by Jory Sherman
"Hou!" shouted Beaver Tail, "I will open my ears to Swift Bear. Do we kill the whites? We have weapons. We are strong. Those who ran away from here should die."
"No," said Swift Bear, his voice rising above the clamor of the hot-bloods who wanted to get more scalps, strike coup. "You are like the foolish bluecoat soldiers who would kill people for no reason. You who would be strong men of good heart go help our running away people. Or have the years of peace made you all weak-hearted and crazy? The Lakota are in big trouble this day and men are needed to help them. Or do you want to be boys shaking the white man's beds looking for women and children to kill? Are you still small boys playing at war now that the first battle has been fought and our chief gives up his spirit? Come with me now, or go back to kicking and shaking the brush for rabbits that have gone underground."
Red Tomahawk knew that Swift Bear's words were good and he thought of Curly back at the Oglala camp helping their people. He felt ashamed and turned his horse away, started riding back to the immigrant road.
Behind him, he heard the voices of young Brules rise up in agreement with Swift Bear. He looked back, saw them run to their horses. Someone, he could not see who, shook Jim Bordeaux and kicked him in the rump. But they left him alone after that. They did not kill him.
Soon, braves were riding past him, going fast, and Red Tomahawk whipped his pony, too and raced with them down the road that had become like a booming thunder with the beats of many hooves.
Red Tomahawk was not prepared for the sights he saw. The river bottom was crammed with fleeing Lakotas. A warrior marked the path across the quicksands of the Shell by shoving willow poles straight through the water into firm footing. Men urged the women and children, slapped the rumps of horses pulling the travois, to get them all assembled to cross the river.
The Brule camp had disappeared except for a single lodge left standing, Conquering Bear's, which was now guarded by members of his akicita, the warrior society and some of those men of the councils, Man Afraid and Big Patriot. Red Tomahawk saw that the dead bodies of the white soldiers were still scattered on the ground.
Some of the young braves on ponies charged the bodies, speared them, leaped over them, shot arrows into the corpses until they bristled like porcupines. Curly was one of them and when he saw Red Tomahawk, he gave a whoop and rode to meet him. Unlike the others, he wore no paint.
"Get a rope," said Curly. "We are going to wreck the wagon guns."
Red Tomahawk did not find a rope, but young braves rode up, threw loops over the guns and all the boys took turns helping to drag them around the camp, gouging furrows in the earth with the barrels. He, Curly and He Dog dragged their gun down to the river, pulled it into the current and cut it loose. It floated downstream and sank. They raced back to join the boys piling brush around the gun carriages and the wagons. They set fire to the brush and watched the wood burn as they rode circles around the bonfire, whooping and shouting.
The women at the river called to them in their trilling birdlike Lakota words and the boys rode toward the river until they saw some Oglalas coming who were shouting out pleas for any to join them who wanted to go after their enemies, the whites. It was a wild time of confusion and hurry, with Lakotas streaming away from their camps and the young men crying out for blood and war.
Red Tomahawk heard snatches of news from the coming and going young men. The Frenchman, Jim Bordeaux, who was married to a Brule woman, had put out food and molasses for the Indians and they had found a white soldier hiding in the bushes with an arrow sticking out of his stomach. Some said the whites of the stockade wanted to go to Fort Laramie and that if they did, some of the young hot-bloods would surely kill them.
During this time of lament and confusion, Snow Wolf appeared on his spotted pony, his face painted for war.
"Hunkashila," he called. "Boy, come here."
Red Tomahawk rode up to his father, cast his face down.
Snow Wolf shook his shield in his son's face.
"Where have you been? Your mother has been worried that you had given up your breath. That the white soldiers had killed you. That you had fallen, been hurt. Maybe drowned or fallen from your pony and broken your neck."
These were a mother's thoughts. Always. Red Tomahawk shrugged, knowing this, wondering why his father said these things to him when he was a grown man, well past twelve summers. He looked up at his father's face, then, and realized that Snow Wolf had worried too but was only using Lady Walking Crow's words as his own.
