark demanded, “Twisted the words?”

  “You bastard!” Grouard growled, coming off his stool.

  Seamus was there, his big hand clamped on the translator’s shoulder as Frank’s arms shot toward Bordeaux.

  “You lying bastard!” Grouard shouted. “I’ll teach you to lie about me!”

  “You lie, Grouard!” Bordeaux screamed back. “Just like the Oglala say about you—the Grabber lies!”

  Frank snarled something back at Bordeaux in Sioux; then in English he roared, “You’re just like all these red bastards! You’re always making trouble for me!”

  Wheeling on Clark, Grouard jabbed the lieutenant in the chest with a finger and said, “Every word was the goddamned truth. No matter what this bastard Bordeaux thinks, I told you just what Crazy Horse thinks.”

  Then as Donegan and the rest of them in that room watched in stunned horror, Frank Grouard turned to look directly at Crazy Horse with a strange light in his eyes for but a moment, before he shoved past the delegates and hurled himself out the door. The room was shocked into silence as Grouard slammed the door closed behind him, its terrible thud slowly dying.

  Finally Clark whirled on his heel, hunkering over Bordeaux accusingly as the trader’s son settled back on his stool. “What do you mean, Grouard was lying?”

  The interpreter said nothing, did not even meet the lieutenant’s gaze.

  “You’re not going to talk to me?” Clark’s voice went shrill again. “Have it your way, damn you. You’re from Spotted Tail anyway, so I can’t really trust you. So just sit there with your mouth closed if you want.”

  Straightening, Clark waved his arm at a soldier as the Sioux in the room began to murmur among themselves again. “You, Private—go to the agency on the double. Bring me back the interpreter called Garnett. Billy Garnett.”

  And when the infantryman had hurried from the room, Clark turned back to Bordeaux. “You see? I don’t need your translating anyway. I’ll get someone I can trust.”

  Donegan’s eyes quickly moved over the gathered chiefs and headmen, but always returned to Crazy Horse, and those closest to him, as they whispered, their eyes glancing about suspiciously. Perhaps malevolently. Seamus looked to where the window was—how far away was that door Grouard had fled through—wondering how a man could make an escape from all these Sioux if trouble broke out. Surely some of them had pistols secreted under a blanket draped over an arm. If not that, then knives or a tomahawk hidden perhaps. The way those two sides of the room were talking and whispering, one faction or the other had to be plotting against Clark and the few soldiers stationed in that tense room.

  Thinking of Samantha and little Colin, how they would be playing in the shade of the cottonwoods back at their camp, thinking only of them as he kept his eyes moving, the tense moments slowly became minutes …

  And suddenly Billy Garnett was in the doorway.

  It was as if Seamus hadn’t taken a breath since Grouard escaped.

  Clark was shouting orders at the young half-breed who wedged his way through the crowd, even as some of the Sioux leaders hollered their words at Billy too. Voices rose again; men grew tense.

  Back and forth the Indians shouted angrily while Clark gave Garnett his version of what Crazy Horse had said when he was ordered to take his men north to hunt for the Nez Perce.

  “The Nez Perce,” Billy repeated, after hearing from Little Hawk and He Dog. “That’s what Crazy Horse says he told you. They’d go north to fight the Nez Perce like you asked ’em to.”

  Clark shook his head, staring at the Sioux chief. “No. He told me he would go fight until not one white man was left.”

  With a snort, Garnett chuckled, “Is that what Grouard told you?”

  “Yes, goddammit!” Clark was growing angry again.

  “Then Grouard got it wrong,” Garnett said firmly. “Crazy Horse says he told you he does not want to go to war, but if Crook wants … he will take his young men and go to the north country, and there they will fight until not a Nez Perce is left standing.”

  “N-nez Perce?” Clark repeated with a squeak.

  “Grouard got it all twisted around,” Billy said, then suddenly turned to Bordeaux. “Why didn’t you tell him what Crazy Horse said? You could’ve told him that Grouard made a bad mistake with his words?”

  Bordeaux never met Garnett’s eyes, his face sullen. Instead, he only shrugged off the question.

  “Why would Grouard ever want to make that kind of mistake?” Clark demanded of Garnett, Bordeaux, of anyone who could answer. “Why would Grouard do that?”

  Donegan turned to look at Crazy Horse, finding the man unmoved for all the turmoil that still swirled
around him. The war chief found Seamus gazing at him, and for a moment the two of them shared that same sort of unspoken recognition they had shared on that afternoon he accompanied the McGillycuddys to the Sioux camp.

  It was almost as if the eyes of Crazy Horse were telling Donegan, Now you see that for too long … you have believed in the wrong man.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  August 30, 1877

  BY TELEGRAPH

  Indian News—Very Serious Trouble in Texas.

  THE INDIANS.

  Sitting Bull Heard From.

  WASHINGTON, August 8.—A letter from the United States consul at Winnipeg says: Near Sitting Bull’s encampment a war party of twenty-seven Sioux robbed the traders of powder and one bag of bullets. Besides Sitting Bull’s band there is an equal number of Sioux refugees from the Minnesota massacres of ’62 and ’63, over whom Sitting Bull seems to exercise much influence.

  Billy Garnett turned toward Crazy Horse and translated the question Lieutenant Clark had just asked, “‘If the Grabber said the wrong thing to the White Hat, what is the truth Crazy Horse wants spoken to the little chief?’”

  The chiefs looked back and forth between Garnett and Clark, the expression on their faces saying: We already told you the answer to that question.

  “Can’t you see the mistake you made?” Billy whispered to the lieutenant from the corner of his mouth.

  “What the devil are you talking about?” Clark demanded. “Grouard is the one who lied.”

  “I mean the mistake you made bringing Grouard together with that interpreter from Spotted Tail.” Garnett kept his voice barely audible. “The two of them got a lot of trouble between ’em. Grouard hasn’t ever gotten along with traders’ sons—Richaud or Bordeaux, any of ’em.”

  Turning on Bordeaux, the lieutenant demanded, “Why didn’t you speak up when Grouard made the mistake?”

  But the trader’s son didn’t utter a word, still refusing to even look at the officer.

  So Garnett explained, “That’s the Indian way. Around the white man anyway. In an argument, when a man loses his head, others just go quiet, won’t say a thing.”