Joseph M. Marshall III (30 page)

Sell the heart of everything that is? Sell the dust of the ancestors? Crazy Horse was so disgusted at the news that he traveled north near Mniconju Lakota country to visit with Young Man Afraid. They had had their differences, but Young Man Afraid was a thoughtful man and rarely acted on impulse, and Crazy Horse wanted to hear what his friend thought about recent developments.

Young Man Afraid likened the situation to the people suddenly finding themselves at the edge of an approaching storm. The storm would come whether the people faced it or hid from it. The Lakota had two choices, and only two, in his opinion. Fight the whites or step aside and let them come.

The two friends agreed that something needed to be done and that in all probability a war with the whites the likes of which they had never known lay ahead. Crazy Horse left Young Man Afraid’s camp with a heavy heart but at the same time with a sense of vindication. Not everyone was in agreement with Red Cloud and Spotted Tail’s approach to dealing with the whites. They had all but stepped aside to let them come, Spotted Tail basing his position on the fact that there were too many to fight. There was a very difficult choice facing all the Lakota: one’s life or one’s freedom.
Better to lie a warrior naked in death than to be wrapped up well with a heart of water inside.
This was the creed by which he had lived as one whose calling was to protect the people and the Lakota way of life. Living on an agency under the control of whites was not Crazy Horse’s definition of life or the Lakota way. It was Spotted Tail’s right to make a choice, and Red Cloud’s as well. Overall, he thought no less of them, but he was firmly convinced they were wrong, and because of who they were, they had the power to mislead many people. If war was on the horizon, as Young Man Afraid had said, then it was a war to defend all that was right and sacred; it was not a war to infringe on others and take their land. Such a war must be fought with all the skill and commitment possible. It was the only way.

Crazy Horse and the young men who accompanied him went home by way of the Black Hills and managed to harass a few miners. But they were low on ammunition, not to mention anxious to return to their families. So they reluctantly avoided further contact even though miners were easy prey. The news awaiting them made them wish they had carried out more attacks while they had the opportunity. The “great father” was sending his peace talkers to persuade the Lakota to sell the Black Hills. A solemn promise was sent ahead. They would bring with them wagon after wagon piled high with gifts to show their good faith.

More than ever Crazy Horse felt the weight of responsibility. He was afraid that armed conflict with the whites on a scale never before seen was imminent. They were determined to have the Black Hills and would pressure the old men leaders among the agency Lakota to give their consent. He knew most of the old men among the agency people understood that one or a few men couldn’t speak for all the Lakota. More important, those old men understood what the Black Hills meant to the people. But most of those old men didn’t have much influence with the whites. A refusal from them would mean little, unless Red Cloud and Spotted Tail stood with them. Perhaps, suggested some, Red Cloud and the headman who had gone east had already sold the Black Hills. The only hope was that the very real possibility of losing the Black Hills would at least philosophically unite the Lakota. It would serve as the one issue behind which enough fighting men could stand. Sitting Bull, it seemed, had already realized that, sending out his call to gather. Crazy Horse understood the rationale behind the Hunkpapa Lakota leader’s message. Among the “wild” Lakota were not enough able-bodied men to put in the field against the whites. Most of the Lakota fighting men were on the agencies eating beef and pork and losing their edge as fighters. Meanwhile, the white peace talkers were coming to talk the Lakota into selling the Black Hills. Crazy Horse agreed with Sitting Bull’s logic: no matter what the agency Lakota did, the Black Hills and Lakota lands were not for sale. If the land were to be lost, and since the buffalo were already disappearing, the last vestige of being Lakota would disappear. So Sitting Bull was right. The first battle was for the hearts and minds of Lakota fighting men, because anything that was still meaningful to the Lakota—land and the way of life—must not be given away for meaningless words written on a paper and wagon loads of trinkets. Therefore, enough fighting men had to join the side of right because the next and final battle would be to defend the land—because defending the land was to defend the true Lakota way of life.

Back at the camps in the shadows of the Shining Mountains, the routine of life went on as usual. Children played within the circle of lodges, the most reassuring sign of all. Within them were the seeds of reassurance that the Lakota way of life would go on. Whatever happened, they had to be given the opportunity to fulfill their lives as true Lakota.

A few older boys were playing the Arrows-in-the-Hoop game, trying to shoot arrows through a wooden hoop rolled on the ground. Not far from them several girls watched over babies strapped in cradleboards. One child was conspicuous by her absence. She would be approaching her fifth year if she were down there with the rest of them. But she wasn’t. She ran and played in memory, where her scurrying footsteps raised no dust, only melancholy sighs.

More news came from the agencies. The white peace talkers had set a time and a place for their council. They would come in the Month of Leaves Turning Brown, the one they called September, to Red Cloud’s agency. A few fine gifts had been sent ahead with the white messengers who brought the news to the agencies, including a silver-trimmed repeating rifle for Red Cloud from the “great father” himself. Many old men among the “wild” Lakota could do nothing but raise their eyebrows at that bit of news. Some reiterated the thought that perhaps the Black Hills had already been sold when so many Lakota headmen had gone east to Washington. That would mean, then, that the council set for the Month of Leaves Turning Brown would be nothing but a meeting to decide the payment, if that hadn’t already been decided, too. Those fears were given substance with the arrival of a Mniconju band under the leadership of Crazy Horse’s old friend Touch the Clouds.

