Stone Song

by Win Blevins

  Garnett translated the words for the chiefs. Crook tried to translate the expressions on their faces. Relief, for sure. Malicious satisfaction here and there, he thought—these men weren’t any better than anyone else. And genuine regret, he thought, on the face of Young Man-Whose-Enemies.

  Yes, it was a damn shame. Crook thought Crazy Horse was a fine man. Crook was honored to have been his rival and under other circumstances would have felt privileged to be his friend. In the last analysis, though, a man who stood in the way of the great river of civilization got washed away. Even the finest man.

  He started shaking hands, wishing he didn’t have to. The thought crossed his mind that these were the palms of Judases. As he squeezed hand after hand, he wondered if they had heard what the federal prison of the Dry Tortugas was like.

  Crazy Horse looked at Red Feather, waiting.

  “Crook has given orders for your arrest,” the young man finally stammered.

  Red Feather had rushed to the lodge of his sister Black Shawl and his brother-in-law the sandy-haired man. He’d gotten the news from Billy Garnett.

  He told everything. The meeting with Crook and Clark and the agency chiefs. The story told by Woman Dress.

  Kill Three Stars? Crazy Horse and Black Shawl looked at each other in amazement. Crazy Horse kill Three Stars? After he gave his word to untie his horses’ tails?

  A story passed from three pairs of lips, brother to brother to brother? From Crazy Horse’s old enemy? And Three Stars believed it?

  “Arrested,” Red Feather repeated.

  Arrested. That was the word the wasicu used when they took away your freedom. Sometimes the prisoners came back changed, like Spotted Tail. Usually they didn’t come back at all. Either they were killed trying to escape or they hanged themselves.

  The Lakota had talked about it and decided the whites understood perfectly how calamitous being locked up was for a Lakota. Living without being able to face Father Sun in the morning, or see the star people, or the wakinyan. Without being able to purify yourself with burning cedar, or invite the spirits with burning sweetgrass, or go to the sweat lodge. Worse than death—life without medicine, life without Spirit.

  Crazy Horse felt a painful twist in his chest. He had just gotten Hawk back. Hawk could not live in a jail. If he went to jail, he would lose Hawk forever.

  He gave Red Feather a sharp look. “I will never let them arrest me. Tell everyone,” he said low and with an edge in his voice, “I will never let them arrest me.”

  Red Feather looked distressed. “There’s worse,” he said.

  The Strange Man said simply, “Tell me all of it.”

  “Crook went to the railroad. Then Clark and the agency Indians made plans to come against our village, to surround us all so we couldn’t run away, and kill you. Clark said he would give $200 for your scalp.” He paused. “No Water said that would be a brave act, to bring back your scalp.”

  Crazy Horse rubbed the scar on his lip with a forefinger. So he would be hurt by his own, like the last time.

  “But that plan is off for tonight,” Red Feather added. “Colonel Bradley forbade it. They will come tomorrow. For all of us, Billy Garnett said.”

  “Who intends to come against us?” asked Crazy Horse.

  “Red Cloud, Little Wound, American Horse, Yellow Road, No Flesh, Big Road, No Water, and Woman Dress,” said Red Feather. “And Little Big Man.” He added this last name with shame.

  Crazy Horse looked at his young brother-in-law, waiting.

  “Young Man-Whose-Enemies-Are-Afraid-of-His-Horses,” the young man finally added.

  Crazy Horse nodded his head. His friend from childhood. His companions in last winter’s fights. His old comrade in war. Well, he said to himself, maybe they are coming to prevent trouble, or an accident.

  He noticed Hawk. Though the news was awful, unbearable, Hawk was gathering her spirits. Hawk was perhaps even eager. He smiled. He had lost nearly everyone, but not his spirit guide. She was ready to go to war with him.

  He thought for a while. He signaled Black Shawl to sit beside him. Nellie was off visiting her father. “We will leave in the morning,” he said. “We will go to Touch-the-Sky at Spotted Tail Agency, just the two of us.”

  To Red Feather he added, “Tell everyone I go alone, not inviting the people of the village to come. Tell everyone.” He felt satisfaction. He was done with being a headman. Now he was simply a warrior again.

