Bill Dugan

by Crazy Horse

  But even during these long silences, Curly learned. The hoot of a great owl would break the silence, and Ice would get up, waving for Curly to follow him out of the lodge. On a clear night, they would walk away from the village, even out beyond the pony herd, where nothing would disturb them, and the voices of the night would whisper things to Ice, things he would relate to Curly. The ways of the Cheyenne were passing, he would begin. “The Cheyenne themselves are passing. The Oglala and the Brule are passing, too. But none of them, not the Cheyenne or the Oglala, the Brule or the Miniconjou, understand. But I think that you understand.”

  Curly would feel a profound sadness roll over him like a dark flood at these words, but he knew that Ice was right, and that there was nothing he could say to argue with the holy man.

  But he refused to give up. There had to be a way to keep things as they always had been, and as they should continue to be. There had to be a way to make the white man go away, leave the Sioux and the Cheyenne in peace.

  But Ice would not wait for these thoughts to lure Curly away into some dark wood where he would lose his way altogether. Instead, he would begin to talk of the old ways, tell him how things were before the white man came, and how they could be again, if only the white man would go away and leave them in peace. Neither the old holy man nor the young warrior knew how to make such a thing happen, but both believed it was the only way for their peoples to survive.

  In the summer of 1857, Curly was fifteen years old. The Cheyenne were keeping to themselves in Kansas, but white soldiers were everywhere, looking for them and for the Sioux. Occasional fights between small bands of Cheyenne and small cavalry patrols had punctuated the spring months, and the Sioux they encountered warned them that great numbers of white soldiers were coming.

  In late July, Ice and his band were camped on the Solomon River in northern Kansas. And the Sioux prediction came true. Six cavalry troops, under the command of Col. E.V. Sumner, found them. Ice had had the warriors dip their hands in the cold waters of a lake to make themselves bulletproof, and they were confident as they rode out to meet the soldiers.

  Curly, like the others, was almost casual. He let his bow hang on his shoulder, feeling the string tight against his skin. He looked around him, and saw that most of the Cheyenne were making no preparations to use their weapons. Instead, they formed a battle line after sprinting their horses back and forth to give them a second wind, as they always did before combat.

  The soldiers seemed confused by the Indian tactics, but formed up in ranks three deep. As they moved forward, they held their fire. Sumner, wondering what was happening. waited until the forces were almost face to face, then gave the command for sabers to be drawn. The sudden flash of the arcing blades in the bright sun confused the Cheyenne warriors. They were expecting to catch bullets in the air like small bugs, and toss them harmlessly away, but Ice had said nothing about the long knives.

  The Cheyenne line broke in disarray and the warriors raced back to their village to get the women and children. Leaving everything they owned behind, they scattered to the four winds. The soldiers, still baffled by the Cheyenne behavior, never fired a single shot. An hour later, the plains were empty of Cheyenne, except for the four men killed by the saber charge.

  Curly decided to head north, to rejoin his family. On the solitary ride, he mulled over what he had seen in the past few years. He was starting to put together pieces that did not seem to belong to the same puzzle. Starting with the things that Ice had taught him, and adding the evidence of his own eyes, he was beginning to understand.

  The whites were too strong for any small village. Whenever there was a battle, it was the Indian village that was destroyed, the Indian women and children who were killed or left homeless, the Indian warriors who bled to death in the grass. The only success he had seen was at Grattan’s attack on Conquering Bear, and there the numbers had been so much in the Sioux favor, thirty soldiers against a thousand Sioux and more, that he had to face the fact that the Sioux could only win their battles with the white soldiers if they could work together in large numbers.

  The white man’s guns were powerful weapons, and not one Sioux in a hundred had a rifle. The wagon guns tore lodges to pieces, and destroyed villages from long range the way no Sioux weapon could ever do.

  All these things were tumbling over and over in his mind, like leaves in a flooded creek. He had to stop the water long enough to pull the leaves together and see what they would tell him.

