Crazy Horse and Custer: The Parallel Lives of Two American Warriors (76 page)

Crazy Horse laughed in his face, and said, “I am no white man! They are the only people that make rules for other people, that say, ‘If you stay on one side of this line it is peace, but if you go on the other side I will kill you all.’ I don’t hold with deadlines. There is plenty of room; camp where you please.”

He Dog moved to the white butte. Clark gave him some presents
to send to Crazy Horse. He Dog sent the goods by messenger, with a request that Crazy Horse change his mind. Again, Crazy Horse laughed in the messenger’s face.

By the time of Crook’s council with the Sioux, September 2, the Nez Percés had emerged from the newly designated Yellowstone Park area and come to the Bighorn River. Crook was anxious to get at them, so he was in an impatient mood as he drove in an ambulance from the agency to the council site. On his way, he was accosted by Woman’s Dress, the
winkte,
who whispered in his ear that Crazy Horse planned to kill him at the council (Woman’s Dress was a uniformed scout at this time). Crook was filled with anxiety. Crazy Horse had made a fool of him on the Rosebud and indeed throughout the previous summer and fall.

Crook turned back from his proposed council after listening to Woman’s Dress, returned to Camp Robinson, and ordered the chiefs to come meet him in the post stockade. The agency chiefs all came, and Crook told them that if they did not assist the Army, Crazy Horse would cause big trouble for the Sioux. He wanted Crazy Horse arrested. Red Cloud, Spotted Tail, and the others conferred among themselves, then told Crook that Crazy Horse was a desperate man who would start a civil war among the Sioux if anyone attempted to arrest him. Better to kill him outright, at once.

Crook was tempted—one quick shot in the back and the Crazy Horse troubles would be over—but whatever else he was, Crook was not a man to condone outright murder, especially in this situation, when he would have a hard enough time explaining on what grounds he was ordering Crazy Horse’s arrest. Just go ahead and arrest Crazy Horse, Crook said to the chiefs—he’d give them a strong force of cavalry to assist the warriors in the job. Crook told Bradley to ship Crazy Horse to Omaha, via the Union Pacific Railroad, as soon as he was arrested. Then Crook went off to fight the Nez Percés. (And to be away from the scene when the dirty work was done?)

On the morning of September 4, the chiefs set out from Camp Robinson to arrest Crazy Horse with four hundred agency warriors. With them were eight full companies of the 3rd Cavalry. Truly Crazy Horse inspired fear; the force sent out to arrest him was more than twice as large as the one Custer had with him on the Little Bighorn, and this time Crazy Horse had neither arms nor warriors. Fortunately, Young Man Afraid was along, to make sure Crazy Horse wasn’t shot while “attempting to escape.”

The mixed force of Indians and soldiers rode up to Crazy Horse’s village, about six miles from Camp Robinson, only to find that Crazy Horse had fled. Red Feather, Black Shawl’s younger brother, had warned him of what was coming. Crazy Horse had somehow obtained two ponies, and he and Black Shawl set out to the northeast for Spotted Tail Agency, with the hope that he could live in peace there. They were just disappearing beyond the buttes as the soldiers and scouts rode up.

Clark immediately offered a $200 reward to the Indian who captured Crazy Horse and brought him back. They all set off with a whoop, No Water leading the way. No Water had an extra pony with him. He rode so hard that his first mount dropped dead of exhaustion. He pushed his spare pony just as hard, and soon it too collapsed and died.

Billy Garnett explained Crazy Horse’s method of retreat, which he said was much talked about by the Sioux. “Crazy Horse always ran down hill and across the level country but slowed down to a walk at the foot of a hill, and when he got to the top his horses were fresh, and in this way he conserved the strength of his animals. While the scouts kept about so near to him for a long time, they noticed toward the end he was lengthening the distance between them, because of his way of using his steeds saved them, while his pursuers raced up hill and down wearing theirs out, when at length ten miles from Spotted Tail Agency they were played out.”

Crazy Horse’s arrival at Spotted Tail Agency generated the wildest excitement. Touch-the-Clouds and his Miniconjous were there, and these former hostiles lined up on one side, Spotted Tail’s Brulés, agency Indians, on the other. The two groups of Indians shouted threats at each other. Spotted Tail got some of his men to surround Crazy Horse and lead him into the agency stockade. When the scouts who were chasing Crazy Horse finally rode up, a Touch-the-Clouds warrior who had a lance made blood-curdling sweeps and passes at them with it. Spotted Tail then brought Crazy Horse out to the parade ground to show that no harm had come to him. When the Indians quieted down, Spotted Tail made a speech: “We never have trouble here!” he said, looking directly at Crazy Horse. “The sky is clear; the air is still and free from dust. You have come here, and you must listen to me and my people! I am chief here! We keep the peace! We, the Brulés, do this! They obey ME! Every Indian who comes here, must obey me! You say you want to come to this agency to live peaceably. If you stay here, you must listen to me! That is all!”