  THE CHASE

  From out in front No Water saw two rider shapes just as they disappeared behind a distant ridge. Crazy Horse and Black Shawl, surely. No Water signaled the twenty-five warriors behind him, and they sprinted after the pair.

  It was a grand day. This morning agency Indians had marched out hundreds strong toward Crazy Horse’s camp from Fort Robinson, with almost every important leader except He Dog, the force of all the Oglala turned against the Strange Man. Never had No Water felt such vindication.

  And though a few of Crazy Horse’s warriors slowed them up with a smoke and a talk, the march was unopposed. The camp was breaking up as people ran to their relatives in other villages. Then the marchers found out Crazy Horse was already running for his two uncles at Spotted Tail Agency.

  Running like an old, tired bull, No Water thought, chased by many hunters on fast horses.

  Clark had given No Water permission to take twenty-five scouts after Crazy Horse and bring him back, or bring his $200 scalp back.

  And now they had almost caught up.

  No Water hand-whipped his pony hard. He would ride up alongside the old bull and bring him down.

  Uphill, downhill, across the flats, up again, No Water didn’t seem to be gaining much. His scouts were strung out behind him now. He smiled grimly. No Water was far bigger than most of them, more for a pony to carry. But if they weren’t willing to push their ponies as hard as he did, he would get the $200.

  He trotted his pony uphill at a slant. The beast wouldn’t go straight up. It was wheezing. No Water wasn’t close enough for a shot yet, even a shot with almost no chance. He wondered why he wasn’t gaining faster.

  He had heard that Crazy Horse had gopher medicine, something he used to confuse his enemies. But No Water wasn’t confused at all. He had never felt clearer, or happier, in his life. So that medicine wasn’t working.

  He had also heard a story about Crazy Horse’s name. One story was that the name meant “Horse Spirited in Battle,” another that it meant “Horse Magically Obedient.” But No Water had heard a third story, that the name meant “Spiritless Horse.” Crazy Horse’s ancestor had gotten that name by learning to ride a traveling horse so skillfully that he got every hint of energy from it, leaving it alive but sucked dry of spirit.

  No Water was more interested in Crazy Horse’s blood than his horse or its spirit. But maybe the Strange Man did have the ability to get everything out of a pony.

  At every ridge top No Water searched the country ahead for the sandy-haired man and his wife, and saw them only occasionally, too far ahead. He had noticed that Crazy Horse did not run the horses uphill but walked them, and ran them downhill hard. Maybe that was part of the secret.

  But secrets would do the Strange Man no good today.

  No Water could not bring himself to shoot his horse. He was so angry at it that he wanted it to suffer. Clearly it was never going to get on its feet again.

  He looked down the White Earth River. Somewhere ahead Crazy Horse and Black Shawl were riding toward Spotted Tail and now would get away.

  Probably someone else would get the Strange Man’s scalp. It made No Water want to vomit.

  Two of his scouts topped the hill behind and came to the man standing beside the dying horse.

  No Water yelled at them until the younger dismounted and gave the leader his pony.

  As No Water disappeared over the next hill, he heard the gunshot that ended the life of his worn-out mount. He grinned.

  No Water saw the man and woman ride fast into the camp of To
uch-the-Sky, Crazy Horse’s uncle. There was not much to be done now. He sat his borrowed horse until some of his scouts came up. When they saw mounted warriors sprinting out of Touch-the-Sky’s camp toward them, they hightailed it for Spotted Tail Agency.

  The messenger said Burke, the commanding officer at the military post at Spotted Tail, wanted Crazy Horse right away.

  Amazing. Since he had come in to an agency, four moons ago, Crazy Horse had been dealing with wasicu who sent for him, instructed him to go somewhere for a talk, or told him where his village could or could not camp. Now Burke simply sent for him. Right away. Such was the road he gave up the hunting life for.

  When everyone understood he was a warrior and not a headman anymore, he would not be ordered around. Or at least when he was living far from wasicu. Choice, your own direction, was a funny thing.

  For now he would cooperate. He left his wife in his ate’s lodge and rode in to see the commanding officer, Burke, and the agent, Lee, who was another soldier and under Burke’s command. He rode under the protection of a Mniconjou escort led by his uncle Touch-the-Sky.

