In the Footsteps of Crazy Horse

by Joseph Marshall

  “In the end, Crazy Horse and the elders thought the welfare of the women, the children, and the old people was more important. Besides, out of a thousand people, there were only about a hundred and thirty warriors. Sitting Bull and his people had crossed into Canada. So Crazy Horse and his band were alone against the whites. They decided to surrender. That’s what brought them here.”

  Jimmy lowered the binoculars and looked around at the land. It was a warm late-spring day.

  “Was it like this, Grandpa, when they came here?”

  “Probably was, same time of the year. The reason we’re here is that at Fort Robinson, Crazy Horse did what I think was the bravest thing he ever did in his life.”

  “He did? What was that?”

  The way it was—May 1877

  Several riders had stopped their horses at the edge of the bluff. From there the valley below was green and peaceful. They could see the river to the south and many hide lodges among the thickets near the stream. Some of the lodges were made of canvas. West of the lodges was the Long Knives’ place called Fort Robinson. Crazy Horse stared at the buildings.

  “Cousin,” said a voice next to him, “it’s not too late to turn back.”

  Crazy Horse glanced at his friend Little Big Man. “And what would we do?”

  Little Big Man pointed north. Behind them was a line of people and horses. Everyone was resting in the afternoon sun. “I think it’s a mistake to go down there,” he said firmly. “So do many of our young men. We’re willing to go on fighting.”

  “I know. So am I,” said Crazy Horse. “That’s what warriors do. But what happens if we all die? What will happen to our women and children and old ones? Who will be left to protect them?”

  Little Big Man sighed. “Those are difficult questions to answer,” he admitted.

  “We know the answers,” Crazy Horse retorted sadly. “That’s why we’re here. That’s why we decided to join all our relatives down there.”

  Little Big Man had no answer. He glared at the distant white-man buildings. Soon his glare turned to sadness.

  A young man rode up to join them. “Uncle,” he said to Crazy Horse, “some of the people want to fix food and eat before we go down there.”

  Crazy Horse nodded. “Yes,” he said. “There’s no hurry. The new, strange life among the whites will wait. It will be there.”

  All too soon the meals were eaten and the fires put out. There was a strange feeling of uncertainty. Down in the valley was the Long Knife stronghold. East and west of it were many, many lodges. Lakota people were down there, perhaps ten thousand or more. Many of them were relatives and friends. But waiting, also, was a new and unknown way of life under the control of whites. That unknown made Crazy Horse’s people reluctant to finish their long and arduous journey. In these last moments on the bluff, they were free. What would be their situation tomorrow? Would they be free? That was the question that made them all uncertain and sad.

  There was no use putting it off any longer.

  Crazy Horse sat with Black Shawl, his wife. “Stay with my mother and father,” he told her gently. “I don’t know what will happen. Whatever happens, stay with them.”

  Black Shawl squeezed his hand. The sadness in her husband’s eyes was unsettling to her. She squeezed his hand again and gently touched his face.

  “I will,” she said. “We will be all right.”

  With a heavy heart, Crazy Horse left his wife and mounted his horse. As usual, he took the lead. Many of the warriors rode behind him. In a way, it seemed as though this was the longest part of the journey—from the top of the bluff to the bottom of the slope. At the end of the slope, and across a wide meadow, was the stronghold of the Long Knives.

  Ahead of them, Lakota people were gathering among the buildings. The news had gotten around quickly: Crazy Horse and his people were coming in.

  Several of the younger warriors moved up behind Crazy Horse. “Uncle,” one of them called out, “we could charge the Long Knives. We could surprise them.”

  “Yes,” said another, excitedly. “We could defeat them.”

  “You may be right,” Crazy Horse said to them over his shoulder. “But later on the Long Knives would attack our women and children. That is their way.”

  The warriors fell silent. But Crazy Horse shared their feelings. He could feel their anger over the situation.

  He saw a Long Knife in a white hat standing alone. Near him stood a group of older Lakota men who wore dark scowls on their faces.

