Bill Dugan (13 page)

Casper Collins, wearing a brand-new uniform, led the detachment out of the stockade gates. The
drumming of the hooves on the bridge echoed up and down the creek bed, and the Indians were getting edgy as they waited for their opportunity. Right behind the Collins unit, ten more troopers, under Capt. Henry Bretney, crossed the bridge to keep an eye out for Indians and to support Collins in the event of trouble.

Some of the concealed Sioux recognized the young lieutenant and waved to get his attention, calling out for him to turn back. But Collins didn’t notice, and rode on past while Young Man Afraid and Black Bear wrung their hands helplessly.

At the same instant, one of the officers in the stockade spotted some of the crouching Cheyenne and Anderson dispatched twenty more men. While the reinforcements saddled their mounts, Collins proceeded west along the road, and was already a half mile past the bridge. Hidden on either side, the Cheyenne and Sioux watched him pass.

A quarter mile ahead, several Sioux were gathered around the base of a telegraph pole. One of their number was busy cutting the telegraph wire. The small party bolted when it spotted Collins, who immediately left the road in pursuit. He was heading toward the main body of the Sioux now, and discovery of the trap was imminent.

As soon as the last of Collins’s men turned north and left the road, the Cheyenne poured out of the brush. Collins kept his head and wheeled his men into a defensive line. But the Sioux swept out of the interlacing canyons. Collins was surrounded, his twenty-five men against two thousand warriors.

“Column … twos!” Collins shouted, then, “Retreat to the bridge!”

With such overwhelming numerical advantage, and combat at such close quarters, the warriors used clubs and lances rather than bows or the few guns they had. The troopers, their rifles only single-shot models, were almost instantly reduced to using their revolvers. Despite the horde of warriors, the troopers fought bravely, and managed to make it to the edge of the bluff from which they could reach the road back to the stockade. But several of their horses had been killed, and all the men were hit, four of them killed.

As Collins was about to lead the charge down to the road, one of the men, unhorsed, called out for help. Collins turned to see the Sioux and Cheyenne flood about to swallow the wounded man. Wounded himself in the hip, Caspar disregarded the pain and charged back toward the fallen trooper. An arrow slammed into his forehead and stuck, flapping as he rode on, firing a pair of revolvers at the advancing warriors. At the edge of the bluff, he fell from his horse, dead before he hit the ground.

The second relief detachment was armed with repeating Spencer carbines, the only ones in Anderson’s command. Led by Captain Greer, the small unit poured relentless fire into the thousands of warriors, killing several and wounding many more.

The retreating troopers, those from Collins’s command, and those from Bretney’s, fell back toward the bridge under the cover of Greer’s fire. The Indians were firing volley after volley of arrows, but the milling mass of warriors was sustaining heavy casualties not only from the Spencers but from the indiscriminate Indian fire, as well.

The retreating soldiers managed to cross the bridge, and Greer’s Spencers laid down a constant fire, falling back behind the wounded men until the stockade gates closed around them. The combined Cheyenne, Sioux, and Arapaho forces, furious at their failure to annihilate the troopers, turned their anger westward as the supply train came into view. They swarmed over the wagons and, after a desperate siege, the last of the supply train troopers fell under the assault.

The battle for Platte Bridge Station was over. Despite killing twenty-eight bluecoats, the warriors knew their victory had been hollow. They left the lifted scalps scattered on the ground and rode off, unaware that, with the telegraph line cut, there would be no reinforcements and they could have taken the stockade itself with a little more time.

As the Sioux rode past the stockade one last time, Crazy Horse saw the body of Caspar Collins. The arrow still embedded in his forehead had snapped off at the skull an inch or so beneath the bloody patch where his scalp had been, or perhaps the warrior who had taken the scalp had snapped the shaft to make his work easier. Crazy Horse turned away. Collins had been a good and brave man, and it was a pity that their friendship had to end this way, he thought.

But it was the white men who had come to Sioux land uninvited.

O
LD
M
AN
A
FRAID WAS SORRY
for the death of Caspar Collins. He was sorry because the lieutenant had been a good man, friendly to the Sioux in general, a man who seemed to see the Sioux as his equals, who was consumed by curiosity about their way of living, and who saw but did not judge. He had been friendly to all the Sioux, but especially to Old Man Afraid’s own son and, even more, to Crazy Horse. He had died bravely, fighting a war he did not agree with, but, as a good warrior must, fighting when his chiefs told him it was time to fight. It had been a brave thing to go back alone for the wounded bluecoat, the kind of thing that Crazy Horse himself was known to do, the kind of thing that all great warriors do and that, one day or another, got most of them killed.

