O
N A LONG WALK
with his son one May evening, Worm led the way to a stand of willows a mile or so above the village. It was obvious that Worm had something on his mind, but Crazy Horse, try as he might, was unable to guess what it might be. As usual, his approach was to wait for Worm to open the discussion. He knew from long experience that Worm would talk when he was ready, and not before. No amount of prompting, pleading, or threatening would coax a solitary word from his lips until he was ready to let it fly.
The older man took a seat on the sand at the edge of the stream, shielded from the village, and from a casual passerby, by the dense foliage of the willows. Leaning forward and snatching at a reed at the water’s edge, he patted the ground beside him, and waited for Crazy Horse to sit down.
Worm twirled the reed in his hand, took a knife from his hip and sliced it through cleanly at both ends, leaving himself with about eighteen inches of the hollow stem. Holding it to his eyes, he peered through it for a long moment, his son silent at his
side. Then, cutting several small sections from one side of the reed, he blew through one end. A delicate moan emanated from the reed. Covering the holes with his fingers one at a time, he changed the pitch of the sound. Since he had not tried to be careful, cutting the small lozenges from the edge of the stem the way a farmer would cut chips from a whittling stick, there was no relation between the tones. The music, if such it could be called, was sour, the sounds random as hole after hole was covered by Worm’s fingers.
Then, tapping his thigh with the reed, he looked at Crazy Horse. “Not a very good flute, is it?”
Crazy Horse, knowing the question was only preamble, smiled, but said nothing.
“I used to be able to make a very good one. But you have to have just the right reed. It must be big enough around, the walls thick enough, but not too thick, or the sound is muddy. But then, I am not really a musician.”
“Neither am I,” Crazy Horse said.
“No. You are a warrior. Maybe the best there is. I know that some would say Red Cloud, and some would say Spotted Tail. They are great men, both of them. And there are others, too. They all would have their defenders, but I guess I am partial to you.”
“You are my father.”
Worm nodded. “I am. Still, I have another son, also a warrior, and also a very great one. But Little Hawk is not Crazy Horse. Only you are Crazy Horse. You alone. Alone.”
“Yes. I am alone in many ways, but that is not a bad thing.”
“Yes, it is. It is a bad thing. It is not right for a man to be alone. It is not right for so great a warrior to have no one to tend him when he is ill, to cook for him, to give him sons as White Deer, and her sister before her, gave me children. That is only proper.”
“I am away often. Sometimes I am gone for weeks at a time. That is hard on a woman.”
Worm nodded. “That is true.” He seemed to mull that over for a moment, but Crazy Horse knew that Worm was not ready to abandon his theme just yet. Instead, the son guessed, his father was probably trying to find another way to approach it, the same way a warrior would try to attack an enemy and, being repulsed, would try again from another direction. Try again and again, if he were courageous and a great warrior, until he found the way to do what he had come to do. So would Worm persist until he found the way to make his argument.
“You have seen twenty-one winters, son.”
“Yes.
“If the Great Spirit is willing, you will see many more; twice, three times that number. I hope that will be your time. And that is a long time.”
“Yes, it is a long time.”
“A long time to be alone.”
“I have my work.”
“Your work is to care for the people. But you, Crazy Horse, are you not one of the people? Who will care for you?”
“I need no one to care for me.”
“Not now, maybe, but … Listen, you have seen the old ones. You have seen how, when they can
no longer go into battle, they have other things to do, children to teach, even children’s children. That is a good thing. I have enjoyed watching my children grow.”
“That is not something a man has to do. It is something he chooses to do.”
“And you choose not to?”
“I didn’t say that, Father. I don’t know. I just think that it wouldn’t be right, to leave a woman alone all the time. I would worry about her when I was on the warpath. Who would protect her from the Crow … and from the white soldiers? I have seen what happens to the women and the children. I once …”
Worm nodded. “I remember. I know how much that hurt you, the teasing, the jokes at your expense. But I know that what hurt you most was not what the other warriors said, but what you felt in your heart. You thought it a bad thing to kill a woman.”
“I did. I do now. And I have never done it again. And I never will. But the Crow are not like that. The Pawnee don’t mind killing women. And the white men seem to like it. I remember at Ash Hollow, what they did. I saw the dresses pulled up, the dried blood between the legs where there should have been soft hair. That was not right. That was not what a warrior ought to do. It is something I would never do, and that I have never seen any Lakota do.”
“But that is no reason to deprive yourself of the comfort a woman can bring. Why suffer alone when you can have someone to share the suffering? It makes it easier to bear. Even the worst suffering
can be endured if you have someone to share it with.”
“It is not my way.”
