Stone Song (27 page)

Of all the Oglala men, this Bad Face was the best known in war. Among the Sicangu, Spotted Tail might have rivaled Red Cloud. But Curly’s uncle had fought seldom since his year of imprisonment. Some people still murmured that he was a lackey of the
wasicu
.

Red Cloud said they would go against the Psatoka. That was always good, and the young men called out, “
Hoye!
” in approval. The leader said nothing about what his medicine had revealed to him, how they should fight, how many horses and scalps they might bring back. He had no need. The young men were like ponies just turned out, eager to run with the stallion.

Except for one. “My tooth hurts,” No Water complained. He held his
jaw while Red Cloud was talking, and even moaned once or twice. The young men looked at each other. No Water’s medicine was two teeth of the grizzly.

Little Hawk smiled, but Crazy Horse scowled at him. It wasn’t funny, a man’s medicine warning him against going into battle. If Hawk ever warned Crazy Horse, he would not go. Just a few years ago a man had gone into battle with his hand hurting. His medicine was the paw of the raccoon. He came back dead.

Red Cloud squatted and spoke softly with No Water for a while. Finally No Water got up and mounted and headed back for the Bad Face village. Even slumped in dejection, his body looked too big for the pony.

“That pony should ride him,” said Hump. He grabbed a front tooth and pulled at it crazily.

“Ow—oo-oo-ooh,” Little Hawk howled, imitating a sick wolf, flopping his body around in mock pain.

Crazy Horse waggled his head foolishly. It was kind of funny. But half his mind was on the danger in front of him and half on the woman he would be returning to. With horses.

“Besides,” Hump said, “any way to get rid of that lunkhead is a good way.”

Little Hawk was avid, so Crazy Horse showed him his own ways. They found a village of Psatoka hunting and surprised them. The brothers and
hunka
rode in front, charging hard, and the Psatoka broke and ran. Far into their own country the Oglala chased them, past Shifting Sands River, which the
wasicu
called Powder River, and the Buffalo Tongue River, the
wasicu
’s Tongue River, and almost to the river the
wasicu
called Bighorn. They even killed one of the Psatoka old-man chiefs.

Crazy Horse talked to Little Hawk about dash and courage and good sense. He showed his brother how he always dismounted to get a steadier shot and never took a wild shot from horseback. You took a pledge, Crazy Horse said, and the most dangerous act would be to violate it. Crazy Horse would always ride in front, would abide by his oath to leave no comrade fallen on the field of battle, and would give his fellow warriors cover while they retreated. But that did not mean taking needless chances. Not using good sense was throwing your life away, and an insult to your own medicine.

Crazy Horse talked, and Little Hawk said how glad he was to fight with his brother and see how to do things and learn lessons, but he didn’t seem actually to listen.

When the two of them sneaked in and ran the pony herd off, though, Little Hawk acted sensible enough.

So they rode home with no one badly hurt, plenty of coups and scalps, the strength of the sun on their faces, the feel of good horseflesh between their legs, comradeship, and the ponies Crazy Horse needed. For once he felt good to be with others, his brother and his
hunka
, yes, but all the others, too, the Bad Faces and Red Cloud, this man he’d scarcely known but now admired, now that they shared the fellowship of warriors. For once Crazy Horse didn’t wish he was out riding across endless countryside by himself, or in the sweat lodge alone, or on the solitary mountain crying for more vision. He was comfortable in company.

In the fighting Hawk rode close over his head every moment. At night and at all other times Hawk rested peaceful in his heart. Crazy Horse, who offered advice so freely to his little brother, thought maybe after twenty-two winters, approaching twenty-three, his own life was coming together. Because he was about to marry and because in battle he was following what he saw beyond with the help of his spirit guide, asking no questions.

Crazy Horse didn’t recognize the voice the first time. Everyone was getting painted and dressed and decorated for the victory procession into the Bad Face camp, and he was hardly listening. This dressing up was something he didn’t like, another something he was left out of, not even included with his brother and his
hunka
.

The second time he knew the voice of Pretty Fellow but didn’t catch all the words, or didn’t admit to himself he caught them. Pretty Fellow and some other Bad Face youths had ridden out to greet their returning comrades.