Touch the Clouds’ father, Lone Horns, had been one of the old headmen who had gone to Washington. He had come home with a broken heart, the son told Crazy Horse. Lone Horns had been practically the only Lakota voice in Washington to speak against selling the Black Hills. He had been so discouraged at all that had gone on regarding the Black Hills that he had fallen ill upon his return, and didn’t recover. He had died a broken old man.

Touch the Clouds’ fear and words echoed those of Young Man Afraid. There was a storm coming, and all the Lakota not taken in by the slippery words of the whites would have to stand together and prepare to fight to the end.

Eighteen

Old Lone Horns had been right. The issue of a price for the Black Hills was very much on the table at the council at the Spotted Tail agency.

Messengers flowed back and forth from the agency to the northern camps of the “wild” Lakota, especially to the encampment of Crazy Horse. Since the start of the talks, hardly a day went by that someone didn’t arrive with a worn-out horse and yet another mouthful of significant news. And the news was never more than two days old.

Spotted Tail, now a proponent of diplomacy in dealing with the whites, had somehow convinced them to have the council conducted at his agency. Now the issues important to the agency Lakota apparently had to do with who could ingratiate themselves the most to the whites. The talks had begun under an air of tension. Many fighting men from the “wild” Lakota opposed to selling the Black Hills had traveled to Spotted Tail to make their presence and their attitude known to those among the agency Lakota who were in favor of selling. The talks were delayed almost immediately when an especially aggressive contingent, led by Little Big Man, threatened to kill anyone who spoke of selling. Only the calm yet resolute words of Young Man Afraid had convinced many angry young men to put away their weapons. He diffused the moment, and perhaps saved the lives of the white peace talkers as well. The whites were shaken to the point of insisting that negotiations be conducted within the protective confines of the army stockade, out of sight and earshot of the militant young Lakota.

Crazy Horse had been within half a day’s ride of Spotted Tail when he was told of Young Man Afraid’s intervention. He could understand his friend’s reasons for wanting to prevent bloodshed, but he wondered who it would help in the long run. When he heard that Red Cloud had named a price for selling the Black Hills, he knew that Young Man Afraid’s earlier warning was true. War was inevitable.

Some called the meeting “The council to steal the Black Hills.” Nothing was settled, or finalized, however. The white peace talkers didn’t get their sale, but months later they were waving a piece of paper they called an “agreement” that, they said, gave them ownership of the Black Hills. The story of the paper was a galling thing to hear for the “wild” Lakota, but it was typical of the whites. A group of old Lakota, leaders far past the prime of their influence, had been called to the agency in the dead of winter and told to sign the paper. When those old men steadfastly refused, soldiers were positioned behind them with cocked rifles pointed at each of their heads. Still they refused. When the white peace talkers threatened to stop all the annuities for the agency Lakota and to immediately round them up for transport south to the Indian Nation, the old men signed. The agency Lakota had heard of that country, a place of hunger and disease. Besides, who would fault them for saving lives? No one did. The incident only served to further the resolve of Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull.

As the snows flew, young men who had gone to visit relatives at the Spotted Trail agency returned with news that coincided with the “agreement” story. The “great father” had issued an order that all Lakota must move to the agencies by the end of the moon they called January—sometime in the Moon of Frost in the Lodge—or risk being hunted down by soldiers.

Crazy Horse’s people had broken up into smaller winter camps along the Tongue River. Among them were He Dog and a few Sicangu Lakota families who had grown tired of the agency. Crazy Horse was glad to see his best friend, someone with whom he could speak freely about all that concerned them. In lodges up and down the valley, the news hung in the air like acrid smoke as the sun sank behind the western mountain ridges.

The order given by the “great father” was nothing more than an idiotic notion. As ridiculous as it was for anyone to presume to exercise such control, Crazy Horse knew that soldiers would likely be dispatched to round up people. So be it. Armed conflict and the anticipation of it was part of interaction with whites. The probability of it was constant because of their attitude. He knew what the old men were thinking. An order that the whites knew would be ignored was simply an excuse for them to take action against the Lakota.

Crazy Horse made plans to travel north to visit with the Hunkpapa Lakota and Sitting Bull, to discuss this latest foolishness unleashed by the Long Knives, and he asked Black Shawl to accompany him.

Sitting Bull had already gotten word of the order and he was not surprised by it, but he didn’t like its implication. He would send out a call again, he said, to ask the people to gather and talk. Everyone needed to be of a like mind against this new threat, but, more important, nothing could be done effectively unless the agency Lakota would come to their senses. Somewhere in the area of the Greasy Grass valley, he thought, would be a good place for a large gathering. There was usually good grazing in the floodplain, especially if the snowfall was good over the winter. He would send out word in the Moon When the Geese Return that he would take his people to the Greasy Grass in the Moon When Horses Lose Their Hair. He hoped that the right people would come, mainly the men who could influence others. Time would tell.

After several days Crazy Horse and Black Shawl returned to their own camp.

The day when all Lakota had to report to the agencies had come and gone. The northern camps were nervous, watching the horizons for the first sign of the soldiers they had heard had been gathering at Fort Fetterman. Winter relaxed its grip and a span of warm days melted the snow and thawed the ice on creeks and rivers. He Dog took advantage of the opportunity to head for the agency; his contingent of eight Sicangu Lakota families were mostly women and children in no condition to outrun mounted soldiers. Before he left, Crazy Horse had ridden up into the hills, unable to watch his closest friend give in to the agency, though he understood all too painfully He Dog’s reasons. The spaces vacated by eight lodges were not as big as the holes left in the hearts of the relatives who watched their loved ones riding away slowly and uncertainly, looking back frequently.