Again, Worm paused for a long time. When he spoke again, he was more direct. “If there were a woman you would wish to take to your lodge, who would she be?”
“I have never thought about it.”
“Yes, you have. I even know who she is. Why not speak her name yourself?”
“What would be the point?”
“All right, then
I’ll
say it—Black Buffalo Woman. I think maybe you should court her. I think maybe she would be a good wife to you, and you a good husband to her.”
Crazy Horse shook his head. “No. She is from a great family. Red Cloud is her uncle. There is …”
“My own family is not nothing, you know.” He clapped his son on the shoulder. “Try it. What have you got to lose? If she refuses you, well, you say you don’t wish to be married. But if she says yes, then … I know what you feel for her in here.” He reached out and tapped his son on the chest. “It is what I felt for White Deer. It is what I still feel for White Deer, even after all these winters together.”
And so Crazy Horse was left with no way out. In the evening, according to the custom, he would show himself at the door to Black Buffalo Woman’s lodge. She was permitted to come out and sit with her suitors. The young man and woman would wrap themselves completely in a buffalo robe. It was the only way they were permitted to be alone. But there was little time for anything
more than small talk. And since Black Buffalo Woman was beautiful, and from a good family, she had many suitors. If another would show up, one she preferred to the man with whom she was wrapped in the robe, it was permitted for her to make a change.
During the day, and during the long nights after his visits, Crazy Horse would think about her. He had known her most of his life. He could still see her as a child, her braids trailing in the breeze as she ran through the grass. Later, when she was old enough to work, he would watch her bringing water to the village, or tanning buffalo hides or sitting with the other women, talking about whatever it was the women talked about. None of the men knew or, if he did, he was not sharing his secret knowledge.
Once again, Crazy Horse became the butt of jokes. Hump teased him unmercifully. Little Hawk, too, would raise the issue at every opportunity. And Pretty One, the
winkte
, who now went by the name Woman’s Dress, would tease him, too. But he didn’t mind so much.
He enjoyed his time wrapped in the robe with Black Buffalo Woman. It seemed to fly by, and the long days waiting for another chance to court her seemed to stab him with a thousand knives. Sometimes he couldn’t breathe for thinking of her. But in the back of his mind was a worry. She had several suitors who had more to offer her. No Water was one of them. His family was powerful, and his brother, Black Twin, was already a member of the council, though not much older than Crazy Horse.
All Crazy Horse had to offer her was the life of a warrior’s woman. And that meant long periods without seeing each other. It meant the torture, all the time he was away, of wondering whether or not he would come back. It might mean early widowhood, perhaps with children to care for and worry about. She was young and beautiful, and she would find someone who could offer her so much more than he could. Because of his vision, Crazy Horse did not have much at all to offer her father. He had only a few horses, the ones he needed for war parties. Beyond that, he had nothing. And he was sure that it made a difference. Why wouldn’t it?
After two months of courting, it came as a relief when Red Cloud announced that he was going to lead a war party against the Crows. Hump was going, Black Twin and No Water, too. And Crazy Horse signed on without hesitation. Little Hawk, too, would go along. On the warpath, Crazy Horse knew that he could forget about his fears. He would not see Black Buffalo Woman for many weeks, but that was almost better than seeing her so much with so little he could offer her.
But on the morning they were scheduled to depart, No Water was in agony. He had a terrible toothache. In itself, this was no great thing. But for No Water, it was everything. No Water’s special medicine was from the long incisors of the grizzly bear. The toothache meant that his medicine sign was not favorable. It would be foolish, could even be fatal, to risk the warpath in such circumstances.
They were gone two weeks. The raid was a success, although they found few Crows and stole few
horses. None of the Sioux were wounded, and they had managed to kill one enemy warrior, so there was every reason to feel satisfied.
On the long ride home, without the anticipation of battle to occupy his mind, Crazy Horse found himself thinking about Black Buffalo Woman almost constantly. When the wind blew through the trees, he thought it was her voice whispering to him. When he looked at the sky, he saw her face in the clouds. At night, with nothing but the deep black of the heavens and the tiny points of the stars to see, he imagined the twinkling of her eyes. She was everywhere. He couldn’t wait to see her again.
He hadn’t realized until the separation how much she meant to him. He was willing to do anything, endure any humiliation, make any sacrifice, if only he could succeed in winning her. He knew that Red Cloud had no objection, because he had overheard Hump and the great war chief talking about it. That gave him hope. But he knew, too, that the final decision was not for Red Cloud to make. It wasn’t even for her father to make. It was up to the woman herself. And in his heart he had to admit that he just didn’t know what she would decide.
