Crazy Horse and the Sioux - Were they bullied?

I, Ginger Simpson, love the history channel, and of course when a recent presentation dealt with the history of Crazy Horse of the Sioux, I was glued to the screen.  I'm sharing portions of that program with you to demonstrate that bullying has been around for ages, and no matter what we do, it's highly unlikely we'll every be able to stop it.

Back in the 1840s, the waving grasses, flowing streams, and distant hills of the Dakota plains were considered sacred.  Only those children of the red man's Great Spirit wandered them without fear.  They lived simply until conflict with the white man began, but until then, the peaceful and harmonious ways of the Sioux tribe were the custom during the time Crazy Horse was born to become a great leader of his people..

Near Rapid Creek, South Dakota, the Sioux dominated the plains, consisting of several bands, with Crazy Horse being from the Ogalala Lakota.. Their size and strength gave them control of the largest territory, protecting their lands from the neighboring Crow, Irikara, Araphoe and Shoshone.  Over the years, by driving back these intruders as a reminder to whom the land belonged,  the Sioux eventually became the most powerful and numerous band along the northern plains.

It's reported that during his vision quest, Crazy Horse received instruction that led to the way in which he lived his life.  For four days he fasted in solitude to open his mind and body to the Great Spirit's word. The young warrior was shown a future in which he would avoid adornment, seek simplicity and go into battle without fear. The arms of his people would protect him.  Although he rode closest to the soldiers, he was never wounded.  His people assumed he possessed special characteristics and spiritual medicine that protected him.

Despite his mysterious aura and self-imposed separation from people, he soon became the second most powerful leader; the first being Sitting Bull.  Although there is very little documenting the life of Crazy Horse, oral history from his ancestors tell how he stood out at a very early age. More fair-skinned than his brotherhood, and having curly brown hair, his black eyes hardly maintained eye contact. He seemed shy and withdrawn, but never remiss in defending his homeland.  His story has been long a legend among the people but other information about him was written by the whites and showed prejudice rather than recognition as a truly talented and admired warrior. Despite the abundance of photographs taken of other chiefs and tribal members, either through an aversion to photography or his shyness, no pictures of this legendary warrior exist..

White American Society began moving onto the Sioux land in the 1850s, and shortly after, life changed.. With interest drawn by the abundant herds of animals moving along the impinging trails, the occasional pilfering of a cow or horse resulted in complaints being lodged with the armies who occupied the many forts built along the traveled paths to protect the white settlers. The Sioux assumed the infantry would disregard the infrequent theft reports and engaged in trade with some of the whites. These types of offenses were handled by Indian Agents with great success.  Although the practice of interacting with the whites introduced the Sioux to many new things, it also brought to them diseases previously unknown to them, making them wary of these intruders to their land.  The Sioux were also wrong in their assumptions about the army and their treaties..

The first dispute along the Great Platte Road resulted because of one lone cow  It was 1854, and the sick and lame animal wandered from a Mormon wagon train into Conquering Bear's camp at a time when Crazy Horse was there.  Approximately 4,000 Brule and Ogalala Sioux camped peacefully, according to their treaty of 1851, when Lt. Hugh Fleming and a small garrison consulted with the chief about the return of the animal.  The owner demanded $25.00 instead of a replacement cow or horse taken from the Chief's own personal herd.  Lt. Fleming demanded the brave who killed the cow be delivered to the fort, but the Chief refused.  The slayer of the animal was a visiting Miniconjou, and the Chief did not want to appear inhospitable..

Upon the reports of the refusal of cooperation, Second Lt. John Grattan led a detachment into the Indian camp.  As a recent graduate of West Point and inexperienced with dealing with the Sioux's ability, Grattan's determination to carry out his job led to Chief Conquering Bear being shot in the back, whereupon the Sioux dispensed with the twenty-nine men who started the fracas.  At the time, the Indian Agent was in the process of returning to the area with the required re-compensation.

It was this ridiculous argument that resulted in General William S. Harney, leading a garrison of 600 men to teach the Lakota a lesson.  He found the Indians peacefully camped and unaware of the pending attack, slaughtering over eighty men, women and children.  During this time, Crazy Horse was away from camp, training a pony, and upon his return once again witnessed the brutality of the paleface he now considered enemy.

So, could things have played out differently?  I think so, but we'll never know because there are always going to be those who need to flex their muscles and prove something to the world.. General William Harney was known to have a mean streak, and his actions later earned him the title of "The Butcher."  His saying "By God, I'm for battle, no peace," proved his intentions.  I'm ashamed to say he was from Tennessee.  We can be like the Sioux an continue to fight for what we believe is right, but will we be anymore successful?

