Then there was nothing but the hiss of snow and, high above him, the wind in the branches. On foot, he tugged his pony forward, then tethered him to a tree while he hoisted the doe onto the back of his pack horse, tied its legs together, and swung back onto his mount.
It took him several hours to make his way back to the village. The snow stopped as suddenly as it started, and by midafternoon, the sky was a crystal blue, and the snow underfoot was already melting. It was nearly sundown as he approached the camp, and it was obvious that something had happened.
He went to the lodge of Three Stones’s widow and gave her the deer, then went to his father’s lodge to find out what the trouble was.
“Things are getting out of control,” Worm told
him. “This afternoon, two women were fighting about whether or not we should go to Fort Laramie to get the white man’s gifts. Then a scout came and asked for Red Cloud. He said he had come from the white man general, Sherman, and that the general wanted to talk to Red Cloud about making a peace.”
“But Red Cloud is not even a Big Belly. Why do they ask for him?”
Worm shrugged. “I don’t know. But they asked for him.”
“Will he go?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Red Cloud said he would not talk peace until the forts in the Powder River country are taken away. But the scout said General Sherman is willing to talk about the forts, maybe even to take them down.”
“I will believe that when I see it.”
“Stranger things have happened, son. But maybe the things you have fought for for so long will come to be. And soon.”
R
EBUFFED BY
R
ED
C
LOUD
and the rest of the wild Sioux, General Sherman nevertheless went ahead with his plans for a peace conference in late 1867. He met first with Sitting Bull and other Hunkpapa leaders, then with Spotted Tail and his Brule advisers. But this represented little in the way of progress in the Powder River country.
Spotted Tail had long been peaceably disposed, and any concessions he might make would not lessen hostilities to any significant degree. And Sitting Bull’s people had been all but absent from most of the conflict. They had stayed farther north and east, away from the Bozeman Trail and the forts Colonel Carrington had built to defend it.
After those conferences, Sherman headed to Fort Larned, in Kansas, and held a large peace council with representatives of the eastern Apache, the Arapaho, the southern Cheyenne, the Comanche, and the Kiowa. He bargained hard, but he was prepared to make concessions to be, if not conciliatory, then at least flexible, to get what he wanted.
But that flexibility was no softening of his notoriously hard heart when it came to Indian affairs. It
was rooted in pragmatism, nothing else. Sherman knew that his forces were spread dangerously thin. The entire United States Army numbered fewer than sixty thousand men. Of those troops, more than half were tied down in the Confederacy as occupiers and preservers of peace. More were assigned to coastal defenses, and of the remainder posted to the frontier, ten percent comprised the garrisons of Forts Reno C. F. Smith and Phil Kearny.
The forts were relatively secure, but they were isolated. Supply runs were extremely hazardous, and the troops were all but confined to the forts themselves. The numbers of Sioux and northern Cheyenne warriors available at any one time exceeded three thousand, and that was only a part of the total forces of hostile northern plains tribes. Most of them were concentrated in the valley of the Powder River and its tributaries, where the last of the great buffalo herds could be found.
Sherman was as much concerned with completion of the Kansas Pacific Railroad as he was subduing Red Cloud and Crazy Horse, and he knew he couldn’t do both. In a meeting with Ulysses S. Grant, then head of the army, he argued for a new approach.
“General, I don’t have enough men to clear the hostiles out of the Bozeman Trail area. Red Cloud and the others refuse to talk until we abandon Reno and the other forts in the area.”
“You have to do something, Bill. I’m getting pressure from the Congress and the President. The worst thing that could have happened was for somebody to find gold in Montana Territory. But somebody did, and there’s nothing to be done about it.”
“General, you know as well as I do that we have all we can do to keep the men in supplies and ammunition. You know what it was like at Kearny. What happened to Captain Fetterman was no accident. The only reason it hasn’t happened again is that most of the commanders won’t take their troops out of the forts except when they have overwhelming numerical superiority. And that’s damn seldom.”
“I know what you’re up against. The trouble is, the Congress doesn’t know or, if it does, it doesn’t care. And there’s a powerful pro-Indian faction in and out of Congress.”