"I have been fighting," said the young man. "You should have seen how we swarmed over the white soldiers and killed them before they ran off like whipped pups."
"You had better paint yourself and help us cross the river before it turns red with our blood."
"The white soldiers are running. They hide like mice under the hawk's shadow. Look at what we did to them. Their corpses will feed the buzzards in tomorrow's sun."
Snow Wolf blew noisy whoofs of air through his nose-holes, like the stamping herd bull before a fight. He looked at his son whose face and chest were splattered and flecked with dust and blood. He looked at the stiffening bodies of the mutilated white soldiers, arrows sticking out of them like quills, ribs caved in, stomachs opened by spears, flies crawling over them in buzzing shadows. He looked at the lone lodge of Conquering Bear standing there, its wing flaps jutting like some big frozen bird against the sky, and the soldier society guarding it as though it was a sacred place.
"Go to Lady Walking Crow and the travois. Get your warrior things. Make your medicine strong. This ugliness is not over yet. The white soldiers will be making pipes and talking strong against the Lakota."
Red Tomahawk's heart swelled in his chest.
"You want me to go against the whites? You want me to take up the warclub and paint my face for battle?"
"I am going to the Bordeaux stockade. If your pony can keep up with mine, then we will go together."
"You know, then, my father, that we will now kill the white men and drive them from our lands?"
Snow Wolf snorted again through his nostrils.
"Hurry to your mother. Get those things you need. You have no more arrows in your quiver. Your warclub is not on your sash."
"You are painted for battle, Father. Will you follow Crazy Horse?"
"Crazy Horse? The holy man? He is old. He is not a warrior."
"I speak of his son, the one we call Curly. He will lead the Lakota."
"Little Curly? Whose pale hair is so fine it looks like the soft feathers on a baby prairie chicken? The friend of the Pretty One?"
"Yes."
"He is a boy, like you."
Red Tomahawk drew himself up, peered at his father with straight-looking eyes.
"He is a young warrior, Father. But he is not like me. He is not like anyone. I think he sees into the suns yet to come as if he had walked there before."
"We will follow Hump or Man Afraid. These are the strong men of our councils. These are the proven warriors. Curly is no more than a boy, a dreamer of strange dreams. Do not listen to his words. I have spoken this from my heart. Now, you must leave this place of death. There are bad spirits here now. Quick. Go."
"Yes, Father," said his son. He clapped heels to his pony's flanks and headed for the river bottoms of the Shell.
But, he knew that Snow Wolf was wrong.
The Lakota would not follow those men he spoke of, for very long. Instead, they would fight behind a boy who would soon become the biggest man the Lakota had ever known. Curly.
Crazy Horse.
CHAPTER EIGHT
All night long, the young braves came and went from the Bordeaux stockade, eating the food that had been set out. Many wanted to attack the fort, but the trader talked against this until his throat rasped and his voice dwindled to a whisper. The Lakota moved north of the river, watched for fire signals from the scouts around Laramie. When the sun came up, the mirrors started talking to those who waited.
"Good news," said
Snow Wolf to his son. "No soldiers on the Holy Road. No comings and goings from the fort."
Red Tomahawk had been made to watch the pony herd during the night, but he and Chalk Face had slipped away to see what was going on at the Bordeaux stockade. Curly and Banded Eagle had relieved them after the middle hour of the night.
"Why do the men not make war?" Red Tomahawk asked Curly. "And why do they not make the victory dance for the scalps they took?"
"There is the death sign over our people and the soldiers died too easy."
After sleeping a few hours, Red Tomahawk now asked his father the same question.
"Will we not make war this day?"
"No. We will move to Rawhide Creek with Conquering Bear."
So, the ponies were brought in and the lodges struck once again. The Lakotas traveled northward through the breaks, the Oglalas and the Brules moving as one people.
