Bill Dugan

by Crazy Horse

  Red Cloud, dressed in the white man’s clothing, with a vest and a high-crowned hat, made a speech at the Cooper Institute on June 16. It was an eloquent presentation of the Sioux plight, a passionate summary of red-white relations on the great plains and, as might be expected, it accomplished nothing. Red Cloud returned to the agency, and the problems continued. He never put on a warbonnet again, choosing instead to devote his life to the political machinations which seemed to the great chief the only way for the Sioux to survive. He knew he could not control the more passionate of the young warriors, but closed his eyes because it was easier not to see.

  Later that year, Crazy Horse, following his own path, turned his eyes westward, and led war parties against the Crow and the Shoshoni. He was doing what he loved best, and he had the companionship of his best friend, Hump, to ward off the loneliness. He was in love with Black Buffalo Woman, and she with him. She had gone so far as to ask her husband to release her, but No Water flatly refused. War was the only comfort left him.

  At the head of a small war party that included Hump, He Dog, Little Hawk, and Good Weasel, Crazy Horse went in search of the Shoshoni. It was the middle of November. So far, the weather had been kind, but the party left in a drizzling rain. As they pushed westward, the rain turned to sleet, and then to snow.

  Underfoot, thick slush began to accumulate. Crazy Horse was concerned about the weather. Pulling alongside Hump, he said, “I don’t like this. The horses are already having trouble in the slush. Maybe we should turn back. It could get a lot worse.”

  Hump laughed. “Do you remember what happened the last time we turned back from a war party at this spot?”

  Crazy Horse nodded. “I remember.”

  “Do you want the same thing to happen? Can you stand the teasing? We have to think of our reputations. This time there will be a fight. There has to be. Go home if you want to, but I will go on.”

  Crazy Horse was ambivalent. “Your rifle is fine. I have a good gun, too. But look at the others. Their rifles are old. They are better off fighting with bows and arrows. This is no place for a fight, and the weather only makes it worse. But if you insist, we will fight.”

  Hump laughed again. “At first, I thought you were turning into one of the Loafers. You were starting to sound like Spotted Tail. I’m glad you’re staying.” He clapped his kola on the shoulder, then nudged his horse ahead, still laughing.

  An hour later, they stumbled on a Shoshoni hunting party. The slush had deepened, clinging to the hooves of the horses like translucent glue. The ground under the slush was slippery and soft, making matters all the more treacherous.

  Crazy Horse and Hump led the attack, but the Shoshoni band was larger, and well armed. Charge and countercharge, the horses of both sides slipping and sliding as they careened across the slippery ground, led to a standoff. Hump was getting frustrated, and got out ahead of the others on his next pass. A flurry of gunfire crackled, the Shoshoni warriors like shadows in the driving sleet and snow.

  Hump went down, then scrambled away from his horse. He waved to Crazy Horse to show that he was unhurt. Crazy Horse galloped toward him with Good Weasel right behind. He had already sent the others home, and planned to keep the Shoshoni busy while his own men made their escape.

  Back on his horse, Hump realized the pony had been wounded in the leg and was nearly lame. “We’re in for it now,” he shouted.

  Crazy Horse nodded. They charged ahead once more, Hump’s horse limping along behind the other two ponies. The Shoshoni held off the charge, then pressed their own attack. Trying to turn, Hump’s horse went down again. This time, the great warrior was too close to the enemy, and the Shoshoni charge swallowed him up. Desperate, Crazy Horse charged back, but he couldn’t get close enough. He saw the frenzy of the Shoshoni as they swarmed around his friend.

  Then, like a shadow from beyond, Hump broke through, staggering. Even through the swirling sheets of rain and sleet, Crazy Horse could see the blood streaming from a wound in Hump’s shoulder. One arm hung limply, as if a bone had been broken, or a tendon severed.

  Once more Crazy Horse charged toward the Shoshoni phantoms. The enemy warriors kept disappearing in the mist and slashing sleet, only to reappear as they turned their horses and bore down once again on Hump, who turned now to raise his one good arm. Unable to use a bow, he was reduced to fending off the charge with a lance.

