“Crazy Horse is a chief,” Provost explained to McGillycuddy in English, loud enough that Donegan could hear. “A chief must not go into prison.”
McGillycuddy whirled on his heel, his face blanched with frustration. “I’m going to ask Bradley for help once more.”
Across those 200 yards of parade crowded with shouting, wailing Indians, Seamus watched the way McGillycuddy held his arms up to the colonel on that porch, imploring. Over their heads blared the brassy notes of the army bugler’s call to arms that would not end. Finally the doctor wheeled about and darted back through the crowd a second time.
Reaching the open ground where Crazy Horse lay gasping, drawing his legs up in agony but twitching less and less, McGillycuddy breathlessly announced, “The general’s agreed to a compromise, if I can get the chiefs to go along.”
“What compromise?” demanded Kennington abruptly.
“I told Bradley the man won’t last the night. He’s going to die anyway. There’s no purpose served by forcing a showdown and carrying him into the guardhouse,” McGillycuddy gasped. “But the general did agree we could remove him to the adjutant’s office.”
Slapping McGillycuddy on the back once, Donegan said, “A damn fine plan.”
The doctor turned away with Provost, stopping at the knee of American Horse, where the interpreter explained the plan. This time the chief nodded and legged down from his pony.
Freeing the blanket from around his own waist, American Horse unfurled it on the ground right beside the bleeding man. Rising again, the chief called out, motioning a half-dozen of his young men forward from the crowd. Provost bent over the back of the tall Indian, explaining what was to be done in a whisper.
Nodding in reluctant agreement, the giant gently eased Crazy Horse onto American Horse’s blanket, then rose and took a step backward.
Gesturing toward the wounded man, American Horse began shouting to the crowd.
“What’s he saying, Provost?” McGillycuddy demanded.
“‘Maybe this man is badly hurt,’ he’s telling them,” the interpreter translated. “‘And maybe he is not. We will take him into the same place where they had the talk, and see how much he is hurt. Probably the Indian healers can save him. It will not do to let him lie here while he dies.’”
That announcement made to the masses, American Horse spoke his instructions more quietly. The six warriors went to their knees, secured their hands around the edge of the blanket, then slowly stood together as the clamoring crowd fell silent.
To Provost, McGillycuddy said, “To the adjutant’s office.” And he pointed at the building some sixty yards away.
American Horse started away beside the tall Indian, followed by the six carrying the dying Crazy Horse. They so reminded Seamus of pallbearers carrying the body of their wounded comrade …
But even though these six were Sioux, they certainly were not supporters of the wild chief of the north. They owed their allegiance to Red Cloud, a man clearly jealous of all the adulation paid to Crazy Horse.
“Seamus,” McGillycuddy said, having stopped and turned suddenly. “You’re coming with me?”
He thought only a moment, then shook his head. “No, Doc. This is something you and Crazy Horse don’t need me for. I already seen men die slow deaths … enough to last me a hundred lifetimes.”
Without another word, the army surgeon blinked and turned away. Following his patient through the hushed crowd, on their way toward the adjutant’s office.
Looking over his shoulder, Seamus hoped to find William Gentles among those soldiers arrayed in a protective crescent around the guardhouse door. But the private was not to be found. The soldiers already had him tucked safely away.
Over the heads of that silenced throng came the shrill keee-awww of a hawk. Like so many others, Donegan turned to look into the sky. But nowhere did he find a bird on the wing.
Of a sudden, Seamus realized where he was needed most. Back with Samantha and Colin.
* * *
Ta’sunke Witko!
For the first time, the voice of his sicun whispered when it called out his name.
Hands had moved him. And now they moved him again, each time causing such agony to jolt through him. Then he felt himself lifted, believing it was the star road and those warriors gone before him in battle who had bent to earth to scoop him up.