Crazy Horse would never have asked Pretty Fellow what he said, but he couldn’t help looking in that direction. This time Pretty Fellow added an impudent tone. “Someone has been walking under the blanket.” Though he didn’t raise his eyes in that direction, he thumped his hips straight at Crazy Horse. Then he worked all the mocking melody he could into the next words. “Black Buffalo Woman and No Water.”

All the Bad Faces approved raucously—“
Hoye!
” they cried.

Black Buffalo Woman married to No Water!

Crazy Horse’s mind strained toward the idea, as lungs labor and struggle for breath when a man’s fallen hard. But it strained futilely.

He did see that none of the Bad Faces would look at him, not even the wounded one Crazy Horse had dragged to safety a few days ago. Red Cloud stared into space, his face neutral.

Crazy Horse swore to himself that he would remember this moment about Red Cloud. Like a politician, the man had three reasons for everything. He might lead you on a raid and to a kind of glory. It would be in
order to make his plan to marry his niece to your enemy come off without a hitch.

Crazy Horse glanced at Little Hawk and Hump and saw the quick sympathy in their stricken faces. But sympathy only sharpened his humiliation. He gathered his belongings, mounted, and rode off alone. He called back to Little Hawk and Hump to give the ponies to anyone who needed them.

He went back against the Psatoka. He launched himself against these enemies crazily. He hated his life and acted like it.

One night he sneaked up on the horse guard and deliberately made noise so the fellow would hear him. He wanted to fight hand to hand. When the guard just yawned, Crazy Horse cut the fellow’s throat in anger.

Hawk did not go into battle with him. She didn’t flap her wings in protest against the walls of his heart, either. She was quiet, as though numb. He muttered that losing Black Buffalo Woman had killed his soul, his spirit guide, and his self.

Another time he spotted a rifle he wanted in the hands of a young Psatoka and decided to take an outrageous chance. He crept into camp that night. Silently he slit the lodge cover and slipped under it. In the blackness, between the breathing bodies, he cut the gun down from where he knew it would hang from the poles at the back center of the lodge. No one stirred. Someone rasped lightly as the breath came in and out.

It made him so mad he swung the heavy barrel of the gun into the pallet, not caring who or what he hit. In the moment of confused ranting that followed, he slit the lodge hide so high he could step through upright and walked calmly out of camp, giving the Psatoka their chance.

The Psatoka gave him a fine chase that night, and he enjoyed it. When he had lead balls to fit this new gun, he would shoot their own rifle at them. He would kill the former owner for being stupid enough to let him come into the lodge at night.

One day he lay in wait for a pair of Psatoka wolves. He had seen the men out looking for buffalo. Since Crazy Horse knew where the herd was, he laid an ambush. He came out of it with one pair of far-seeing glasses, like the ones the
wasicu
soldier chiefs wore, and two Psatoka scalps.

He didn’t know why he took the scalps, in violation of his medicine. Maybe because Hawk was not with him. Something muddled and sick
had congealed in his heart and lay there, foul and putrid. Hawk could not live in such a heart.

He went back to war. It felt like scoring his heart with the point of a knife. He had seen
wasicu
scratch their writing deep into the bark of trees with their knives. On his own heart he wanted to write the sign meaning “dead man.”

When he came back, a long moon later, he hardly knew himself where he had been. He was exhausted and gaunt, wasted, like a man who’d had a long illness. He knew he certainly would not tell anyone else about these days, ever.

He sat his pony on the edge of camp, uncertain. He looked at the two scalps hanging from his lance, the evidence that he had trampled his own medicine into the dust. What would do he do with them?

People took no notice of him. Since he’d gone away without saying where he was going and had come back without notice to anyone, they probably supposed he wanted his privacy. They were respecting that. Only the dogs seemed to know he was there.

He threw the Psatoka scalps to the dogs.
Let them worry at them until they fall apart
, he thought. They meant nothing to him. Maybe he could throw his bad moon to the dogs, too. The people would never ask about the scalps, and he was grateful for that.

He would have to get Chips to help him bring his medicine back to life. When he had the energy, and when he cared.

