Chapter 8
Across the hills along the Powder River, Indian lodges stretched out along the horizon. There were perhaps a hundred lodges here, where close to three hundred warriors lived with their women and children.
When they reached the lodges, Blade and Ice Raven went to their sister’s tipi.
Pretty Bird was a young widow who had recently lost her husband during a raid against the Crow.
She now lived alone with her four young children and was glad that her brothers had come to stay with her.
She lived with the Crazy Horse people, not because they were one band or family but because she and her husband had chosen to do so.
Still, life for a woman with young children could be difficult, no matter how seriously the rest of the group might take its Sioux responsibility for generosity.
Yet they had barely greeted Pretty Bird and had a chance to eat and slake their thirst from the ride when a warrior arrived, asking them to come see Crazy Horse. Both men were glad to do so.
Crazy Horse was a warrior who commanded respect.
He had never suggested to others that they must follow him or become hostile.
He led by example and was respected because his deeds in battle had always been so extraordinary.
Crazy Horse refused to leave his injured braves behind after a fight.
He was quick to lead and equally as quick to risk himself.
He was brave without being reckless of the lives of others, a brave man who could think as well.
Crazy Horse had been a Shirt Wearer when the practice had been revived among the Sioux, one of a very few honored men among the people who had the power and authority to keep the young braves together in a hunt or a fight.
There had been one period in Crazy Horse’s life when he had been reckless. He had been in love.
Black Shawl was a beautiful woman. Coveted by many men.
He had once courted her in the way many braves had courted her, coming to her family home with his blanket and using his blanket as a screen while they enjoyed a few brief moments of private conversation.
But when he had been away on a raid against the Crows, Black Shawl had married No Water.
Crazy Horse tried to respect that marriage.
He traveled, spending time with other bands, enjoying visits among the Northern Cheyenne.
But in time, he came to see Black Shawl again, and his heart swayed both his mind and his conscience.
He ran away with Black Shawl.
Wife-stealing did occur among the Sioux.
Sometimes, it was a simple matter. When the wife of a highly respected man ran away from him, pride dictated that he take it lightly, that he should, perhaps, expect a few ponies in exchange for her.
But No Water let the matter strike his heart.
He came after Crazy Horse and Black Shawl, shooting Crazy Horse.
The shot shattered his jaw. No Water thought that he had killed Crazy Horse.
But Crazy Horse hadn’t died. He recovered in his uncle’s care.
Wife-stealing was considered fairly minor.
Shooting, nearly killing a fellow warrior, was serious.
There might have been tremendous bloodshed.
There could have been irreconcilable breaks among the bands.
But cool heads prevailed. Crazy Horse was going to survive with a scar across his lower face.
His uncle accepted ponies from No Water.
Crazy Horse said the matter was done, so long as Black Shawl received no ill treatment because of the affair.
Men received little chastisement for adultery, but though it was rare, women could have their noses slashed, among other mutilations.
The matter was settled. Black Shawl returned to No Water. Crazy Horse endured his disgrace and went on again to prove himself a mighty warrior.
Now he sat alone in his tipi, cross-legged before his fire, smoking his pipe when Blade and Ice Raven arrived. Despite the scar that marred his jaw, he was a striking man, tightly muscled, with dark eyes and strong features.
“Welcome,” he told them both.
They greeted him in return, sitting comfortably with him before the fire. He asked them if they were hungry, but they told him they had eaten. Then he asked them about the events taking place in the white world. “How is my white-striped brother?” he teased, referring to their cousin, Hawk.
“Mourning his father.”
Crazy Horse nodded. David Douglas had been admired and liked among the Sioux. He had never betrayed a promise—a rare thing for a white man.
“We talked a long time,” Blade told Crazy Horse. “He does not like what he sees coming in the future.”
Crazy Horse waved a hand in the air. “That the whites now blanket the Black Hills?”
Ice Raven shrugged. “What bothers Hawk is deeper than that.”
“He thinks that we should not be hostiles?”
Ice Raven shook his head strenuously. “No. He is Sioux. He knows each man follows his own vision. But he believes that the whites now see us as an obstruction which must be entirely removed. That they will want to kill us all, decimate our numbers, as they have decimated the buffalo.”
“They have decimated our numbers as well,” Crazy Horse murmured.
Thousands of the Sioux were living on agency grounds now.
They tried to influence their hostile friends and relations, telling them that the White Father, President Grant, saw to it that they were given cows for the warriors to hunt down and the squaws to butcher.
Crazy Horse did not want to hunt cows. And he was well aware from the many Sioux of different bands and groups who had left the agencies to join him that the stories of abundance were lies.
Most often, grain rations were filled with worms. There were very few skinny cows, and those were often diseased.
There was tremendous corruption in the agencies, and even many of those army men the Indians knew—some of them actually friends and some of them leaders who had spoken with the Sioux seeking peace—often admitted the corruption.
Crazy Horse wanted no part of it.
Now Red Cloud, who had once been a very fierce warrior, dealt with the white men. Crazy Horse did not resent Red Cloud for his choice. He simply didn’t agree with it.
The whites wanted Red Cloud to sell them the Black Hills.
Red Cloud couldn’t do so. He needed the majority of the Sioux leaders to agree to sell the land.
Crazy Horse was already aware that the agency Indians were planning to bring many of the Sioux together so that they could talk about the Black Hills.
The people were divided. Some hostiles wanted to sell the hills, some did not.
Some agency Indians wanted to sell the hills, some did not.