  Suddenly one of the warriors behind Crazy Horse began singing a Strong Heart song. His voice was loud, strong, and defiant. In a moment another warrior began singing, then another, and yet another. Soon the voices were many and could be heard from a distance.

  Crazy Horse knew he could not stop them from singing. He also knew his warriors were angry and ready to fight. Anything could set them off. If something happened and there was an exchange of gunfire, the women and children would be hit by bullets.

  He could hear the warriors pushing up close behind him. Hoping they would not rush past him, he kept his horse to a slow walk. Again he noticed the Long Knife standing apart. Crazy Horse knew the man. “White Hat” Clark, he was called.

  Crazy Horse turned his horse toward White Hat Clark. He stopped when he could clearly see the man’s face. As he had hoped, the warriors behind him stopped as well, though many of them were still singing loudly.

  Crazy Horse dismounted and led his horse toward the Long Knife. A few paces from the man, he stopped. White Hat Clark seemed puzzled.

  Slowly, Crazy Horse lifted his rifle, holding it level with the ground. He was careful not to point the muzzle toward the Long Knife. In a moment, the man in the white hat realized what Crazy Horse was doing.

  The Lakota leader was giving up his rifle: a sign of surrender.

  White Hat Clark walked forward and slowly took the rifle. Crazy Horse then led his horse forward and held out the rein to the white man. The Long Knife took the horse as well.

  Behind them, the singing stopped. Without his horse and gun, Crazy Horse turned toward his men. He gazed at them evenly, no anger or apprehension in his eyes, only a quiet calmness.

  Jimmy looked up at his grandfather. The old man’s voice had faltered as he told the story.

  “What happened then, Grandpa?” he asked.

  “Crazy Horse’s warriors gave up their weapons, too. He was their leader; he showed them the way. There’s no doubt in my mind that that was the bravest thing he ever did.

  “He agreed with what his men wanted to do. He wanted to keep on fighting. He knew that the Lakota warrior was a better war fighter than the Long Knife soldier. There was no lack of courage or skill. The problem was numbers. There just weren’t enough Lakota warriors. Not enough men, not enough guns, not enough ammunition.

  “Giving up his rifle and his horse went against everything that he was, everything that he stood for as a warrior. He did it for the helpless ones, the old people, the women, and the children.”

  They got back in the truck and drove the few miles to Fort Robinson State Park. Jimmy felt it was a sad place.

  Grandpa Nyles pulled into the parking area near the log buildings. Jimmy saw the low stone monument where Crazy Horse had been wounded.

  “Do you remember his dream?” Grandpa Nyles said, making no move to step out of the pickup. “The dream he had when he went out alone, near Fort Laramie?”

  Jimmy nodded. “I do, Grandpa.”

  “Do you remember the part where those men come out of the ground and surround the rider? The men who look like the rider? The men who took him down?”

  Jimmy nodded.

  “Well, let me tell you what happened after Crazy Horse and his people had been here for four months,” Grandpa Nyles said. “The whites were afraid of him. After all, he had fought the great General Crook to a standstill at Rosebud Creek, and he defeated Custer at the Greasy Grass. They were afraid he would lead an uprising against them.

&
nbsp; “On the other hand, some of the Lakota leaders were jealous of him. They were afraid the Indian Bureau would make him chief over them. So basically someone decided to get him out of the way. I think the intent was to send him to Florida and put him in prison there.”

  “Florida?”

  “Yeah, there were prisons there. Indians from various tribes were sent there, notably Cheyenne and Apache. Anyway, Crazy Horse knew there was trouble coming, so he wanted to talk to General Crook, the man in charge. He took Black Shawl to safety, to the village of his cousin Touch the Clouds, east of here.”

  “Touch the Clouds?”

  “Yes, he was a leader among the Mniconju Lakotas, and it’s said he was nearly seven feet tall.”

  “Wow!” Jimmy exclaimed.

  “Anyway, Crazy Horse took his wife there and was on his way back when the Indian police met him. The Indian police were Lakota who worked for the Long Knives. One of them was Little Big Man.”

