Most of the Sioux ignored him, and those few who didn’t were amused by the man’s anger and evident frustration. Hump and a couple of the others ran him off, and he sprinted after the wagon train, which hadn’t even bothered to slow down. They were still laughing when he disappeared into the cloud of dust kicked up by the wagons.
The following day, it became evident that Lieutenant Fleming did not share the Sioux amusement at the settler’s expense. He sent for Conquering Bear. The old chief, annoyed by what he considered foolishness, sent a messenger to tell Fleming that he would not come.
Fleming sent a message in return, insisting that Conquering Bear come into the fort, and that he bring the offending warrior with him.
Conquering Bear, realizing that Fleming would not rest until the matter was disposed of, went into the fort and asked to see Fleming.
Through an interpreter, he said, “I don’t understand what all the argument is about. It was a lame cow, good for nothing. Not even a white man could find meat on its bones. It was scrawny and useless. Besides, it did not belong in our village. Children were playing in front of the lodges. They could have been hurt. “
Fleming got right to the point. “Did you bring High Forehead with you?”
The old chief shook his head. “No, I did not.”
“I want him arrested. If you don’t bring him in, I’ll have to come and get him.”
“That is crazy. Show me the man who owned the cow. I will take him to my herd and he can pick out any horse he wants. That is more than enough payment for so sad a cow. The worst horse in my herd would pay for ten such cows. I will make an even exchange.”
“You can’t buy me off that easily, Chief. Your man did something wrong and he has to pay for it.”
“He did nothing wrong. “
“He killed an animal that did not belong to him. How would you like it if the man went to your herd and killed one of your horses?”
Conquering Bear was at a loss. “I can’t give you High Forehead.”
“Why not? Has he run away? Then tell me where he went. I’ll go get him myself.”
“No, he has not run off. I don’t have the right to give him up. He is a Miniconjou. I am a Brule.”
“But you’re the chief of all the Sioux …”
“I am Brule. He is Miniconjou.”
“Chief, I’ll give you twenty-four hours. You have him here tomorrow, or I will see to it that he comes in, whether you like it or not. And I don’t give a damn which way it is. You understand?”
The old chief said nothing. Instead, he turned and left Fleming’s office, wondering how things could have gotten so far out of hand. He mounted his horse and rode back to the village, knowing that something was about to happen that he could not prevent. When he explained to the other chiefs and warriors what Fleming had said, many of them wanted to attack the fort. Old Man Afraid, though, counseled patience. Conquering Bear, too, urged them to be calm.
The following morning, Lieutenant Grattan got his chance to ride through the whole Sioux nation, or at least, a small part of it. At the moment, there were more than six hundred lodges in the area, more than a thousand warriors, and they were in no mood for Grattan’s abuse. On the way to Conquering Bear’s camp, Grattan stopped at the trading post. James Bordeaux, the trader, was known to the Sioux. They trusted him, and he was fluent in their language.
Bordeaux greeted the lieutenant coolly. “Good morning,” he said. “I see you are prepared for war.”
Grattan waved grandly. “Thirty-one men. That’s all I need. I got a field piece and a mountain howitzer. We’ll get the job done.”
“You’re a goddamned fool, Lieutenant. It was just a cow. Forget about it.”
Grattan bristled. “Look, if it matters to you so much, why don’t you come along. You can interpret. Maybe it’ll help.”
“You don’t need help. You need to go home and think about what you’re doing, Lieutenant. You are about to make a very big mistake.”
“I can handle anything that comes along, Bordeaux. With you or without you.”
“Does Lieutenant Fleming know what you’re doing?”
Grattan nodded. “He knows.”
“Then you’re both fools.”
“I take it you won’t come along …?”
“Hell no, I won’t come along. And if you know what’s good for …”
“Savages, Bordeaux. Undisciplined savages. Do you really think they can stand …”
“Have you ever seen the Sioux fight, Lieutenant?”
Grattan hesitated for a moment, before answering. “No, I haven’t.”
“Have you ever seen combat of any kind?”
Grattan shook his head.
“Well, you go ahead with this, and you’ll see more than you want to. Talk to me afterward.”
The men were getting restless, and Grattan was afraid that Bordeaux’s words might inhibit them. Brusquely, he remounted. “I’ll see you this afternoon. And I think Lieutenant Fleming will not be happy you refused to help.”
“Fleming can go to hell.” He turned and went back into the trading post.
