Journey of the Spirit Page 9

  He hadn’t thought about his white life in years. If he considered going to the whites, he still had the same problem he had when he first arrived—he didn’t have any white people to go to—they were dead. He also had no place to go to, other than Missouri. Besides, he wasn’t sure the whites would accept him back.

  He remembered stories of what the whites on the wagon train called renegades—whites who chose to live with Indians. Years before, the men on the train had said the Indians were savages, godless creatures. Mr. Thule had argued against this thought. Now, after living with the Indians for years, Hand knew Mr. Thule had been right. They were like white people—some good and some bad. They lived differently, but not wrong. What was important to them differed from what the whites valued, but only because they lived differently.

  Hand looked around the fire.

  Worm and Ina treated him like their own son. He knew Crazy Horse and Little Hawk considered him their brother, and he felt the same. He didn’t feel like an outsider in the lodge or village. He felt like he was home. It had been several years since anyone from their village had referred to him as white. Visitors to the village gave him odd looks, but not his people.

  No matter the color of their skin, he lived with his family, his only family. He didn’t see going to the whites as an option. He would be as lost in the white world as Crazy Horse or Little Hawk. He took a deep breath.

  “Ate,” he said after several long moments, “I’m with my people. I may have been born white, but I consider myself a Lakota. I’m a Lakota.”

  Everyone nodded. “Ayiee. It’s good, my son. But one day the whites may make you choose. This you must think on.”

  * * * *

  With a bite to the air, the men in Worm’s lodge sat around the fire, the moon of falling leaves, October, had descended. They’d arrived at winter camp and were resting around the fire when He Dog approached.

  “Have a seat,” Worm invited.

  “Thank you.” He Dog said as he took a seat to the right of Worm.

  Worm lit his pipe. “Is there news? I thought I saw a rider come in.”

  “Yes. A messenger arrived. All the southern people are moving towards the Powder River to attack the whites this winter.”

  “Will the Lakota be there by ourselves?” Worm asked.

  “No, the Cheyenne and Blue Clouds are all going to meet there, too.”

  “Ayiee, this is good,” stated Little Hawk. “This is our chance to run them out of our country.”

  “Not the way we fight,” Crazy Horse said.

  Everyone looked at him. This was an odd statement among the people, and any statement from Crazy Horse was unusual.

  “What do you mean?” Worm asked.

  “We can’t fight these white men and soldiers the way we fight the Crow and Shoshone.”

  “How should we fight them?” asked Little Hawk.

  “Our young warriors are only interested in getting horses, scalps, and honors so they can sing about their deeds and show off their wealth to the young girls,” Crazy Horse said.

  “This is the way of our people. This is what we’ve always done,” He Dog said.

  “It has always been our way, but this way won’t work on the whites.”

  Little Hawk slapped a stick on the robe he sat on. “How?”

  Long silence engulfed them while they waited for Crazy Horse to speak. He took a small branch with the tip ablaze and sat, staring into the fire, tapping the stick on a log. Sparks popped up with each tap.

  Hand watched his brother intently. Normally shy when talking, Crazy Horse seldom said a complete sentence without hesitating, thinking about what to say, or maybe whether he’d talk at all—but not on this subject. Hand hoped he would answer Little Hawk’s question.

  “We need to fight for the people. Not for individual honors. We need to kill the whites, not count coup,” Crazy Horse said at last.

  “Why do you think it matters so much with the whites?” asked Worm.

  “When we fight our Indian enemies and we count coup they leave the battle in shame. These white people don’t understand this…and they keep on fighting. The only way to stop them is to kill them.”

  Everyone around the fire remained quiet, thinking. The logic of what he said was plain once put into words, and Hand wondered why the others hadn’t thought of this.

  After a while, He Dog got up to leave.

  “He Dog, when do we move out to join the others on the Powder River?” Worm asked.

  “We leave in three suns.”

  “We had better get some sleep. There’s a lot of packing to do to get ready in three days, and the women aren’t going to be happy about this,” Worm said.