But Old Man Afraid saw something else that afternoon at Platte Bridge Station. He saw that Crazy Horse was right, that discipline was important, even essential, if the Sioux were to have a chance to win their war with the white soldiers. He remembered something from his youth, and paid a visit to one of the old men in his village, named Fights with a Lance.

The old man was glad to see him. Nearly blind, he had to lean forward, squinting across the fire in the center of his lodge to make out Old Man Afraid’s features.

“It has been a long time since I have seen you, Old Man Afraid,” he said.

Old Man Afraid nodded. “Too long. The fault is mine. I am sorry.”

“You are busy with the things of the people. One old man is as nothing. I understand that and I do not blame you. In watching out for all the people, you watch out for me, too, and I am grateful.”

Old Man Afraid smiled. “Do you remember, long ago, when the tribal council had seven men to make the laws?”

The old man nodded. “The Big Bellies,” he said. “Yes, I remember. It was a good way, but we let it die.”

“Tell me about it.”

Fights with a Lance reached for his pipe, packed the bowl with shavings of willow bark, then tamped some tobacco on top, lit it with a slender twig from the fire, and puffed until he was sure the flame had taken hold. Then he passed the pipe to Old Man Afraid.

“I have heard that the white man does something like we used to do. But that does not mean that it is not a good thing to do. I think it was a good thing. It was not our way. Someone, I don’t remember who, had learned it from the Blackfeet people. It was their way, and it worked for them, so we tried it, and it worked for us, too. It was better, because the people chose their leaders. That way, you did not have men trying so hard to be leaders that they
forgot to lead. Always scheming, like now, trying to make friends to stay in front of the council. Red Cloud is one like that. He is a great warrior, and young men come from all the tribes to stay in his camp, to follow him on the warpath. But he is not satisfied with that. Always he is making plans to get more power. This is not a good thing. I think, if we could go back to the way you mean, to the Big Bellies and the shirt-wearers, it would be better for the people.”

“I don’t remember much about it. Who chose the Big Bellies? Was it the chiefs?”

“No. All the people. They could be chiefs themselves, and usually they were, because a chief is chosen for many of the same reasons. But not all chiefs make good Big Bellies. One must be wise and brave and unselfish. This is how they got the name Big Bellies, because they were older, with their bellies beginning to get fat, the way it happens with old men. Most of the time, their fighting days were behind them. But it was a way to use what they had learned for the benefit of all the people. Red Cloud is brave, but he is selfish, and sometimes he is not so wise as he is clever. And he is less interested in all the people than he is in Red Cloud.”

“And the shirt-wearers, did the Big Bellies choose them?”

“No. The warriors chose the shirt-wearers. This was only right, since it was the warriors who had to follow the shirt-wearers, had to do the things the shirt-wearers wanted done. The shirt-wearers did not have
akicitas
to help them.”

“Do you remember the ceremony? Do you remember how to make the shirt?”

Fights with a Lance grunted, then reached across the fire for the pipe. When Old Man Afraid handed it to him, he sucked contentedly for a few moments, letting the thick, fragrant smoke wreath his wrinkled face, then nodded. “My father was a shirt-wearer. I still have his shirt. It is a well-made thing and has lasted all these winters.”

“Would you help me explain these things to the Council?”

“Why?”

“I think it is something we should do again. I think it is the only way we can survive.”

Fights with a Lance smiled. “You learned this thing from Crazy Horse.”

Old Man Afraid shook his head. “I have not discussed it with him.”

“No matter. This thing he wanted to do at the bridge, that was the kind of thing the Big Bellies would do, and the shirt-wearers. Rules, discipline, that is why we had shirt-wearers. Crazy Horse knows this. Maybe he is the only one of the young men who does. But maybe he can teach the others.”

“I would not want to have to teach them.”

“Someone will have to. They love Crazy Horse and they will follow him. But he will need help. You can give him that help. You can convince the other chiefs how important it is.”

“I have argued with them, but …” He shook his head.

“If you give up, then it is over. You cannot give up without a fight. Your son will help. So will Crazy Horse. If you convince the chiefs to do this thing, then … who knows what might happen? We
know only what will happen if you cannot convince them.”

“And what is that?”

“Our people will cease to be.”

“Hou!” Old Man Afraid nodded his head wearily. It was true, and it was what he was trying not to face. But Fights with a Lance would not let him turn away from that truth. “Thank you,” he said, getting to his feet.