Conquering Bear was carried in a buffalo-hide sling hanging from two long poles. Six strong Brule braves carried the poles on their shoulders, walked behind his favorite war horse. The horse was lead by the chief's wife. His shield and spear dangled from one side of the empty saddle, his war bonnet in its case hung on the other side. His guard of honor, front and rear, were members of his warrior society, all walking in stately procession.
The Lakotas made their journey in the ancient way, with four of the oldest chiefs, the councilors, traveling ahead to mark the good spots for stopping to rest and smoke or to make camp overnight. They carried the fire and the sacred things of the people. Behind them came the other head men and the warriors who guarded the travois carrying Bull Tail's body. Following Conquering Bear's sling were the old people of the tribe, men and women, the children, the lame one and the helpless. Next came the lodge and bundle travois pulled by men and boys, dogs and horses. In the wake of this procession came the pony herds. The rear guard followed, warriors armed with their personal weapons and guns they had taken from the white soldiers the day before. Scouts rode in the four directions, making sure that no Crow or Pawnee or white soldier came upon the column by surprise. This was time when the tribe was most vulnerable, but each person knew what to do in case the scouts rode in with bad news.
"There will be some who will ask you to go to the soldier town and make a battle," Snow Wolf told his son, "but you must stay with us during this bad time."
So, his father knew about the talk. Before the big camp was made on the Rawhide, many of the younger braves spoke of going back to get the goods coming to them from the Indian agent at the Gratiot houses. They knew that the store houses held a year's annuities for the Lakota. Some wanted to sneak away from the akicita and make war at the fort.
Now, the talk was even stronger as the scouts began coming in with reports that the soldiers had not picked up their dead and that the soldier chief Fleming had told Bordeaux that he could not help him if there was trouble. Some of the scouts said that there were few soldiers in the fort and they would not fight nor pick up their dead.
"I would go with Curly to the Gratiot houses to get blankets and goods."
"No, we do not want the white man's goods in our lodge."
"But these things are ours, promised to us."
"Do not argue. Tomorrow, the tribes will go in two directions, like the river when the beaver builds its dam. The Brules will go to the Running Water. We, the Oglala, will go to the north."
Red Tomahawk's face grew long and dark with disappointment.
He thought of Curly, who was an Oglala, but whose family would stay with the Brules. This was the way of the Lakota, putting the women with their own tribes in times of trouble. Curly would go with the Brules, then.
"I will do as you say, Father."
"This is good. Someday our people will be together again and it will be as it was before the soldiers came down the Holy Road. Now, we will scatter so that the soldiers will not know where we go and will have two paths to follow if they come after us."
"I have heard there are not many soldiers, that they will not look for us."
"Where the sun comes up in the morning sky, there are many soldiers who will come when the soldier chief at Laramie asks them. This is why we will go to the hunting grounds and try to forget this thing. Maybe the white soldiers will be calm when we are gone, will think about the bad things they did and leave us alone."
"Is Conquering Bear still alive, then?"
"Yes. He burns with the fever of lead in his entrails, but he leads his people still."
"And what does he say about the soldiers?"
"He says that they will come, even though we go far from the bad place of the killings."
Red Tomahawk's eyes glistened. Then Curly, son of Crazy Horse, was right. There would be war between the Lakota and the whites.
* * *
The morning sun made the prairie glow with a faint fire the color of a cougar's tawny hide. The three young braves waited in the dew-wet yellow grass behind a hillock, listening to the cluck-cluck of a mother prairie chicken as she readied her brood for roaming and feeding.
Chalk Face lifted his head to peek over the tops of the grasses. He turned to Banded Eagle and Red Tomahawk, made sign. The clucking sounds stopped, but he saw the grass move down in the sandy basin where the birds had wallowed beds out for their night's sleep.
Red Tomahawk fitted a blunt, untipped arrow to his bowstring. He began to circle, walking on his feet and hands like a four-footed animal. He moved slowly, thinking of how tasty the young prairie chickens would be in Lady Walking Crow's pot.
