Bill Dugan

by Crazy Horse

  On June 11, the caravan moved out. Nearly two thousand Oglala and Brule, toting everything they owned in the world on their horses and travois, started to march down the Platte River. But word of the forced march had reached other bands of Sioux, and Crazy Horse slipped into the temporary camp on the first night, past the lackadaisical troopers under the command of Capt. W. D. Fouts.

  Fouts, like Moonlight, was contemptuous of the Sioux and their fighting ability. So much, in fact, that he refused to issue ammunition to half his men, those marching in the rear of the caravan. Their picketing was porous, to say the least, and Crazy Horse had little trouble slipping in and out of the village.

  It didn’t take much to convince Spotted Tail and the others that escape was desirable and, with Crazy Horse urging them on, possible. The next day, as the caravan moved slowly along the river bottom, the young warriors, to ease the passage of time and vent a little of their pent-up energy and simmering frustration, raced their ponies back and forth along the line of march. Fouts was furious, and ordered them to stop. The warriors ignored him.

  The following day, the warriors again raced along the route, and smoke signals began to appear in the hills rolling away from the river. That night, Fouts called the chiefs together and read them the riot act. He threatened that any warrior who chose to disregard the prohibition on racing his pony would be tied to a wagon wheel and whipped.

  They were camped within a stone’s throw of the campground for the Great Council of 1851, and the proximity became a goad to the more irascible among the Sioux. They remembered the promises made to them at the Council, and could now see for themselves how good the white man’s word might be. Well after dark, Crazy Horse reappeared in the camp and told Spotted Tail that warriors had marked a route through the quicksands of the Platte, using willow poles driven into the river bottom. The plan called for the warriors to hold the troopers at bay while the women and children made a break across the river. Once the women and children had reached the far side, the warriors would follow. The Sioux knew that most of the troopers were unable to swim, and were counting on the river protecting them from pursuit, once they managed their crossing.

  The following morning, the Sioux were laggard in breaking camp. Fouts, impatient to be going, left word that they should catch up to him as soon as possible, then moved his men on out. As soon as the last trooper was out of sight, the Sioux broke for the riverbank. Fouts reappeared a few minutes later, and, when he saw the waters of the Platte teeming with women and children, demanded to know what was going on.

  A rifle cracked, and Fouts fell dead. As if the gunshot had been a signal, the rest of the Sioux stampeded for the river. The rear guard troops saw what was happening but, without ammunition, they were powerless to interfere. Several warriors, Crazy Horse and Black Wolf among them, spurred their people on, prowling the riverbank with their arms whirling, urging everyone to cross.

  “Come on, hurry, hurry,” Black Wolf shouted.

  Crazy Horse spotted more troops coming. Some of Fouts’s advance guard had apparently heard the gunshots and come to see what was happening. Fouts’s second in command, Capt. John Wilcox, rode up and, when he saw the melee, demanded to know why the rear guard had done nothing. When he learned they had no ammunition, he had it issued, then deployed his wagons for defense and sent Captain Ellison to tell the Sioux that those who were not hostile could return without punishment.

  The resultant charge of massed Sioux warriors convinced him in short order that all of the Sioux were hostile. The warriors charged the wagons, and nearly overran them. The troopers fell back under the onslaught, but the Sioux were less interested in attacking than in buying time. As soon as the women and children were safely across, the warriors turned their mounts and followed them.

  By nine o’clock, all two thousand had crossed the river, leaving the troopers, and all their worldly possessions, on the south bank of the Platte.

  Chapter 15

  July 1865

  THE COUNCIL WAS THE LARGEST IN YEARS. Sioux came from all over, Cheyennes, too, and even Arapaho. The plains were in turmoil. News of the Sand Creek massacre of Black Kettle’s friendly village ran like prairie fire from village to village. The chiefs inclined to go on the warpath argued that Chivington’s cowardly attack on a peaceful village proved that the white men would never allow the Sioux to live in peace.

