Crazy Horse had been a Shirt Wearer when the practice had been revived among the Sioux, one of a very few honored men among the people who had the power and authority to keep the young braves together in a hunt or a fight.
There had been one period in Crazy Horse’s life when he had been reckless. He had been in love.
Black Shawl was a beautiful woman. Coveted by many men. He had once courted her in the way many braves had courted her, coming to her family home with his blanket and using his blanket as a screen while they enjoyed a few brief moments of private conversation. But when he had been away on a raid against the Crows, Black Shawl had married No Water. Crazy Horse tried to respect that marriage. He traveled, spending time with other bands, enjoying visits among the Northern Cheyenne. But in time, he came to see Black Shawl again, and his heart swayed both his mind and his conscience.
He ran away with Black Shawl.
Wife-stealing did occur among the Sioux. Sometimes, it was a simple matter. When the wife of a highly respected man ran away from him, pride dictated that he take it lightly, that he should, perhaps, expect a few ponies in exchange for her. But No Water let the matter strike his heart. He came after Crazy Horse and Black Shawl, shooting Crazy Horse. The shot shattered his jaw. No Water thought that he had killed Crazy Horse. But Crazy Horse hadn’t died. He recovered in his uncle’s care.
Wife-stealing was considered fairly minor. Shooting, nearly killing a fellow warrior, was serious. There might have been tremendous bloodshed. There could have been irreconcilablebreaks among the bands. But cool heads prevailed. Crazy Horse was going to survive with a scar across his lower face. His uncle accepted ponies from No Water. Crazy Horse said the matter was done, so long as Black Shawl received no ill treatment because of the affair. Men received little chastisement for adultery, but though it was rare, women could have their noses slashed, among other mutilations.
The matter was settled. Black Shawl returned to No Water. Crazy Horse endured his disgrace and went on again to prove himself a mighty warrior.
Now he sat alone in his tipi, cross-legged before his fire, smoking his pipe when Blade and Ice Raven arrived. Despite the scar that marred his jaw, he was a striking man, tightly muscled, with dark eyes and strong features.
“Welcome,” he told them both.
They greeted him in return, sitting comfortably with him before the fire. He asked them if they were hungry, but they told him they had eaten. Then he asked them about the events taking place in the white world. “How is my white-striped brother?” he teased, referring to their cousin, Hawk.
“Mourning his father.”
Crazy Horse nodded. David Douglas had been admired and liked among the Sioux. He had never betrayed a promise—a rare thing for a white man.
“We talked a long time,” Blade told Crazy Horse. “He does not like what he sees coming in the future.”
Crazy Horse waved a hand in the air. “That the whites now blanket the Black Hills?”
Ice Raven shrugged. “What bothers Hawk is deeper than that.”
“He thinks that we should not be hostiles?”
Ice Raven shook his head strenuously. “No. He is Sioux. He knows each man follows his own vision. But he believesthat the whites now see us as an obstruction which must be entirely removed. That they will want to kill us all, decimate our numbers, as they have decimated the buffalo.”
“They have decimated our numbers as well,” Crazy Horse murmured. Thousands of the Sioux were living on agency grounds now. They tried to influence their hostile friends and relations, telling them that the White Father, President Grant, saw to it that they were given cows for the warriors to hunt down and the squaws to butcher.
Crazy Horse did not want to hunt cows. And he was well aware from the many Sioux of different bands and groups who had left the agencies to join him that the stories of abundance were lies. Most often, grain rations were filled with worms. There were very few skinny cows, and those were often diseased. There was tremendous corruption in the agencies, and even many of those army men the Indians knew—some of them actually friends and some of them leaders who had spoken with the Sioux seeking peace—often admitted the corruption.
Crazy Horse wanted no part of it.
Now Red Cloud, who had once been a very fierce warrior, dealt with the white men. Crazy Horse did not resent Red Cloud for his choice. He simply didn’t agree with it.
The whites wanted Red Cloud to sell them the Black Hills. Red Cloud couldn’t do so. He needed the majority of the Sioux leaders to agree to sell the land. Crazy Horse was already aware that the agency Indians were planning to bring many of the Sioux together so that they could talk about the Black Hills. The people were divided. Some hostiles wanted to sell the hills, some did not. Some agency Indians wanted to sell the hills, some did not. No one agreed on what the price should be.
Crazy Horse didn’t care.
They could invite him from now until the sun went down forever. He would not go to any meeting.
Thunder Hawk had left the Sioux. He had embraced many of the white ways, but his heart had remained Sioux. He always did his best to explain what the whites said—and what they meant. He could explain all the words used and translate true meanings. He warned the Sioux when he expected danger. He told his friends and family when he thought it might be best to bend and when not. He always remembered that he could advise, and that in the end, each man followed his own vision, just as he did himself.
“They will send out men from the agencies to ask you to come in and talk. And the army will ask Hawk to come to us.”
Crazy Horse nodded in agreement. He smiled.
“He will come,” he said with assurance.
Blade said, “Yes,” in agreement. “Sloan—Cougar-in-the-Night—will come for him, and they will ride out together, most certainly. We were beginning to discuss this, but then he heard the woman.”
“The woman?”