And for three days, the chiefs talked about it among themselves. Day and night, sometimes all night long, taking turns adding fuel to the fire in the council lodge, they argued. And in the end, they did as Old Man Afraid suggested. They knew he was right, and they knew, too, that time was running out on them. One did not have to be a wise man to see that the buffalo were disappearing from their hunting grounds, that the whites were thick like grasshoppers on the summer fields, and that one day soon, if things continued to go as they had been going, there would be no buffalo and, not long after, no Lakota.

On the third night, they made their decision. They chose the Big Bellies not with joy, but with a sense of desperation, trying to pick the men who would be their last hope. And they chose well. Old Man Afraid was first among them, first to be chosen because he was the wisest and because he knew, better than any of them, just how heavy was the burden the Big Bellies would be asked to carry. Brave Bear was chosen, and Sitting Bear, too. But Red Cloud was passed over, and he was not happy not to be among the seven.

They began building the ceremonial lodge the
next day, in the center of the village circle, covering its enormous frame with painted skins that showed all the
wakan
things the Sioux held sacred. And when it was done, the sides were rolled up, so that all the people could see what would happen there. The newly chosen Big Bellies gathered then, sitting in a line across the center of the ceremonial lodge. The people gathered around the outside, filling all the space between the great lodge and the tipis in the village circle, spilling over into the space beyond the great circle, packed together, standing on tiptoe to see what would happen.

The warriors came then, riding in a circle, charging through until the people backed up to give them room. They circled the village, and called out the name of Young Man Afraid to be the first shirt-wearer. Young Man Afraid walked to the ceremonial lodge and sat down facing the Big Bellies. Behind him, he could hear the commotion as the warriors made a second circuit of the village. This time they chose Sword, the son of Brave Bear, and he, too, entered the ceremonial lodge.

After the third trip through, the women singing the praises of the two men already chosen, the warriors scanned the crowd, looking for their next shirt-wearer. They stopped in front of the opening facing the east and announced their choice. American Horse, the son of Sitting Bear, joined his fellow shirt-wearers. It now seemed clear. All three chosen were the sons of Big Bellies, which was, some said, as it should be. But others felt that it was only to be expected. Power, after all, they whispered, belongs to those who have it to begin with.

And for the fourth and final time the warriors circled the camp. Their faces were strained, deliberate, their eyes darting this way and that. It was clear they were looking for someone in particular, and having trouble finding him. Finally, one of the warriors spotted him, pointed, and called a halt—they had found Crazy Horse.

The people nodded their approval. He was the best, after all, and it was only right that the best warrior should wear the shirt. They had to coax him to leave the back of the crowd. He kept looking at his father, and Worm urged him to accept gracefully, to go to the ceremonial lodge, to take his rightful place.

When he joined the others, he took his place quietly, sitting cross-legged and looking at his knees.

An old man rose to speak, older even than Fights with a Lance.

“You are chosen by your people because you are brave,” he said. “And because you know what is right and what is wrong. It is up to you to see that the old and the children, the women and the poor among us, are protected even as the strongest and richest are. If you do not look out for them, who will?”

He stared at each of the shirt-wearers in turn, almost daring them to disagree. None did, and he continued. “Respect everyone, and take nothing for yourselves. When you hunt the buffalo, give the best meat to those who need it most. You are young and strong. You can live on gristle and stringy meat. When the Crow attack us, look to the weak and do not worry about yourselves. Be wise and,
above all, be kind. You are the best among us. Teach us to be as good as you are, and as brave.”

“On a march, you will be our leaders. In camp, you will be our leaders. The warriors will do as you advise. And if they do not respect your words, then use more than words to make them respect you, but only when words fail.”

Old Man Afraid called then for the shirts and they were brought in one at a time. Each was made from the skin of a bighorn sheep, dressed and cured to suppleness, finely wrought with beads and quillwork. The forelegs had been fashioned into sleeves and the hind legs dangled down free in back. Each shirt was fringed with hair, a single lock for each act of bravery, a friend saved, a coup counted, a scalp taken, a wound suffered. And the shirt for Crazy Horse had more than any other, more than two hundred and forty fringed locks dangling from its sleeves.

He held the shirt in his hands as if afraid to put it on. Young Man Afraid donned his, then Sword. American Horse laughed as he slipped his shirt on and then Crazy Horse, already known as one who took nothing for himself, stood and slipped the shirt over his head.

“Hou, Hou!” the people said, and it became a chant. Drums started to beat and the feast of buffalo meat and boiled dog was made ready.

Crazy Horse chewed on his lower lip, embarrassed by the attention, and slipped away to his father’s lodge, where he could be alone and think about this new weight added to that already pressing on his broad shoulders.