  A great council of all the Sioux was being planned at Bear Butte, and that is where Curly headed. It was where he had been born, in the very shadow of the butte, and as he drew near, he began to wonder whether he would ever see the great butte again. It seemed as if the Sioux were being sucked into a whirlwind. No one knew the numbers, but everyone knew that the flood of whites was increasing month by month. Towns were springing up all over Kansas and Nebraska territories, newly created by Congress, although the Sioux did not know this. They knew only that where once there had been grass, rippling like water in the wind, stretching as far as the eye could see, and buffalo like black oceans rolling across the land, now there were houses made of sod, fences, and farms springing up like weeds.

  When he reached Bear Butte, he was one of the last to arrive. More than seven thousand Teton Sioux had already gathered. All the bands were there except the Brule. Little Thunder and Spotted Tail, taking to heart the message of Harney’s assault on the Bluewater, had chosen to stay away. But the six other bands were well represented. The greatest Sioux warriors were there, men like Red Cloud and Sitting Bull, Crow Feather and Old Man Afraid. Touch the Clouds, over seven feet tall, was there, too. These were men who loomed up like heroes out of the past, men whose names would live as long as there was a Sioux nation, men about whom he would listen to tales, mouth agape, around the campfire.

  And friends he had not seen for months, even years, were there as well. Hump, Young Man Afraid, and Lone Bear. But best of all, he got to see his family for the first time in two years. Little Hawk spotted him coming along the great circle toward the Oglala lodges. He ran to get his father, and the holy man emerged from the tipi, squinting away the sun, shielding his eyes with one hand.

  He started to run toward his son, then, as if ashamed, held back, choosing to walk slowly as Curly dismounted and sprinted toward him, letting his pony follow in his wake at its own speed.

  Curly threw his arms around his father, who squeezed him hard enough to force the air from his lungs, then held him back at arm’s length to look him over. Curly was tall now, almost six feet, but slender. At one hundred and forty pounds or so, the boy had filled out. He was still light-haired but sculpted now of lean muscle, his black eyes like hard chips of obsidian set in his light-skinned face.

  “It has been a long time, Curly. Two winters since I have seen you, son. I have been worried about you. Are you well?”

  Curly nodded. “I am well. I see that you are, too, and Little Hawk.”

  “Where have you been?”

  Curly shrugged. “Many places. I have seen much that I need to talk to you about.”

  “Tonight we will talk, and you will tell me everything.” He turned then and led the way back to his lodge. Curly ducked to pull aside the flap, held it for his father, then followed the holy man inside.

  Little Hawk was sitting by the fire, his face split by a broad grin. “I didn’t know if I would ever see you again,” he said.

  “How could you doubt it? Someone has to keep you in line. Father is too busy for such things, so I will have to do it.” He threw himself at the younger boy, wrapped him in a bear hug, and rolled over and over on the buffalo robes spread around the fire.

  Finally, letting his brother up and smacking him playfully on the cheek, he said, “You are strong now.”

  “Not as strong as you, though,” Little Hawk said, pleased by the compliment.

  “Soon you will be.”

  “Then I will have to take care of you, I think.”
>
  “Each of us will always take care of the other. That is what brothers do,” Curly said.

  The council was drawing to a close, and Curly decided to wait until it was over, when he could have his father’s undivided attention before telling him of his dream. On the last day of the council, the young man and the old man rode off alone. They made a small camp beside a branch of the Belle Fourche River.

  That night, sitting by the fire, Curly waited for his father to say what was on his mind. After the evening meal, the old man finally spoke. “You are getting to be a full-grown warrior now, and there are many things I should tell you, things I would have told you before now if you had been with me. But it is still not too late.”

  “What sort of things?” Curly asked, wondering whether there would be an opening for him to tell of his vision.