  Crazy Horse loosed arrows in a frenzy, his horse circling the swirling mass of Shoshoni braves and ponies. One Shoshoni fell, an arrow protruding from his chest, and Hump finished him with a stab of his lance. Another went down, then a third. Hump leaped on the last, snapping the shaft of his lance with a vicious thrust.

  Crazy Horse made a headlong charge as the Shoshoni wheeled their mounts one more time and thundered past Hump with arms flailing. And then it was over. Hump staggered backward then fell over on his side, four arrows in his chest. Hump was gone. Crazy Horse heard the disembodied voices of the Shoshoni as they vanished in the mists for a moment, the whoops of triumph growing suddenly louder as they turned once more and came charging back. Forced to give ground and then to run, he couldn’t even recover the body.

  It seemed an omen of things to come.

  Chapter 22

  August 1871

  THE SUMMERS WERE ALMOST FUN AGAIN. Crazy Horse was staying on the Yellowstone River, now at the head of a small village of his own, no more than fifty lodges in winter, but swelling to four and five times that size in the warm weather, when half of Red Cloud’s people left the agency to hunt and live the old way.

  Most of the warriors saw him as the last and best war leader, and had elevated Crazy Horse to membership in the Crow Owners akicita, and made him a lance bearer, charged with the protection of the sacred medicine lances of the Oglalas. It was a high honor, and one he took seriously. In August, after a good hunting season, it was time to pay some attention to the Crows, who had an agency of their own far to the west, where they camped, like Red Cloud’s people and the people of Spotted Tail, under the very muzzles of the bluecoats.

  But, like the Sioux, the Crows were not fully adjusted to the new ways. Some of their warriors resisted so easy a peace with the whites. They loved the hunt, and they loved stealing ponies from the Sioux. Crazy Horse, his village swollen with the summer soldiers from Red Cloud Agency, put together a war party to go in search of the Crows. It was to be an old-fashioned war party, with women along to cook and lighten the long hours.

  Four days west, they found a Crow hunting party, a large one, almost as large as their own. Camping in the next valley, they made ready, the whole village buzzing with excitement as the warriors painted their ponies and their faces. The women, after making sure that the camp was in order, followed the warriors, as Crazy Horse and He Dog, now a shirt-wearer and lance bearer like his friend, rode toward the crest of the high, distant hill dividing the warring camps, holding the sacred lances aloft and waving them to encourage the warriors.

  The women streamed up the hill behind them, then strung themselves in a long line across the ridge as the warriors plunged down into the valley full of Crows. The men were whooping and waving their bows and lances, their shields sometimes soaring above their heads as they drove one another on with shrieks and earsplitting howls.

  Behind them, they could hear the women taunting the Crows, daring them to come and get a real woman, one who was so much better in the buffalo robes than any scrawny Crow hag.

  The Crows responded, and charged out to defend their village. The two forces met near the grazing Crow herd, and some of the Sioux split off a sizable portion of the ponies and drove them back up the hill, while the rest of them thundered through the ragged Crow lines. Warriors on both sides were flailing with their bows and war clubs, leaning out to count a coup. There was some gunfire, but most of the contending warriors seemed to prefer the old way.

  Crazy Horse was in the thick of it, and the Sioux could see his lance waving high above the seething mass of painted men and
horseflesh. The Crows broke first, and started to fall back, as the stolen ponies were pushed on up and out of sight.

  From his pony, Crazy Horse could see the Sioux women cheering him on, and seemed almost carefree, relishing the battle as he had not in a very long time. The Crows regrouped, and some of them mounted a counterattack, charging across the long slope of the hill and cresting the ridge where they recaptured a few of their stolen ponies.

  Emboldened by their modest success, the Crows drove the recaptured horses straight toward the mass of Sioux warriors now commanding the valley floor. But Crazy Horse led a breakneck charge that split the Crow force in two, scattering the enemy ponies and sending both halves of the attacking force spilling down the slope and across the river to their village.