Banded Eagle went the other way, crab-walking the same way as his friend. Chalk Face hugged the hump of the earth, brought his bow up to make ready for the time when he could shoot.
Red Tomahawk listened to the cheeps of the baby chicks, made his path around the side of the basin. He carried a stick with a rawhide thong attached to the end. This was stuck in his sash, like a sword. He was careful not to drag it.
Reaching a point well away from Chalk Face, he looked down, saw the mother and her babies, fat little stub-winged chicks, all pecking away at the sand to fill their craws with fine particles. He marked the mother's spot, drew back and readied his bow. Banded Eagle, on the other side, raised a hand to show Red Tomahawk he could not see the chickens from his vantage point.
Red Tomahawk crawled back up to the rim of the basin, silent as a lizard on a rock. He drew his bow, pointed his arrow at the hen-mother. He drew the arrow back very slowly, aimed with care. He held his breath, steadying his bow. He released his fingers on the string.
The arrow sped whispering like breeze-disturbed grasses straight to the plump chest of the mother prairie chicken.
He saw the arrow sink through thick breast feathers. The bird flopped over on its side and flapped its wings. The chicks saw this happen and began to hop about, pecking at their mother curiously.
Red Tomahawk drew the willow shaft from his sash and crawled over the rim, down into the basin. When he was close, he stood up, began whipping the thong back and forth, popping off the heads of the baby chicks. Chalk Face and Banded Eagle scrambled down the sandy banks and began chasing the chicks. The cracking sound of the whip-thongs breaking small necks sounded like the crunch of moccasins on empty shells.
The boys hunted soundlessly until they had a half dozen hens and more than two dozen chicks. They gutted out the birds. Chalk Face scooped out a sandy place, filled it with dry sticks. Banded Eagle struck the flint with a piece of iron, setting off the fine shavings heaped underneath. The fire blazed, settled to hot coals. Red Tomahawk cut green willow sticks, sharpened their points. They roasted the chicks over the coals until they dripped and began to fall apart. They crammed the tender flesh into their mouths, smearing warm juices on their chins.
"It would be good if Curly was here," said Red Tomahawk.
"I wonder if he hunts as we do," said Chalk Face.
"I have heard there is no laughter in Bear chief's camp, that his life melts like tallow in the sun," said Banded
Eagle.
"Bad Face is to be the new chief of all the Teton Lakotas," said Red Tomahawk. "But the people will turn against him because his wife shames him."
"Stabber talks of driving Bear's family from camp and making peace with the whites."
Red Tomahawk spat in the dust.
"They fight over a man's place and his things when he is not even dead yet. Come. Let's take the hens home for the soup kettle."
And so the days passed until word from the scouts came that Conquering Bear was giving up the ghost. In the Moon of the Cherries Turning Black, the Brules built the death scaffold and put their chief there in his robes as the rumors flew back and forth between Oglalas and Brules. There was much lamenting over the loss of the white man's annuities.
There would be no iron for knives and arrow points, no new blankets for the coming winter. But, the soldiers were still shut up inside their adobe buildings and none came after the Lakotas.
The Oglalas moved toward the place of the buffalo, spending time making the arrows. There were games and races among the boys and warriors sang chants to make them strong for the hunt or war, if it came. White traders came to camp and made barter, but Red Tomahawk took no joy in these things. His heart pined for his friend, Curly, and when he saw frost on the edges of the river one morning, he knew that he would not see the light-haired one for many moons.
When the geese started to fill the sky, there was much hunting of the green-head ducks in the sloughs. The warriors brought deer in to camp, slung over their horses, and the Minneconjous passed through on their way north to the Missouri. There was bad talk about cutting off their heads in the old Lakota way and taking the skulls to the soldier fort as evidence of sorry and as proof that the Lakotas wanted to live in peace. But, no one did anything but talk and the scouts were sent out to get the people's minds off of doing such a terrible thing to their own people.
Red Tomahawk went out with Snow Wolf to find the buffalo and they hunted deer that were hard to shoot because other hungry men had chased them too much.