Stone Song

by Win Blevins

  POLITICKING

  The Society of White Horse Riders asked all the villages of the Oglala people to come together in late summer, at the fullness of the Moon When All Things Ripen. They did not need to say that they would name four shirtmen, four owners of the people. Nor did they need to say that the shirtmen would help provide what the warriors had lacked at the Platte Bridge, discipline.

  When the Bad Faces and the Hunkpatila got to the camping place, two bands were not yet in: the True Oglala and the Oyukhpe. But the politicking about who would get the shirts was at full boil. The men of the society had the choice—establishing the bands’ young leaders was their duty—but they would be influenced by their families and friends. The talk was that the Bad Faces were insisting on the selection of one of their own. Four bands, four shirtmen, one from each band, said the Bad Faces. If this was not to be, the Bad Faces would take down their lodges and leave.

  It was awkward. Not only was there the old enmity between the Hunkpatila and the Bad Faces because of the Bull Bear killing, there was the dispersion: Some Oglala lived below the Shell River, some around Fort Laramie, and some in the northern hunting grounds. Earlier this year the soldiers had moved the wasiyuta el unpi, literally “those who live among the whites,” whom the interpreters called the loaf-around-the-fort Oglala, downriver to Fort Kearny, those who would go. The Oglala seemed hardly to know each other anymore.

  The awkwardness came most of all from wondering who would be the new shirtmen. But that, Crazy Horse told himself, was something he didn’t care about.

  He scratched at the door flap, bent low, and slipped into his parents’ lodge. With Little Hawk behind him, he circled sunwise behind the seated men to his place. He had been surprised when his father asked him to come to the lodge to share supper with Red Cloud and was more surprised to see Horn Chips here.

  The five men ate in companionable silence and then smoked over good talk. Not talk of matters of substance, but smaller things—whether winter would come early, where the buffalo would be this autumn, where the whites might be vulnerable to a man who saw in his medicine that he must lead a raid.

  The closest they got to matters of controversy was to tell a few funny stories about the soldiers led by the foolish Connor, who that year had come into Shifting Sands River country, which the white people called Powder River country. Connor was clearly afraid. Afraid of Indians? Afraid of the country? Afraid of being out on his own? Whichever, his campaign had been a joke, and they had driven him out easily. Still, that was the untouched hunting grounds of the Oglala. Regardless of how much the whites wanted a road through to the goldfields in what they called Montana, the Oglala would not have Shifting Sands River country violated, all were agreed on that.

  Red Cloud was an observer of people. He noticed everything. Divining their true thoughts and feelings from the expressions on their faces and the small movements of their hands and especially the way they held their bodies—all this seemed to him a straightforward matter, if you were observant. For many winters it had struck him as odd that other people did not practice this habit faithfully, as he did. It was advantageous.

  He noticed, for instance, that Little Hawk joined the talk easily and even spiritedly. Though he was the man of least repute here, he was in his parents’ lodge, and his way was to be impulsive and speak his mind simply. A naked and naive way to behave. Maybe it would change when Little Hawk got older, maybe not.

  Worm played the host impeccably. What might be truly on his mind—what he might say to his elder son after everyone had left—Red Cloud could not see on his face. But he was sure that Worm would not advance Red Cloud’s cause. Worm still resented the Bad Faces and had taught his sons to do the same. What a waste. An impediment to Red Cloud’s goal: To bring the Hunkpatila and Bad Face bands closer and closer until they were as one. Under his own leadership.

  Horn Chips simply kept silent. A complicated man, Horn Chips, dark and obscure even to Red Cloud. Some of these men of strong medicine … No matter. All you had to do was assure yourself where Horn Chips stood. Which Red Cloud had done.

  Which left Crazy Horse, Our Strange Man indeed. Red Cloud was intrigued by the young man. He wore shabby clothes, accumulated no belongings, did not marry, seldom fraternized, collected no scalps, performed prodigious deeds in war, and refused credit for them…. What could a wise man make of such behavior?