  “They are never happy about a move,” Little Hawk said, snickering.

  “I heard that,” said a voice from the lodge.

  * * * *

  After many days of travel, the village arrived at the large camp on the Powder River. The leaders held a big council. They’d set up a huge lodge, and although cold wind blew through the camp, they rolled up the sides.

  “Why do they have the sides rolled up?” Hand asked.

  “Only the leaders are invited and can speak…in council, but with the sides rolled up…many people can gather around and hear what’s talked about.”

  That night, Crazy Horse, He Dog, Lone Bear, Little Hawk, Good Weasel, and Hand stood close to the lodge and heard everything.

  Arguments ensued among the leaders over what to do and even when to do it. In the end, the elders decided that they would attack the white settlement called Julesburg in Moon of hard winter, January, with a thousand warriors. They would use decoys to get the soldiers out of the fort and into an ambush, and raid the warehouses holding all the supplies. After inviting Crazy Horse and Hump to join in, the leaders told the other boys they couldn’t go. This made none of them happy, but Little Hawk fumed.

  “They treat me like a baby.” he screamed when told he couldn’t go. This time Worm warned both not to sneak away.

  Eight suns passed before the warriors returned. Scouts raced in calling their return throughout the village, and that night, they held a victory dance with all the warriors stepping forward to tell of their bravery and deeds, all except Crazy Horse, who didn’t go to the victory dance. Around the lodge fire, Worm persuaded Crazy Horse to tell about the raid. Little Hawk and Hand sat, leaning forward.

  “First off…it wasn’t a great victory like everyone is saying. It didn’t go well.”

  “Did it not start out right?” Worm asked.

  Crazy Horse nodded. “The war party started out in the old way…with the pipe-bearers and the akicita, or police, out front to keep the young warriors in good spirits…and quiet, as we used to do…against the Snakes and Crows. We arrived at the settlement the whites call…Julesburg and the decoys were leading the soldiers into our ambush.”

  “Something must have happened.”

  Crazy Horse sat for several long minutes staring into space. “Yes, the soldiers were walking…into the trap and we could’ve killed all of them…but many of the young warriors attacked…before the signal was given.”

  “Why did they not wait for the signal?” Hand asked.

  Crazy Horse gave Hand and Little Hawk a blistering look. “Like I warned before, they were too eager for coups and scalps and stories to tell at the victory fire. We could’ve killed all of them, but they ruined it.”

  “How many whites were killed?” asked Worm.

  In disgust, Crazy Horse said, “We only killed fourteen…of the soldiers and four of the…other whites.”

  “Did they get the supplies?” Little Hawk asked.

  Crazy Horse, who had toyed with his pemmican pouch as he talked, slung it down on the ground. “A little, but not all.”

  Crazy Horse looked at Hand. “Can I ask you something…about the whites?”

  “Yes, if I remember.”

  “The whites have poles sticking in the ground…about one bow shot apart. They have ha
rd ropes…running on the top. What do they do with these?”

  “Oh. You must mean the telegraph poles. They talk to each other through the wire.”

  Everyone looked at him with their mouths open.

  “What do you mean, they talk to each other?” Worm asked.

  “I’m not sure how it works, but they send signals over the wire—they talk to each other this way.”

  “They talk to each other…the way we do?”

  “No, they send signals over the wire. It’s some kind of code. The code is sent from one end to the other end and they interpret it and reply in the same code.” He struggled to think of some way to help them understand what he was talking about, and then an idea formed. “It’s like our smoke signals. They’re in code and we send them up and whoever views the smoke signals knows what we’re saying.”

  “Ayiee…now I understand. Would they be able to talk to each other…if we tore the ropes down?”

  “No, they couldn’t.”

  “What would they do if we tore them down?”

  Hand shrugged. “I’m not sure. I guess they would send someone to repair them.”

  “They would send someone?”

  “Yes, I believe they would send someone.”

  “Ayiee. This could be…good.”

