Bill Dugan (19 page)

“Let him find us, and then we will see what happens.”

“The Big Bellies are angry, too. They say you have shamed yourself and all the shirt-wearers.”

“There are things that are more important.”

“Not for a shirt-wearer.”

“It is only a shirt. I can live without it.” He regretted saying it immediately, and knew in the deepest part of himself that it wasn’t true, but it was too late to call back the words.

T
HE ENTRANCE FLAP FLEW BACK
as if a great gust of wind had caught it. No Water burst in, a revolver clutched in his right hand. His teeth were clenched, and Crazy Horse could see the knuckles, squeezed white, of No Water’s fist. He started to rise, jerking a knife from its sheath.

“No!” Little Big Man shouted. He tried to get to his feet, grabbing Crazy Horse by the arm as he rose. No Water charged toward the men as Black Buffalo Woman screamed.

Struggling to free his arm, Crazy Horse turned toward his friend for a split second. In that moment, the gun went off.

The bullet slammed into Crazy Horse, piercing his upper lip just beneath the nose, breaking several teeth and the left side of his upper jaw before it exited. Black Buffalo Woman had her hands to her face, framing black eyes that seemed to be escaping from their sockets, then she ran as Crazy Horse pitched forward into the fire.

Little Big Man grabbed Crazy Horse by the legs and started to drag him out of the flames as No Water turned and chased after his wife. The sizzle
of blistering skin, the too sweet smell of cooking flesh filled the lodge.

Crazy Horse was bleeding badly, and his skin, still lighter than any Sioux, was turning dark red. In some places it was almost black as Little Big Man dragged him from the lodge and stumbled toward the river. When he reached the sand along the shore, he lowered his friend to the ground, then dragged him into the shallows, where the cold water bubbled and swirled around the burned chest and shoulders of the heavily bleeding warrior.

In the distance, Little Big Man could hear the pounding of hooves as Black Buffalo Woman fled for her life and No Water galloped after her. Another gunshot shattered the silent darkness, and Little Big Man instinctively ducked. Crazy Horse rolled his head from side to side as the water burbled around him. In the darkness, it was difficult for Little Big Man to see just how bad the wound might be. He felt for the shattered jaw with blind fingers, and Crazy Horse moaned as he turned his head away.

It was bad, and the warm, sticky mess clinging to his fingers told Little Big Man that something had to be done, and done quickly. Dragging the bleeding man out of the river, he turned his attention to the bleeding. Like most Sioux, he knew more than a little about healing, but not enough for a wound this bad. He had to get help, and knew that Crazy Horse was in no condition to ride. He’d have to hoist his friend up and drape him over a pony. Traveling at night was dangerous under the best of circumstances, and when one man had to worry
about an unconscious companion, the risk was greater still.

But there was no question that morning might be too late. It took ten minutes to pack the gunshot with a paste of mud and herbs, makeshift at best, but at least it would keep the bleeding to a bare minimum. Once that had been accomplished, Little Big Man got Crazy Horse onto a pony and tied his ankles together under the horse’s belly, then let the now unconscious man fall forward, where he could tie him in place. The trail would be rough and the ride would have to be fast if Crazy Horse was going to survive.

It was late morning by the time the village came into view. The women swarmed around the two riders, and Little Big Man was forced to nudge his pony through the crowd, shouting at the top of his lungs for people to get out of his way. He kept one eye open for any of the Bad Faces, No Water’s clansmen, and when two of them tried to push their way through the milling throng, Little Big Man drew his revolver and pointed it in their general direction. “Go home,” he said. “Go back to your lodges, unless you want me to use this. There’s been enough shooting already.”

The two men mumbled, but stayed where they were. Little Big Man finally got through, and kept glancing over his shoulder as he made his way to Worm’s lodge. Crazy Horse would need protection while he healed, if he were still alive, and Little Big Man was determined to see to it that the convalescence was insured.

Little Big Man slipped from his horse and stuck the bridle rope into an extended hand without
looking to see who it was. Pulling his knife, he moved to Crazy Horse and cut the ropes holding the wounded warrior on his pony. Taking the full weight of the unconscious Crazy Horse on his shoulders, Little Big Man staggered to the entrance to Worm’s lodge. Only then did he stop for a second and look around. He saw Worm then, standing right beside him, his face a stoic mask. Without a word, he accepted half the burden and stooped to back through the flap and into the lodge.