That evening Crazy Horse explained to Spotted Tail, the agent (Lieutenant Jesse Lee), and Touch-the-Clouds that he had never threatened to go back on the warpath or to murder Crook. He only wanted to get away from Red Cloud Agency, where so many bad things were said about him. He had done nothing, absolutely nothing, but a thousand and more armed men had come to arrest him. He asked Lee to explain all this to the authorities at Red Cloud Agency. Lee said Crazy Horse should do so himself and promised that if he gave himself up voluntarily, he, Lee, would see to it Crazy Horse had an opportunity to explain. Touch-the-Clouds and Spotted Tail offered to go with him, back to Camp Robinson, to insure that no harm was done. Crazy Horse asked his uncle Spotted Tail if he could live at Spotted Tail Agency afterward, and Spotted Tail said he could if he would obey orders. So it was arranged that Crazy Horse, Lee, Spotted Tail, and Touch-the-Clouds would go together to Camp Robinson the next day, September 6, 1877.

In the morning, however, Crazy Horse had changed his mind. Lee later recalled that Crazy Horse was like a “frightened, trembling wild animal brought to bay, hoping for confidence one moment and fearing treachery the next. He had been under a severe strain, and it plainly showed.” Crazy Horse said he feared trouble if he went back—couldn’t Lee go and explain for him? Lee insisted that he must go himself, and after some discussion Crazy Horse reluctantly mounted up and set out, Touch-the-Clouds and Spotted Tail beside him, surrounded by Spotted Tail’s warriors.

It was a long ride, forty-five miles, and dusk was coming on when Crazy Horse topped the last butte and looked down on the White River Valley. It was a breathtaking sight. Camp Robinson was located in a gigantic natural amphitheater, surrounded by majestic bluffs which were capped by Ponderosa pines. Once the home of uncountable buffalo, it was a fitting stage for a tragedy to be played out for the gods. This day it was filled with Indians—all the Oglalas, former hostile and friendly, had heard the news and were down there on the flat where the frontier post was, between Soldier’s Creek and the White River. Next to Soldier’s Creek there were a few log Army buildings and a couple of newly built officers’ quarters, a warehouse, sutler’s store, and infantry barracks, all enclosing a large, flat parade ground.

As Crazy Horse’s party made its way toward the adjutant’s office, the assembled warriors parted to make room. There were thousands of them. Everyone was extremely tense. He Dog rode up to Crazy
Horse’s left side, shook hands, saw that he did not look well, and said, “Look out—watch your step—you are going into a dangerous place.” Little Big Man, once the most irreconcilable of Crazy Horse’s warriors but now a man determined to co-operate with his captors and thus rise to leadership on the agency, slipped up on Crazy Horse’s right hand.

As Crazy Horse dismounted and walked across the parade ground, it was suddenly deathly quiet. A Red Cloud warrior broke the silence. He called out that Crazy Horse was supposed to be a brave man, but now everyone could see that he was a coward. Crazy Horse lunged for him, but Little Big Man grabbed Crazy Horse’s arm and pulled him back.

Lee had Crazy Horse go into the adjutant’s office, explaining that he would arrange for an interview with Colonel Bradley. But when Lee got to Bradley’s office, the commanding officer told him to have Crazy Horse locked up in the guardhouse. It was too late for explanations, Bradley said—first thing in the morning, September 7, Bradley was going to ship Crazy Horse off to Omaha, on his way to the Dry Tortugas. Lee went back to the adjutant’s office and evidently told Crazy Horse that he was being taken to talk to Bradley. The guardhouse was right next to the adjutant’s office. When they came out, Little Big Man stepped up to Crazy Horse’s side and took his arm, guiding him into the guardhouse.

Crazy Horse’s sense of smell told him first that he was in a bad place. They had entered the guardhouse, and as he turned, or was turned, to his right, the odor overwhelmed him. Prisoners were
never
allowed out of their cells; the place stank. His nostrils flaring, Crazy Horse’s eyes caught the dreadful sight of a ball and chain. He saw in a glance that they were putting him into a three-foot-by-six-foot cell, with no windows, only a little air hole too high up to afford a view of anything but sky. Crazy Horse knew then that he was being penned up in solitary confinement.