  Red Cloud was the most articulate spokesman for the war party. “The white man makes promises but he does not keep them,” he said. The council nodded.

  Even Spotted Tail knew it was true. He was a proud man, one who wanted peace, but refused tosurrender his dignity. A great warrior, he had the respect of many of the fence straddlers. “Red Cloud is right. But he should know that there are many more white soldiers than there are Sioux and Cheyenne. He hasheard the stories, just as I have, just as we all have, of armies of a hundred thousand men fighting in the great white man’s war.”

  Red Cloud nodded his agreement. “I have heard those stories. But I have never seen those armies. Has Spotted Tail seen them?”

  “No. But I believe the stories. The trader, Bordeaux, says they are true. He has no reason to lie. He has showed stories to me in the paper with writing.”

  “He is a white man. What more reason does he need. He makes money by selling his goods to the soldiers, and he makes money by trading his goods to the Loaf About the Forts. The Great Father pays him well to keep the Lakota people quiet. But I am tired of being quiet. The white man has taken our land, ruined the buffalo hunting, and built his forts where we used to make our villages. It has to stop.”

  Old Man Afraid took the floor. “You know me. You know I have counted coup on Crow and Shoshoni, on Pawnee and the bluecoat.” Around the fire, the chiefs looked at one another, some saying “Hou,” assenting to the truth of what Old Man Afraid was saying. Others, knowing he was just beginning, waited to see what he would say next.

  “Our Cheyenne brothers know how cruel the white soldiers can be.” He paused to look at Roman Nose, the great Cheyenne war chief, who nodded. “He can tell you about the children lying in the mud made by their own blood mixing with the earth. He can tell you of the women, their scalps taken and their private parts butchered by the white soldiers. I don’t want that for our children and our women.”

  Red Cloud interrupted. “Then Old Man Afraid should go on the warpath to kill the bluecoats before they can kill his people. If we kill them before they kill us, our women and children will be safe. We can take back our lands.”

  “And will the buffalo come back?” Spotted Tail demanded. “If not, how will we live?”

  “Does Spotted Tail wish to hang around the fort on his knees, his hands out like a beggar, waiting for crumbs? Is that how a warrior should live? On his own land?”

  Stung by the charge, Spotted Tail got to his feet. “You are supposed to be leaders. But a leader does not lead his people to slaughter. He does not put his pride above the safety of those who depend on him. We have all heard of Sand Creek. We have all seen the wagon guns that kill ten warriors with one shot. We have all seen the river of whites that flows without end year after year. We cannot win a war with the whites. Better that we ask for peace while we are still strong, while we can still get something in exchange.”

  Red Cloud laughed then. “What we will get is promises, promises that change like the moon. If we take the path of peace, we will walk into slaughter like the buffalo, with nothing to do but wait for the bullets that will surely come. If we do not fight now when we are strong, then we will lose everything.”

  Old Man Afraid started to speak, but Red Cloud cut him off. “Look around this council, my brothers. The chiefs we have assembled here are the best chiefs. They lead the best warriors. We are not afraid, and I say we should not act as if we are afraid. The white man is afraid of us, too. Did we not cut his talking wire? Did we not win every battle we fought with the bluecoats this past year? Why should we give up when we are winning? Let the white man ask for
peace. Maybe we will give it to him, and maybe we will push him back where he came from, and he will leave us alone.”

  Crazy Horse was sitting in the back, next to Hump and Little Hawk. Worm was in the main council circle, and looked at his son, who seemed restless. When Red Cloud finished speaking, there was a long silence. It seemed as if no one wanted to agree with him, but no one wanted to argue for peace, either. Spotted Tail and Old Man Afraid were isolated, and no one wanted to speak for their side.

  Finally, Crazy Horse asked for permission to speak. Red Cloud nodded, and no one objected. “Always,” the young warrior said, “when we fight, we fight the same way. The bluecoats know how we fight, and they are ready for us. If we are to fight, we will have to fight like the white man does. We will have to have discipline, and the warriors will have to follow their chiefs, do what they say, not fight when they feel like fighting. We must make plans and follow them. If we are to win a war with the white soldiers, that is the way we will have to do it.”