  At the fort Burke and Lee met them. With the wasicu were several hundred warriors led by Spotted Tail. The warriors acted prickly, and Crazy Horse smiled to himself at this. He was protected by an uncle on his blood mother’s side and maybe threatened by one on his other mothers’ side. Could there be a question of whether Crazy Horse was safe in his uncle’s village and in his father’s lodge?

  He had no chance to talk to Spotted Tail privately. Burke and Lee made everyone sit down outside to talk. And his talk was simple: Crazy Horse had to go back to Fort Robinson tomorrow.

  The Mniconjou broke into a hubbub at this. Crazy Horse was pleased—they remembered that he was not only a guest but a relative. When he raised his hand, they fell silent.

  “I come in peace,” he said. They could see he had come alone, with no fighting men and without his village, just one man with his wife. “I want to live here with my relatives.”

  He looked across the circle at Spotted Tail. His uncle was the head chief here. His father and mothers had moved their lodge here to live near Spotted Tail, who was their brother. Crazy Horse no longer was sure who his uncle was, the man who knocked thirteen soldiers from their saddle at the Blue Water or the man who played at wasicu politics to get ahead. So he was making the oldest and most honored claim to sanctuary: “I come here to live with my family.”

  At last Spotted Tail spoke up. “My brother, you have roamed like a fire in the north. You are of the Oglala.”

  You are one of them, not one of us Sicangu! From his uncle. Crazy Horse searched Spotted Tail’s face but saw nothing personal there, only the relentless amiability of the politician.

  “The Oglala people are yours. Something good should happen to you with them. Instead you have run away like a wolf with its tail between its legs.”

  Crazy Horse was only half-listening now. His mind began to flood with pictures of his uncle from memory.

  “This is my band,” Spotted Tail went on. “I do not want anything bad to happen to you here. Therefore, I give you a fine horse as a gift. I want you to take this horse and go back to your people, the Oglala. You will listen to me and do as I say.”

  Crazy Horse’s mind snapped into the present. You will listen to me, you will do as I say.

  You are of the Oglala, not my people.

  You are not welcome in the camp of your mothers’ people the Sicangu, or your birth mother’s people the Mniconjou.

  Most of all, You will listen to me, you will do as I say.

  His mind rocked up and down with memories like waves in a lake. Spotted Tail’s face as he explained that the white men don’t understand choice. Spotted Tail as he rode bullet-proof toward the warriors of the Two Circle People, and did it again. Especially Spotted Tail on the day he came back from crying for a vision, his mind made up to throw his life away. Crazy Horse saw again the fun on the face of the doomed man who wanted to singe Flat Club’s bottom, and the laughter and tears when it worked.

  He looked across at this Spotted Tail, who had somehow usurped his uncle and onetime teacher. Spotted Tail’s face changed. The political smile disappeared, and a stony indifference replaced it. Crazy Horse knew there was nothing more for him there.

  Crazy Horse felt an odd tingle across his shoulders and down the back of his arms. He could not have said exactly what it was. Not fear, not revulsion, not anger, not bitterness. Sadness, maybe. Sadness at one world lost, gone as far away as one of the star people, and sadness at a new world he didn’t want to live in.

  He said nothing. Tonight he would send a messenger to his uncle with one sentence: “If this new road turns Lakota against Lakota, Sicangu against Oglala, uncle against nephew, what good can it be?”

  Now the two soldiers, the commander and the agent, asked Crazy Horse why he had left Fort Robinson. The Strange Man had lost interest in the talk. He explained politely that this morning the scouts and soldiers had come to arrest him, though he had done nothing but speak for peace. Now he simply wanted to live quietly with his relatives here. But he only murmured all this halfheartedly.

  The soldiers insisted that he go back to Fort Robinson and explain to the commander and the agent there.

  Must, must, thought Crazy Horse.

  If he would go back, the agent would go with him, and an escort of his friends and relatives. They would see that no harm came to him, and the agent would support his request to live at Spotted Tail Agency.

  No, thought Crazy Horse, you don’t understand, my uncle has made me unwelcome.