No one agreed on what the price should be.
Crazy Horse didn’t care.
They could invite him from now until the sun went down forever. He would not go to any meeting.
Thunder Hawk had left the Sioux. He had embraced many of the white ways, but his heart had remained Sioux.
He always did his best to explain what the whites said—and what they meant.
He could explain all the words used and translate true meanings.
He warned the Sioux when he expected danger.
He told his friends and family when he thought it might be best to bend and when not.
He always remembered that he could advise, and that in the end, each man followed his own vision, just as he did himself.
“They will send out men from the agencies to ask you to come in and talk. And the army will ask Hawk to come to us.”
Crazy Horse nodded in agreement. He smiled.
“He will come,” he said with assurance.
Blade said, “Yes,” in agreement. “Sloan—Cougar-in-the-Night—will come for him, and they will ride out together, most certainly. We were beginning to discuss this, but then he heard the woman.”
“The woman?”
Ice Raven nodded gravely. “A white woman, young, very beautiful. As we talked at old Riley’s stagecoach stop, she came in to eat. We could hear her. She claimed to be Lady Douglas. Hawk was upset.”
Blade chuckled softly. “We played out an attack upon her stagecoach.”
“She fought with more spirit than many a Crow!” Ice Raven laughed.
Crazy Horse arched a brow. Their traditional Crow enemies were certainly brave, though naturally they mocked their enemies. But the woman must have been interesting.
“Since his father has died,” Crazy Horse said, “and Hawk is one with the white world, then he is Lord Douglas, as his father was called.”
Blade nodded.
“So who was the woman?”
Ice Raven looked at Blade and shrugged. “We rode with him and Willow to seize the stagecoach, but from there, he wished to handle the matter himself. He took her away on his horse, and we parted company with our brother Willow and returned here.”
“They’re sending his father’s body here from across the land. When it comes, they will bury David Douglas in the ground at Mayfair, as is the white way.”
“I will wait for Hawk to come here to tell him we all honored David,” Crazy Horse said. “I will not go near the whites.”
“He knows what is happening. He will not expect you,” Blade said.
“Perhaps his good childhood friend, Dark Mountain, will go,” Ice Raven said.
Crazy Horse smiled. “Good. I am anxious to hear about this woman. Although…” He was silent a minute, then shrugged. “Men must be careful where women are concerned.”
“He was angry, nothing more,” Ice Raven assured Crazy Horse.
“She was very beautiful?” Crazy Horse asked.
“A man must like pale skin and blonde hair. If he does, then, yes, she was very beautiful. Eyes like silver. A fine, young, firm body.”
“If she was very beautiful, and he was very angry, ah, well, then, it might well be dangerous,” Crazy Horse said with a hint of humor. “I hope that Dark Mountain chooses to go to see Hawk to help give his father’s body up to his god. Dark Mountain will be able to tell us about the woman.”
“Well, if she is Lady Douglas, perhaps Hawk will be bringing her here.”
“What white woman will come here?” Crazy Horse demanded.
Blade shrugged, grinning at his brother. “She has already been attacked by Indians.”
“Perhaps he will bring her. I would like to see a blonde woman who can fight like a Crow,” Crazy Horse said.
He passed his pipe then, speaking about their need to be close to Wakan Tanka, to keep in deep association with the White Buffalo Woman who had taught them all things.
Soon after, Blade and Ice Raven left him again, to return to the home of their sister.
They had agreed to form a hunting party the following day.
When they were gone, Crazy Horse stood outside his tipi. He looked to the east and the west, the north and the south.
As far as he could see right now, the world was his.
The river, the earth, the night sky, dotted with stars.
It was a beautiful time of year. The nights were growing cooler.
Fall would come, then winter. Winter was hard and harsh.
Even then, he loved the landscape when he looked forever, and all that he saw was Sioux.
What he saw, he knew, was a lie. For just within the hills, the white men lived. They’d come so quickly! They were madmen over gold!
Custer, he thought with aggravation. Custer had opened the way through the hills, Sa Papa. Custer, who fought the Indians. Who made Indians his scouts, mocked them, used them. Custer knew the Indians well. Knew that traditional enemies could be induced to prey upon one another.
So many army men in the West! When the white man had fought him, they had been weak. By the white way of war, the brave, wise men were kept in the East to fight one another. There were few men in the West who fought well then, who could be respected.
But the white war was long over now. More and more men came with the army to protect the settlers. They came, like a wave of giant white worms, covering the plain.
He closed his eyes. He would ride against them. Fight them. He would not give up.
But for a moment, he felt a curious shudder. He was not afraid. He was not a coward. He knew Death, he had seen it many times. He would never die afraid.
He wasn’t afraid for himself, he realized.
He was afraid for the land. For the little children he could hear crying softly from various tipis. For something he could not see that stretched ahead of him.
He was not the only man to lead others against the whites.
No Indian sat with greater determination against them than Sitting Bull of the Hunkpapa.
He was older than Crazy Horse. A renowned warrior, a holy man.
Crazy Horse listened when Sitting Bull spoke.
Together with the others who shared their hearts, they would make a stand.
And still, he felt the shudder.
The whites were coming. Blanketing them.
He shook the feeling away and entered his tipi, focused on more cheerful thoughts. Like those of a half-white blood brother he called friend. He sighed, stirring his fire to heighten it. He lay down to sleep. “Ah, Hawk, my friend! Trust me as one who knows. Women are trouble!”