“Have you told them how bad morale is? Do they realize the Indians are getting fat on the buffalo, and our troops are lucky to get one solid meal a day? Ammunition runs low, and we have a hell of a time getting more in. Anything moves along the Bozeman, the Sioux are all over it, cavalry escort or not. Out in the open country, it’s the Sioux who run things. All we really have is what’s inside the forts. The rest of the Powder River valley belongs to the hostiles.”
Grant nodded. He stroked his beard, chewing on his lower lip. “I know the situation, Bill, but you have no idea what these congressmen are like. I’d sooner run naked through a field full of bees than have to go to the Capitol.”
“Maybe we can buy some time. Maybe if they see some progress on one front, they’ll be patient.”
“I’d like to think so, but they all have personal axes to grind. The man from Iowa doesn’t care what you do for the man from Kansas. And vice versa. They all want what they want and everybody
else be damned. Getting elected is more important than anything else. If they can go home and say the army will put a lid on things, they come back next year. This is a lot tougher than the Civil War, I’ll tell you that. And there’s all those Indian lovers out there who say we’re being too hard on the Sioux. Hell, they say that about every tribe. And sometimes I think they might be right. They didn’t ask us to come into their territory. We did that on our own. Can’t hardly blame them for putting up a fight. I sure as hell would, if I was a Sioux or a Comanche. And so would you, Bill.”
“That’s true, but it doesn’t make much difference what we think. The settlers want protection. And you know as well as I do, General, that the railroad is the most important thing. I got some concessions from the southern plains chiefs. If they stick to their word, then we can get the railroad through without real trouble. There’ll be some young bucks looking for trouble, and we can accommodate them, but I can’t have a full-scale war north of the Platte. Not yet.”
“When? Damn it, Bill, I have to give them something to hang their hats on.”
Sherman shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe next year, or the year after. Once the railroad gets through, the buffalo hunters will follow. I think our best chance is the extermination of the buffalo herds. If those redskins don’t have anything to eat, they’ll be a hell of a lot more tractable. If the demand for buffalo skins and tongues holds for another couple of years, there won’t be enough left of the herds for the Sioux to keep body and soul together. They’ll be damn glad to have our handouts then.”
“I don’t know if Congress’ll wait that long. As it is, I’m scaring ‘em off with the numbers. I already spread the word that a full-scale war with the Sioux might cost four hundred million dollars. That took the wind out of their sails for a bit, but I don’t know how much longer I can hold them off. The funny thing is, that’s a realistic estimate of the cost.”
“It might be a little short of the true cost, actually, General.”
“Short or no,” Grant snorted, “right now, they think it’s too high. But that could change from week to week.”
“What do you want me to do, then? You have the Congress to deal with, and I don’t envy you that job. But I have thousands of soldiers, General. Their morale is lower than a snake’s belly. They spend most of their free time getting drunk on cheap whiskey and playing poker. That’s whenthey don’t have the energy for a good old-fashioned donnybrook. I have to tell
them
something,too.”
Grant leaned back in his chair. He seemed to be staring at the ceiling. Sighing heavily, he shook his head. “The only thing you can do, Bill. Give in….”
“You mean …?”
“That’s exactly what I mean. Give them what they want. Clear the hell out of Reno and Smith and Kearny. That should buy us some time. Maybe then we can get things on track in the South. “
“That won’t sit too well with the goddamned settlers and miners.”
“To hell with the settlers and the miners. Sometimes they’re more trouble than they’re worth. I can only fight one war at a time. And somebody’s got to pay for it before I can even do that.”
“I can’t move those troops in the middle of the winter. We’ve lost a lot of men to the winters out there.”
“As soon as you can, then. And make sure Red Cloud and Crazy Horse know it. Maybe that’ll settle things down some in the meantime.”
“If they believe me. But I don’t have too much hope of that.”
“Make them believe you, Bill. Do whatever it takes, but make them believe you.”