Grattan pushed on. He passed a large Oglala camp on his way to Conquering Bear’s Brule village.
All the Oglala ponies had been brought in. If he noticed, he didn’t understand the significance. The Oglala were ready for war. Young Man Afraid, son of the chief, and himself a warrior of rising influence, rode along with the soldiers. On the way, he tried to convince Grattan that there would be trouble. Auguste Lucien, the Frenchman who was to serve as interpreter, kept shouting insults at the Sioux warriors as they rode past the Oglala lodges. Between shouts, he drank from a bottle of whiskey. Another bottle was being passed among the soldiers.
Grattan listened to Young Man Afraid, but waved off his warnings. “I will have High Forehead in the jail, or I will die trying.”
“There are many Sioux,” Young Man Afraid said. “Too many for you.”
Grattan shook his head. “No, not too many. It will work out. Just make sure that the Oglala stay out of it if a fight starts.” Lucien was babbling his interpretations, and neither Grattan nor Young Man Afraid was convinced the other was being told his words exactly.
By the time they reached the Brule camp, a large open circle at the foot of a small bluff, most of the warriors had hidden themselves in the trees under the bluff. Conquering Bear came out to meet Grattan. It was obvious that he wanted to prevent trouble.
“Why all the fuss?” he asked. “It was a lame cow, no good to anybody.”
Grattan said, “I want High Forehead. If you won’t bring him to me, tell me where he is.”
Some of the Sioux standing behind the chief said
that High Forehead had gone, but one man pointed to a lodge and said, “There. That is his tipi.”
Again and again, Conquering Bear tried to talk Grattan out of his purpose, but the lieutenant was adamant. All the while, Lucien kept riding back and forth behind the soldiers, shouting insults and threats at the Sioux. Grattan seemed to sense that trouble was brewing, but he didn’t know how to get out of it.
He ordered his men to aim and to fire on his command. A messenger sent to High Forehead’s lodge returned with word that the Miniconjou had five men with him, and they were all prepared to fight, even to die, if necessary.
Conquering Bear once more offered to pay for the cow with horses from his own herd, but Grattan would not be put off. The chief, realizing that the chance of avoiding a fight had gone, turned to walk away. At that moment, one of the troopers fired, hitting a warrior in the chest and killing him.
The Miniconjou appeared at the door to High Forehead’s lodge. Grattan ordered his two big guns fired, and the shells went high, nipping the tips of some lodge poles, but doing no other damage. The Miniconjous opened fire then, and Grattan gave the order to fire. In an instant, a flurry of arrows poured out of the village. Grattan and four other soldiers, three of them artillerymen, were hit. At almost the same moment, the Brule hidden at the base of the bluff thundered down on the village.
Young Man Afraid looked on in horror, yelling for the Oglalas to intercede, to help the soldiers before it was too late.
But there was nothing to be done. The fury of
the Brule had been unleashed. The soldiers turned and ran, but the warriors pursued them on horseback and on foot. The soldiers’ single shot rifles were too cumbersome, and almost useless against the speed and deadly accuracy of the Sioux bowmen. Volley after volley of arrows poured into the fleeing troops. One by one they fell.
And then it was over. The village fell strangely silent. Grattan and all thirty-one of his men lay dead. In a frenzy, the Sioux swarmed over the two gun carriages, set them on fire, and destroyed the howitzers.
Conquering Bear had been badly wounded, shot in the back, the leg, and the side. He lay bleeding in the dust for several minutes before the warriors gathered him up and helped him to his tent.
Back at the Oglala village, the warriors, Young Man Afraid and Old Man Afraid at their head, stood silently and watched. Curly and Hump and Little Hawk had gotten their first look at a conflict that would shape the rest of their lives.
A
FTER THE FIGHT
with Grattan’s men, the Sioux seemed disorganized. Some wanted to ride on the fort and kill the rest of the soldiers, burn Fort Laramie to the ground, and take control of the Plains. Others, frightened that the whites would just send more and more soldiers, until there were too many for the Sioux to fight, wanted to stay where they were. They thought that the Great Father would understand that what had happened was not their fault.
The vast majority, though, just wanted to get away from Fort Laramie. They wanted their lives to continue as they had always been. If hanging around the Fort meant dependence on the white man’s goods, then they would leave. They had fed themselves long before anyone had seen a white man. They had more than held their own against the Pawnee and pushed the Crow far enough west that they had all the breathing room they could want. There was the beauty of the Paha Sapa and the wide open expanse of the plains where they could spend the rest of their lives without ever seeing another white man.