As they drew near the village, Woman’s Dress ran out to meet the warriors. Taking Crazy Horse by the leg, he pulled him, still on his pony, to one side. Crazy Horse watched the
winkte
in bafflement. “What do …?”
But Woman’s Dress shook his head. “Wait.” He held a hand to his lips and waited for the rest of the warriors to pass by. Little Hawk looked quizzically
at the two of them, but Woman’s Dress waved him on impatiently.
Only when the rest of the warriors were inside the village circle did Woman’s Dress speak. “I wanted to be the one to tell you. I think it is best if …”
“Tell me what?”
Woman’s Dress rubbed a hand over his chin. The beadwork on his dress, the best anyone had ever seen, which he had done himself, shimmered in the afternoon sunlight. It looked as if sheets of white fire were coursing down his body as he breathed.
“Black Buffalo Woman …”
Crazy Horse jumped from his pony. “What has happened to her? Is she …”
Woman’s Dress shook his head. “No. Nothing like that. It’s just … she’s married.”
“Married? Who?”
“No Water.”
“But she can’t have done that. She wouldn’t do that. She …”
“She has, Crazy Horse.”
“It was planned, wasn’t it? No Water didn’t have a toothache. He had this planned all along. Even Red Cloud … this must have been his idea. He …”
Woman’s Dress shook his head vigorously. “No. Red Cloud knew nothing of this. He will be as surprised as you. And as angry at No Water for this cowardly way of dealing.”
“No, he won’t. No one can be that angry, my friend.” Crazy Horse slumped to the ground and let his head hang to his lap. Woman’s Dress tried to comfort him, but the great warrior just pushed his friend away. “Leave me alone,” he said. Then, without a word to anyone, he got to his feet, climbed
onto his pony, and rode off into the plains. Lashing the war-horse’s flanks with his reins, he drove it to a full gallop, its hooves thudding dully on the grass until they could no longer be heard in the village. Woman’s Dress watched him until he was out of sight.
Crazy Horse never looked back.
L
T.
C
ASPAR
C
OLLINS NODDED
to the sentry standing at parade rest beside the entrance to the commanding officer’s office at Fort Laramie. Glancing over his shoulder at Peter Bordeaux, who gave him the thumbs-up, he tried to smile. Then he stepped into the office, wiping sweaty palms on the trousers of his uniform. He cleared his throat and clicked his heels as he stopped in front of the commander’s desk.
“At ease, Lieutenant,” the colonel said. “What can I do for you.”
Collins cleared his throat a second time, then curled the fingers of both hands into his palms. He could feel a new sheen of sweat already beginning to glaze them, but he ignored it, afraid the commander would catch the gesture, and having caught it, would realize its significance.
“I was wondering, Colonel, if …” he stopped in midsentence, not quite sure he had made the right beginning. “That is, I …”
“Spit it out, Lieutenant.” The colonel leaned back in his chair. His whiskers, still black despite his age, nearly fifty, bunched under his chin as he
tilted his head forward a bit to peer at the young lieutenant over his spectacles.
Taking a deep breath, Collins tried again. “Well, sir, I was wondering if you would have any objection to my visiting a Sioux village …? Unofficially, I mean.”
“Oh? Do you mind if I ask why?”
“No, sir. It’s, well, I find them fascinating. I’d like to learn more about them. Curiosity, I guess.”
“What do you plan to do, Lieutenant, put them under a microscope, examine them like bugs?”
“No, sir. I just want to understand them better, the way they think, the way they see things. I mean, if I’m going to be posted in the West for the next few years, I think it would help me to be a better officer.”
“They’re human beings, just like we are, Lieutenant. You know that, don’t you.”
“Of course I know that, sir. I don’t mean that I’ll be obtrusive. I mean, I’ll only do what they’ll let me do. I won’t interfere in their affairs. I’d like to learn their language if I could.”
“To help you be a better officer?”
Collins nodded. “Yes, sir. I think maybe it’s important to be able to speak to them directly, to understand what they really mean. Some of these interpreters aren’t the most reliable men, sir. Half the time you can’t find one when you need him, and the half of the time you do, he’s got a snootful of whiskey. I don’t think that’s in anyone’s interest, Colonel.”
The colonel nodded. “You’re right, Lieutenant, it isn’t. But how do you propose to communicate with the Sioux?”
“Peter Bordeaux, the son of the trader, has agreed to help me.”
“Very well …”
“Then you have no objection?”
The colonel shook his head. “No, I have no objection. But I think I ought to warn you, Lieutenant. These people are not fools. They will know that you are an army officer. They don’t much trust white men of any kind, let alone soldiers, and I can’t say I blame them for that. It wouldn’t surprise me if they didn’t want anything to do with you.”