But as he peered through the slits of his eyelids, there were no stars. Only the copper faces of the young men who grunted on either side of him, struggling. They were carrying his body—where he did not care. He had thrown it away and so wanted to leave the pain behind. With this faithless undoing of his life by old friends, how he wanted to leave the betrayal behind and feel his spirit take wing.
Around him he heard voices, some speaking the wasicu tongue he could not understand, others speaking Lakota, but words he could not make out. They jostled his body; then Crazy Horse felt the hard firmness beneath his tormented body as the six grunted under his weight. Feet shuffled away as he strained to open his eyes into slits once more. And immediately found the face of the wasicu healer hovering right over his.
Whispering Lakota, he husked in a series of gasps, “It was … one of the long knives … on the soldier’s gun … stabbed through my body. I will die before another sunrise.”
And listened as a wasicu-talker translated his words for the healer.
This healer was the one who brought the trader’s daughter to your camp, into your lodge, Ta’sunke Witko.
Yes, he answered his spirit guardian, but spoke inside himself now. Still, I won’t blame the man for what she did to me … did against me, to help Red Cloud’s friends and the White Hat too.
You made it one more battle to fight, one more contest you had to win.
Those days are past now. I will soon release my body, throw it away. It won’t be long now … not long at all until you too are free.
But you are coming with me, old friend. We will mount on these wings of mine and never truly be apart again.
Crazy Horse felt himself smile at that. Yes. As soon as I finish this one last battle … I will go with you.
In many ways, this will be your hardest fight.
Why does it have to be so?
Because you cannot stand on your own feet. Mostly because you have no hope of winning this final battle.
I have been up against it many times before. Why can’t I fight back now?
Because … your day has passed, Ta’sunke Witko. Don’t you see that your people no longer need a warrior, no longer do they need you. Your strength comes from the past. Now other men will have to lead your people into the future. Your day is over, and the sun is setting on all you held so dear.
My father?
He is on his way to you. Soon, he will be at your side.
Black Shawl?
She will know before this night is through.
Before a new sun rises … I will see my daughter too?
Yes, along with your young brother, and your kola Hump as well.
Then … I truly am going to join the stars.
Where all great warriors ride through eternity, Ta’sunke Witko.
H-how?
When you finally believe you can fight no more … you must let go. Open your fists and … just … let … go.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
5 September 1877
Camp Robinson, Neb.
Sept. 5, 1877.
General Crook,
Green River, Wyo.
Crazy Horse reached here at 6 o’clock, his pistol and knife had not been taken from him and in getting these, he made a break, stabbing Little Big Man in arm and trying to do other damage, but we have him all right and I think there will be no further trouble. I had selected several Indians here and cannot speak too highly of their conduct, particularly of Little Big Man. Crazy Horse’s father and Touch the Clouds are now with him; the latter in the melee was cut in the abdomen, but not seriously. The Indians I selected simply did better than I ca
n express and deserve great credit, and I hope may get it.
Clark,
1LT.2d. Cavalry
It tore at McGillycuddy’s heart to watch how the old man ran his fingers over his son’s pale face as the light seeped from the sky outside this lonely log building.
At times Crazy Horse fought death more valiantly than any other man the doctor had watched slip slowly away. Each time it appeared the pain had returned, Valentine gave the war chief another injection of morphine, so that he could go quietly, without any of the struggle that had marked those first agony-ridden minutes after the soldier lunged forward with his bayonet. From the site of the wound, and the bruising of skin entirely across the small of Crazy Horse’s back, McGillycuddy believed the weapon had pierced not just one, but both kidneys. A death blow to any man, no matter how strong.
As the hours dragged on, the doctor continued to reflect on how things could have turned out much worse than they had. Had one mistake been made, one gun fired, how many would be dead or dying right now?
Valentine remembered his sprint through the crowd to reach Colonel Bradley’s house, begging the post commander to rescind his order that Kennington put the wounded Crazy Horse in the guardhouse.