White Deer screamed when she saw her son, then rushed forward to hold him, but Worm shook his head and turned his body to keep her away. Laying Crazy Horse on a buffalo robe by the fire, he said, “Find Chips. Hurry.”

He then sat beside the unconscious body of his son. “What happened?” he asked, without taking his eyes away from the bloody face.

“No Water …” Little Big Man said, then stopped without knowing how to continue.

“I was afraid of this. I knew it. I knew …” He shook his head again. Drawing a deep breath he held it for a moment, then puffed out his cheeks, forcing the air to hiss as he expelled it between compressed lips. Looking at Little Big Man, he said, “Thank you for helping my son.”

“I should have been able to stop it.”

“No one could stop it. It was …” He paused again, his voice thickening until it clotted in his throat and words were no longer possible.

Chips hurried into the lodge without waiting for an invitation. Kneeling beside Crazy Horse, he unslung a deerskin bag from his shoulder. White Deer hovered over him, and he sent her for water.
“I will need a lot,” he called after her, then started to peel away the mud and herb plaster Little Big Man had laid on.

Worm gasped as the full extent of the wound was revealed. “Will he live? Can you save him?”

Chips shrugged. “I will do what I can, but … he has lost much blood. Maybe too much. I don’t know. It is fortunate for him that the bullet passed out the cheek, but … I will try.”

When White Deer returned with three bowls of water, he instructed her to heat some, while he used the rest. “As hot as your hands can take it,” he said, then turned his attention to the unconscious man before him.

Worm got to his feet, stood over Little Big Man for a moment, then reached down. Little Big Man seemed almost oblivious of the offered hand, and only slowly looked up. His own hand moved in slow motion as it sought the older man’s grip, curled into it like the hand of a child into a grandfather’s fist, and got up slowly.

“Let’s leave Chips to his work. You and I have to talk,” Worm said. “I have to know exactly what happened to make certain that this business is over. It will get very bad if it is not stopped now.”

“I’ll tell you what I can,” Little Big Man whispered. “I …”

Worm tugged the limp arm in his grasp. “Outside. We will walk for a bit.” He moved toward the entrance, bent to exit, and pulled Little Big Man through after him. The latter seemed to be sleepwalking, and followed in the holy man’s wake as if he had no will of his own.

Chips spent several hours bent over his charge.
Sending everyone away, even White Deer, he worked slowly and deliberately, not sure whether all his efforts would come to nothing. It was nearly sundown before he knew that Crazy Horse could live, but it would be longer still before he knew for certain whether he would.

After his talk with Little Big Man, Worm had gone to the lodge of Old Man Afraid. He needed the chief’s help to avert a bloodbath. The Bad Faces were angry at Crazy Horse, and even the shooting might not satisfy them. But Worm was afraid that a prolonged dispute would tear apart the fabric of the tribe in a way that could never be repaired. It was up to him to make certain it didn’t happen.

Crazy Horse lay in the silent vacuum of the buffalo robe for two days and nights. From time to time, he would see things going on around him, but they seemed too far away when he would reach out to touch them. Noises drifted to him wrapped in thick robes, muffled and meaningless. Light would come and go, as if the sun were somewhere high above him, and between him and it stood a tall oak, its layers of leaves swallowing most of the sun’s rays. Now and then a blade of light would lance through, so bright it almost hurt, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away, afraid that he would slip back into darkness and never come back.

He was unaware of anyone around him, but White Deer and Worm both were there; sometimes alone, sometimes together, they watched over him, silent prayers pounding noiselessly in their skulls while they waited and hoped.

Chips came often to change the dressings he was using on the wound. The bleeding had stopped, but
the wound looked as if it would never begin to heal. Chips had heard how the white medicine men sewed sundered flesh together with needle and thread, but he had neither, and had to force the tears in the meat of Crazy Horse’s face together as best he could, in the hope that it would knit. There would be a terrible scar, that much he knew, and there was nothing to be done about it.