Sherman headed back to Omaha. He was anxious to get started, but the weather was something he couldn’t control. It seemed that the spring thaw would never come as January dragged into February. Finding the Sioux would be half his problem, and he had to give plenty of time for the messengers to find their quarry, and allow still more time for the chiefs to make their way in. Near the beginning of March, the weather finally began to cooperate, and Sherman sent runners out to all the Sioux, asking that Red Cloud and Old Man Afraid and the other leaders meet him for an important conference at Fort Laramie in April.
The chiefs straggled in, each leading his own band. Sherman gave them permission to establish a village a few miles from the fort. Old Man Afraid was there, and Spotted Tail. But not Red Cloud.
The general knew that Red Cloud was the single most influential war leader at the moment, and knew, too, that a treaty without his signature was useless. The other chiefs were already in favor of peace, and those warriors who followed them were similarly disposed. The more warlike of the Sioux and Cheyenne were another matter, and they did
not care a whit what Spotted Tail said, or what terms he might agree to.
Sherman fumed for two months, and still there was no sign of Red Cloud. By June, Sherman was furious, but he couldn’t afford to let it interfere with his purpose. He began the conference, hoping that Red Cloud would come in before it concluded.
Sitting in an open lodge large enough to accommodate the chiefs and the peace commissioners were Generals Harney and Terry, as well as N. G. Taylor, the new Commissioner of Indian Affairs and former Methodist minister, and Commissioner John B. Sanborn, the principal civilian negotiators. Taylor and Sanborn were firmly committed to reaching a fair settlement with the Sioux and, surprisingly, General Harney was very sympathetic as well. The Sioux remembered him very well from the Ash Hollow fight with Little Thunder’s village, and the idea that such a man could be advocating a peace that was favorable to the Indians swayed more than a few to believe that this treaty just might be worth accepting.
Sherman took pains to outline the geographical provisions with clarity.
“The Sioux people,” he said, “will have forever, as long as the grass shall grow and the waters shall run, all the land in South Dakota west of the Missouri River, including all of the Black Hills. In addition, they will have the right to hunt in all the land west of the Black Hills all the way to the Bighorn Mountains.”
He was ceding the entire Powder River country, and the Sioux leaders were pleased, but tried to keep their enthusiasm in check. There was a catch,
though, which was not explained. The Sioux right to that hunting ground would last only so long as there were enough buffalo to sustain them. Once the buffalo were gone, the Sioux would be expected to become “civilized,” settle down, and take up farming. If the chiefs understood this, they must not have believed that the buffalo would ever run out, because it did not deter them.
In addition, Sherman agreed that no whites, for whatever reason, would be allowed into Sioux lands, including the Powder River country, without Sioux permission. This almost clinched the deal, although Old Man Afraid was skeptical that it would be enforceable, assuming, which he did not, that the whites were even willing to try to enforce it.
The forts, though, remained a big sticking point. They were almost stunned, then, when Sherman also announced that the three forts along the Bozeman Trail—Reno, C. F. Smith, and Phil Kearny—would be abandoned within a few weeks.
The chiefs conferred among themselves for two days and, when they could find no reason not to agree, informed Sherman that they would touch the pen.
Red Cloud and Crazy Horse were still absent, but Sherman was determined to get whatever he could, so the signing ceremony went ahead, and the general left behind a copy of the treaty for Red Cloud, should he ever decide to come in.
On July 29, the troops marched out of Fort C. F. Smith. On a ridge overlooking the fort, Crazy Horse and a large band of Sioux watched in amazement, and more than a little disbelief. The bluecoats were actually leaving, just as they had said they would.
The last guidon had barely fluttered out of sight when Crazy Horse and his men swooped down on the fort and set it ablaze. Every building was torched, as was the stockade fence. The Sioux could hardly believe their good fortune, and held an elaborate victory dance to celebrate the departure of the hated white soldiers.
All that remained now was for the whites to keep their word that Sioux lands were inviolable. But Crazy Horse would believe that when he saw it.