“I’ll take that chance, sir, if I may.”
“You may.”
“Thank you, Colonel.” Collins snapped to attention, saluted, and spun smartly on his heel. He was already on his way to the door when the colonel called to him.
“One more thing, Lieutenant …”
Collins stopped and turned. “Sir?”
“You might be putting yourself at some risk. That’s something I want you to consider before you go. Eventually, if they don’t know it already, they will know that you’re also my son.”
“I’ll be careful, Colonel.”
“See that you are. For all our sakes.”
As he stepped outside, Bordeaux, who was sitting on the boardwalk, talking to the sentry, said, “Well, how did it go?”
“He said all right,” Collins said, breaking into a broad grin.
“When do you want to start?”
“What’s wrong with right now?”
“Christ, you’re eager, aren’t you? You sure you don’t want to think it over for a day or so, now that it’s approved, I mean?”
“No. I might change my mind.”
“You get into this, you still might. In fact, you might wish you never got started.”
Collins nodded. “I know that, Peter. But if I don’t do it, I might wish I had. So, better to seize the day.”
“You’re in charge, Lieutenant. I’ll meet you at the stable in fifteen minutes.”
Collins waved, watched Bordeaux cross the compound to the general store, then walked to the stable and ordered his horse saddled. He waited impatiently for the trader’s son, and checked his rifle twice before Bordeaux finally reappeared.
Collins swung into the saddle while Bordeaux went into the stable to get his own mount. Bordeaux rode out, looked at Collins, and said, “I thought you might change out of that uniform, Lieutenant.”
Collins shook his head. “No. I am what I am, Peter. I can’t change that. And the last thing I want to do is go out there and pretend I’m something else. If anything is to come of this, they’re going to have to trust me.”
Bordeaux sucked his cheeks in and gnawed at the flesh on their insides for a moment. Then, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, he nodded. “You’re right, Lieutenant. You ready?”
Without waiting for an answer, Bordeaux rode across the compound and out onto the plains. He headed for the Laramie River, Collins riding to his left and slightly to the rear. “Where we heading?” Collins shouted.
“Closest village makes the most sense. It ain’t like we’re in real demand. This might not work at
all, you know. Lot of them Indians don’t have no use for a white man, even one like you.”
“And what kind am I, Peter?”
Bordeaux turned to look at him before answering. “I don’t rightly know. And if
I
don’t, it’s for damn sure the Sioux won’t, neither.”
Red Cloud and many of his people were camped about ten miles upstream from the fort. They were no longer taking the annuities, and seldom came near the fort itself, but the hunting was good in the area, and the reduced army presence reduced the chances of being attacked by the troops. Back in the East, the Civil War was at its height, and the government had its mind on a more immediate enemy. The Sioux and the other plains tribes were still raiding wagon trains, but the raids were almost always by small groups, and usually the raiders left the people alone as long as the settlers were willing to part with some coffee or sugar or ammunition for the rifles that had been finding their way into Sioux hands.
The sun was well up in the sky by the time the pair reached a bluff overlooking the Sioux village on the river below. Collins stayed there for a long time, his hands draped over the saddle horn, staring at the great circle of lodges. There were nearly a hundred tipis, and Bordeaux estimated that seven or eight hundred Sioux called the village home.
“Reckon we might as well go on down, Lieutenant. They ain’t likely to come on up with a cup of tea for you.”
“You know any of the Indians who live here?” Collins asked, as they backed off the bluff and
found a way down that took them out of sight of the village.
Bordeaux nodded. “Quite a few. Most of them have been through the fort at one time or another. I’m half Sioux myself, so I guess it’s easier for me. But it sure don’t seem easy.”
“I didn’t know you were …”
“My mother was a Brule Sioux. She died a few years ago. But she taught me a lot. And most of the chiefs know my father. They even like him, I think. I know they trust him.”
“How do you know that?”
“Still alive, ain’t he?”
“Why is it difficult for you, then?”
“Because the Sioux think I’m more white than Indian, and a lot of whites, most in fact, think a little bit of Indian blood goes a long way. You can imagine how they feel about a half-breed.”
Collins nudged his horse close enough to grab Bordeaux’s arm. “Look, Peter, if this is going to cause you any pain, make you uncomfortable in any way, then …”
Bordeaux shook his head. “Don’t worry about me, Lieutenant. Sooner or later, the Sioux are gonna have to learn to live with the white man. The sooner they do, the fewer innocent people will die. On both sides. If you can help make that happen, then I’m all for it. Besides, it ain’t likely you could make things much worse than they already are. Most of the officers they send out here are clowns. Hell, there was one colonel sent a letter back East talking about the Winnibigoshish being on the warpath.”
