The next morning, Crazy Horse and a small group of hardened veterans set out east toward the Black Hills. Feeling relatively secure in their own territory, they traveled swiftly. They carried an assortment of firearms, a few muzzle-loading rifles, a few cap-and-ball pistols, and some breech-loading single-shot rifles captured at the Battle of the Hundred in the Hand eight years earlier. Powder and bullets were in short supply, however, so as a backup each man had a bow, some two, and at least one quiver of forty or so arrows. Lances, knives, and hand clubs for close-in fighting rounded out their arsenal.
A few days out, one of them hid near a waterhole and lured an antelope to within bow range by waving a raccoon tail on a stick. The fresh meat tasted of sage but it was welcome fare. As usual, the men gorged on the trail, eating as much of the roasted meat as they could. Days later, they could just barely make out the summit of Bear Butte, and from there they turned southeast into the mountains.
Traveling into the Black Hills—even simply observing them from a distance—always evoked a moment of reverence, an unspoken acknowledgment of all that this sacred place meant. Such feelings were often hard to put into words, so one simply paused and looked and allowed images to have their impact. Now there was a dark feeling, an undercurrent of uncertainty mixed with anger over the blatant invasion by the whites.
One of the men suddenly spoke of his sister, a young woman who had been abducted by soldiers when the family had visited relatives near the post on Horse Creek years earlier during the height of white movement on the Holy Road. When she didn’t come home, the family thought she was staying with a cousin. Days later she returned, so withdrawn into herself that she spoke to no one for days. When she finally did, her story broke her mother’s heart and sent her father into a rage. Only the influence of her closest friend prevented him from taking revenge. Months later, the girl gave birth to a light-skinned baby with gray eyes. She would have nothing to do with the child and her mother finally gave it away to relatives who raised the boy. In the storyteller’s opinion, what had happened to his sister was happening to the Black Hills. No one could disagree, and so they rode on in silence.
Not only were these mountains the place of Crazy Horse’s birth, they were the center of the Lakota world, which carried far more meaning.
The heart of everything that is.
Sun Dances were done here near Bear Butte and on its summit; many boys on the edge of young manhood, and men seeking to rediscover their path, did the vision quest. No one knew how many Lakota were laid to rest here in these mountains—over countless seasons their flesh and bones becoming one with this most sacred of places. There was no way to own these mountains, not in the sense one owned clothing or a weapon. But this was a place to feel connected, truly related to
everything that is.
It was a place that owned the Lakota. Any of these truths were reason enough to protect the Black Hills at all costs.
No one could have imagined that years, no, generations ago—when the first trickle of whites edged their way into Lakota lands—that it could come to this. Crazy Horse played in these great mountains as a boy. He had hunted here as boy and man, and as much as he loved the Shining Mountains and the Powder River region, no place defined his sense of being like the Black Hills.
The rumors and fears were true. Whites were in the Black Hills and were not hard to find. Along just about every stream, groups of them had set up strange wooden boxes through which they ran water. They were young and old, bearded, unkempt, and busy. Many of them simply dipped flat pans into the water and swirled it around. Watching from hiding, Crazy Horse and his men marveled at how much danger the miners were willing to face, how much discomfort they were willing to endure to find the gold. Gold, it was said, could buy anything for them including horses, dwellings, weapons, clothes, food, and women. It was a strange way to live, the Lakota thought as they watched the busy miners. Most of the little camps had no one on watch as sentinels to look out for any kind of danger. Finding the gold was apparently more important than their safety.
The tactics Crazy Horse and his companions used were simple, yet effective. After observing isolated miners’ camps to determine their numbers and weapons, they positioned themselves and swept in. If the terrain was rough and offered good cover, they sneaked in close on foot before they attacked. In open areas with little cover, they charged in on horses. In either situation, they used their lances and war clubs and the silent bow quite effectively. Rarely did any miner react quickly enough to fire a gun, which worked in the Lakota’s favor. Without gunshots to warn anyone else in the area, miners in the next valley or watershed remained oblivious and thus vulnerable to attack.