R
ED
C
LOUD HAD FINALLY MADE IT
to Fort Laramie in the fall of 1868. General Sherman had been gone for almost six months. If Red Cloud was sorry to have missed the bluecoat general, he kept his disappointment a close secret. It was more than enough compensation that the forts had been abandoned, as the treaty said they must be. The hunting was good, so good, in fact, that the buffalo, without the rapacious white hunters to decimate the herds in the rich grazing land of the Powder River valley, seemed to be increasing. It was the first time that anyone could remember that the numbers of the great beasts had grown larger, rather than smaller.
And with no settlers or miners careening along the Bozeman Trail, the wild Sioux were free to turn their attention elsewhere, to more ancient enemies, men who knew how to fight the Sioux way, using weapons that were familiar, and tactics that both sides could understand.
Crazy Horse seemed to relish the renewed opportunity to harass the Crows. He had gone straight to Crow country before the smoke from
the incinerated buildings of Fort C. F. Smith had been cleared by the summer breeze. Even as he rode west, he had kept glancing back over his shoulder in the broad valley, as if expecting to see the bluecoats coming back, as if it had all been a trick.
But after a battle with the Crows, which saw him garner nearly fifty horses, he swept by the ruined fort one more time. It was still there, its ruins etched in the ground like ugly scars. The heaps of blackened timbers, little more than mounds, were surrounded by sprouting grass. And as he rode slowly through the center of what had once been a bastion of the bluecoats, he was pleased to see blackberry and strawberry sprouting, their tangles draping the ashen heaps with green garlands. If it had been a trick, it had been a good one indeed.
Red Cloud, too, relished the renewed freedom to pursue old habits. In the late summer of 1869, he had mounted a great war party to punish the Shoshoni, another ancient enemy, a people the Sioux called the Snakes.
All of the warriors seemed to find a youthful exuberance, as if the familiarity of a long-forgotten way of life had suddenly exploded in their memories. They embraced it the way they embraced a brother, long missing and presumed dead. There was a certain joy in the war whoops, an exultation in the victory celebrations that had long been absent.
Red Cloud, though, was getting along in years. Soon, he would reach that age when his job would not be to paint his face and adorn his horse with
feathers and daubs of bright color. He would stay at home, waiting for news of younger men, men who were following in his footsteps, men like Crazy Horse and Hump and Little Hawk and Young Man Afraid.
The war against the Shoshoni had taken a lot out of him. He still counted his share of coup, but he was so renowned, that one more would do little to burnish an already brilliant reputation. Crazy Horse was the future, the veteran war leader knew, partly because he was so firmly committed to the ways of the past. That, after all, was what the war with the bluecoats had been all about—preservation of the old ways.
Crazy Horse, more than any of the young warriors, perhaps even more than most of the older warriors, loved the old ways. They seemed to breathe life into him, and he was never happier than when he could shower his pony with those few paltry handfuls of dust, daub a few hail spots on his chest and shoulders, and tie the small stone under his arm. It was almost as if Crazy Horse were a figure out of the tribal past, an embodiment of an ideal, a warrior’s warrior. Red Cloud was vain, with the kind of vanity only the great seem to have, that vanity that might resent one who was superior but which was so deeply rooted in a set of values that it could do nothing other than pay homage to that superiority. And he knew better than anyone how great a man Crazy Horse had become.
Politically astute, Red Cloud was coming to realize something else: Despite Crazy Horse, despite the treaties of 1851 and 1868, the assurances of
General Sherman, and the blessing of the Great Father in Washington, the past might not be rescued. It galled him to think so, but if there was any possibility that Spotted Tail was right, that the whites would be back, and they were too powerful to be held off much longer, then it behooved him to think how he might make the best of so dreadful a prospect.
His concerns were exacerbated in the fall of 1869. Long deprived of the white man’s addictive goods, like coffee and sugar, and in need of ammunition for their weapons, the Sioux spent several months amassing huge stores of buffalo hides. They knew that the hides still brought high prices, and hoped to be able to trade their stores for supplies they needed. Packing up their entire village, Red Cloud’s Sioux commenced their exodus to the Platte River valley. Crazy Horse refused to go along, preferring to stay and hunt where he felt he belonged and where he felt all the Sioux belonged with him.