  He saw his youth vision, his own people hurting him from behind.

  So Crazy Horse shrugged and consented to go.

  To be a warrior was not to predict, only to be ready.

  THE BEAT OF THE DRUM

  About halfway to Fort Robinson the next morning, His Crazy Horse was riding with Touch-the-Sky and a few other friends and relatives behind the ambulance that carried the agent Lee and the interpreter Bordeaux. Scouts from Spotted Tail Agency, Sicangu, rode up from behind dressed in their soldier coats. Despite the promises of friendship, His Crazy Horse understood that he was now a prisoner, guarded by his own uncle’s men.

  He had no gun. He and Lee had agreed that neither of them would carry a sidearm on this journey. He did have the new knife in a leather sheath, the one Bradley had given him. It was hidden in his clothing. Since he was alone and surrounded by enemies, it would do him no real good.

  He knew his friends found him distracted, mentally absent, not awake to this moment, to captivity, to the danger of imprisonment and death. He would have liked to be easy with them, to talk and joke, to recall better times and smile in comradeship. But his mind was somewhere else. He was listening to the beat of the drum. In it sounded the pulse of his life, and of Hawk, and of all life. In it was the throb of the living earth. It held his mind, his calm attention, his spirit.

  As they approached White Crow Butte, the agent sent a message ahead to Clark. Lee said that it included the promises made to the Strange Man, that he would be able to tell his side of the story, especially that Grabber had misrepresented his words, and that he would get to say to the soldier chiefs again that all he wanted was peace. Lee said the note also asked whether His Crazy Horse should go to the agency or the fort.

  When the message came back from Clark, it said only that His Crazy Horse should be taken directly to the office of the commanding officer, Colonel Bradley.

  The sandy-haired man wondered if these notes were just more scheming, but he didn’t know. He paid attention to Hawk, perched there in his heart, and waited for guidance. He listened to the beat of the drum.

  Near the fort He Dog came out to meet him, and they rode the last distance together, moccasined feet almost touching, which made the Strange Man feel good. In the clop of their horses’ hooves he heard the beat.

  On the grounds of the fort the party halted in a tumult of Indians. Everyone had heard that
His Crazy Horse was being brought in. The Oglala police pushed up close, Little Big Man among them. His Crazy Horse looked at his friend, but Little Big Man’s face was closed. His Crazy Horse knew he had decided to do his duty.

  Lots of other warriors crowded the spaces between the buildings, led by Red Cloud and American Horse. A few His Crazy Horse warriors stood to one side. The sandy-haired man looked for Woman Dress and No Water, whose spite had brought him here, but they were nowhere to be seen. He glanced sideways at his uncle Touch-the-Sky. A few Mniconjou relatives meant nothing now. In all this ocean of Lakota people His Crazy Horse saw only one Oglala ally, He Dog, sitting his pony next to the sandy-haired man, legging to legging. In his heart he turned to his true allies, Hawk and the drumbeat.

  Agent Lee spoke briefly with a soldier and told His Crazy Horse he must go talk to Bradley, the commanding officer. The Strange Man simply nodded, watching and waiting. He could feel the ugly spirit in this crowd, his own people. He thought the drumbeat was telling him, The time has come.

  Col. Luther Bradley told Lt. Jesse Lee that His Crazy Horse was under arrest and must be turned over to the officer of the day. He would be detained in the guardhouse tonight and shipped by rail to General Sheridan tomorrow for final disposal. He would not be harmed, but he was a prisoner.

  Lee protested. The Oglala leader had been wronged, he said. The interpreter Grouard had mistranslated his words, maybe deliberately. Captain Burke and he had promised His Crazy Horse that if he returned voluntarily to Fort Robinson, his side of the story would be heard.

  “It’s too late,” said Bradley.

  “It’s unfair, Sir.”

  “I have my orders,” said Bradley. “From General Crook and from General Sheridan.” General to colonel to lieutenant—this was the U.S. Army.

  “Sir—”

  “You have your orders, Lieutenant,” Bradley snapped. “Give him to the officer of the day.”

  Lee thought before he spoke. “There will be trouble, Sir. What shall I tell him?”