by Cotton Smith
Heavy moccasined feet broke into Stone-Dreamer’s memories and he turned his head to see a sweating scout rush up to the two leaders, reporting on the status of the various advancing columns of soldiers and cavalry. As usual, only Sitting Bull talked. His words calmed the scout; Crazy Horse finally spoke and the scout straightened himself and left as energetically as he had come.
Although Sitting Bull was the Northern Nation’s recognized leader, Stone-Dreamer’s attention was drawn to Crazy Horse, second in command. Not just because he was an Oglala Sioux and Sitting Bull was Hunkpapa. Perhaps, a little of his focus was due to jealousy of seeing another holy man so honored. Although Sitting Bull’s oratory was more persuasive than any he had ever heard, even Red Cloud’s. Mostly, though, it was the resemblance in Stone-Dreamer’s mind, of Crazy Horse to his adopted son. Vin Lockhart. Panther-Strikes. Rides-With-Spirits.
Both had brown hair, lighter than their fellow tribesmen. And lighter skin. Both were lithe of build, of medium height and deceptive strength. Both contained the natural power of daring. Swift. Fierce. Enduring energy. Unstoppable when angered. And stories surrounded the two men of being protected by the spirit world. Crazy Horse could not be killed by a bullet; Rides-With-Spirits had been brought back to this life.
Silent once more, Crazy Horse left Sitting Bull’s side and headed for the pony string. He was naked except for a breechclout and moccasins. Long braids, wrapped in fur, hung below his belt. They would be loosened and his hair free when fighting. In his hair were strung three long straws of prairie water grass; a spotted eagle’s feather dangled from his scalp lock. A powder-darkened scar on the side of his nose made his skin seem even lighter.
“They both carry a sacred stone,” Stone-Dreamer mumbled to himself, as he glimpsed the small stone nearly hidden behind his ear, and continued his assessment of their similarities, seeing a contingent of young warriors waiting for the fiery war chief. “Both, drawn to mystical ways.”
He guessed the group were members of Crazy Horse’s created warrior society, Hoksi Hakakta, the Last-Born Child Society. So typical of Crazy Horse’s leadership, he had selected only the young sons of important families. The ones most likely to follow him without question, the most likely to fight without seeking quarter, the most likely to stand against any more treaties.
“I wish he were here.” The words tumbled from his mouth.
“You wish who was here?” The voice behind him was a song, light and easy on the ears.
He smiled as he turned toward Morning Bird. She was beautiful of face and soul and much like her late father, Sun Wolf, in her energetic embrace of each new day. He knew he couldn’t lie to her.
“I wish Panther-Strikes…Rides-With-Spirits…was here. I think he and Crazy Horse would have been friends,” Stone-Dreamer said and repeated, “They both carry a sacred stone.”
“Rides-With-Spirits is a wasicun,” she chided gently. She loved being near the old holy man, primarily because he reminded her of Vin Lockhart.
“He fought for us. He hunted for us. He did the Sun Dance…for us.”
“I know that, but he lives in another world now. Remember how the four warriors who went to see him described it? I doubt that he thinks of…us now.”
Distracted, Stone-Dreamer glanced in the direction of Crazy Horse’s leaving. He was no longer in sight. The intensity of true focus, of speed. Like the swift swoop of the red-tailed hawk from his first vision. Or the sudden appearance from the lake of the mysterious rider in his second and most powerful vision.
Or the strike of the panther in Panther-Strikes’s vision.
Oh, how he missed Lockhart. His great son! He never thought of him as being adopted. Never as a wasicun. Only that he had chosen to live elsewhere. Even now guilt lay upon Stone-Dreamer’s troubled mind; the holy man knew his presentations to the tribe about the young warrior’s battle alone against the Shoshonis and the near-death result of his wounds from that awful conflict had helped drive him away. Seeing him once more last year—wounded again—had been both wonderful and terribly sad. He recalled the gleam in Lockhart’s eyes when he said that the stones had finally talked to him, warning of an attack.