  They sat around for several long minutes as the fire crackled and popped. Hand scooted closer to warm his front side, as Little Hawk turned his back to the fire.

  “Were any of our people killed in the raid?” Worm asked.

  Hand, who had stared at the fire, looked up. He found Crazy Horse looking directly at him.

  “No…no one died there. We had several wounded…one wounded bad.”

  Worm looked from Crazy Horse to Hand, and then back to Crazy Horse. “Who?” Worm asked.

  “Brave Bear. Cat Woman’s father…is dying.” Hand made the only noise in the lodge as he raced out the flap.

  Nine

  When Hand arrived at Brave Bear’s lodge, several people stood out front, and with a pounding heart, he strode toward Cat. She turned, saw him, and threw herself into his arms. He held her tight against him, stroking her hair as she buried her face his massive chest. He should’ve come to her sooner. Hand wondered why Crazy Horse didn’t tell him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered in her ear. “I just found out. I should have been here with you.”

  “You’re here now. That’s what counts.”

  He held her for several minutes. The shaman came out and told them that Brave Bear wanted to see his family.

  After Cat left to go in the lodge, Hand stood looking at the ground, feeling helpless, wishing he could do something, help heal Brave Bear, help take the pain away from Cat.

  The lodge flap pulled back and Cat stuck her head out. “Hand. My father wants to see you, too.”

  When Hand walked into the dim lodge full of smoke from the medicine man’s ritual, Brave Bear’s appearance shocked him. He lay on his back on the robes, his hair and face soaked with sweat, his bare chest with a large wound on the right side, and blood dripping out the corners of his mouth.

  Hand closed his eyes tight for a moment. He didn’t have long.

  Seeing Hand enter, Cat’s father raised his left hand to the boy. Hand eased to the warrior’s side. Brave Bear turned his head to face him. “Son.” The soft words leaked out, just above a whisper. “I was wrong.” He coughed—more blood trickled out, running down his jaw and neck. His wife leaned forward from the other side and wiped it away, tears running down her cheeks.

  “I should’ve given my blessing.” He said in a stronger voice, attempting to make himself heard. “It was wrong of me to deny my daughter’s happiness.” He coughed again, this time almost choking.

  The young man, with tears in his eyes, squeezed his hand. “I understand, Father,” Hand said, using the term of respect for the elder male.

  “You have it now,” he said. Brave Bear was quiet for a couple of minutes, so weak, he had trouble forming the words. All remained silent in the lodge except for the sobs from Cat and her mother, and the fire’s crackling.

  Through frothy lips, Brave Bear said, “Take care of my wife and daughter.”

  Again, he lapsed into silence, appearing to have used all his strength to get those words out. Several long minutes passed. Brave Bear closed his eyes. The medicine man checked him, but shook his head, indicating that he still lived.

  After a time, the shaman ushered everyone out of the tent but Brave Bear’s wife. When Hand walked outside, he found Worm, Crazy Horse, and Little Hawk waiting for him. Worm strode forward and put his arm around his adopted son.

  Tears ran down Hand’s cheeks. This was his family—here when he needed them the most. He didn’t know a better way to describe family.

  Two hours later, Hand sat outside the lodge, holding Cat, her head on his shoulder. He wanted the woman more than life itself, but he hadn’t wanted her this way. He would not wish death on Brave Bear to get the woman he loved.

  A wailing cry from Cat’s mother told everyone within hearing that Brave Bear had died.

  * * * *

  Few sounds disturbed the damp morning air as horses crept in single file through the woods bordering the west side of a white man’s ranch. Soft crunches of hooves on snow, brushing of skins on leafless branches, and the groan of limbs heavy with ice created the only noises that someone would’ve heard, if the rancher had been out on that cold morning.

  As Crazy Horse’s war party made their way for the attack, no one heard these soft sounds. Hand, on his first fight against the whites, rode third in line, behind He Dog and Crazy Horse.