He had begged the stone-faced officer, “General! This will be the death of a good many men and Indians before you succeed in getting the body moved, for the Indians are ugly.”
“Crazy Horse is dying?”
“He has his death wound, General.”
After flexing his jaw for some moments, Bradley finally relented, “Move the body to the adjutant’s office. I’ll decide on the disposition of the corpse after you pronounce his death.”
How quickly the last dim trail of twilight had begun to abandon the western sky now as he rose to strike a match, lighting the lone kerosene lamp to be found in this tiny adjutant’s office. Foul-smelling that it was, the lamp strained to hold back the gloom as night settled down upon them all.
The door had opened again, and once more it was James Kennington. With evident relief, the captain said, “The last of the Sioux have left the post. But I think General Bradley still fears some reprisal.”
Valentine had nodded, realizing it was well past retreat, thinking how so many of Crazy Horse’s followers had hurled themselves onto the backs of their ponies, galloping away from the post, firing their carbines and pistols in the air, screaming their bitter curses and insults on Red Cloud’s and American Horse’s betrayal of their beloved leader. Within minutes of their arrival at this office with the dying man, the faint throb of drums and wild singing began to float toward the garrison from the surrounding camps. Bradley, indeed all the officers, feared a night attack, and put every available man on alert.
Looking down at his patient on the floor, laid out upon American Horse’s blanket, McGillycuddy said, “Thank you for bringing that news, Captain.”
“I also came with the man’s father.”
Looking over his shoulder at the officer, Valentine had noticed the old man inching up behind the captain’s shoulder, easing around Kennington’s side to stop at Crazy Horse’s feet. A soft, pitiful groan escaped the old one’s lips. Then his tired, rheumy eyes slowly climbed—this time landing on the face of the tall chief who had maintained a faithful watch over the wounded man from the moment American Horse’s men had laid Crazy Horse upon a pallet of blankets nestled in a corner of this nearly empty office. Touch-the-Clouds stood, stepped back, and motioned the old man over.
When the Minniconjou chief had asked Kennington to remove his nephew to die in a lodge in one of the nearby camps, the captain categorically denied that request. So Touch-the-Clouds asked if McGillycuddy would allow him to spend the death watch over his nephew; Kennington agreed only if the chief turned over all his weapons to the soldiers outside the door.
“You may not trust me,” the chief said to the officer, speaking through the half-breed interpreter who had asked to join the death watch. “But I will trust you. You may take my gun.”
When Kennington backed out of the office and quietly closed the door, Valentine whispered to his interpreter, “What’s the old man’s name?”
“Worm,” said Billy Garnett. “He used to be called Crazy Horse, until he gave his name to his son many years ago.”
“How do you say that in Sioux?”
After Garnett had told him, McGillycuddy said, “Waglu’la, I am glad you have come to spend these last hours with your son. Tell him that.”
After the translator had spoken, the old man trained his eyes on the white man. “You are the healer who helped my son’s wife when our shamans could not. Your power must be great … but this night your medicine isn’t strong enough to hold back the hands of death.”
“No, my healing is nowhere near that strong.”
Worm gazed down at his son, stroking Crazy Horse’s brow and cheeks with his gnarled and callused fingers. “We were not agency Indians. We belonged in the north, on the buffalo ranges. We did not want the white man’s beef. We asked only to live by hunting for ourselves.”
While Garnett translated, Valentine sensed that the old man had a story he wanted to tell. Quietly, the doctor settled on the floor, across Crazy Horse’s body from the grieving father.
“During this past winter,” Worm continued, “Three Stars sent runners to us—time and again—saying, ‘Come in; come in.’ So we came in, and hard times fell upon us.”
McGillycuddy could see how painful it was for Worm to talk about the bitterest of memories, yet he had shed no tears.