  Red Cloud did not believe what it suggested, that Crazy Horse was without ambition. Nor did he believe that this behavior had been dictated to the young man in a vision and that the revelation was being followed unswervingly. Red Cloud did believe that people had visions—he knew it for a fact. But he also knew that interpretation was everything, and interpretation often suited the ambitions of the dreamer.

  He had a peculiar notion about Crazy Horse. He thought the young man was trying to take the subtlest and most audacious route to the leadership of the Oglala. He thought the warrior, in forswearing all honor, was making a covert bid for the highest honor. For who could claim to be nobler, truer, purer, than a man who sought nothing for himself, nothing at all? Who more likely to become the grandest of heroes?

  It all gave Red Cloud a chuckle. It was clever. But it was unnecessary, roundabout, painful, and perhaps misguided. A pretense, like the father’s choosing the name Worm to signify commonness, a humble station. Others knew, as Red Cloud did, that human nature was not so ideal as all that. Which would enable the people to see through the ploy. Red Cloud intended to help them see through it.

  Now Crazy Horse was in his mode of false humility, contributing nothing to this conversation. Red Cloud knew he made the young man uneasy. And he would take whatever advantage was available. This was just good sense.

  The Bad Face war leader was an orator, a man given to words that were each as beautiful as one of the many eagle feathers in a full-length warbonnet. The words made a fine sound, there was no denying that. But Crazy Horse was distrustful of words and of men who relied on them. Besides, Red Cloud wore a ponderous dignity, like a buffalo robe that covered him all the way to the eyes. Crazy Horse would never rip the dignity away and felt he couldn’t talk through it.

  It was an odd conversation, propped up by a voluble youth, a deferentially quiet host, a man who spoke only oratorically, and two men of no words, Horn Chips and Crazy Horse.

  So it was Red Cloud who finally spoke to Crazy Horse. “Who will the White Horse Riders choose?” He looked straight at Crazy Horse as he spoke.

  Crazy Horse shrugged lightly, saying it was a matter of indifference to him. Until right now he hadn’t thought of wanting the shirt. “There are many candidates,” he said.

  “What do you think?” Red Cloud looked at his host, then Horn Chips, and both shook their heads. Then he turned to Little Hawk.

  “The fathers will choose the sons,” put in Little Hawk bluntly.

  That was what everyone was saying. Man-Whose-Enemies-Are-Afraid-of-His-Horses would use his influence to see that Young Man-Whose-Enemies was nominated. Brave Bear of the Oyukhpe would do the same for his son Sword, and Sitting Bear of the True Oglala for his son American Horse.

  Most people thought that was good. Though chieftainship was not hereditary, the sons of chiefs would have inherited good qualities and would have learned at their fathers’ knees. The only son who caused any doubts was Pretty Fellow, the son of Bad Face. People didn’t want him as a shirtman and probably not as a Big Belly. He was too vain and self-absorbed. But not even Little Hawk would say that in front of Red Cloud of the Bad Faces.

  “What do you think, His Crazy Horse?”

  It was almost rude, asking a second time. Crazy Horse kept his eyes down, so Red Cloud wouldn’t see the offense.

  Sore points stuck up everywhere here. Red Cloud himself had never been a shirtman. Maybe that was because he was suspected of having killed Bull Bear or because his father had been a loaf-around-the-fort drunkard. Red Cloud had everyone’s admiration now. He was probably the most admired war lea
der among the Oglala. But he was not a shirtman.

  He was a politician, Crazy Horse remembered. He had helped maneuver Black Buffalo Woman toward No Water.

  Crazy Horse raised his eyes to Red Cloud.

  “I think the fathers will choose the sons,” he murmured.

  “They say you are being considered,” Red Cloud pushed on. “Will you accept?”

  So now it was in the open. Horn Chips hated all this. He despised Red Cloud’s incessant maneuvering, his obsession with things of the world rather than things of spirit. He did not like coming here and lending silent support to Red Cloud’s request. But Red Cloud was his relative. He could not refuse Red Cloud this favor. And regardless of this odious politicking, he wanted his protegé to know what he thought: A man who listened to the wisdom of Inyan had no time to involve himself deeply in the daily affairs of the people.

  Crazy Horse knew what Chips thought. They were waiting for his answer: Would he accept?

