Stone Song

by Win Blevins

  He wasn’t responsible for their lack of food. Not him and not the army either. It was the damned agent and freighters and the whole Bureau of Indian Affairs. They were slow, they were inefficient, and their contractors stole every time provisions changed hands. Or the goods got lost. Or the wrong things came. Recently Clark had supervised a distribution of rations of wool cloth in the middle of summer, pots for the meat the people didn’t have, rancid bacon, flour they wouldn’t eat, and two cows. This for a thousand people. And then he had to refuse the men permission to leave the agency to hunt.

  It was a disgrace. As Crook had told him, the army might shoot the Indians, which was honorable, but it wouldn’t starve them to death, as the Bureau of Indian Affairs did, children and old folks first.

  Still, Clark thought Crazy Horse knew the difference between his government’s ineptitude and his personal generosity. He’d nipped these items from the quartermaster’s store, and he couldn’t do much of that. Now he and Crazy Horse had told stories all evening, war stories, hunting stories, the kinds of tales men of action tell on the way to becoming friends. Crazy Horse had told how his people’s leaders had bargained away what the soldiers had won on the battlefield. Which was how every every soldier felt.

  “Did I tell you about the first time my mother got coffee?” asked the chief in signs.

  Clark gave his smile, tight on his face. “No.”

  “It was before I was born—it’s one of my father’s favorite stories. The people went in to Fort Laramie when it was first built. We traded for many things, including Spanish beans and American beans.” Clark knew this meant pinto beans and coffee beans. “That’s how we discovered that the Spaniards are much smarter than the Americans. The Spanish beans cooked right up, and they tasted good. The American beans never did get soft enough to eat, no matter how much you cooked them.”

  Clark laughed, really laughed.

  Crazy Horse poured from the coffeepot, but it was empty. “It’s time to go,” said Clark. Crazy Horse didn’t demur. The lieutenant wondered whether he’d almost overstayed his welcome tonight. He rose, and said “Ake wancinyankin ktelo,” until I see you again. His command of Lakota was improving. He stood and offered his hand. After a hesitation, Crazy Horse shook it. Clark lifted the door flap and stepped out.

  Yes, it had gone well. He was gaining this chief’s confidence, as he had gotten the confidence of Red Cloud. He looked up into the summer night with a feeling of satisfaction.

  A hand grabbed him. Clark recognized Grouard’s sleeve before he struck. Then he gave the scout a look that would blanch blue out of the sky. Grouard dropped his arms and stepped back and began to stutter. Clark brushed by him, paying the beggar no mind.

  This Grouard was a contemptible nothing, the son of a Mormon missionary and some native woman, one of the innumerable whores of the innumerable islands of Polynesia. The Lakota called him Grabber—Sitting Bull himself had adopted the fellow as a gadabout teenager. But now the Indians despised him. He had led Colonel Reynolds to the hidden camp of Sahiyela and He Dog’s Oglala a year ago March, before the big fights on the Rosebud and the Little Bighorn. At a skirmish at Slim Buttes Grouard had been so afraid they’d get even for his betrayal that he hid at the rear. Now he was sure that a knife would come out of the blanket of a hostile at night and his miserable life would ooze into the dirt.

  “Lieutenant,” rasped Grabber, “you must not come to this lodge alone.”

  Clark turned and faced the man. Clark disliked him, if only for his uncouth features and his yellow, sick-looking skin. Had the bastard lurked in the darkness to tell him this? His job was to get familiar with these Indians and report to Crook exactly what was on their minds. He certainly wasn’t going to reject the friendship of one of his main targets. But did this lowlife know something?

  Clark motioned the man to keep up with him and walked toward his picketed horse.

  “He is dangerous, this Crazy Horse,” Grabber went on. “He broods. He plots. You must not go to his lodge without me to protect you.”

  Clark almost laughed. Grouard was not protection, he was a magnet for trouble.

  He looked at Grouard hard. “How do you know he’s plotting?”

  Grouard shrugged. “He looks no one in the eye. His mind is always off somewhere.”

  Clark stared the man down. Well, it wouldn’t hurt to be careful. Everyone on this agency distrusted everyone else. The biggest danger to white man or red was a knife in the back. He lifted his foot into the stirrup.