  “Little Big Man?” Jimmy asked. “Wasn’t he a friend of Crazy Horse’s?”

  “He still was,” said Grandpa. “But now he was working for the Long Knives. There were other Lakota men who were working for the Long Knives, too.”

  Jimmy sort of knew the story, but he waited for his grandfather to finish it.

  “They escorted him back here,” Grandpa Nyles continued. “He thought he would be taken to the commander’s office. There he would have a chance to clear up whatever confusion there was. But they steered him toward that building there.” Grandpa Nyles pointed to the log building behind the monument. “It was a jail.”

  Grandpa Nyles paused and stared at the building, then sighed deeply.

  “When Crazy Horse saw where they were taking him,” he continued, “he naturally resisted. He tried to get away. The only weapon he had was a knife. By this time a large crowd had gathered, a few hundred people here, watching.

  “When the Indian policemen saw the knife, they surrounded him. Little Big Man grabbed his arms from behind. Some say Crazy Horse managed to wound Little Big Man. But when all this commotion was happening, because people were yelling, a soldier came around the building. He saw a Lakota fighting with the Indian policemen, so he thrust his rifle, with a long bayonet on the end of the barrel, at Crazy Horse.”

  Grandpa Nyles paused again and took another deep breath.

  “The wound was serious—a mortal wound, as they say. He fell there, at that spot. Later he was taken to the post infirmary—the hospital, I guess. He finally slipped away around midnight. His father and his cousin Touch the Clouds were with him.”

  From a bag on the dashboard, Grandpa Nyles pulled out a small bundle of sage. “Come on,” he said.

  They walked to the monument. Once again, Grandpa Nyles laid the sage on the monument. He sang a warrior’s honoring song. He reached up and wiped away tears after he finished the song.

  Somehow it seemed fitting that they reached Cold River at sundown. The day was ending, and so was their trip. Jimmy’s mom bounded out of the house when they pulled into the driveway.

  It felt good to be home, to see his mom again, to hear her voice, to feel her hands caressing his face.

  “So,” Anne said, “how are my travelers?”

  “Tired,” Jimmy said brightly. “And hungry.”

  Anne laughed. “The tired part you can take care of in a few hours. The hungry part we can do something about right now. I’ve got food on the stove, and Grandma is coming in to join us. Your dad will be home soon, too.”

  She looked up at her father. “Good to see you, Dad. Good trip?”

  The old man beamed. “A very special journey, that’s what it was. The visionary journey of Jimmy McClean and his grandpa.”

  8

  The Way It Was

  SCHOOL STARTED IN LATE AUGUST. JIMMY WAS NOT looking forward to that, because he knew Jesse Little Horse and Corky Brin were still here. He was not surprised to see them standing together in front of the north entrance to the school building. A tiny shiver of fear went up his back. But he pushed it aside in his mind and walked toward the door.

  “Hey,” called out Corky. “Thought you might have left the country.”

  Jesse Little Horse simply grinned in that cocky, mocking way he had.

  Jimmy walked past them without so much as a sideways glance until Corky reached out and grabbed him by the arm.

  “Hey,” he said, louder this time. “I’m talking to you.”

  “Yeah,” chimed in Jesse. “Didn’t think we’d have to teach you a lesson on the first day of school.”

  Jimmy could hear his grandpa talking in his head, that day on the Little Bighorn battlefield: You can have courage and face the tough things that happen to you.

  He jerked his arm out of Corky’s grasp. Then he turned and looked at his two enemies. “Come on, then,” he said quietly. “Might as well pick up where we left off.”

  Jimmy stood, arms by his side, and waited. His calm gaze went back and forth between their faces.

  Corky and Jesse were still grinning, but they noticed something about Jimmy McClean. He had grown a bit over the summer, so he was almost as tall as they were. But it was the look in his eyes that was different. They could tell he was not afraid.