He knew that Crazy Horse would live now, but said nothing, not wanting to raise hopes only to find them dashed when Wakan Tanka changed his mind. Of all the hard things he had to do, being certain was the hardest.

Outside the lodge, things were happening that Crazy Horse would have run from, if he could. The Big Bellies were angry, and they wanted back the shirt. It was Old Man Afraid who brought the news to Worm.

“My friend, it pains me to tell you this, but it is right and it must be. Crazy Horse can no longer be allowed to be a shirt-wearer. He has broken the first rule. He should not have brought disruption to the village. That was forbidden above all else, and yet he has done so. And for a woman …”

Worm nodded. “I understand.”

“But will your son?”

“My son knows better than anyone what it is to be a shirt-wearer. He has done it better than anyone, given more and taken less than any other shirt-wearer. He will understand, and he will give up the wearing of the shirt. You should know this,”

Old Man Afraid nodded. “I do know this. But I have my job to do, just as Crazy Horse had his. The Big Bellies are much divided on this point, but
there is no way to undo what has been done. I wish it could be some other way.”

“If it were some other way, then the wearing of the shirt would be meaningless.”

Old Man Afraid nodded. His lips moved, but he said nothing, as if he were unwilling to speak such a painful truth aloud.

Worm had his own work to do, and he was doing it well. The Bad Faces were angry, but not so angry that they could not see that there was wrong on both sides, as well as right. No Water was wrong to shoot Crazy Horse, just as he was wrong to prevent Black Buffalo Woman from leaving him, as was the right of every Sioux woman. But Crazy Horse had been wrong in bringing conflict to the village. He should not have tried to take Black Buffalo Woman for himself. It would have been better to deal with it another way.

There would be bad feelings for a long time, but it was important to begin dealing with them.

The following morning, Crazy Horse regained consciousness. He could not speak, but he could sign, and the first thing he did was tell Worm that Black Buffalo Woman should not be punished. She had done nothing wrong, he signed. That afternoon, No Water’s brother appeared at Worm’s lodge.

Black Twin invited the holy man outside, and there presented him with three horses. “These are the best horses No Water owns. His best roan, his best bay. I offer these horses in payment for the wrong he has done.”

“It is a great wrong,” Worm said.

Black Twin nodded. “I know this. Crazy Horse is
a great warrior, a brave man, and my brother was wrong, even cowardly, to do what he did. But I know, too, that Worm understands that we cannot fight among ourselves. The world is too much against us to allow that to happen.”

Worm nodded. “Black Twin is very wise for his years. It is unfortunate that his brother is not so wise. But I accept your gift with thanks. There will be no trouble from my son or his friends, I promise you. Crazy Horse has said as much.”

“Then he is an even greater man than I thought.”

Black Twin went away slowly, turning once or twice to look over his shoulder at the older man, almost as if debating whether or not to mention one final thing. But soon he was lost to view, and Worm went back inside to tell Crazy Horse what had happened.

The wounded warrior was asleep, but he was twisting violently from side to side. He kept waving one arm, as if trying to pull it free from something, and mumbling “Let me go. Let go of my arm.”

Worm wondered whether it was the dream coming back to haunt his son, or if it had something to do with the shooting. Or both.

That evening, Crazy Horse was outside for the first time since the shooting. He was sitting beside the lodge, watching a handful of boys chase one another around the fort like a competition among whirlwinds.

He heard a commotion at the other end of the village, and got unsteadily to his feet. A crowd had gathered, and he could hear the women beginning to wail. Someone had been hurt. Or worse. His legs
were unsteady, but he managed to make his way toward the center of the uproar. The crowd, sensing his presence, turned and, when they recognized him, parted. A hush fell over the village.

Lone Bear, streaked with dirt and a smear of blood on his left shoulder, saw Crazy Horse. He straightened up and took a step forward.

“What’s wrong?” Crazy Horse asked.

“It’s …” He shook his head and turned away.

“White men,” Lone Bear mumbled. “Miners. They …”

Crazy Horse took Lone Bear by the shoulders and stared into his eyes. “What is it? Tell me.”

“Little Hawk. It’s Little Hawk. He’s … he’s dead.”