Bill Dugan_War Chiefs 03

by Sitting Bull

  “It’s a beautiful day,” Sitting Bull said. He lowered himself to the ground without another word, and they sat side by side for several minutes without talking. They sat this way often, when time and duty permitted, sometimes saying nothing, sometimes talking about whatever crossed their minds. Most of the talks had to do with the plight of their people, because neither warrior could afford to let his thoughts wander far from the impossible bind in which the Lakota now found themselves.

  “The village looks so small,” Crazy Horse said, finally breaking the silence. “When I was a boy, I used to make tiny tipis out of willow branches and scraps of buckskin. I could hold three or four in the palm of my hand, like a tiny village. I could make it float high above my head, where nothing, not even the dogs, could get to it. I wish that I could lift all the Lakota in my palm that way, to protect them from what is happening.”

  “We are in a greater palm,” Sitting Bull said. “Wakantanka holds us in his hand. But sometimes I worry that he will forget that we are there and clap his hands together to kill a fly, or close his hand into a mighty fist. Maybe it will be something simple, as simple as a wave to a friend. But whatever it is, it will be the end of the Lakota people.”

  “I don’t worry about Wakantanka or what he might do. I worry more about the white man. I can’t interfere with what the Great Spirit will or will not do,” Crazy Horse said. “Whatever he will do, he will do. I can’t stop him, I can’t change him. I just have to accept what he does, whatever it is. But the white man can be stopped.”

  “You have heard that the white man is building another iron road?”

  Crazy Horse nodded. “Yes, I have heard. He is slicing open the Powder River country the way you cut open a bloated carcass. There are soldiers, too. Many of them. They are coming into the Yellowstone country, and soon there will be too many of them to stop or to drive away.”

  Sitting Bull was quiet for a moment, then said, “I have heard that, too. I think it is time we tried to do something to stop them, before they destroy everything. But it is hard to get the young warriors to listen. The young men have their heads full of foolishness. It is hard to teach them to do things in a way that the white man won’t understand. They have no discipline. And Long Holy is filling their heads with his nonsense.”

  “Long Holy has strong medicine.”

  Sitting Bull nodded. “I know he does. I understand medicine. You know that. But I don’t think he knows what he is doing. He tells the young men he can make them bulletproof. All it will do is get them hurt. And then they will distrust all medicine, not just this silliness of Long Holy’s.”

  “I have heard that he gave a demonstration.”

  “He did. I was there when he did it. He shot a gun again and again. And the young men tried to catch the bullets in their palms, like fools,” said Sitting Bull.

  “And what happened? Did his medicine work?”

  “The bullets bounced off. They made bruises, but did not break the skin.”

  “But you still don’t believe his medicine powerful enough to do what he says it can do?” Crazy Horse looked surprised.

  Sitting Bull snorted. “Always, the young men want to think that they are bulletproof, or that a knife cannot cut through their skins. They want to think that their heads are so hard that a war club will not break the bones like a woman breaks melons with a rock. And that is a good thing. It is important to believe that you are powerful, that you have strong medicine to protect you on the warpath. It lets you do things that you would not do if you were afraid of getting hurt. But Long Holy’s medicine is a fraud.”

  “You said the bullets bounced off.”

  “They did. But you and I know that we do not put as much powder in our bullets as the white man does. If there is not enough powder, the bullets don’t travel as fast. They will bounce off skin. You have seen it yourself—how sometimes we shoot a bluecoat or a Crow and he does not bleed. Sometimes the bullet goes through his coat and stays there against his skin, and sometimes it does not even pierce the cloth. That is because we don’t have enough gunpowder, and we weaken the bullets. But the white man has all the gunpowder he needs. If the young men ride in front of his guns thinking they will not be harmed, they will be killed.”

  “Have you told the young warriors this?” Sitting Bull nodded his head. “Yes, I have told them. But they won’t listen. They smile and shake their heads, the way you do when you listen to a foolish old man. Then, behind their hands, they say ‘Sitting Bull is jealous of Long Holy. I am not jealous. But I am not a fool. I am sure of what I know and what the young ones do not know.”