The old man smiled again at the memory. He straightened himself and looked down upon Morning Bird, remembering something. There had been a great attraction between her and Lockhart. He had sensed it immediately. Would this feeling be enough to bring him back? Was her statement about his not thinking of the village actually a more personal one? A question to him? He started to ask, but commotion in the camp took his attention.
Tribesmen from every direction were clustering around Sitting Bull. Women were trilling their joy. He seemed to enjoy the attention, talking and responding to their questions and comments. Comfortable in the honor place within the council tepee, his reassuring steadiness was a perfect companion to Crazy Horse’s edgy magnetism. Yet, he was a boulder in the road against any more negotiations with the white man, any more giving in to encroachments on Indian lands. Even the steadfast Black Fire had avoided expressing his feelings about going to the agency for fear of it getting back to Crazy Horse.
“I hear Sitting Bull himself has agreed to do the Sun Dance. Is that so?”
“Yes, I have heard so.” He glanced at her again, proud of her beauty, of her manner, of her mind. “It makes the honor for your brother even greater.”
He smiled and continued, “Sitting Bull has chosen Good Weasel to cut the Sun Dance tree. A considerable honor.” He patted her shoulder. “That assured Crazy Horse would be here. A wise move, indeed.” He nodded, withdrew his hand and noted the great war chief was notably absent from last year’s great gathering. The mystical warrior had chosen, instead, to guard the Black Hills from more white encroachment. Since Good Weasel was Crazy Horse’s right-hand man in battle, the leader would feel it was important for him to attend the festivities.
“Are you going to speak to him, to Sitting Bull?” Morning Bird motioned toward the great leader still talking with animated arms.
“Later, perhaps,” Stone-Dreamer said and guided her with his arm toward the south. “Let us watch the preparations.”
They walked together without speaking; his question about her feelings for Lockhart forgotten for the moment. The creation of the Sun Dance arena took several days, including dancing, singing and ceremony. In the area where the Sun Dance would be held, a Cheyenne warrior society danced; another group of warriors from the Sans Arc lodges waited their turn to pound the sacred earth into a smooth, flat surface for the ritual. A sun lodge—basically a wide, circular arbor without sides—was nearly complete; its roof was made of pine boughs, to offer shade to the drummers, dance helpers and spectators.
Off to the side, holy men painted the Sun Dance pole, carried by a selected group that included virgins, mothers of babies and the old. The tree was chosen by Good Weasel earlier and cut down with an old ceremonial stone ax under his direction. The pole had been cleared of its branches except for the very top.
Warriors hung sprouts of chokeberry from its cut-off branch forks, along with banners and rawhide cutouts of buffalo and man shapes. These symbols would provide all tribesmen with power over the animals during the hunt and over their enemies during battle as well as encourage fertility. As they watched, a heyoka, a Contrary, walked backward to the pole and tied a fetish near the peak. The Ceremonial Decider, Nape of Neck, yelled orders and encouragement, enjoying his singular honor as chosen by Sitting Bull. Tomorrow, the pole would be erected into place by old ropes of rawhide and dedicated.
“Why aren’t you painting the pole?” Morning Bird asked, watching the ceremonial painting.
Stone-Dreamer folded his arms. “The stones told me not to touch the pole. With Touches-Horses doing the dance.” He paused and looked away. “They told me the same when Panther-Strikes did so.”
She stared into his tired face and wanted to ask if he really thought Lockhart would return to them. To her. But dared not; her eyes would give away her feelings.
It was best this way; the great wasicun was only someone she could dream about.
A tall warrior in a dyed-blue warshirt decorated with scalp locks, porcupine quills and beadwork passed them and stared at her. She averted her eyes.
Recalling her earlier question, Stone-Dreamer said softly, “Warriors come to your mother’s lodge, asking for you. They offer many gifts. Many horses. Yet you do not speak with any one of them. Or walk out with any of them. Why is that so?”
She blushed and felt a rush of emotion, mostly anger.
“Do you wait for him to return?”
She began to walk away.