  The closer their approach the ranch, the tighter his chest got, and his throat closed, causing him to struggle to breathe. Small butterflies formed in his stomach, but the closer they came to attack, the butterflies turned to eagles.

  As warriors fanned out, the sun winked over the trees, and the whites began to stir. With a creaking noise, the front door of the house opened and closed. One man, unaware of danger, with his breath forming clouds, strode to the well with a bucket.

  As he hooked the bucket on a rope and lowered it, something caught his attention. The man hesitated for a long moment, his head turning fast, first one direction then the other. He sensed danger, but didn’t know what. He couldn’t see or hear them. Hand wondered what he sensed.

  A quiet moment passed. The white man dropped the bucket, turned to run, and Crazy Horse shot him.

  The opening shot of the fight drove the fluttering eagles from Hand’s stomach. As he’d waited, he knew he was afraid, but not of the fight. He was scared he’d let Crazy Horse down like he had his father, scared he wouldn’t perform the way a warrior should in battle.

  More afraid of showing cowardice than the actual fighting, he’d sat his horse with his knees pressed so tight, they cramped afterwards.

  With the opening shot, the others charged, Hand with them. As bullets flew by, he forgot about his fears. Some of the whites had rushed out of the house, and one raised a gun to shoot Little Hawk. Without thinking, Hand released an arrow he hadn’t remembered notching. The arrow buried itself in the man’s chest, knocking him backwards, causing the gun to fire into the air.

  As the whites realized what was happening, they attempted to flee back inside. A couple made it, firing out the windows at the charging Lakota.

  As Hand charged close to one of the windows, he released an arrow, whirled his horse, and headed away. Lone Bear charged past him, toward the house, low on his horse.

  With his horse wounded, Lone Bear leaped as the horse fell. Landing on his feet, he stumbled and turned to run. A bullet skimmed past his loincloth, cutting the string holding it up.

  Embarrassed, with his loincloth falling to his knees exposing his privates to everyone, he dropped his bow and half ran and limped back to safety holding his loincloth up with both hands.

  With the house on fire, the whites inside rushed out shooting, but they hurried their shots and didn’t hit anyone. Crazy
Horse dismounted in the middle of the fight and fired his rifle with bullets flying all around.

  After the raid ended, Hand rode beside Crazy Horse on the way back to camp.

  “Hoya, Hand, is there something…you wish to talk about?”

  “I wondered why you got off your horse to fire your weapon.”

  “Oh, that,” he laughed. “I’ve watched the white soldiers a lot…we aren’t used to fighting with the rifle. All our lives we have used the bow and spears. Whites fight with these rifles…they know what they’re doing. Our people are very poor shots. We seldom hit what we’re trying to. On the other hand, whites…hit what they’re shooting at. Have you ever noticed the whites that walk? When they fire, they stop…get down on one knee to shoot. The ones that ride horses…almost always stop their horse and get down. I’ve found when I shoot from the horse…I can’t hit anything, but when I get down I…can hit what I fire at, and we don’t have bullets to waste.”

  This surprised Hand. He hadn’t known his brother watched the soldiers that closely. He did know the warriors that had guns couldn’t shoot well. He knew this was because they didn’t have enough bullets to practice. If they fired their bullets at targets to improve their aim, they wouldn’t have any left to hunt or fight.

  On their return, the people held a celebration. Drums thumped as the light from many fires lit the night sky—Hand and Cat stood on the edge, holding hands. A moon had passed since Brave Bear died. They’d both decided that they would wed as soon as the mourning period passed.

  Raids continued, but with the same results—good ambushes spoiled by the young warriors more interested in individual glory than fighting to kill the whites. The elders of the council weren’t happy with these results.

  Hump spoke up to the council. “Listen, our young warriors are wild, and they spoiled many good fights, but maybe it’s not their fault. Perhaps, some of our leaders are soft and fat living close to the white man and didn’t lead well. Does the leader of a group get credit for a good raid?”

  Several people acknowledged this.

  “If the leaders get credit for a good raid, they should share the blame in a bad one.”