  “Maybe it is not a bad thing that they believe in Long Holy’s medicine. It will give them courage, and that is something they will need.”

  “Sometimes I think that way, but then I remember what it will be like in the lodges when the women learn that their young men were wrong …” Crazy Horse nodded his head. “How!” Sitting Bull stood then and started to walk back down the hill. It was a long walk, and he limped every step of the way, even knowing that Crazy Horse was watching him. He felt a great weight on his shoulders and it seemed as if he were sinking into the earth with every step, as if he carried some invisible burden that made his shoulders sag under its weight.

  When he started across the flats toward the village, he turned to see Crazy Horse looking out across the valley. Following his friend’s gaze, he saw the herds of ponies, their heads bobbing as they tugged on the thick, lush grass. He saw the dogs lapping at water by the river’s edge. He saw the children running along the riverbank, sometimes falling, sometimes slipping into the water and kicking great silver arcs of spray into the air with their bare feet. It made him sad to see these images, each one so precious, each one so deeply rooted in Lakota life. He wondered if he could preserve them, or if one day the valley would be full of the white man’s white-painted buildings, surrounded by sagging fences that carved the earth into little square patches. He didn’t know, but it frightened him.

  As he neared his lodge, Sitting Bull noticed some movement on the ridge across the valley. First one then two more riders broke over the crest and headed down, pushing their warhorses at a full gallop. Crazy Horse saw them, too, and started to run. Soon he was going so fast that he dared not stop for fear of falling over. The effort made his lip hurt where the bullet scar was like a jagged slash of lightning, and his lungs felt as if they were full of fire. He saw Sitting Bull, with that distinctive limping run of his, heading toward the incoming ponies.

  Something was happening, and Crazy Horse raced to the village, reaching the first lodge as the riders slipped from their ponies.

  The riders were scouts, and they were beside themselves with excitement. They saw Sitting Bull and headed straight for him. “Bluecoats,” they shouted. “Many Long Knives on Arrow Creek.”

  The word spread rapidly, and the Lakota warriors were infuriated by the invasion of their territory. Crazy Horse looked for Sitting Bull and saw him at the center of the widening circle surrounding the excited scouts.

  Slipping through the throng, he eased in beside the medicine man. “We should make a good plan before we ride out to meet these soldiers,” he said.

  Sitting Bull nodded. “We should, but I don’t think the hotheads will listen to us. I think we might have to lead without knowing where we are going. But that will be better than letting them go off on their own”

  “We can make them listen to us,” Crazy Horse insisted.

  Sitting Bull shook his head. “No, all we can do is go with them and try to save them from themselves. They are reckless and spoiling for a fight. You’d better get your rifle and pony.”

  The war party rode for three days. Each night, around the council fire, Sitting Bull tried to convince the other men—with the help of Crazy Horse—of the need for restraint, for careful planning, for an understanding of the white man’s way of fighting. And every night the council dissolved in argument. A few of the other warriors, like White Bull and Two
Bows, were also in favor of careful planning. But most of the younger men, even Lone Bear, were too angry to listen or learn. Long Holy had filled their heads with his foolishness, and they were determined to prove that his medicine worked.

  On August 14, word came back from the advance scouts. There were many bluecoats, both horse soldiers and foot soldiers … maybe four hundred, maybe more. Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse tried once again to devise a reasonable strategy, but the younger men were not to be deterred. They pushed their mounts far ahead, and all Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull could do was follow behind.

  The advance party swept over the last ridge above the mouth of Arrow Creek, a mile from where it met the Tongue River, and galloped down on the army herd. They succeeded in driving off some American horses and cattle, but the attack was too spontaneous to have much impact on the soldiers. Under the command of Major E. M. Baker, they quickly mounted a defense. Their superior weapons drove off the Lakota, who retreated with little to show for their efforts, and with any opportunity for a surprise attack swept away.