“Morning Bird, it is wrong for me to question. There are only two hearts that know the answer,” Stone-Dreamer said. “And only two that need to know.”
She stopped, but dared not face him for her face would answer that question. Yes, she waited—and dreamed— and prayed—for Lockhart’s return, no matter how foolish that was.
“Go and find your brother. Please. See if he needs anything. I go to find a place where the stones might talk with me,” he continued. “I am uneasy about our tribe. Our ways. I fear change is coming that we cannot stop. I must pray for seeing ahead.”
With that he strode from the Sun Dance area. She watched him go, glad that she hadn’t responded to his questions about Lockhart. It was too foolish to express or even consider. Lockhart was not coming back. Seeing her brother would be good to do; he loved Lockhart as much as she did. A rumble of thunder turned her gaze skyward. Rain was definitely coming.
Finally, dawn of the first day of the Sun Dance arrived and with it came the dance pledgers into the arbor, filled with tribesmen. Stone-Dreamer stood with the other holy men as Touches-Horses entered.
From the assembled crowd, Morning Bird watched both Stone-Dreamer and her brother. Earlier, the great holy man had shared with her that he had received a vision, from the stones, of a coming great darkness, that this would be the last great Sun Dance of the Plains. It had left him depressed and he did not want to tell others. She had remained silent after his telling, unsure of what to say or ask or think. Now she could only watch and wonder.
There was no sign of Sitting Bull among the pledgers. She had heard that he remained in the sweat lodge, seeking purity and guidance. Her gaze took in the assembled leaders, sitting together. A silent Crazy Horse was among them. It was hard not to stare at the mysterious war chief. She wondered about Stone-Dreamer’s comparison of Crazy Horse and Lockhart. It only made her want to be with Lockhart more. She had prayed often to Wakantanka for such a union. Her mother had told her to dismiss such foolish thoughts and reminded her that Lockhart was actually a spirit, a Grandfather. Finally, her attention was drawn to the center of the ring where the holy men held up skewers, praying and letting the sun’s ray bless them.
Stone-Dreamer walked solemnly over to where Touches-Horses stood. Beside the warrior with the gift for training horses was Swift Eagle who was his mentor for the Sun Dance. Old scars adorned the lanky warrior’s chest and hints of gray hid among his black hair. Stone-Dreamer muttered a prayer and handed the skewers to Tall Wolf, looked into Touches-Horse’s eyes and let his gaze tell him of his pride.
Tall Wolf turned to Touches-Horses and pushed the prongs of the skewers into his chest. Both men’s gazes connected as first blood began to slide down the warrior’s chest. Rawhide ropes, hanging from the pole, were looped through the skewers. Two other pledgers were similarly attached to the pole. The others had chosen to pull buffalo skulls by thongs tied to skewers thrust through their backs.
As the other mentors prepared their men, Tall Wolf stepped behind Touches-Horses, held him around the waist and yanked him backward four times. Blood popped from his wounds and Touches-Horses kept his gaze focused on the sun. Each pull brought loud wailing from the women in the crowd.
Satisfied with the preparations, Nape of Neck strode into the ring and held up a crystal as he spoke directly to the sun, asking that all of the pledgers’ wishes be granted. Each pledger was then told to look through the crystal at the sun as the Ceremonial Decider walked among them. Most had committed to the sun-gazing ritual, never taking their gaze from the sun itself.
Almost in unison, the pledgers threw themselves backward, trying to tear away the skewers. They began to dance and jerk to break free. Pain was apparent on their faces as they moved around the pole. Straining and jerking. Staring at the sun.
To himself, Stone-Dreamer observed, “All good things in this world must come through suffering. All good things.” He watched with a mixture of pride, awe and fear as if it were his own son.
He glanced skyward and saw the advancing dark cloud. Had his vision only meant a coming rain? He knew better. The end of their freedom was near, as near as the slowly advancing columns of soldiers. Blue chargers. He knew. Would he live to see Lockhart again? Was there a place for Lockhart and Morning Bird? Where? He closed his eyes and saw nothing.
