He then turned to Crook, saying, “Father, it is so what the Arapaho said. We have all gone on this expedition to help you and hope it may be a successful one…. This is all I have to say. I am glad you have told us what you want done about the captured stock. The horses taken will help us to work our land.”
At last Crook stood before them, bringing the assembly to silence as he collected his thoughts, scratching at a cheek, and finally said, “To bring this council to an end, I want you all to hear my words clearly. When we come upon a village of hostiles, you must make sure your men do not kill women and children. Any man of you who kills a woman or a child will be punished severely by my hand.”
Bourke knew the general was laying down his order not so much out of some Anglo-American cultural trait as out of a carefully considered military strategy.
“When we do not kill the women and children—instead we capture them—we can use those women and children as hostages to lure in the men. The fighters. The warriors. It is not the Great Father’s desire to kill the Indians if they will obey the laws of this land. On the other hand, we want to find the villages of our enemies, to force them to give up their ponies and guns so that in the future they will behave themselves.”
After supper late that evening, Bourke sat with others at the fire outside Crook’s headquarters tent. He said, “The war’s over already.”
“What makes you say so?” Donegan asked.
“Because the Indians we’ve been fighting are now our friends, and they’re even friends with the Indians who have always been our friends.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” the Irishman replied as he stared into the flames of that welcome fire as the temperature dropped like lead shot in a bucket of water. “What Crook accomplished today without firing a shot, what he did last month in capturing the ponies and the weapons—was more than we accomplished on the Powder River last March. Or on the Rosebud in June.* Or beneath the Slim Buttes last September.”
Then Donegan held up his coffee tin. “More than a toast, I make this my prayer: that this goddamned war is as you say it is, Johnny. May our bloody little war truly be all but over.”
* Reap the Whirlwind, Vol. 9, The Plainsmen Series.
Chapter 20
Freezing Moon 1876
A sliver of the old moon still hung in the sky this morning before the sun crept from its bed in the east. With sixty-eight winters behind him, an old man like Morning Star was up and stirring, out to relieve his bladder. It seemed the older he got, the more urgent was this morning mission.
Before too long would come the Big Freezing Moon. And the hard times would begin. As the autumn aged into winter, more and more agency people wandered in to join the great village while the men hunted for the meat the women would dry over smoky fires. Game had been plentiful on the west side of the White Mountains,* but here along the east slope the hunting had become hard. The men were forced to go farther, hunting great distances out onto the plains, among the tortuous tracks of coulees and ravines, the dry washes where the deer and antelope had taken shelter from cold winds. A man of the Ohmeseheso was duty-bound to provide for his family and the village. Survival of the People was more important than earning coups in war or stealing another tribe’s ponies. As the white man tightened his noose around this great country and the game disappeared, Morning Star felt the pull on his inner spirit which all young men must also feel. Usually the snows brought elk and deer down from the high places in these mountains touched this morning with a gentle pink as the sun poked up its head.
Perhaps something else had driven the animals away.
But he did not want to think about that. Morning Star stoically remained faithful in his belief that the Powers would protect the People for all time if they would only resist the white mans seduction, the white man’s destruction.
Yes! Perhaps the Powers would truly guard the People this time, especially now that both sacred objects were here together in their great village.
Morning Star’s people had camped along a small stream at the base of the White Mountains when Black Hairy Dog arrived from the Indian Territory far to the south. There was loud and joyous celebration in the village when the old warrior who had succeeded his dead father, Stone Forehead, as keeper of the Maahotse, the Sacred Medicine Arrows, rode in. Black Hairy Dog’s wife rode on a second pony behind him, carrying the arrows in their kit-fox-skin quiver on her back—in that ancient, reverent way proscribed by Sweet Medicine.
In hurrying from that hot land to the south to reach the Powder River country, the warrior, who had seen fifty-three winters, and his wife had bumped into a wandering soldier patrol in the country off to the southeast, not long after making a wide circle around Red Cloud’s agency. When the soldiers began their chase, the couple divided the arrows and galloped off in different directions. Days later on the upper reaches of the Powder River the two found one another with great rejoicing and happy tears. With the four arrows reunited, the couple continued their journey to search for the great village in the mountains.
At long last both Great Covenants of the People rested in their sacred lodges at the center of the camp crescent, the horns of the semicircle opening, like the lodge doors, toward Noaha-vose, their Sacred Mountain. From its high places flowed endless new life for the People, invigorating both the Sacred Buffalo Hat and the Sacred Medicine Arrows. Now Morning Star could dare to hope once more.
Up till now, everything else had been only prayer.
More than once he had confided to Little Wolf that the People should not associate so closely with their belligerent cousins, the Lakota. Though the scars had faded from his flesh, the deep wound to Morning Star’s pride had never healed in ten long winters. When the soldier chief Carrington had wanted to talk to the Ohmeseheso leaders at the Pine Fort,* Morning Star had joined the other headmen in visiting the soldiers. That night, back in their camp a short distance from the fort, they were surrounded by a large band of Lakota warriors led by Man Afraid of His Horses and a youngster named Crazy Horse, Lakota warriors who beat Morning Star and the others with their bows—humiliating the old Tse-Tsehese chiefs for betraying their alliance by talking to the hated white man.
Ever since, Morning Star had been wary of the Lakota in general, and Crazy Horse in particular. Even Little Wolf, a just and courageous man, tended to distrust the Lakota more with every season this conflict dragged on and on. Unlike most of their people, Little Wolf had refused to learn the Lakota tongue, only one of the increasing symptoms of tension in the tribes’ long alliance.
Morning Star turned upon hearing the shouts and cries from the far north side of camp. On his spindly old legs, the chief hurried with the others brought from their beds to see what had caused the disturbance. By the time he arrived, there were hundreds crowding in on the two Lakota riders who had been visiting the People and two days ago departed to rejoin their own people camped with Crazy Horse on the Sheep River† at the mouth of Box Elder Creek. Now the pair were telling and retelling their story as more and more men and women came up to join that excited throng.