Caged! The very thought of it made the heart sick, the stomach turn, and led to instantaneous action. Crazy Horse smelled, looked, realized what was happening, and struck out against his captors, all in an instant. He jerked his arm loose from Little Big Man, pulled a concealed knife, and began a rush toward the door, slashing at anyone in his way. He cut little Big Man’s wrist, but Little Big Man got behind him and grabbed both his arms and pinioned them.

Crazy Horse’s momentum had carried them outside, where the officer of the day started shouting, “Stab the son-of-a-bitch! Stab the son-of-a-bitch!” Other officers were yelling, “Kill him! Kill him!” Soldiers
standing guard began thrusting toward Crazy Horse with their bayonets. Crazy Horse could not fight back because, just as it had been foretold in his vision twenty-three years before, his arms were held by one of his own people. He gave a desperate lunge and broke free. At that instant, a bayonet cut through his side and into his guts. Another thrust entered his back and went through his kidney.

Crazy Horse fell to the ground. Little Big Man and some soldiers reached for him, grabbed his arms again, but he said, “Let me go, my friends. You have got me hurt enough.” And suddenly it was deathly silent again, down there on the parade ground, beside the White River, as the sun set over the surrounding buttes. A passing hawk, on his way to his roost, screamed.

The soldiers wanted to carry Crazy Horse’s bleeding body into the guardhouse, but Touch-the-Clouds would not allow it. “He was a great chief,” Touch-the-Clouds said, “and he can not be put into a prison.” Bending his seven-foot body, Touch-the-Clouds gently picked up Crazy Horse and carried him to a bed in the adjutant’s office. Dr. McGillicuddy gave Crazy Horse some morphine while Touch-the-Clouds shooed everyone but Worm out of the building.

Crazy Horse spoke once. Worm had leaned over him and said, “Son, I am here.” Crazy Horse replied, “Father, it is no use to depend on me. I am going to die.” An hour or so later, with only Worm and Touch-the-Clouds present, Crazy Horse died.

Touch-the-Clouds, his great back bent, went outside to tell the mighty host of Sioux warriors. Most of those assembled there were men who had followed Crazy Horse to Custer’s rear at the Little Bighorn or had been with him at the Platte Bridge, Fort Phil Kearny, on the Yellowstone, or on innumerable war parties against the Crows and Shoshonis, men of brave hearts and strong bodies, warriors any commander would be proud to lead, the mightiest armed force, man for man, if equally armed, this continent has ever seen. It was also the least disciplined. These were the braves who had freely chosen to fight beside Crazy Horse, who had entrusted him with their lives and reputations.

Behind the warriors, out there on the moonlit parade ground, stood the women. These were the women who had made it possible for the men to fight, the ones who saw to it that the society remained intact, that the children were cared for, the old ones too. They had endured much misery, these Oglala women; they had lost their possessions time and again, had seen six months’ hard work burned up by the soldiers in a minute, had hugged their babies to their breasts
as they trudged through the snow, following Crazy Horse. They had also followed of their own free will, for they too thought that freedom was more important than anything else. Black Shawl was there, way at the back, and Black Buffalo Woman too, her hand holding tightly to that of her little light-haired daughter.

This night the red men and women were confused. They knew if they broke for freedom, they would be caught and killed, that if they made a move against the soldiers at Camp Robinson, even if they won, other soldiers would come and kill them all. Besides, they didn’t know what to believe, so thick were the rumors. Some said Crazy Horse really did conspire to go on the warpath—or murder Crook. No one knew, either, what had happened—it had all taken place so quickly. One rumor had it that Little Big Man did the killing. Another said that Crazy Horse had fallen on his own knife. All the Indians facing Touch-the-Clouds feared another Indian war, yet almost all of them found living on the agency intolerable and, if Crazy Horse was now out of the way, the United States Government would be sure to move them to the hated Missouri.

One thing the Oglalas did know: Crazy Horse’s way, Sitting Bull’s way, could no longer be tolerated. The Indians had to make adjustments, learn to walk the white man’s road. The “savage” in them had to be molded, tempered, abandoned. They knew they were no longer free, which is to say that they had taken the first step toward civilization. There was no room on this new road for Crazy Horse, the greatest warrior of them all.