On the second day of dancing—and rain—Sitting Bull emerged from the sweat lodge and entered the arbor. The dancing continued, but all eyes were on the great leader as he offered a pipe in the seven directions, then presented it to the assembled leaders. Crazy Horse was the first.
Turning around, he sat against the pole as pledgers drudged around him, some barely standing. His adopted brother, Black Moon, performed the hanblake oloan, the special prayer for advance knowledge. He cut a hundred small pieces of skin from Sitting Bull’s outstretched arms and gave them to Wakantanka. Sitting Bull stood, naked except for a breechclout. His arms, two red blankets. The crowd was still. Absolutely still. He began to dance; his eyes focused on the blossoming sun.
Even Stone-Dreamer watched the great man slowly bob and weave to the sound of the drum, to the heartbeat of Mother Earth. Touches-Horses wobbled against the taut rawhide; his entire body trembled and he staggered, caught himself and danced on.
Hours went by. In midstride, Sitting Bull froze, as if held by an unseen force. His gaze was locked against the sun. The crowd was again hushed, almost annoyed by the continued shuffling of the other pledgers. None of them was aware of anything happening. Beyond pain. Beyond reason. Beyond the arbor. Absorbed by the sun. One step. Another step.
Sitting Bull staggered and fell. Unconscious.
Black Moon was the first to reach him as holy men hurried forward. Stone-Dreamer was close enough to see Sitting Bull flutter into consciousness and whisper to Black Moon and collapse once more. Solemnly, Black Moon stood and announced that Sitting Bull had received a bright vision of a great many soldiers falling into the Indians’ camp.
Somewhere in the crowd came a single cry of surprise and joy that instantly became a roar as the entire assembly reacted. The leaders stood and cheered. Crazy Horse raised his fist in triumph. A great victory was at hand.
Unseen by all, but Stone-Dreamer and Morning Bird, Touches-Horses tore free of his skewers and stumbled to the ground. Stone-Dreamer ran to him and held him close.
“Your son, my brother…Rides-With-Spirits…is coming. I have seen him.” His face fell against the holy man’s arm.
The Sun Dance continued, but the drama had evaporated with the powerful message from Sitting Bull. Two days later, the massive village moved up the creek, toward the Rosebud.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Lockhart and Sean slowly drove eight, newly purchased horses toward the Rhymer farm. After Harry and Martha had agreed to become partners in the venture, he immediately moved the war horse there and started work on building a worthy stable of good working mounts. It was the most excited the businessman had been in a long time. The only thing that would make it better would be having his Indian relatives with him.
Harry’s sturdy corral had proved itself a solid retainer for the fiery mustang and the big horse had settled well into his new home. With Sean’s enthusiastic help, and Harry’s good intentions, Lockhart had fixed the larger corral to hold an initial group of horses. Rebuilding the barn would come later. Grazing land could handle a la
rge herd. That would also come later.
For now, he was content to select horses a few at a time from area ranchers. Mostly mares and colts, but some good geldings, too. They would be among the first to be trained and sold. He preferred horses not yet broken so he could create the mounts desired. His training skills had come entirely from his Indian brother-in-law. They didn’t come up to Touches-Horses’ exceptional ways, but they were better than most.
A week had passed since Lockhart and Crawfish had visited Dr. Milens’s house. The mesmerism experience still clung like the aftertaste of bad milk. Crawfish’s thorough explanations of the mesmerist’s trick were both assuring and disturbing. His redheaded friend was fascinated by magic as well as many other subjects. However, when Crawfish suggested that Lockhart’s Indian father had probably used magic as well, Lockhart had become upset. That had ended discussion of the subject, other than Crawfish’s observation that Dr. Milens had secured a sizable amount of money from the Wilcoxes, who were seeking further contact with their dead relatives.
To keep his mind off of Morning Bird—or his Indian friends—Lockhart threw himself into work, spreading his time between the Silver Queen, Black Horse and now their horse ranch. It kept him too tired to think. Or worry.
“Will these hosses be stayin’ in the big corral?” Sean asked, studying the group of horses moving easily ahead of them.