  When the attackers rejoined the main body of Lakota, Long Holy announced that he and seven of his adherents were going to ride up to the army lines and circle around them four times. He said that all eight of them would return safe and sound. “Maybe then,” he challenged, “you will see that what I have been saying is true. Maybe then you will believe.”

  With a contemptuous glance at Sitting Bull, Long Holy climbed onto his pony and led the charge. He had taught his followers a medicine song, and they shouted it at the top of their lungs as they rode around Baker’s men. A hail of gunfire poured out from the defensive positions. One by one the circling warriors were hit by bullets, until four of the eight were badly wounded.

  Sitting Bull, unable to bear it any longer, charged into the open area between the Lakota and the soldiers. “Stop!” he shouted. “Stop this foolishness! You’ll all get yourselves killed.” He saw the blood streaming from the four wounded Lakota and could no longer contain his contempt for Long Holy and his false pride.

  But Long Holy was not ready to give up. “I brought them here to make war,” he shouted. “Let them do it!”

  Sitting Bull paid no attention to the medicine man, and instead argued with the young warriors, trying to persuade them to be more cautious. Frightened by the results of their first charge behind Long Holy, and more than a little intimidated by the obvious anger of the great Sitting Bull, they listened.

  For two solid hours, the two sides exchanged shots at long range, neither side causing much damage. Then, in an attempt to provoke pursuit, Crazy Horse galloped his pony down toward the bluecoats and rode slowly across the entire width of the soldiers’ line. But not one soldier came out to chase him. Instead, the Long Knives continued to blaze away at long range, with little effect. When Crazy Horse returned to the Lakota line, Sitting Bull was annoyed. He felt that Crazy Horse was getting too much attention for his heroics.

  Dismounting, he took his pipe and limped slowly across the open field until he was about midway between the opposing forces, at the edge of the effective range of the army rifles. He sat down and, using a flint and steel, lit the pipe. Casually, Sitting Bull puffed away, until a wreath of smoke swirled around him. Turning to look over his shoulder, he shouted, “Anyone who wants to join me in a smoke, come on.”

  Several young warriors, anxious to prove their mettle, took the chief’s dare and came out to join him. Soon, six or seven were arrayed in a line. Sitting Bull passed the pipe to his nephew, White Bull, who puffed hurriedly then passed the pipe along to the next man. The others smoked as fast as they could while bullets whistled around them, swarming like bees, tearing chunks of sod loose but hitting no one.

  When the pipe had finally made its way back down the line to Sitting Bull, he took one more puff. One by one, the others who had smoked scampered back to safety, but Sitting Bull wasn’t finished yet. He got out his cleaning stick, scraped the pipe bowl clean, and put the pipe into its beaded sheath. Then he got to his feet slowly and limped back to join the others, a broad smile on his face. The whole war party was in awe. This was certainly the bravest thing any Lakota warrior had ever done, they thought. Admiration spread throughout the group of warriors.

  Then Crazy Horse played his trump card. Springing onto his pony, he called to White Bull, “Let’s make one more pass,” and he was off, charging across the open field toward one end of the army line. White Bull was behind him as he galloped the full length of the line, every soldier firing at him as he raced past. At the far end of the line, he turned back toward the Sioux, with White Bull, who had not gone as close, now in front of him.

  Crazy Horse was almost back to the others when a bullet caught his pony, killing it outright, spilling him to the ground. Scrambling and crawling, he raced back unhurt, his face wearing a smile even broader than that of Sitting Bull.

  Sitting Bull nodded his approval and returned the smile. “That’s enough for today,” he shouted. He might not have been outdone, but he had certainly been matched.