  Since he had become so prominent, Crazy Horse was respected not just for his courage but for his wisdom, and his words now provoked a buzz of discussion.

  “Does Crazy Horse think we can defeat the white soldiers?” Old Man Afraid asked.

  “I don’t know,” Crazy Horse answered. “But I know we cannot win if we fight as we have always fought. If we change, if we fight like the white man fights …”—he shrugged—”… then, maybe we can.”

  “Will you fight?”

  “Yes.”

  Old Man Afraid shook his head sadly. He knew that Crazy Horse spoke for many of the young warriors, most of them, more than likely. Even his own son. He believed that fighting would come to no good, but he also knew that that was a painful lesson that would only be learned under the muzzle of the soldier guns.

  “Will you tell us how to fight the bluecoats?” Old Man Afraid asked.

  Crazy Horse nodded. “Yes.”

  Spotted Tail was not ready to give up. “Would you follow this stripling? Would you let him lead you into battle, when there are many here twice his age?”

  “Perhaps you are too old to fight, Spotted Tail,” Red Cloud suggested. “Perhaps you are an old dog that cannot learn new ways.”

  Spotted Tail snorted in disgust. “I have learned new ways. That is why I believe that fighting is useless. I have learned not to fight.”

  Red Cloud smiled. There was no derision in the look, just a tinge of sadness. “Perhaps you are right. But I do not believe it. I will fight.”

  One by one, the chiefs around the council fire nodded their agreement. In the end, Spotted Tail stood alone against the warpath. Even Old Man Afraid, who was opposed to war, sided with Red Cloud, thinking that it would be better if there were someone in the war party who could argue for peace when the time came. And he knew that, if he fought, his arguments for peace would be the stronger for it.

  “I am leaving,” Spotted Tail announced.

  Red Cloud nodded. “Hou!” he said. “I wish you well. Where will you go?”

  “First, I will go to Fort Laramie and tell the white soldiers that my people are on the path of peace. Then”—he shrugged—”maybe to the Black Hills.”

  The council continued its deliberations after Spotted Tail said goodbye to his friends. Crazy Horse started to outline his plans, and asked to meet with the chiefs again the following morning, after he’d had a chance to consider the best way to proceed.

  Spotted Tail left at sunrise. Crazy Horse walked a way with his uncle, talking quietly under the bustle of the moving village. “If you change your mind, you are always welcome among your mother’s people, Crazy Horse.”

  “I know.” He looked at the sky, at the almost unclouded blue, a blue so deep he thought he could swim up and away in it, the way he would in a deep lake. “Maybe, some day …”

  “Goodbye,” his uncle said, then swung up onto his pony.

  Walking back to the council lodge, he wondered whether he was making a mistake. He knew that Spotted Tail was wise, and that he might even be right. But it galled him to think of living in the shadow of a stockade, his hand out for a bag of coffee, learning to eat the white man’s beef. It was more than he could stand. More than he should have to stand.

  He ducked into the lodge, where the chiefs were already waiting for him. It took him an hour to outline his plan, and another hour to convince the chiefs that it was the only way. Most of them saw the wisdom of his argument, but the old ways were a powerful magnet. They wanted to fight as they had always fought. This new way of fighting would be difficult, especially for the wild young men who were not used to taking orders. The Sioux way had always been individual combat. Plans were not something they were used to following. And now, flushed with the success of the raids, and angered by the Sand Creek massacre, the young men would not be easy to control.

  The plan was a simple one. Crazy Horse wanted to cut the white soldiers’ line apart piece by piece. He would start with the small fort guarding the last bridge over the Platte River. If the Sioux could gain control of the bridge, the forts beyond it would be cut off from their supplies. It would be simple to overrun the forts then. Once that first step had been taken, they could then begin to chew their way back along the Oregon Trail until they had forced the white soldiers all the way out of Sioux Territory.