Here's an excerpt from one of my western historical novels, White Heart, Lakota Spirit:

In the darkness, Fawn huddled with Green Eyes in a stand of aspen saplings and listened to the chaos in the camp. Hidden by only wispy clouds, the moon silhouetted veiled figures through swirling dust. Gunfire erupted, and women screamed. Panic-filled voices sounded in all directions as the tribal members scattered for safety.

“These are our own people. They’re killing our friends, and we can do nothing.” Fawn’s voice cracked with emotion, and she reached up to wipe tears from her eyes.

Green Eyes hugged her. “Shhh! We must be quiet.”

Fawn stiffened. Her panic came in a whisper. “They’re getting closer. What do we do?”

“Sit still, and don’t draw attention to our location.”

“Hey, Zeke, if you find yerself a good lookin’ squaw, give me a chance at her.” Fawn held her breath as a voice, too close, called out.

“I just squashed one of their little nits. That’ll be one less Injun givin’ us trouble.”

Green Eyes gasped.  Fear shone in her wide eyes.  “It cannot be my son,” she muttered. “His grandmother will see to his safety.  I trust her.”

Fawn covered her mouth to stifle a sob. Her friend showed such courage, especially when there had been no time to check on Little Cloud. Fawn’s mind reeled.  People of her color killed a child. How could they be so vicious and cruel?

The voices trailed off. Green Eyes grabbed Fawn’s wrist. “We must try to get back to my lodge,” she whispered. “They’re searching in the grass and trees. Hopefully they have already been through my home, and we will be safer there.”

She rose, craned her neck, and checked the area. “Quickly but quietly, run! Stay low and hurry back to where we crawled out.”

Fawn followed behind, crouching low and holding her stomach as she ran. Breathless, she ducked under the lodge covering and let it drop back into place.

For a moment, there were no screams or yells. Only their heavy breathing sliced through the eerie silence. “What are we going to do?” Breathless, Fawn found her voice.

Green Eyes scooped up all the bedding and heaped it in a pile. “You hide here and pray they leave soon. I will use the darkness to my advantage and make my way to Singing Sparrow’s lodge. Little Cloud is with his grandmother, and I have to make sure they are all right.”

 ***

         Fawn’s whole body ached from holding herself so tense. She hunkered behind the robes and listened to the commotion outside. Flaming torches lit the skies and cast shadows of the marauders on the lodge walls. Booming voices of the soldiers filled the air. They were everywhere--some near, some far. Occasionally, a scream of fear or a cry for mercy penetrated the night. When she heard someone coming closer, Fawn held her breath. Oh God!

A thin ribbon of light outlined the break between the lodge covering and the door flap. Outside, the glow grew lighter as whoever carried the flame neared. Fawn peeked around the blankets at the figure silhouetted on the door. Suddenly, the interior blazed with light as an arm stuck a torch inside. Fawn held her breath and squeezed her eyes closed.

 “Over here, Cap’n. I found one of ‘em.” The voice rang out right above her.

Her heart froze.

You can find this and my other books available at: http://www.amazon.com/author/gingersimpson

Sarah's Journey by Ginger Simpson

When Sarah Collins set her sights on California for a new beginning, she never figured a war party would attack her wagon train.  After her friend, Molly, succumbs to her injuries, Sarah is the sole survivor, left alone to find her way back to civilization.  Stampeding buffalo, the black prairie nights, and eerie noises contribute to her woes, and just when she believes she's faced the worst, a rattlesnake bite threatens to accomplish what the Indians failed.  Is it her time to die, or does Sarah have a purpose yet to accomplish?

Excerpt:

Sarah collapsed to the ground and buried her face in her hands. Sobs wracked her body as she mourned each person’s passing. She’d barely gotten to know them. Only fifteen days ago in Independence, Missouri, these twelve wagons had gathered, full of excited and happy faces, ready to journey to a new life.

She cried until her tears ran dry, then finding composure, convinced herself weeping wouldn’t help. At twenty-two-years old, she was determined to see twenty three. But how? She could walk for help, but in which direction, and how far? Even if she filled her canteen with fresh water from the stream, how long would it last before she reached another source? What if the Indians came back? It appeared they had taken all the weapons leaving her defenseless. She couldn’t just sit and wait. Besides, in the warm spring weather it wouldn’t be long before the bodies started to decay. Leaving appeared to be her only option.