“My son was a brave man. Only thirty-six winters have passed over him,” Worm explained; then his lined face went dark, and hard as chert. “Red Cloud was jealous of my son. He was afraid Three Stars would raise my son to be head chief over him. We were getting tired of that man’s jealousy and would not have remained here at the agency much longer. Red Cloud and our enemies here, they were trying to force us away, maybe drive us back to our hunting grounds in the north.” He paused a long time; then with a sob he finished, “Now see what Red Cloud has done to him.”
Worm bent low and laid his cheek against Crazy Horse’s cheek for a long moment. When he stood, the old man stepped back into the dimmest shadows, crossing his arms with a whimpering sigh as his son stirred, barely opening his eyes. The dying man’s eyes no longer appeared glazed with the effects of the morphine, and a low groan escaped his throat as he slowly shifted his gaze to the side. Crazy Horse mouthed something to the old man and Worm immediately sat again, bending low to hold his ear to his son’s mouth.
Rocking back, the old man nodded, then looked up at the doctor. Crazy Horse’s eyes slowly danced again until they found McGillycuddy.
“H-hau … Kola,” he whispered from his dry lips.
Garnett explained, “He calls you his friend.”
“I know those words,” Valentine declared. He bent close to Crazy Horse, looking into the war chief’s eyes. “Hau … mita kola.”
It was an easy thing to watch the rising of the pain as it came over the dying man, how it drew up his face in a tortured mask, made Crazy Horse clench his eyes shut, twisting his mouth in a pitiable groan as he fought against the unseen enemy of death. Both his blood-crusted hands wadded up the blanket he lay upon, shuddering in agony.
In an instant, McGillycuddy hunched over his bag, removing the glass stopper from the bottle of morphine, drawing another injection of the drug into the hypodermic needle. When he turned around and pushed up Crazy Horse’s sleeve to expose his upper arm, he laid the needle against the skin atop the vein—but stopped right there.
Worm had clamped his hand around the doctor’s wrist.
“Touch-the-Cloud, tell him why I’m doing this for his son. It’s only to ease his pain. He will die soon.”
Garnett translated; then the Minniconjou chief spoke softly to convince the old man. After another moment of hesitation, Worm released the doctor. McGillycuddy slid the needle into the vein and slowly injected the pain-numbing morphine. The four
of them watched in silence as the transformation took place once more. Crazy Horse’s eyes were no longer clenched, the agony slowly draining from his face. Crazy Horse rolled his head a little so he could look again at the doctor.
“‘Healer,’” Garnett translated the dying man’s words. “‘You told my father I am going on this long journey to meet death. I have known this for a long time.’”
“I only want to make the journey easier for you, my friend.”
His dark eyes began to sink back in his head, clouding over with the glaze brought on by the drug, and the soft turn of his lips made it seem that Crazy Horse understood as he turned his head away.
Silence came over the tiny office once more. McGillycuddy could hear the measured cadence of the sentries right outside the door as darkness deepened and the lamplight softened. The moon fell from the sky.
Now only the stars remained.
* * *
It felt as if the drums were throbbing in his marrow, their agonized rhythm stabbed him so deep.
With his wife and many of the other officers, Lieutenant Jesse M. Lee waited on the porch in front of Colonel Luther Bradley’s residence for what would become of this uncertain and starless night. Moments after the stabbing, the commander had put the entire post on the highest alert. Every enlisted man now stood at an assigned post around their perimeter, issued extra ammunition and instructed to demand recognition from any Indian that might venture onto the Camp Robinson grounds, on penalty of death.
Along with those incessant drums, the faint wails and shrieks floating in from the surrounding camp were beginning to tell on his dear, sweet Lucy. For the first time in the last thirty-six hours Lee doubted his having left her here at this post when he and Spotted Tail took off downriver in the dark early-morning hours of 4 September—the day Bradley’s troops and Red Cloud’s police were to have arrested Crazy Horse. Back then, who would have known they both would be witness to this awful event, this day of tragic death and bitter reckoning?
Turn the Stars Upside Down: The Last Days and Tragic Death of Crazy Horse Page 37