  The young men were told to stop raiding. Crazy Horse wanted the soldiers to feel secure. They might get sloppy, but even if they didn’t, they would not be calling for more troops. Better to take them on now, before their strength increased. In the middle of July, nearly two thousand warriors headed for the Platte River. The column was two miles long.

  On the morning of the twenty-fourth, scouts went out to see what sort of force the whites could command, while the rest of the warriors took up their positions. The small fort was on the south side of the Platte River. The day’s plan called for a decoy to lure the troops out and across the bridge, where they could be cut off. But Crazy Horse was worried. Red Cloud and some of the other older men had added embellishments. They were planning to concentrate too many warriors in too small an area. Crazy Horse feared they would get in one another’s way, but the old chiefs refused to listen to him, and after one final try, he was forced to hold his tongue.

  Most of the Indian force took up a position two miles away, hidden behind the rolling hills that swept down toward the river. Passing a pair of army binoculars around, the chiefs kept watch on the bridge and the small party of warriors sent out as bait.

  The commander of Platte Bridge Station, Maj. Martin Anderson, was not going to be lured easily. Again and again, the decoys approached the bridge, taunting the soldiers and trying to provoke them into pursuit, but again and again, Anderson held his men back. Twice, he sent howitzer shells across the river, but they did no damage, and the decoys fell back out of range with nothing to show for their efforts.

  The following morning, the decoys tried again, and again had no success. More decoys approached the bridge that afternoon, thinking that a larger party might be enough to spring the trap. The main war party was showing its new discipline, keeping out of sight, and giving the plan a chance to work.

  Crazy Horse watched quietly, wondering just how long that discipline would hold. He knew it wouldn’t last forever.

  But then the Sioux luck turned. Unknown to them, a wagon train loaded with guns and ammunition was approaching. With the telegraph lines cut, the commander of the wagon train, Sgt. Amos Custard, had left Fort Laramie without being informed of the presence of the Indians. Major Anderson had no idea of the force hidden in the hills, but he sensed that something was about to happen, and would have halted the supply train had he been able to.

  Some of the younger officers in the fort wanted to ride out to meet the train, but Anderson was wary. He was bothered by the repeated forays of the small bands, and something seemed odd to him. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was, and the younger officers were starting to suspect that he was frightened.

/>   The following morning, Anderson’s hand was forced. The wagon train would arrive in a few hours, and Anderson was worried. He called a conference of the officers to try and decide how to handle the situation. Caspar Collins, on the way to his permanent post at Sweetwater Station, was among them. There was much debate, some of the more rash among the younger officers wanting to ride out to meet the supply train and escort it in. Others, like Anderson, suspicious of the frequent appearance of small parties of Sioux, argued for prudence.

  While the conference ground on, the Indians took up their positions. Four hundred Cheyenne rode down to the river and hid themselves in the brush along the waterline, just west of the bridge. Several hundred Sioux positioned themselves in a dry wash that led to the river on the east of the station. Several hundred Arapaho took up a third position, in Casper Creek. The rest of the Sioux, several hundred more, flooded into the canyons that crisscrossed the road farther to the west.

  The plan was simple. Once the decoys had lured the troopers out of the fort, the Cheyenne would launch their attack. At the same time, the Arapaho and the smaller contingent of the Sioux would block their retreat, forcing them to head west along the road. They would ride right into the arms of the waiting Sioux hordes. All the Sioux needed for that to happen was for the decoy party to do its job, and the rest would be easy.

  In the fort, Anderson was concerned about how poorly armed his men were. Almost a third of the one hundred and twenty men didn’t even have rifles. They were armed with revolvers only, or had no guns at all. The weather had kept the road muddy for months, and supplies had been slow in coming. Stores of ammunition were dangerously depleted. Anderson thanked his stars that the Sioux did not know of his plight.