  “Is it true that the government is considering making Crazy Horse the head of all the Lakota?”

  Clark snapped his head back at Grouard now. He thought he saw a gleam in Grabber’s eye. Maybe the scout was cunning enough to see the games being played here. Well and good. “Good night, Grouard.”

  “Good night, Lieutenant. Remember, you cannot be too careful.”

  Clark touched his heels to his horse. Crazy Horse the head of all the Lakota? Where did that rumor come from? Not the army, not likely. It wouldn’t do to put Crazy Horse above Spotted Tail. And Clark himself had promised Red Cloud reinstatement if the old leader brought in Crazy Horse. This Red Cloud had done, or at least made it appear so. If Red Cloud wasn’t put back as chief, it would be Young Man-Whose-Enemies. Not Crazy Horse, either way.

  So where did the rumor come from?

  Clark shifted his weight in the saddle and smiled. From some of the Indians themselves. The longtime agency chiefs clearly resented the attention given their younger rival. Especially that old bastard Red Cloud. And for good reason—Clark found Crazy Horse a better man than any of them, modest, straightforward, courageous, sincerely concerned first for the welfare of his people. Yes, this rumor would make many Indians angry.

  Clark savored the thought. His policy was divide and conquer. Divide the chiefs and conquer. Divide all the Lakota and conquer. So he certainly wouldn’t deny this fine bit of claptrap. He thought of what he was supposed to say: “The government will do whatever is best for everyone.” He repeated the words in his mind to the clop of his mount’s hooves. The government will do whatever is best for everyone. He smiled at whoever would believe that.

  Crazy Horse saw Black Buffalo Woman sitting under a tree working with her awl. Two children were playing nearby, a boy of about eight and a girl about six, separately, their backs to each other.

  He was coming back from a smoke on Crow Butte. He had gone out there to think about what was happening. So far no agency in his own country, and even talk that all the Lakota would be moved to the Missouri River—the Muddy Water, where not even a dog would drink. He thought about his promise to untie his horses’ tails. He had meant it, forever, and still meant it. But what if the whites didn’t keep their promise?

  Altogether the smoke brought him no peace. He could see no answers. He still didn’t feel Hawk inside.

  When he saw the woman, he stopped his pinto. Memories flooded on him, and feelings. The day he sat above the village mourning his uncle Spotted Tail. Black Buffalo Woman came to him, and they soared into the sky of their passion and at the same time dived into the cold sea of Spotted Tail’s death. The ring he carved from elk antler for her, and the day she accepted it. The heady anticipation of having her as his woman, in his lodge every night. The agony of hearing that she was walking under the blanket with No Water. The wild elation of thinking she might still be his. The solemn triumph of their elopement. The unspeakable pain and shame that followed.

  His failure to remember his medicine, and his punishment.

  He put a finger to his scar.

  Now she lifted her blanket over her head, indicating that she didn’t want to be talked to or even noticed. He hesitated, and decided he would honor her choice. He’d heard she lived in a small lodge behind No Water’s, alone with her children. He wondered if it was true. Life seemed to him loneliness. But he was not as lonely as she. He had Black Shawl.

  Suddenly, he saw the boy glaring at him. So. No Water’s son had h
eard stories. Crazy Horse wondered who told them. It didn’t matter. He smiled slightly at the boy.

  The girl. She was an appealing little creature, playing near her mother with rawhide dolls. They said she was born nine moons after the elopement. He guessed she was a little light-skinned, as they said. She didn’t feel like a daughter. His daughter was They-Are-Afraid-of-Her, and her bones rested on a scaffold in a country that was no longer his.

  He could feel tension radiating from the blanket over the woman’s head. He flicked the reins and his pony walked on. Yes, life was loneliness.

  Red Cloud sent for his relatives. He got out his pipe and sat behind the center fire. He was angry, but he wouldn’t let it show. Today he’d seen Clark, who’d promised to put him back as head chief at this agency. The officer avoided saying anything about his promise, but he had plenty to say about Crazy Horse, all of it praise. “He’s so modest,” said Clark. “He’s so unpretentious. He’s a good listener. He’s fun to trade stories with.”