  The Sioux preened a little, the warriors now echoing the insults of their women, daring the Crows to come back. But their taunts fell dead in the water. If the Crow heard them at all, they were in no mood to be provoked, and headed up the far hillside.

  Crazy Horse and He Dog wanted to pursue them, but the rest of the warriors wanted to take their plunder and go home.

  “I want to chase them,” Crazy Horse insisted.

  “Me, too,” He Dog said.

  Little Hawk volunteered his services as well and the three kicked their mounts into a trot heading for the river as the Crows straggled up the far side. Watching the bearers of the sacred lances run after an overwhelming number of enemies, the warriors realized they had better go along to protect them. The lances were big medicine, important to the Oglala people, so it would not do to have them fall into enemy hands. And no one wanted to challenge Crazy Horse for their possession.

  With whoops as much of joy as bloodlust, the Sioux swarmed across the river, their ponies’ hooves churning the shallow water into mud as they drove on through the abandoned Crow village and on up the hillside. The Crow were running for their lives, and sent a rear guard back behind the main body to slow the Sioux pursuit.

  For two days, taking their time and settling into a steady rhythm, the Sioux ponies kept on, stopping only for nightfall, when the Crow themselves would halt their flight to make camp for the night. By first light, the Crow were on the move again, the Sioux right behind them. The all-out warfare of the first day had dribbled away, and was replaced by an occasional skirmish which the Crow seemed to enjoy every bit as much as the Sioux.

  Neither side had lost a man, although two Sioux warriors had been wounded by arrows, one badly enough that he might not survive the injury.

  By noon on the third day, the buildings of the Crow agency at the Little Bighorn River came into view. Crazy Horse called a halt at the last ridge above the permanent Crow village, urging his pony to rear up while he let out a final whoop and waved his lance high overhead in triumph over the hated Crows and defiance of the even more hated bluecoats.

  The fun was over, and it was time to go home. Crazy Horse fell back, taking his place at the end of the line while He Dog led the triumphal caravan back to the Yellowstone. It took five days, and each night in camp Crazy Horse would wonder how much longer the old way could survive. He thought back to his youth, not that long ago, when one could go almost anywhere without seeing one of the white man’s long-knife soldiers. Now, it seemed that everyone, Sioux and Crow, Shoshoni and Pawnee, lived in the white man’s shadow. Hands out, the pacified Indians lived on the white man’s charity, afraid to take food for themselves, afraid to go where they wanted, to hunt, to make war, or just to ride out into the vastness of the plains to soak in some of the comforting solitude that could be found best under the big, open sky.

  He would sit beside the fire until its orange light faded to a barely visible smear on his skin, its heat no longer enough to ward off the late-night chill. He watched the flames as if he were looking for something in them, waiting for something, or someone, to appear to him, dancing among the darkening tongues.

  The third night, He Dog sat up with him, saying nothing, knowing that his friend didn’t really feel like talking, but knowing, too, that he needed someone there in case he should feel the need to talk, whether he wanted to or not.

  It was well after midnight when he said, “I miss Hump. I can’t believe that I’ll never see him again.”

  He Dog nodded. Taking a deep breath, he said, “What bothers you is not recovering his body. You feel as if it is your fault.”

  “He should have had a proper burial. He should be lying on a scaffold in the Paha Sapa. I would have taken him there myself.”

  “There was nothing to be done. I was there. I know what it was like. The Shoshoni were too strong.”

  Ignoring the comfort He Dog was offering, Crazy Horse contemplated his pain in silence for a long moment, then, digging his teeth into the meat of it, he said, “When I went back, there was just a skull. Even the bones were gone. Wolves and coyotes had taken …” he choked off his recitation then looked at He Dog, tears running down his face. “Hump was one of the great ones, not just as a warrior, but as a man. There will never be one like him.”

  He Dog clapped his friend on the shoulder. “He is happier now. There are plenty of buffalo where he has gone. It is never cold, and there are always Crow ponies to steal. It is where we will all go someday. You will see him again there.”