  Finally Crazy Horse said in his soft way, “A man who owns nothing and has no status. A man who has his own calling, apart. I do not think this responsibility would come to such a man.”

  Such a self-effacing answer. And one that would drive Red Cloud mad. Horn Chips felt proud of his protegé.

  Crazy Horse kept his face still. He refused to let Red Cloud see his tumult. Here it was, the conflict he was afraid of. The warrior fought, an exercise of spirit, and was a guardian of the people. A beautiful and useful way to live, and his calling. The shirtman was a warrior with heavier responsibilities to the people and less latitude for seeking his own way—his life belonged to the people. Later he would probably become a Big Belly, with still more responsibilities and the duty of maneuvering through talk. A Big Belly spent his time dickering instead of doing—anathema to Crazy Horse.

  Yet. Yet. He felt the honor of it, the recognition. It was like some ice in a cave on even the hottest day and the sweet trickle of cold water on a parched throat. Besides, now that he didn’t have Black Buffalo Woman, maybe being a shirtman lay on his path. A shirtman did not have to become a Big Belly. And with the decisive conflicts with the wasicu approaching, this was a time for a warrior to think of all the people.

  What twisted his gut was that it was Red Cloud who was asking him to step aside, to decline another honor. Red Cloud, who had maneuvered to help Black Buffalo Woman from his arms into No Water’s.

  It was intolerable to be asked, and he intended to give only this ambiguous answer.

  He stilled himself and tried to pay attention to Hawk. Right now he couldn’t feel her.

  “Perhaps my younger brother is right,” said Red Cloud politely. “Perhaps the fathers will choose the sons. The names in the wind are Young Man-Whose-Enemies-Are-Afraid-of-His-Horses, Sword, American Horse, Pretty Fellow, and His Crazy Horse. Four sons of Big Bellies, one from each band, plus His Crazy Horse.”

  He let the words sit, letting everyone see the asymmetry of the five names suggested.

  “Some people say He Dog is being considered, too.” Another Bad Face. “I think that of those choices,” Red Cloud went on, “the man of the most individual excellence is you.” He looked directly into the eyes of Crazy Horse. “Your war medicine is the strongest. You must have over a hundred war honors.”

  He turned with a smile to Worm. “How many war honors does your older son have?”

  Crazy Horse saw that his father could not resist. “Over two hundred and forty,” blurted Worm.

  “Staggering.” Red Cloud smiled broadly at Crazy Horse. “Yes, you deserve all the respect the people give you.” Red Cloud lingered here, letting everyone feel this compliment. Even Crazy Horse had to admire his performance.

  “What is on my mind about the shirtmen, though, is not a matter of individual excellence. All the candidates are worthy in different ways. All have much to contribute.” He was glossing over the fact that most people did not think Pretty Fellow had much to contribute. “What is on my mind is healing.”

  Crazy Horse watched Red Cloud like an enemy knife, flashing in the sun as it moved. He had to be careful not to be lulled by its beauty.

  “For nearly twenty-five winters the Oglala have been divided against themselves.” Crazy Horse was surprised that Red Cloud came so close to mentioning the cause of this division. “I will go so far as to say the other bands have slighted my own, the people of Smoke and Bad Face.”

  He let them all ponder the nakedness of his declaration.

  “To name the four sons of the four chiefs of the four bands would heal our wounds,” said Red Cloud.

  You want me to set my enemy above me, thought Crazy Horse. Maybe. More likely if you didn’t push at me, but maybe.

  He waited to see if the Bad Face war leader would suggest that his band would pull out of the ceremony if Pretty Fellow was not selected. But Red Cloud only said, “Shall we smoke a little more?”

  Crazy Horse wanted to speak, but Red Cloud had brought the discussion to a kind of end. “Why must I make sacrifices for the sake of my enemies?” Crazy Horse wanted to ask. “Why are honor and the good of the people set against each other? Where lies my path, my honor? Why do you inflict your noise on the silence I need to consider these questions?”

  Before Worm lit the canupa, Chips broke Red Cloud’s carefully crafted silence. “Perhaps you and your father would like to sweat with me, and we will ask the powers for guidance,” said Chips.