  “A warrior has many burdens to carry. It is not an easy thing to care for the old, and to see that everyone has enough to eat. It is important that you understand that your people come first. Only when everyone else has enough food do you feed yourself. When you capture horses from the Crows or the Pawnees, see that you give them to the people. Keep only the horses you need to hunt and to make war for yourself. “

  Curly said nothing for a long time. He was about to break the silence, when his father stood up. “Come with me,” he said, walking toward the creek.

  Curly sprinted after him. “Where are we going?”

  “I think we should build a sweat lodge. You should purify yourself. It is important to set things right with the Wakan Tanka. Only after a sweat bath can you expect to see things you need to see to be a good man.”

  They gathered several willow branches and arranged them in a dome, planting them in the ground and bending the slender, supple wood toward the center, where they were tied together. Then the willow frame was covered with skins.

  Pointing to the center of the floor, the holy man said, “You dig the iniowaspe, and I will gather the stones. Not too deep, but deep enough.”

  Curly did as he was told. His father arranged the entrance and gathered a number of dry stones from the creek bank, and enough wood for a good-size fire, then started to heat the rocks. Normally, the holy man would have an assistant to carry the heated stones, but this was special, and he would do it himself. While the stones heated, the two of them moved along the watercourse, gathering sage to cover the floor of the sweat lodge.

  When the stones were heated well enough, he took four of them inside, using a forked stick to carry them, placed them in the iniowaspe, and draped a water bag over his shoulder. Using a horn spoon, he sprinkled water on the hot rocks. While Curly took off his clothes, the lodge filled with swirling clouds of dense steam.

  The sacred pipe was ready, and he touched it to one of the stones, then offered it to Curly. The fragrant willow bark in the bowl filled the steamy lodge. Curly handed the pipe back and the holy man offered a benediction to each of the four directions.

  After the appropriate prayers of purification, the holy man said, “I know there is something that you want to tell me.”

  Curly started to tell his father about the vision he had had. It was a great relief, after keeping it to himself for so long, to share it with someone, especially someone who could tell him what it meant.

  When he was finished, the old man said nothing for several minutes.

  “What does it mean?” Curly asked, when he could endure the silence no longer.

  “You are the man in the vision,” his father answered. “You must do exactly as the dream instructed you. Wear no paint except the lightning and the hail spots. Do not paint your horse. Pass the dust over your horse and your body before battle, just the way the man in the dream did. And, most important, take nothing for yourself. If you do these things, then it will be as the dream says. Your enemies will not be able to kill you with their bullets.”

  Curly nodded, not sure he understood.

  The next morning, they rejoined a band of Sioux. Curly knew the ceremony was only a prelude, but he wasn’t sure what to expect. While hunting buffalo that afternoon, Curly, Hump, and Lone Bear ran into a small band of Arapaho. The Arapaho charged, and a short, furious battle ensued, in the course of which an arrow hit Curly and embedded itself in his leg. But Hump removed it, and the Sioux succeeded in driving off the attackers. Back in the village, Curly’s father dressed the wound. Then, wrapped in a ceremonial blanket and carrying his sacred pipe, he moved out of the lodge and circled the village. He began to sing.

  The Sioux gathered around, listening to the holy man, who concluded his song and looked long and hard into the faces of the people. In the long pause, Curly hobbled to the lodge entrance and stepped outside. He watched his father curiously, uncertain what was coming.

  Then the holy man began to speak. “From this day forward, I will have a new name. I will be called Worm. And my son … my son will have a great name. The name of his father, of my father, and of his father. He will be called Crazy Horse.”

  Chapter 9

  October 1857

  CRAZY HORSE AND WORM were riding hard. The scent of buffalo was in the air. The summer had been lean, and the herds had been sparse. With the winter snows just weeks away, they needed meat and they needed it soon, while there would still be time to dry it, and pound the berries and herbs into it to make the winter supply.

  The sky overhead was a deep blue, deeper even than the water of the lakes. Crazy Horse thought he heard the bellowing of a bull far in the distance. He tried to push his pony to its limit. A better rider than Worm, he was gradually pulling ahead. Every rise would let him gain a few yards on his father, until he was nearly three hundred yards ahead.