But Red Cloud was to be disappointed and Crazy Horse credited with superior understanding. Arriving at the Platte, the Sioux were welcomed rudely. Several warriors were fired upon, and two wounded by troopers. Under a white flag, Red Cloud visited the military commander, and was advised that the terms of the treaty were quite explicit: the Sioux were to stay in Sioux lands, either in Dakota or in the Powder River country. They were not welcome at the Platte, and they were not to be allowed to trade with anyone, even willing traders, and most particularly were they not to be allowed to obtain ammunition.
And the traders were strongly cautioned that they would not be permitted to take their wagon loads of goods to the Sioux, even in their own country. The treaty was just as explicit on that point. White men were prohibited from entering Sioux territory. Furious at what he took to be a betrayal, Red Cloud returned to the Powder River. A few hardy, or reckless, traders, almost all of them half-breeds, defied the ban and made surreptitious journeys to the hostiles, but they risked confiscation of their goods and imprisonment if they were to be detected by the military authorities.
In a matter of months, Red Cloud came around to Spotted Tail’s position, and sued for peace. Unwilling to come under the latter’s authority, Red Cloud asked for his own agency, separate from that of the Brule chief, and his request was granted. Half of his followers went with him to the White River, where the agency was christened the Red Cloud Agency. But the other half of his warriors, feeling that Crazy Horse had been right all along, went back to the Powder River to join forces with the man who was now the single most influential hostile Indian leader on the North American continent.
Red Cloud had read the cards and, not liking the hand he’d been dealt, took what seemed to him the only viable route. But it was not long before the hazards of peace made themselves felt. In a matter of months, Red Cloud had a list of grievances as lengthy as his list of coups. An able politician, he made his complaints known in the only place where they might be addressed—Washington, D.C.
No less astute as a politician, Ulysses S. Grant, now President, sent an invitation to Red Cloud, Spotted Tail, and Crazy Horse, asking that they come to Washington. The ostensible purpose of the visit was to explore the outstanding conflicts between the whites and the Sioux. Red Cloud, recognizing an opportunity to enhance his standing, hastened to accept. Spotted Tail also agreed. Crazy Horse, though, wanted nothing to do with the white men. He was content to stay in the Powder River and live his own life according to standards more powerful, and more attractive, than any gift the white man had to offer.
Their journey took the Sioux chiefs first to Omaha, where they saw for the first time buildings of four and five stories, far more imposing than any structures they had seen on the frontier. If the buildings themselves were not enough to intimidate the Sioux, the sheer numbers of whites in Omaha added their weight, and Chicago, their next stop, all but sealed the impression.
Once in Washington, Grant lost no time in trying to harvest some hay of his own. He accompanied the bewildered chiefs on an endless round of meetings and conferences with congressional leaders, businessmen, and assorted policymakers. One afternoon, the Sioux were taken to the shores of the Potomac for a demonstration that was not explained ahead of time. Grant, knowing that this might be the chance to fire the last shot of the Sioux wars, had arranged for a fifteen-inch Rodman cannon to be present.
When the huge gun was fired, the chiefs were terrified by the thunderous report. Spotted Tail
clapped his hands over his ears, his eyes searching Grant’s face for an explanation. Red Cloud stood, arms folded across his chest, watching the heavy artillery shell skip across the Potomac’s rippling surface several miles away. When the last arcs of silver spray had collapsed back into the river, Red Cloud had made up his mind—for him, the warpath was a thing of the past.
If the cannon were not enough, the next stop on the carefully planned journey was New York, where the teeming crowds brought home to the chiefs the accuracy of the grasshopper metaphor which had dominated so much of the berating, cajoling, and dire warnings the Sioux had received from every white politician, soldier, and agent. The chiefs now knew for certain that their people were unbelievably outnumbered.
Red Cloud, dressed in the white man’s clothing, with a vest and a high-crowned hat, made a speech at the Cooper Institute on June 16. It was an eloquent presentation of the Sioux plight, a passionate summary of red-white relations on the great plains and, as might be expected, it accomplished nothing. Red Cloud returned to the agency, and the problems continued. He never put on a warbonnet again, choosing instead to devote his life to the political machinations which seemed to the great chief the only way for the Sioux to survive. He knew he could not control the more passionate of the young warriors, but closed his eyes because it was easier not to see.