“Never heard of them.”
“Neither did anyone else, Lieutenant. It’s a goddamned lake. You ever see a lake on the warpath?”
Collins laughed, but Bordeaux never cracked a smile.
When they hit the flats leading into the village, Collins felt his shoulders go stiff, as if he were a clock and someone had overwound him. Everything inside was tight. He was breathing rapidly, shallow drafts that seemed to catch in his throat. He had never been this close to a Sioux village before, and realized that he knew next to nothing about these people. But he forced himself to stay calm.
Some of the warriors nearest him glared at him or, he hoped, at his uniform. But most of the men paid no attention to him. Either they found him uninteresting or they felt that he posed no threat and therefore could safely be ignored.
Some of the warriors waved to Bordeaux, while looking curiously at the white man wearing the uniform of the bluecoats. Bordeaux dismounted, and motioned for Collins to do the same. The lieutenant took a deep breath and slid from his saddle, curling the reins in his hand and squeezing them until his knuckles whitened.
“Well,” Bordeaux said, flashing him a grin, “here we are.”
“What now?”
“You tell me, Lieutenant. This was your idea.”
“Can you introduce me? I don’t know what the protocol is.”
“Protocol?”
“You know, good manners. Should I meet the chief first?”
“Absolutely.”
“Where is he?”
“He’ll be along. Just relax.”
A moment later, some of the more curious among the Sioux began to gather in a circle around the two men. They were keeping their distance, but their faces were not unfriendly. Collins, trying to conceal his nervousness, nodded politely, smiling and waving with his free hand.
The circle grew in thickness as more Sioux lined up behind the first. Then the circle parted abruptly, and a tall, vigorous-looking man, his hair hanging in long braids down over his shoulders, stepped through. The circle immediately closed around him.
Collins looked to Bordeaux. “Red Cloud,” the trader said.
He then turned to the chief and conversed for several moments in Red Cloud’s tongue. Collins, knowing it was foolish even as he did so, tried to translate the conversation. He noticed that Red Cloud kept looking at him, darting glances that seemed to linger, while still paying attention to Bordeaux. Then the trader turned to Collins and waved him closer.
“Lieutenant Collins, this is Red Cloud. Chief, this is Lieutenant Caspar Collins.”
Red Cloud was watching Bordeaux closely now. He said something, and Bordeaux nodded, then responded.
Turning to Collins, he said, “The chief wanted to know if you are related to the colonel who rules over Fort Laramie.”
“What did you tell him?”
“The truth.”
“Good. Does he have any objection to my being here?”
“No. He says as long as you behave properly, you are welcome.”
At that, Red Cloud stepped up to the young soldier and extended his hand. Collins clasped it and almost winced at the older man’s grip. Red Cloud pumped the hand vigorously, almost a parody of the conventional white man’s greeting, then said that he had things to do. By the time Bordeaux had translated, Red Cloud was gone.
“Let’s have a look around, then, Peter,” Collins suggested. “I’d like to meet some of the warriors. We are all soldiers, so we will have at least that in common.”
“Don’t count on that meaning much, Lieutenant.” Bordeaux said something to the circle, which had drawn still closer after Red Cloud left, and the Indians parted to let the visitors through.
They walked into the middle of the camp, several children following close behind, some of the others keeping a little distance, almost as if they wished to keep an eye on the young bluecoat who had come to their village.
Collins walked halfway around the camp, looking at the lodges and admiring the paintings on the skins covering them. Some of them were rolled partway up to let in fresh air, and Collins bent over from time to time to peer inside. He kept looking at Bordeaux, his head swiveling back and forth. “Let me know if I’m being rude, Peter,” he said.
“You bet your ass I will, Lieutenant.”
Across the large circle, Collins spotted a young warrior sitting on the ground, working on a bow.
“How about that fellow?” he asked, gesturing toward the warrior. “Do you think he’d talk to me?”
“I doubt it.”
“It won’t hurt to ask, will it?”
Bordeaux shrugged. “Wait here,” he said. He walked over to the young warrior and squatted beside him. The young man didn’t look up, but canted an ear to Bordeaux. When the trader was finished speaking, the warrior grunted, then looked at Collins. The lieutenant smiled.
The warrior straightened up gracefully, and Bordeaux gestured for Collins to join him. “He says he’ll talk to you.”
“Do you know him?”
“Hell, yes. And you don’t know how lucky you are, Lieutenant. This man is as good as it gets. Meet Crazy Horse.”
The warrior looked intently at his visitor, then extended a hand. Collins shook it, then laughed.