Assault on Atlantis

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Crazy Horse listened to Sitting Bull invoke the protection of the great buffalo as he fought to suppress a yawn. The elder chief was walking in front of the half-circle of select chiefs, holding up a buffalo skull, speaking in his famous loud voice of the Great Spirit and honor and glory in battle. Crazy Horse was standing near the rear, on the gentle slope leading to the small open space next the creek, looking down on Sitting Bull.

Sitting Bull was chief of the Hunkpapa, one of the seven tribes of the Lakota Sioux. Those listening to him were chiefs representing not only the other six tribes, but several other tribes-Oglalas, Miniconjous, Sans Are, and Northern Cheyenne. They were here because the white men had sent out an edict that all the people who had not reported the previous winter to the reservations were the enemy. That proclamation had been followed by a winter assault along the Powder River, where Wooden Leg’s village was routed, the survivors showing up at Crazy Horse’s encampment. The white men had retreated quickly after destroying the village, but now the Word Was that several columns of blue coats were on the move from the north and south.

Although Crazy Horse was not impressed with Sitting Hull’s extensive oratory, exhorting the various leaders to unite together to fight the white man, he did have to admit he respected both Sitting Bull’s bravery and his strategic sense. Sitting Bull was one of the few chiefs who spoke frankly of the fact that the penchant for warriors to put acts of individual bravery above that of fighting cohesion would doom them in battle against the blue coats and their massed fire-power.

Sitting Bull had been one of the first chiefs to espouse using the white man’s rifles over the bow. To focus on ambushing parties of surveyors and miners, recognizing them as the tip of the white man’s intrusion into their country. He had been preaching for years that the tribes needed to put aside their differences and unite to face the whites or they were doomed.

Now there were three columns of soldiers approaching. Three Stars — General Crook-was the closest, coming from the south, from the place the whites had named after the officer Crazy Horse had helped ambush, Fort Fetterman. Others were to the east and north, but not close enough to have been spotted by the far-ranging scouts Sitting Bull had sent out.

Behind Sitting Bull was a tall pole, stripped of bark, on which a buffalo skull had been set. Leather lariats with bone awls hung limply from the top, ready to be used. Crazy Horse saw no need for a sun dance. They knew the whites were coming, and they knew the only choices were to go to the reservation, run to the west-which wasn’t practical given the harshness of the mountains-or fight. But he knew Sit· ting Bull was trying to do something unprecedented — unite all these disparate tribe to fight as one. Such an act required great shows of power and symbolism.

Sitting Bull pulled off his tunic. His chest was covered with scars from previous sun dances. Medicine men came up to him, painting his hands and feet red and drawing blue stripes across his broad chest. Then his brother, Jumping Bull, performed the “scarlet blanket,” using an awl and knife. Starting at Sitting Bull’s right wrist, his brother inserted the awl, lifted up a section of flesh, then sliced it off with the knife, all while Sitting Bull’s face remained calm and he murmured prayers to the Great Spirit. Working quickly, Jumping Bull sliced his way up the arm, inflicting fifty cuts. Then he went to work on the left arm.

Crazy Horse looked about at the warriors watching the ceremony. He could tell they were impressed at Sitting Bull’s lack of reaction to the pain. When his brother was done, the Hunkpapa chief held up both bloody arms as his offering to the Great Spirit. Crazy Horse thought the fact that Sitting Bull had to draw his own blood to impress the other leaders had an intrinsic flaw in it, although he couldn’t exactly put his finger on it.

Sitting Bull then ordered all except a handful of senior leaders to leave. His brother and the others mounted their ponies and rode off. Once they were gone, the sun dance began.

Crazy Horse did not participate. He stood still as a stone, looking down the creek, waiting. He knew who was coming, but he didn’t know why.

Just as dusk was falling, a lone figure appeared, riding up the creek from the south. Crazy Horse was the first to see him, as the others were engrossed in their pain-filled dance. A white man on a tall horse, with a loaded pack mule behind him, approached.