  Then suddenly Clark announced that he was dismissing most of his scouts, who were like the akicita men, a kind of police. He would hire 250 new ones, many from the Crazy Horse people. Wasn’t that good? The Crazy Horse people were behaving well, and deserved it—didn’t Red Cloud think so? Certainly Crazy Horse people would make excellent scouts.

  Yes, Red Cloud was angry.

  Woman Dress came in with his brothers Standing Bear and Little Wolf. They waited awhile for No Water, talking idly. Red Cloud was pretty sure that these Bad Face relatives had enough anger for them all.

  After they’d smoked, Red Cloud told them about the hiring of Crazy Horse and his followers as scouts. He didn’t have to add that meant they would be given guns, and horses. “Clark is putting trouble in their hands,” Red Cloud said.

  “This is what we get for behaving ourselves,” said No Water.

  “Loyalty,” said Little Wolf bitterly.

  “I even heard that the whites are thinking of making Crazy Horse head chief of the agency,” said Woman Dress.

  “Head chief of all the Lakota,” added Standing Bear.

  “They ought to give a bounty for his scalp,” muttered No Water.

  Red Cloud said nothing, just watched No Water. He thought this Bad Face was not the only Lakota who would kill Crazy Horse if given a chance. The problem was the fools who made a romantic hero of him in their minds and would take revenge for his death. Heroes, thought Red Cloud, are for teenage boys and fools.

  He responded to Woman Dress. “Clark has told me that he will make me chief of this agency again,” he said evenly, with more assurance than he felt. The rumor going around in fact made him furious. He had asked Clark about it and gotten only evasion. Even if the rumor was false, as he was pretty sure it was, the fact that Clark didn’t deny it quickly and firmly infuriated him.

  “I think you’d better speak to your white friends,” Red Cloud said to Woman Dress. Since Woman Dress was a scout, he knew the soldiers well. He nodded to Red Cloud, who added, “Let them know they’re flirting with a dangerous man.”

  “He won’t be dangerous if I can catch him,” said No Water.

  Red Cloud regarded him. It was good to have an angry man as a weapon, provided you could control him. Two angry men. Woman Dress had not forgotten that broken nose of many winters ago.

  Crazy Horse chief of all the Lakota. Red Cloud didn’t think so, but you never knew about white people. What would Spotted Tail say when he heard this tale? Would he feel like an uncle to his nephew? Or would he take steps to protect his position? Red Cloud had known the Sicangu leader well more than twenty winters. He thought the man would protect himself. And protect his people against this rash, moody, romantic fool.

  Then they talked about other things, as though the thought of Crazy Horse didn’t fever their every waking moment.

  Spotted Tail and Crazy Horse, uncle and nephew, teacher of hunting and warfare and his pupil, sat beside the coffeepot and drank hot, sweet black liquid from the new tin cups. Spotted Tail recognized them as white-man gifts and was glad that his nephew was amenable to accepting small presents from the white people. It was part of getting along.

  “They say you are morose, tunska, bad-hearted, and maybe dangerous,” Spotted Tail said with a smile. Crazy Horse didn’t smile back. Spotted Tail had heard he smiled seldom these days.

  They both knew what everyone was saying about Crazy Horse. Whenever you disagreed with the whites about anything, they called you bad-hearted. It was worse now—the agency Indians were saying the same thing. As for morose, Spotted Tail thought his nephew had always been inclined to melancholy. Maybe because his birth mother had died when he was a child. Maybe because he always had his mind on things no one else saw or heard. Maybe just because that was the spirit he was born with, melancholy.

  Spotted Tail felt sorry for Crazy Horse. Not only because all the maneuverings and schemings would be alien to him, unpleasant, and difficult, but because the young man didn’t respond to the everyday oddity of life by feeling tickled. It was so quirky and … intriguing. Crazy Horse didn’t see that.

  It was difficult, this agency life. No one had quite enough to eat. Rations were always late and never enough. You weren’t permitted to leave the agency, so you could only hunt where everyone else had hunted and the game was gone. Sure, a lone man could slip away for a couple of days and maybe take an elk, and that helped one family, but did little for the people.