Old Man Afraid, though, knew that something had changed forever. In the first major armed conflict with the whites, the Sioux had won a victory, but it was hollow and, the chief suspected, likely to be shortlived.
The Oglala moved on, and the Brule, too. Curly and his family rode east with the Brule, his mother’s people. On the long trek, Conquering Bear continued to suffer from his wounds. Unable to ride, he was borne on a travois. Often, Curly and Hump would ride along behind the gravely wounded chief. Sometimes, at night, they would peek into the chief’s lodge. He would be lying there, more often than not asleep, wrapped in a buffalo robe. He was losing weight, wasting away from his wounds. No one wanted to say it aloud, but it was obvious that Conquering Bear was dying.
Confused by the events, upset over Conquering Bear’s condition, Curly rode out onto the prairie by himself. He was determined to seek a vision, but he was not playing by the rules. The vision quest was the central event of a Sioux warrior’s life. It was what gave him his adult name, and its cryptic intelligence would guide him for the rest of his life, if he were lucky enough to have a vision at all.
In order to be ready, custom required that the young man about to seek his vision receive intensive instruction for many weeks from a holy man. This would prepare his mind to receive the critical information the vision would impart. It was also a prerequisite to undergo a ritual of purification. Since purification was deemed essential before attempting to establish contact with the controlling spirits, the forces in nature and above it that controlled
men’s lives, a shaman would officiate at a purifying sweat bath, held in a dome-shaped sweat lodge built for this purpose. A shaman would accompany the prospective seeker to supervise the purification. Fasting was a part of the preparation, as well.
But Curly was impatient. Desperate for an explanation of the confusing things around him, he decided to seek his vision on his own. He rode into the hills of western Nebraska without telling anyone where he was going. Deep in the Sand Hills, he found a lake, overlooked by a steep hill. Tethering his horse at the lakeside, giving it enough lead to feed itself on the thick grasses on the shore, he climbed the hill until he reached the top, where a flat table of unbroken stone jutted out toward the lake far below.
He lay down on the stone and began to fast. Determined to keep himself awake, he placed sharp stones under him. The points digging into his back and shoulders, the backs of his thighs, and his calves were torture, but they served their purpose. For two days with no food or water he lay there, staring at the sun in the daytime and the stars at night.
On the third day, his body sore, his lips cracked and his throat parched, he was beginning to fear that he would not have a vision after all. He began to worry that his lack of preparation had doomed his quest. Maybe it wasn’t right to seek so powerful a thing without the right prayers being said. Maybe he wasn’t pure enough. These thoughts, sharper than any of the stones poking into his flesh, tortured him for the rest of the day.
Getting to his feet, Curly looked at the lake far below. It seemed to shimmer in the sunlight, as if the waters were trying to part, giving birth to something deep beneath the surface. Dejected, he backed away from the rim and started down the hill. His head spun, and as he looked at the sky, the clouds began to swirl. Bright light seemed to pour like liquid out of them, thick waves of it sweeping toward him. The light rippled like the sea of grass far across the lake, shifting, undulating. He shook his head, but the sensation wouldn’t leave him.
He stumbled, fell to one knee, and reached out to catch himself. A sharp pain stabbed through his hand, the shock made his elbow buckle, and he gasped with the pain, fell headlong and began to slide over the rocks and gravel. The hiss of sand in his ears was like the voice of a rattler, and he twisted his head from side to side, trying to see where it came from. His arms spread like wings, he clawed at the ground, but kept on sliding.
Halfway down the hill, on a little belly ledge in the slope, he slowed enough to arrest his fall. Rolling onto his back, he looked up to see a man on horseback. The man shimmered, his horse pawing the earth. Curly blinked, trying to clear his vision, but everything looked watery, as if the world were dissolving.
The great horse began to change colors, first a dark roan, then a brilliant, almost silvery gray. It turned dark again, black as night, a white blaze on its forehead, then it turned colors Curly had never seen anywhere, not on a horse, not on a bird’s wing or the wings of a butterfly.
The man on horseback said nothing. He was
dressed in plain clothing—unadorned leggings, fringed but otherwise unremarkable, a plain buckskin shirt, unpainted and without even beadwork to relieve the ordinariness of its color. His face was unpainted, and he wore a solitary eagle feather in his hair, which hung long and straight. Light brown in color, it reminded Curly of his own hair. The man turned away for a moment, and Curly noticed a small stone tied behind his ear.