He gave the rifle to Little Hawk and the horses to his brother-in-law. He kept the far-seeing glasses. He would need them in war. If his spirits didn’t lift soon, suicidal war.

At sunset two days later Horn Chips appeared at Crazy Horse’s brush shelter. Crazy Horse was on his blankets, where he’d been since returning to the village. He wasn’t getting a good sleep, just dozing sometimes and thinking he’d never get up again and feeling sorry for himself. Besides, if he lay on his blankets, he wouldn’t have to talk to anyone, not even Hump and Little Hawk.

A cold shadow fell on him. Chips stood there, blocking the sun. The
wicasa wakan
sat down without being invited, lit his
canupa
, and handed it to Crazy Horse. The warrior had to sit up to take it. As he puffed the smoke from his mouth, he thought mechanically that he was offering breath to Father Sky. Even such a familiar thought felt good.

Without introduction Chips said, “I hear Black Buffalo Woman has ruined your life. I hear No Water connived and ruined your life. I hear Red Cloud schemed and ruined your life.”

Crazy Horse hung his head.

Chips let anger put an edge on his voice. “So you are a weakling. Other people can ruin your life.”

Crazy Horse looked sharply at Chips, anger against anger. Chips ignored him.

“I don’t want to hear any more of this pathetic talk, or see you mope around anymore. You want to live?”

Crazy Horse didn’t answer. He was simmering. They sat and smoked for a while. Chips said nothing to ease the hurt he’d inflicted.

“Go to the Split Rock on the Sweetwater River. There you will see moss stones like this one.” He held an Inyan creature out to Crazy Horse. It was a stone of many colors, and in places you could see all the way through it. In some of those places were bits of flaky stuff, like moss.

“This Inyan creature doesn’t speak. Some of them do. Make a sweat lodge and ask for help. Walk around among the stones, your eyes not focused on anything in particular, your ears open for all kinds of sounds, not any special one. You may feel something about one Inyan creature. If you aren’t busy feeling sorry for yourself, you may even hear something from one. Bring it back.

“Sometimes, but seldom, the Inyan people speak. A man who spends his whole life paying attention may hear their words, may get a song from them. If his ears aren’t full of his own moaning about some woman, or about what others do to him.”

Crazy Horse sat there with his head between his knees.

“What are you waiting for?” asked Chips. “Get up. Go!”

Crazy Horse started to look around at the falling dark. Instead he took thought and got up.

“Remember you probably won’t hear anything. If you feel something toward one Inyan creature,” repeated Chips, “if you think it might speak one day, bring it back.”

Crazy Horse bobbed his head and got gone.

Riding back from the Split Rock with his moss Inyan creature in a pouch, he thought of why Black Buffalo Woman had married No Water instead of himself. He hadn’t given this careful consideration until now. He hadn’t even been able to get himself to form the words: “Black Buffalo Woman married No Water instead of Crazy Horse.”

The reasons seemed clear to him. All that he had heard he rejected. It wasn’t because she couldn’t wait. When you love truly, you will wait forever. It wasn’t because Red Cloud manipulated it. Love is like the compass of the
wasicu
and points always to the one true direction. It wasn’t because she was pressured by her family. It wasn’t because she preferred No Water. It wasn’t because she was afraid and confused. None of those things mattered to her. He knew, because he looked into his own heart
and saw they meant nothing. His and Black Buffalo Woman’s hearts were the same.

Another reason altogether came, came with luminous clarity. His medicine had arranged that Black Buffalo Woman should not marry him. He didn’t know why—perhaps that was yet to be discovered. He felt no doubt about it, though. He knew that medicine worked mysteriously and with power men could scarcely imagine. Medicine made water flow downhill, moved the air, raised the sun each morning, sent the moon through her every-month changes. Medicine could keep one man from marrying one woman, easily.

Idly, he wondered what his medicine might have in mind for him. Maybe he was one of those meant to be a shirtman, like his uncle Spotted Tail. Owners of the people, these young men were also called. A strange figure of speech, for it truly meant “those responsible for the people.” These young men were chosen by the society of White Horse Riders, and they alone were obligated to put the good of all people ahead of everything. It was better if they weren’t married.