It was only a matter of time, however, before the whites began to discover the bodies left behind by Crazy Horse’s attacking force. But by then, the number of miners in the northern part of the Black Hills had been considerably reduced. After a wild shot by a terrified miner wounded a good man, Crazy Horse decided their foray was over. It was time to go home. With a string of pack mules they had captured, with many usable items still in their packs, such as butcher knives and iron cooking pots, they turned their horses westward. The most valuable booty, however, was rifles, pistols, and bullets. One of the men had given Crazy Horse a new kind of repeating rifle he had found, one that could be fired nine times before it had to be reloaded.
It was necessary to attack the miners and kill them. They were trespassers and thieves, not honorable enemies. The tactics they used were the only way to fight them, especially in the Black Hills. Strike hard and fast, inflict as much chaos and as many casualties as possible, and withdraw swiftly. That kind of fighting would play to the Lakota’s strengths and skills as fighters good at close combat. Crazy Horse spoke these thoughts to his companions as they rode home, and they listened and agreed. They had seen firsthand what could be done. If enough Lakota fighting men could be persuaded to fight in the same way, and if enough bullets and powder could be obtained, the whites could be driven away.
“How many bullets would we need to drive all the whites away?” asked one of them. It was a difficult question to answer because no one knew how many whites walked the face of the earth.
Crazy Horse found the duties of leadership waiting at home. The council of old men wanted to hear about the raiding, and so he told them. The pack mules, as well as the items in the packs, were given away to families who needed them. Crazy Horse spent long days in the council lodge with the old men; sometimes they talked far into the night. He felt a sense of restlessness at doing nothing but talking, especially given the sense of satisfaction from the successful raids against the miners in the Black Hills. But he realized that he was at a turning point in this life, a time when his experience was broad and he had much to draw on. He wasn’t ready to stop leading men in the field, but it was clearer that common sense and good thinking were as effective as dynamic, action-oriented leadership. He had a newfound appreciation for the wisdom of the old men. Yet the sense of restlessness wouldn’t dissipate.
Worm came to visit and got around to urging his son to exercise more caution when facing the enemy. Crazy Horse’s companions had told of their actions against the miners in the Black Hills and described how their leader was always the first to charge. Worm was concerned that his son was too reckless, admonishing that he had more than a family to worry over him. A leader had many families to think of and shouldn’t forget there were matters to attend to other than leading fighting men. There were other men capable and qualified to do that. But the old man’s underlying concern was his son’s state of mind after the death of his daughter. Recklessness was Crazy Horse’s way as a fighting man and it served to inspire other men to fight harder. Yet it was only natural to wonder if recklessness could now be a way to seek death, a way to challenge his boyhood vision, in a way, especially after the unexpected death of a beloved daughter. Worm understood only too well the confusing swirl that grief caused.
Crazy Horse listened to his father, taking no exception to the older man’s words and concerns. Worm was right. The nation was split, the sacred hoop of the people was broken. There were now two kinds of Lakota, those living on agencies and the few still living the true path. Without good leadership, the two factions would remain divided and the situation would get worse before it got better, if at all. That was the reason the whites sent soldiers into the Black Hills. They knew the Lakota couldn’t mount an effective resistance with most of the able-bodied men languishing on the agencies. Now the Loafers were suggesting the Black Hills were lost.
Crazy Horse knew what his father was trying to say. A leader had to consider issues bigger than his personal burdens. One of the old men on the council had suggested that the future of the “true Lakota,” as he put it, rested with Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse. In the opinion of that old man, the Loafers were tainted, by and large more interested in pleasing the Long Knives so that annuities and food rations would be provided. Therefore, they - could no longer be regarded as true Lakota, or trusted to act for the good of the nation. The old man, speaking for all the old men, was pointing out that a responsibility beyond the two hundred families in this encampment rested on Crazy Horse’s shoulders. Of course, he could walk away from it if he chose. But now, perhaps more than at any other time before, the Lakota needed strong leaders.