  It was a peace offering, a suggestion that Crazy Horse should ignore Red Cloud’s suggestion, and even Chips’ support of it, and surrender the matter to his medicine.

  Crazy Horse smiled at Chips with his eyes. “Thank you,” he said. “We will.”

  For a moment he looked into his heart. What would that single eye tell him that his two eyes, analytical, could not see? He didn’t know.

  Crazy Horse could not see the heat of Red’s Cloud displeasure in his face, but he felt it. It was like sitting too near a fire.

  Crazy Horse was thinking that it was paradoxical that the phrase for shirtman, wicasa yatapika, literally “owner of the tribe,” was a way of saying “owned by the tribe,” responsible for the people.

  The great council lodge stood, handsomely painted, with the sides rolled up high as a man’s head so all the people would be able to see and hear the initiation. Now they congregated inside the big circle of lodges to see who would be chosen, and Crazy Horse could feel the anticipation. It was thick in the air as the tension before lightning strikes.

  He had not put out the word that he did not wish to be considered as wicasa yatapika. It would have been simple. He could have said to his father, Hump, or both that his path lay in another direction. They would have relayed the message to the right people, and the members of the society would have honored his choice.

  Horsemen rode ceremonially around the camp, the helpers of the Big Bellies. They would make four circuits and on each would pick out one young man to wear the shirt. Crazy Horse had no idea whether he would be one of those chosen or even whether he wanted to be.

  He did not know clearly why he had not put the word out. During his prayers in the sweat lodge he had tried to ignore the wants of other people, the opposition of Red Cloud and Horn Chips and his family’s yearning to see him honored. He had tried likewise to set aside his unworthy desires. Beyond my longing to appear grand, he had asked himself, beyond my wish to impress Black Buffalo Woman, beyond my dislike of Pretty Fellow, beyond my yen to thwart Red Cloud and my rivalry with Bad Face young men, what do I want?

  He asked Hawk in his heart, but he felt no answer. He thought he was too roiled to get it.

  So here he stood, uncertain.

  The women raised their trills to the skies. Crazy Horse craned his neck to see. The first young man selected was Young Man-Whose-Enemies. Everyone murmured. Confidently, Young Man-Whose-Enemies mounted the big American horse offered him, a member of a great family taking in stride another honor.

  All the way around the circle the horsemen walked their p
onies. The second man picked out was American Horse, son of Sitting Bear. He sat his big mount self-consciously, aware that every eye was on him, drunk on his own glory.

  All the way around the circle once more, and then into the crowd. Again the trilling. Sword, son of Brave Bear. His face was flushed with boyish gratitude.

  Crazy Horse let his breath out. So far three shirtmen, sons of chiefs of three bands. The fourth would be the son of the chief of the fourth band, Pretty Fellow. Crazy Horse was relieved and nettled at the same time.

  His eyes searched out Pretty Fellow. The Bad Face stood next to his father, just a few steps in front of Crazy Horse, outfitted in new buckskins showily beaded and quilled. Ah, he does deserve it, thought Crazy Horse.

  Around the circle at a slow strut came the horsemen leading the fourth riderless horse. They stopped in front of Pretty Fellow. Then guided their horses through the crowd to the rear, where stood the son of Worm.

  Crazy Horse allowed himself to be led forward. Now not only the women trilled but the young warriors. Whispers skittered through the crowd:

  “Our Strange Man!”

  “Three sons of chiefs and a true warrior!”

  “Our best man!”

  “Three for their fathers, one for his deeds!”

  Red Cloud heard different words make their way through the Bad Faces, mutterings:

  “No one from our band.”

  “They will never forgive us.”

  “Two Hunkpatila and no Bad Face.”

  Red Cloud looked at Chief Bad Face. They had already agreed on what they would do—go away from this place immediately and name their own shirtmen, as was their right.

  Red Cloud and Bad Face turned away and walked toward their own lodges. They would not stay a moment longer. The war leader noted with disappointment that some Bad Faces gravitated toward the big council lodge to see the ceremony. Including No Water and his wife, Black Buffalo Woman, and their two children.