Later that year, Crazy Horse, following his own path, turned his eyes westward, and led war
parties against the Crow and the Shoshoni. He was doing what he loved best, and he had the companionship of his best friend, Hump, to ward off the loneliness. He was in love with Black Buffalo Woman, and she with him. She had gone so far as to ask her husband to release her, but No Water flatly refused. War was the only comfort left him.
At the head of a small war party that included Hump, He Dog, Little Hawk, and Good Weasel, Crazy Horse went in search of the Shoshoni. It was the middle of November. So far, the weather had been kind, but the party left in a drizzling rain. As they pushed westward, the rain turned to sleet, and then to snow.
Underfoot, thick slush began to accumulate. Crazy Horse was concerned about the weather. Pulling alongside Hump, he said, “I don’t like this. The horses are already having trouble in the slush. Maybe we should turn back. It could get a lot worse.”
Hump laughed. “Do you remember what happened the last time we turned back from a war party at this spot?”
Crazy Horse nodded. “I remember.”
“Do you want the same thing to happen? Can you stand the teasing? We have to think of our reputations. This time there will be a fight. There has to be. Go home if you want to, but I will go on.”
Crazy Horse was ambivalent. “Your rifle is fine. I have a good gun, too. But look at the others. Their rifles are old. They are better off fighting with bows and arrows. This is no place for a fight, and the
weather only makes it worse. But if you insist, we will fight.”
Hump laughed again. “At first, I thought you were turning into one of the Loafers. You were starting to sound like Spotted Tail. I’m glad you’re staying.” He clapped his
kola
on the shoulder, then nudged his horse ahead, still laughing.
An hour later, they stumbled on a Shoshoni hunting party. The slush had deepened, clinging to the hooves of the horses like translucent glue. The ground under the slush was slippery and soft, making matters all the more treacherous.
Crazy Horse and Hump led the attack, but the Shoshoni band was larger, and well armed. Charge and countercharge, the horses of both sides slipping and sliding as they careened across the slippery ground, led to a standoff. Hump was getting frustrated, and got out ahead of the others on his next pass. A flurry of gunfire crackled, the Shoshoni warriors like shadows in the driving sleet and snow.
Hump went down, then scrambled away from his horse. He waved to Crazy Horse to show that he was unhurt. Crazy Horse galloped toward him with Good Weasel right behind. He had already sent the others home, and planned to keep the Shoshoni busy while his own men made their escape.
Back on his horse, Hump realized the pony had been wounded in the leg and was nearly lame. “We’re in for it now,” he shouted.
Crazy Horse nodded. They charged ahead once more, Hump’s horse limping along behind the other two ponies. The Shoshoni held off the
charge, then pressed their own attack. Trying to turn, Hump’s horse went down again. This time, the great warrior was too close to the enemy, and the Shoshoni charge swallowed him up. Desperate, Crazy Horse charged back, but he couldn’t get close enough. He saw the frenzy of the Shoshoni as they swarmed around his friend.
Then, like a shadow from beyond, Hump broke through, staggering. Even through the swirling sheets of rain and sleet, Crazy Horse could see the blood streaming from a wound in Hump’s shoulder. One arm hung limply, as if a bone had been broken, or a tendon severed.
Once more Crazy Horse charged toward the Shoshoni phantoms. The enemy warriors kept disappearing in the mist and slashing sleet, only to reappear as they turned their horses and bore down once again on Hump, who turned now to raise his one good arm. Unable to use a bow, he was reduced to fending off the charge with a lance.
Crazy Horse loosed arrows in a frenzy, his horse circling the swirling mass of Shoshoni braves and ponies. One Shoshoni fell, an arrow protruding from his chest, and Hump finished him with a stab of his lance. Another went down, then a third. Hump leaped on the last, snapping the shaft of his lance with a vicious thrust.