  Chapter 23

  Rosebud River Valley

  1875

  IN JULY OF 1874, A LONG U.S. ARMY column left Fort Abraham Lincoln and headed southwest. At its head rode Lieutenant Colonel George Armstrong Custer. The Lakota knew of him and his fearsome reputation. In 1868, Long Hair, as they called him, had led an attack on a Cheyenne village along the Washita River in Indian territory, attacking the very same camp that had been decimated by Colonel Chivington at Sand Creek. This time the chief of the Cheyenne, Black Kettle, who had survived Sand Creek, was not so lucky. Now Long Hair was leading his Long Knives into the very heart of sacred Lakota land, the Paha Sapa, the Black Hills. The Lakota were already fuming over the intrusion of soldiers and survey teams and, when the surveys were complete, the construction crews building the Northern Pacific Railroad. The route planned for the new railroad would go through the heart of the Yellowstone River country, just as Sitting Bull had predicted so long ago when Gall had signed the treaty at Fort Rice.

  It was beginning to seem to Sitting Bull that only he and Crazy Horse saw just how far the white men were prepared to go to get what they wanted. Assurances meant nothing, treaties meant nothing, and now apparently even the agreement that the Black Hills would remain inviolate meant nothing.

  The Lakota had been promised that the whites would not enter the Black Hills without their express permission, but Long Hair had not asked permission and he was heading a column large enough to suggest that he was not prepared to be dissuaded by anything short of total war. The justification for the expedition was the need to find a place to build a fort which would enable the military to supervise the treaty Lakota at the Red Cloud and Spotted Tail agencies. But Sitting Bull wasn’t sure. There were plenty of places for such a fort that did not profane the sacred lands of the Lakota.

  Scouts kept close watch on Custer for the two-month duration of the expedition, but there was no outright challenge to the column. When Custer returned, Sitting Bull was sorry that he hadn’t taken a stronger stand as soon as the destination of the troops became known. Custer trumpeted to the world the discovery of gold in the Black Hills, and the announcement triggered a flood of prospectors, and later, mining crews. And where the miners went, the merchants went—towns springing up like weeds overnight to accommodate the needs of the miners and freighters.

  Crazy Horse, incensed by the desecration of Paha Sapa, had taken to leading small bands of Oglala in hit-and-run attacks on mining camps and the supply trains that constantly wound their way through the hills. But it was like trying to stop a flood with a single sponge. There were just too many whites pouring in, and when the Indian attacks increased in frequency, the military presence was augmented. It was an ever increasing spiral.

  Sitting Bull had his hands full with other troubles in the Yellowstone valley. Settlements were springing up, and the railroad crews were making progress. And to add to the irritation, the hated Crows, who had their reservati
on and agency nearby, were increasing their presence in Hunkpapa hunting grounds.

  It was beginning to seem to Sitting Bull as if he and his people were being attacked from all sides, and it was difficult to know where to concentrate his attention. As a holy man, he was concerned about the Black Hills; as a traditionalist, he cared about the Crows, his bitterest enemies; and as a Lakota, he cared about the influx of whites into every corner of Sioux territory.

  Sitting Bull had been warring with the whites for so long now that he seemed to understand them better than any other Lakota war chief except Crazy Horse. But Crazy Horse was too much of a mystic and too solitary by disposition to do what Sitting Bull knew had to be done. It was important to marshal as much manpower as possible, and that meant reaching out to other peoples. As the principal chief of the Hunkpapas, he had the prominence needed to approach other leaders, not just of the Lakota but of other tribes as well. With the number of Lakota now on the reservations, many of them disaffected but also many who believed as Red Cloud now did that accommodation was the only way to preserve themselves, allies had to be found to prosecute the full-scale war which Sitting Bull now believed to be inevitable.

  The Hunkpapa had had the least to do with the whites, because of the seven Lakota tribes, their hunting grounds had, until recently, been the least disturbed by the invaders. As a consequence, the Hunkpapa had the greatest percentage of all Lakota bands living off the reservation. But Hunkpapas alone would not be enough. Even if all the disaffected treaty warriors were to band together with the nontreaty bands from all seven Lakota tribes, they would not be enough.

  Sitting Bull knew that in order to wage the war on the scale he now believed necessary he needed as many warriors as he could get. The Cheyenne had long been allies, and with Sand Creek still a vivid memory, and the Washita a bitter reminder that being friendly and peaceful was no guarantee of protection against the predatory whites, they were likely candidates to join the alliance Sitting Bull planned to propose.