As the dancers became aware of his presence, there was a minute of confusion as they tried to separate in their dance fever whether the man was real or a vision. Crazy Horse walked past the dancers to the water, his rifle resting in the crook of his arm.

“Brother,” Mitch Bouyer called out in Lakota.

Crazy Horse ignored the greeting as he always had. “You have power with you. I can feel it.”

Bouyer dismounted. The others, tethered to the center pole, were still, watching, waiting and listening. Crazy Horse felt like he was on the edge of a knife, balanced between the power of the sun dance behind him and the aura of whatever it was Bouyer was bringing in front of him.

Bouyer held up both hands, empty palms out. “I come in peace.”

“For now,” Crazy Horse said.

“War comes.”

Bouyer glanced over his shoulder. ‘’Three Stars is a day’s ride away. With many soldiers and Crow Indians.”

Crazy Horse spit into the water running between his feet. “The Crow will die with the whites.”

Bouyer looked past him at the dancers. “Many tribes.”

“Yes.”

“But the Crow ride with the whites.”

Crazy Horse felt some of his anger drain, as if drawn out by the passing cool water that ran against his legs. What Bouyer said was true. Even though many had gathered here on the Rosebud, there were still those who would rather fight against all of the other tribes rather than the whites. He’d always known this, but like the scar on his face from Black Buffalo Woman’s husband, it was something he had always chosen to ignore, not wanting to face the reality of what it meant-that what he wanted the present and future to be did not matter. It would be what it would be, regardless of his feelings, hopes or desires.

Bouyer led the two animals out of the water and tied off both to a sapling. He then took a large cloth-bound case off the mule. He carried it to the center pole of the sun dance, walking around Sitting Bull. He placed the case at the base of the pole, then opened it. He pulled out a leather satchel. Then eight more. He untied the cord at the top of the first satchel and pulled down the leather, revealing a crystal skull. He put it on the ground next to one of the buffalo skulls Sitting Bull had arranged. He continued until there were nine skulls aligned. Each one was lit from within with a pale blue glow.

“What is this?” Crazy Horse walked up to Bouyer.

Bouyer ignored his “brother” and looked at the older chieftain who was still tied to the center pole, arms encrusted with dried blood from one hundred wounds. Sitting Bull reached with both hands and ripped the awls holding the lariats out of his chest. He knelt next to the closest skull and ran his hands over the smooth surface.

“Powerful medicine,” Sifting Bull said. He looked at Crazy Horse. “Why did he call you brother?”

“Nahimana was our mother,” Bouyer said.

“She bore you,” Crazy Horse said, “but she was not your mother.”

Sitting Bull glanced between the two. “I have heard strange stories of Nahimana-” he held up his hand as Crazy Horse stepped toward him—“no dishonor intended upon you or your family. It is said the Great Spirit visited her when she carried you,” he continued, looking at Crazy Horse. “That there was powerful magic at your birth.”

Crazy Horse turned to Bouyer. “Why are you here? Why do you bring those?” He indicated the crystal skulls.

“They are part of our destiny,” Bouyer said.

“How?” Crazy Horse demanded.

Bouyer pulled out a metal tube, which Crazy Horse recognized. Bouyer unscrewed the top and removed a piece of paper. He pointed at a skull and then the person whose name he read: “Sitting Bull. Crazy Horse. Gall.” He paused, as the last person wasn’t present. “And Walks Alone.”

“Walks Alone is a boy,” Crazy Horse protested.

Sitting Bull raised a hand, silencing the protest. “What do you want?”

“Four skulls for the four people.”

“Why?”

Bouyer shrugged. “I don’t know exactly, but I know it is our destiny. There will be a great battle soon, not here but on the Greasy Grass. The Son of the Morning Star leads his blue coats there.” Bouyer paused, then he said the words. “Many soldiers falling into camps.”

“How do you know that?” Sitting Bull demanded. “I had that vision years ago and have told no one of it.”

“I have visions also,” Bouyer said.