  This wasn’t the worst. In the winter, travel would be harder, game scarcer. The whites would say that wagons couldn’t get through to the agency with the food. (Somehow troops got through always, supply wagons seldom.) Men would have even less to do. They would watch their children and their old people get hungry and then sick. Many would die. Men would feel so useless that they would stay drunk or pick fights with others or maybe kill someone. The winters were bad. His nephew did not know the half of agency life yet.

  The trick was to survive this somehow, and Spotted Tail wanted to help his nephew if he could. All he could, short of endangering his own people. That he was pledged not to do.

  “They say you’re angry that Crook has not kept his promise, and that you’re ready to go back to war,” said Spotted Tail. That brought some life to his nephew’s eyes, he noticed, a flash of denial.

  Crazy Horse reached for the coffeepot and refilled both cups. Spotted Tail wondered whether his nephew was getting a craving for this coffee. It happened, he had heard. Some white people would trade for coffee and short themselves on food.

  Crook was why they were here. After almost a full moon the general had finally journeyed to Fort Robinson to talk about his promises with the hostile Lakota who had come in. This afternoon the council would get started right here on this prairie. Spotted Tail had come early because it was a long ride from his agency, a full day, and because he wanted to sit down with Crazy Horse. He wanted to know which rumors were true and which weren’t.

  At last Crazy Horse said simply, “My people have tied up their horses’ tails.”

  Spotted Tail believed him. Crazy Horse was not the sort of man to vacillate or deceive. As a leader he would keep his word.

  “All the people?” Spotted Tail asked.

  “Each Lakota is free to do as he chooses,” said Crazy Horse, emphasizing the words a little. He was saying, “Some things change. Basic things do not. A man must live his life as his powers show it to him.” “I will not lead the people into war again.”

  “But maybe you’ll live alone?” pressed Spotted Tail.

  Crazy Horse hesitated, and Spotted Tail could see he’d thought about this. “I’ve guided the people onto the road everyone says is red. I may still ride my own way,” Crazy Horse said simply. Spotted Tail thought this was what was on his nephew’s mind. He felt sympathetic, as long as Crazy Horse didn’t take the people with him. The idea was naive and romantic, but so was his nephew.

  Spotted Tail stalled by pouring coffee for his nephew and himself. “You have a fin
e new pony and a fine new rifle, Nephew,” said Spotted Tail. The pony was staked a few yards away.

  Crazy Horse smiled. “We are bluecoats,” he said. “They have taught us to ride in straight, white-man lines and then do tricks. We will give you a riding show before the council.”

  Spotted Tail knew. Crazy Horse and about twenty-five of his warriors had been chosen as scouts under the command of Clark. Little Big Man was one of these new scouts, as were several of Crazy Horse’s other most ferocious warriors. Well, they’d been good fighting men, and now they would be good policemen. Times changed.

  This was the soldiers pacifying the hostiles as best they could, giving them uniforms and guns and positions of honor. It would also annoy Red Cloud and his relatives no end. They wanted the hostiles punished for holding out and themselves rewarded for being good Indians. Spotted Tail smiled to himself. Anything that annoyed Red Cloud couldn’t be too bad.

  Red Cloud or not, it was a good idea. Clark had been drilling them in cavalry maneuvers. The funny part was, none of the white cavalry could ride like Lakota.

  “Is it true that Clark has announced an issue day tomorrow?” the older man asked.

  Crazy Horse looked up at his uncle regretfully. This was a sore subject. “Yes,” he said. Issue day was a new term for the Lakota, meaning the day the whites handed out rations.

  “Are you going to have a buffalo hunt?” asked Spotted Tail, smiling.

  “Buffalo hunt?” Crazy Horse was puzzled.

  “Yes. The young men ride down the spotted cows.” Meat was usually given to the people on the hoof, and they shot the beeves in the corrals where they were unloaded.

  “My young men turn it into sport,” Spotted Tail explained. “We let the cows out of the pens, run them hard across the prairie, ride up alongside like they were real pte, and bring them down with an arrow to the brisket.”

  The two men looked at each other, half-tickled and half-saddened.

  “The young men learn from it,” Spotted Tail went on. “But spotted cows come down more easily than pte.”