  There was no doubt about it now. He could hear the lowing of the buffalo, maybe a large herd, but any herd at all would be a blessing from Wakan Tanka. He looked back at Worm and waved. The joy of the hunt was smeared on his face like war paint. Grinning from ear to ear, he teased the older man, challenging him to ride harder, to close the gap. It was almost like the horse races his people loved so much, but if he was right, there was much more at stake than a few trinkets.

  As he charged up a steep slope, his pony slowed, almost as if it sensed something, and Crazy Horse let the animal choose its own pace. As he reached the ridge, he reined in. Far below, spread out all across the floor of a broad valley, a herd of buffalo was grazing. The sound was almost unbelievable now, welling up from the valley floor in one continuous muttering. The buffalo drifted slowly along, munching the grass, switching their tails to keep away the small green flies that swarmed in clouds around them.

  Here and there, birds trotted along behind the animals, pecking at the bugs dislodged by their wrenching of the grass. He shifted his weight to turn on one hip and wait for Worm, who had slowed now that he knew the quarry was in sight.

  When he reached the top of the ridge, he broke into a smile. “Good,” he said. “As much as we will need. We are lucky to find them. Blessed. Maybe we are living right.”

  “We should get the others,” Crazy Horse said.

  But Worm shook his head. “No. There is no hurry. As long as we have found them, we will be all right. But it is too soon to hunt them.”

  “But why?” Crazy Horse asked. He was still learning, and every day taught him something that he was amazed he had not realized on his own. But nature was so complicated, so vast and incomprehensible a thing. The Sioux were as the flies, a small cloud around the great beasts below. Balance was critical. Without it, they would perish. And every year there were fewer buffalo as the white men continued to decimate their numbers. Every year they were driven farther and farther to the West, closer and closer to the land of the Crows, as the white farmers conquered more and more of the land with their plows, ripping open the earth until it bled.

  If they were not careful, the Sioux would be forced to find some other source of food. They had to husband the buffalo, care for them like they did the old ones. Because the wisest among them knew, and tried to te
ach the others, once the buffalo were gone, they would not be back.

  Worm extended an arm and pointed. “Look at the hides.”

  Crazy Horse did as he was told.

  “What do you see?”

  “Buffalo.”

  “Look at the hair. Do you see?”

  Crazy Horse shook his head. “No. I see buffalo, that’s all. They look as they always look.”

  “The hair is too short. If we kill them now, the hides will not make good robes. They will not be warm enough for the winter. We will have to wait, follow them, herd them, like the white men do their scrawny cows. When the hair thickens, then we will hunt them.”

  “Hou!” Crazy Horse understood now. He was disappointed that he had not understood without having to be told. But at least now he knew.

  “You stay and watch,” Worm said. “If they move, follow them, and leave a sign. I will get the others. We will catch up to you as soon as we can, maybe by night.”

  Crazy Horse nodded. His father waved, turned his horse, and started back the way they had come. Dismounting, Crazy Horse sat in the grass, his legs folded beneath him. He did not want to get too close for fear of frightening the herd. The longer they stayed where they were, the sooner they would be under the control of his people.

  All day, he stayed on the ridge, watching the animals drift back and forth across the floor of the great valley. He remembered when there were so many no man could see the far side of a herd. It was a time when you did not have to ride for weeks to find the buffalo. But that time was gone now. Ice had been right. Things were changing faster than the Indian could follow. And it was the fault of the white man, who would not leave either the Indian or the buffalo alone.

  He knew that the rest of his life would be spent warring with the white man. It was fine to stay away from the Holy Road, and pretend that only the Pawnee and the Crow were the enemy, but that was to pretend that the biggest enemy of them all did not exist. A wise man would open his ears and eyes, hear what the white man was telling him, see what the white man was doing. The difference between what was said and what was done would tell him all he needed to know.