“Why should we trust you?” Sitting Bull asked.

“Three Stars is camped on this creek, near the old willow felled by lightning two springs ago,” Bouyer said.

“1 know the place,” Sitting Bull said.

“He has no pickets out and no guards. His troops are unprepared. The Crow hunt buffalo between here and there.”

“Why do you tell us this?” Sifting Bull demanded. ‘They are your people.”

“All people are one,” Bouyer said.

Crazy Horse stepped between the two. ‘’There are five other skulls.”

Bouyer nodded. “Yes. I know where they go also.”

Sitting Bull picked up the skull that Bouyer had indicated was his, hefting it in his blood-covered hand. “I sense great power.”

Bouyer waited. He could feel the difference in Crazy Horse. The warrior’s anger was muted, blanketed by despair. Bouyer put the other skulls away and closed the case. He carried it back to the mule and tied it off. He was exhausted having pressed the ride north from Colorado. Knowing time was short. Bouyer climbed up on his horse, aware all were staring at him. Sitting Bull was peering into the crystal skull as if he could see the future there.

Gall was the most dangerous one, Bouyer knew. The chief was an impressive physical specimen, over six feet tall and built like a beer barrel, with a thick chest and muscular arms. He was known for bravery in battle as much as Crazy Horse. was edging around to Bouyer’s flank, a hatchet in his hand.

“Where do you go?” Crazy Horse demanded.

“To find Son of the Morning Star,” Bouyer said.

“What of Three Stars?”

“He is not important,” Bouyer said. ‘’1 will see you on the banks of the Greasy Grass.”

Gall was moving closer, hatchet rising.

“Let him go,” Sitting Bull ordered.

Gall stopped but didn’t lower the hatchet. “You talk to us of uniting and killing whites. But you want me to let him go?”

“This is not his time to die,” Sitting Bull said.

Bouyer didn’t wait. He nudged the horse’s head to the north and kicked in his spur.

It was as Bouyer had said. There were a dozen Crow, stalking a herd of buffalo on the north side of the Rosebud. There were no pickets around the blue-coat encampment. The soldiers were lounging about, seemingly unconcerned. The cavalry had unsaddled their horses. Crazy Horse could even see Three Stars through the telescope-the commander of the blue coats was playing cards with his officers.

Shots rang out as Sioux charged toward the Crow hunters. Still the soldiers seemed unconcerned; most likely thinking the firing was coming from the hunters. Crazy Horse watched the unfolding battle from a knoll a half-mile from the Rosebud. The skull Bouyer had left for him was in a bag tied off to his horse.

The first response by the blue coats to what was really happening only came when a couple of retreating Crow galloped into the camp, screaming that they were being attacked. Soldiers scrambled to saddle their horses while the infantry hurriedly grabbed their rifles.

The charging Sioux and Cheyenne would have overrun the camp, but two hundred Crow warriors who had joined Three Stars rallied and formed a skirmish line that broke the first charge. This gave the blue coats a chance to get somewhat organized.

Crazy Horse watched as the battle raged back and forth. He could see both Sitting Bull and Gall leading charges. Crazy Horse was tempted to join the fray, but he remained where he was, simply observing. If Bouyer was night-and he had been right about this-then there would be time shortly for much fighting.

The superior massed firepower of the whites was negating the expertise of the Indians at using both their horses and terrain to charge close. Back and forth across the creek came the assaults, each one beaten back.

Time was critical, Crazy Horse realized as he watched the battle. If it had not been for the Crow defensive line, the first charge would have made it into the white man’s camp and the battle might have been over very quickly with the white man routed. But given time to organize a defense, their line produced too much firepower to break no matter how bravely the Indians charged. Attacking straight into the power of the Whites was a poor tactic, he realized.

After a few hours, with no decisive move on either side, Sitting Bull came riding up to Crazy Horse’s position. “Why do you just sit there?”

Crazy Horse lowered the telescope. “This battle is already over. The next one will be much different.”