Curly tried to get up, but his body wouldn’t work. His joints seemed to have dissolved in his skin, leaving only jelly where the bone had been. Gasping for air, he tried to speak, but the man raised a hand to silence him.
“Don’t wear a warbonnet,” he said. “When you go into battle, leave your horse’s tail untied, free to balance him as he leaps across the stones. Before you ride into battle, sprinkle him with dust, let streams of it glide from your curled fingers in streaks and straight lines. Don’t paint your war pony.”
“Who …” Curly croaked.
But again the man raised a hand, cutting him off. “Rub dirt on your skin and hair. Dothese things before every battle, and you will never be killed by an enemy or a bullet. Your people must come first. Take nothing for yourself. Your people will know your worth. Know it yourself. Let them celebrate you. It is not necessary for you to boast or sing of your courage.”
As the man spoke, he seemed to be doing battle with ghosts. He wheeled on his horse then androde as if into battle. Strange blurs and shadows swirled around him, darting close, darkening as if
about to become solid, then vanishing when the man waved his hand to chase them off. Arrows swarmed around him in clouds, like angry bees, but none struck him. Bullets sang as they flew past, sometimes close enough to raise the fine hairs on his skin as they passed. Most disappeared as they were about to strike him.
Curly felt his head spinning, his eyes bugging out. His throat was so parched that he could only rasp as he tried once more to speak, trying desperately to call out to the phantom warrior. A new wave of enemies swarmed around the strange man, and one of his own people, no face, just a shadow behind the strange warrior, grabbed his arms from behind, holding him back, preventing him from raising a hand to defend himself.
Thunder cracked then, as if the sky had split in two, the earth about to follow, rumbling beneath Curly, his body swallowing the tremors whole, quaking with the rattling of the earth and with terror. It grew dark, then darker still. Lightning flashed across the dark face of the clouds and it began to storm. Huge drops of water spattered Curly’s face, swept in torrents across the sky, almost blurring the man, blotting him out as the wind howled and hail began to rattle on the rocks around him. The man rode past once more, his horse pounding the earth. His face seemed to loom up out of the storm, and Curly saw that it was painted with a single bolt of lightning. A handful of white hail spots was sprinkled on his chest and shoulders.
Then, as suddenly as he had come, he was gone.
Curly closed his eyes for a moment, then opened
them. He was gasping like a fish, his body sucking air in huge gulps. He closed his eyes again, still listening to the storm as it swirled around him. The clatter of hail was gone, but the hammering of the rain on his chest and skull sounded like drums. He opened his eyes to a brightening sky. A single hawk soared high above him, its cry distant and desperate.
Then everything went black.
When he awoke, his vision was blurred. Great shadows speared the ground beside him as he blinked away the sun. He thought for a moment the rider had come back. As he tried to move his arms, he realized they worked normally, and he pushed himself up. His vision cleared, and he found himself staring into his father’s scowl. Hump stood a little behind, as if to be out of reach of his father’s wrath.
“What is wrong with you, boy?” his father shouted. “Conquering Bear is dying. You run off where no one can find you, except the Pawnee or the Crow.”
Curly swallowed hard. “I was seeking a vision, Father.”
“Without purification? Without instruction? Why?”
Curly shook his head. “I don’t know. I just wanted …”
His father was even angrier now. Curly decided it was better to say nothing of his dream. He got slowly to his feet. His father was already halfway down the hill. Hump tried to hang back, but Curly’s father kept calling to them both.
Maybe it was not a good dream, Curly thought. Maybe I will have another one.
All the way back to camp, he debated whether to tell his father what he had seen, but he knew now was not the time. And judging from the look on his father’s face, maybe that time would never come.
Two days later, Conquering Bear died, and the Brules wrapped the old chief in a buffalo robe, placed him on a burial scaffold, and left for the fall buffalo hunt. Curly had still said nothing, not even to Hump. He was biding his time. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that the dream was meant for him, that it was something he had to understand. One day, he knew, he would have to tell his father about it, and let the holy man tell him what it meant.
He would try to understand on his own, to puzzle his way through the meaning the way he puzzled his way through everything else, thinking for himself, learning, always learning. And if that didn’t work, if he was unable to piece together the meaning of the strange visitation, he could ask his father.
But not while his father was in such a mood. Not just yet.