Disturbing news came north from the Red Cloud agency, and perhaps within the story was the very reason for the need for strong leaders. The white Indian agent, a diminutive but brash man by all accounts, had insisted once again that all the Lakota living within treaty-designated territory be counted. When that notion had first been voiced, Red Cloud himself had answered with a resounding “no.” When the agent decided to withhold food rations until the agency Lakota complied, Red Cloud refused again, warning that the agent was running the risk of fomenting unrest among some of the younger men. But to prevent hardship for the women and children and old people, two younger leaders—Young Man Afraid and Sword—complied and allowed their camps to be counted. Some of the “wild” Lakota who had been encamped closely to the north of the agency to visit their agency relatives broke camp and hurried away to avoid detection. The agent had his count: ten thousand Lakota, it was said. But, sadly, it was becoming clear that Red Cloud’s influence was waning and his judgment was in question.
Ten thousand Lakota, and within that number just over a thousand fighting men, more than enough to wipe out the whites at the agency. Crazy Horse marveled at the power the white agent must have, or the power Red Cloud no longer did. If a thousand Lakota warriors had overwhelmed the soldiers at and around the agency and taken control, the message such an action would have sent across Lakota country would have been loud and strong. But the agency Lakota, apparently seduced by the rations of poor longhorn cattle and a few blankets, let the opportunity pass.
Crazy Horse was sickened by the implication that the Loafers empowered the white Indian agent to that extent. It was hard to believe that so many grown and capable men would stand by while a small group of whites—surrounded like a small island in a river—held sway over them. As the months went by, the circumstances indicated that perhaps the agency Lakota would have been wise to take some kind of action when there had been the opportunity.
Because the buffalo were few, the “wild” Lakota hunted during the autumn for deer and elk to make meat for the winter. When the snows came, they were prepared because the old ones warned of hard times; the horses grew their winter hair early, the bears were unusually fat, and the geese flew south early. When the howling winds came, the Crazy Horse people tightened their doors and ventured out into the deep snow only when absolutely necessary. Overall, they were more fortunate than the agency Lakota.
Deep snow kept the freight wagons at the railway stations with the annuities and food rations intended for the agencies. No white herders would risk life or limb to drive the longhorn cattle from the rail terminals to the agencies. The “wild” Lakota were at least free to hunt if their meat ran low; at the agencies, the people living the “good life” under the care and protection of the whites had to eat their horses to survive, and they shivered throughout the long winter.
Spring came, but the only improvement was in the weather. Miners poured into the Black Hills as soon as the snow melted. Messengers arrived from Sitting Bull. The Hunkpapa holy man was suggesting that the people gather to talk before it was too late. As if underscoring his concern came news that Red Cloud was going east to speak to the “great father” in Washington.
Crazy Horse and the old men agreed that they should keep an ear to the ground. Red Cloud’s trip east would certainly affect - everyone because the whites didn’t understand, or simply ignored the fact, that there were different opinions among the Lakota. The camp moved south, with some of the young men going directly to the agencies to remind the agency Lakota, especially the Red Cloud people, that there was still another way to live.
Red Cloud, it was learned, was making the trip to persuade the powers in Washington to remove the little agent from his agency. Crazy Horse could only smile wryly at the news. He saw it differently. Going to the seat of white power was the same as saying that living on agencies was the future for the Lakota. Perhaps some did actually say that to the “great father.” When all was said and done, it didn’t matter who the agent was on the Spotted Tail agency or on the Red Cloud agency. As long as there was an agent and the Lakota accepted annuities, the whites were in control. But when Red Cloud and the others returned—and there were many supposed headmen who made the trip—the news they brought back incensed the “wild” Lakota. The “great father” wanted to buy the Black Hills.