  Crazy Horse shook his head. “I do not think so.”

  “You have to think so. It is the only reason to keep on going. The only reason we have to live at all.”

  Crazy Horse nodded sadly. “I hope it is a good enough reason.” He turned then and looked at his old friend. “Good night,” he said, leaving no doubt that he wanted to be alone now.

  The rest of the trip, He Dog watched Crazy Horse closely, unable to suppress the feeling that something was very wrong, something that Crazy Horse himself felt but did not understand. He Dog didn’t understand it either, and knew that he would be of little help unless he could somehow find the key to unlock the chains weighing so heavily on his friend.

  When they reached the Yellowstone again, Crazy Horse seemed better, more lighthearted than he had been, and led the triumphal procession around the village. The celebration started immediately and, as usual, Crazy Horse faded into the background. He left it to the others to sing of their heroic deeds, tell tales of coups counted and Crows humiliated. He knew what he had done, and the knowledge was enough. Uncomfortable, as always, he stayed as far as possible from the center of attention.

  After the victory celebration, a kind of tranquillity settled on the village. Life returned to normal, with small hunting parties searching for buffalo, and bringing home deer and elk that Wakan Tanka saw fit to place in their paths.

  Beside the Oglala, there were small contingents of Miniconjou, Sans Arcs, and Hunkpapas. The northernmost groups of Lakota had been relatively isolated from the white men. They had kept to themselves, far off the Oregon and Bozeman trails, far from the iron road of the white man’s trains. They lived the old way because it was the only way they knew. They had no taste for coffee and sugar because they had never been exposed to the white man’s seductive blandishments.

  Crazy Horse was in his element. And it seemed to agree with him. Black Buffalo Woman was there with No Water and her children. But even this did not seem to disturb the serenity that seemed to have enveloped Crazy Horse.

  The winter went quietly. So far from the white soldiers, there had been nothing to disturb the Sioux, and when the first rush of melting snow filled the rivers, making them foam and the waters snarl like cornered cougars, so loud you could hear them a mile away, Crazy Horse started making plans for another war party against the Crows.

  Little Hawk signed on, so did He Dog. Even No Water and his brother, Black Twin, agreed to go. When the waters had subsided in late spring, the war party left in high spirits. The previous summer had been the best in years, and all the warriors had their hearts set on getting a few Crow ponies for themselves.

  The party left early one morning, Crazy Horse, as before, in the lead. They
rode long and hard, this time making good time because the women were staying at home. After midnight, Crazy Horse slipped onto his pony and rode back the way he had come.

  When he reached the village, just before sunrise, Black Buffalo Woman was already waiting for him. She had entrusted her three children to the care of her family. Her possessions were packed, and Crazy Horse slipped from his pony just long enough to sweep her into his arms for a moment before swinging her onto her own mount and springing to the back of his pony.

  By noon, the village was far behind. They were alone at last. When they had ridden far enough, they camped for the night, not bothering to erect the lodge. That could wait for morning. There were more important things to do.

  The sun rose well before the runaways. It was nearly noon before they awoke. Before eating, they went for a swim in a branch of the Yellowstone, squealing like children as the frigid water pebbled their skins and numbed their limbs. Crazy Horse had never felt so free.

  For three days, they lived the life that Crazy Horse had only dreamed about and that Black Buffalo Woman pretended to live with No Water. They talked almost nonstop. She thought he was a different man, so voluble, chattering like the boy she remembered from their childhood, the boy she thought had long been cast aside by the warrior like a snake casts aside its skin, a useless shell of something he would never again be. But there he was, right beside her, day and night. And it was better than she had hoped when she had agreed to run away with him.

  Black Buffalo Woman felt occasional twinges of guilt about her children, but she would see them again. She didn’t know when, only that she would. Life without them was too horrible to contemplate. And there would be more, with the man beside her their father.

  That night, with so much just beginning, they sat beside the fire in their lodge, talking about the future.