  Slowly their expressions changed. Their grins faded away. Corky Brin glanced nervously at Jesse Little Horse. Jesse, Jimmy could tell, did not know what to do.

  Jimmy, meanwhile, was still waiting. He was still calm and clearly not afraid.

  He waited a bit longer. “Well, maybe next time,” he said. Turning, he walked through the doors without looking back. He knew they were looking at him and he might have to actually fight them. But he was ready, and he knew they knew that.

  Jimmy McClean had a feeling this year would be a better year. After all, Crazy Horse, when he was Light Hair, had endured worse than Corky Brin and Jesse Little Horse. If Light Hair could do it, Jimmy knew he could, too. No sweat.

  Author’s Note

  IN MANY OF THE BOOKS I HAVE WRITTEN, I HAVE EITHER made Tasunke Witko, His Crazy Horse, the main topic or mentioned some aspect of his life, exploits, or character. Needless to say, he is my hero. Therefore, I am grateful to Howard Reeves at Abrams Books for this opportunity to write about my hero again, this time for a younger audience.

  Growing up on the Rosebud Sioux Indian Reservation in South Dakota, with some time spent on the Pine Ridge Reservation as well, I heard the name Tasunke Witko frequently. Some of what I heard was from descendants of Lakota people who lived in his time. By no means am I an authority on Crazy Horse—I am merely a student of his life and times, and I continue to learn more. However, as a Lakota, I do feel a connection to him because he was a real person, not an imagined hero.

  One aspect of my life that connects me to Crazy Horse is bows and arrows. My maternal grandfather made primitive-style Lakota bows and arrows. Fortunately, he passed on to me the knowledge and information necessary to make them, but the skills to do so I had to develop on my own.

  Each time I start the process and finish a bow and a set of arrows, and each time I shoot a primitive-style Lakota bow and arrows that I have crafted with my own hands, I cannot help but think of my hero. The simple and profound reality is that he made bows and arrows and used them.

  For us Lakota who are aware of our history, stories are a way to pass that history on, and to remember our heroes. Shooting a Lakota bow is another way that works for me.

  I hope you enjoyed this story, but chances are you probably did not enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  Glossary

  ambush— a military tactic used in war in which combatants wait in hiding for the approach of their enemy

  antelope—see pronghorn

  Arapaho—a tribe of North American native people who predated Europeans and who lived in what is now northeastern Colorado and southeastern Wyoming

  Arikara—a tribe of North American native people who predated Europeans and who lived along the northern part of the Missou
ri River in what is now North Dakota

  arrow—a short wooden projectile tipped with sharpened stone or iron and sent from a wooden bow

  Assiniboine—a tribe of North American native people who predated Europeans and who lived in the northern region of what is now Montana

  bank—the soil edge where a stream or river flows, often eroded by the flowing water

  barbed wire—a double strand of wire into which sharp barbs are twisted; used by ranchers and farmers to fence in domestic livestock such as cattle and horses

  battle—a fight between two or more opposing forces made up of a number of fighters, usually with the use of weapons

  Black Hills—the only mountains on the Great Plains, located in what is now western South Dakota and at one time within the territory controlled by the Lakota people

  black powder percussion rifle—a firearm manufactured by Euro-Americans, capable of firing one round lead ball at a time, after which it had to be reloaded; the lead ball was propelled when a spark from a small percussion cap ignited the black powder in the back end, or breech, of the rifle barrel

  bow—the part of the weapons system that sends the arrow; made by hand by the Lakota out of hardwood such as ash or oak

  bowshot—the distance a Lakota bow could send an arrow, usually about a hundred yards

  bullet—a projectile fired from a rifle or pistol

  cavalry—soldiers or warriors riding into battle on horses and engaging the enemy as mounted combatants

  Cheyenne—a tribe native to North America who lived on the northern Plains and were allies of the Lakota and Arapaho

  cholera—a disease brought by Europeans and Euro-Americans to which native peoples of North America had no immunity; it was an infection of the small intestine that caused watery diarrhea and vomiting, and thousands of native people of many different tribes died from it