She pulled a ladle from a nearby water barrel and took a long draw. The coolness quenched her thirst and eased her parched throat, but another scan of the deserted campground stirred her fear. It was time to begin her trek and she wasn’t ready. In fact she felt scared to death. She dropped the dipper back in place and struggled against consuming hopelessness by remembering her faith. God had seen her through other troubled times, surely he wouldn’t abandon her now. He saved her for reason, but what?

At the very least, she’d need a change of clothing for the trip, and something to keep her warm at night, but all her belongings had burned. She gazed at the Morgan wagon, one of the few still intact. Maybe she could find something there. Sarah loosened her long hair and combed her fingers through it to capture all the escaped locks in with the rest. She pulled her blonde tresses back and retied the ribbon at the nape of her neck.

Her face puckered into a scowl, preparing to view Molly Morgan’s remains for a second time. Sarah had thought it painful enough to see her during her earlier search for survivors. Such a waste of a young life. She steeled herself as she climbed up onto the back. Molly had died, but Sarah felt strangely remorseful for rummaging through another person’s belongings. It didn’t seem right. She lifted a foot to step over the tailgate, but paused with her leg midair.

Her head tilted inquisitively. Was that a sound? She sighed. Now she was imagining things. Her supporting leg wobbled, and goose bumps peppered her skin—not from the cold, but from the feeling of death all around. She lowered her suspended limb to steady herself, took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment.

Clearly, she heard the noise again—a moan from inside the wagon. She threw open the tarpaulin and peered in.

“Molly? Is that you?” Sarah held her breath.

“Help me.” The voice inside the wagon sounded weak and barely audible, but it belonged to a woman.

Sarah scrambled over the tailgate and knelt next to the bed. “Molly, it’s me, Sarah. I’m here.”

Molly moaned low in her throat—her front soaked with blood from an arrow protruding below her shoulder. Earlier, she had been on the floor, but somehow had managed to get to the pallet of blankets and pillows. Sarah had been sure the woman was dead. She should have checked for a pulse as she had with others, but after so many… God forgive her, had she wasted precious moments of this sweet life?

Sarah wiped her own dry lips with the back of her trembling hand. She wasn’t a doctor. What could she do to help? Before she could determine the extent of the injury, she had to remove the arrow, and there seemed only one way to do it—quickly and painfully.

She gazed at Molly’s ashen face. Her eyes were closed and beads of perspiration dotted her brow; her copper hair cascaded over her headrest. Sarah caressed the young woman’s cheek. “Molly, this is going to hurt like the devil, but I have to get this arrow out of you.”

Her eyelids fluttered and she gave weak nod of acknowledgement. Discomfort creased her forehead and made her appear much older than her nineteen years. Before Sarah’s nerves failed her, she rose and locked her fingers around the wooden shaft and yanked with all her might. She expected a scream, but instead, Molly’s body flinched and went limp.

Sarah fell to her knees. “Please, don’t be dead, Molly, please, please, please.” She slapped Molly lightly on the cheek. “Wake up! You have to wake up.”




 Sarah's Journey is available via Eternal Press and also Amazon and various other ebook sites. I hope you enjoyed the taste I've offered you.  If you enjoy western historical novels or tales of the old west, please stop by Cowboy Kisses, my newest blog, and check out some of my posts.  I have some very interesting guests lined up, too.

Odessa

I've always loved Laura Ingalls Wilder books. She had a unique way of describing Christmas through the eyes of a young girl.  The holiday in the 1800s was nothing like the one we celebrate today, but the excitement children felt back then was equally as exhilarating.

Christmas has always been my favorite time of year, but I find it strange that I haven't penned any holiday scenes into my historical novels.  When I stopped and pondered why, I concluded that as I've grown older, the magic has slipped away.  People have died, rifts have divided the family, and thinking about those happier times, dims the current season.  Or maybe, because I'm a pantser, my characters led me into a totally different season.  Yeah, that must be it. (smile)  If I'd written a Christmas scene, this might be what you'd read:
 

Wiping the mist from the window, Sally O’Dell strained to see through the blizzard’s white wall. The barn, only a short distance from the front door, had disappeared in the barrage of snow. The footprints Pa had left only minutes before no longer showed.  Though the house smelled of pine needles and cinnamon, she worried that Christmas’ most important guest, Santa, wouldn’t be able to find her in the storm.  A chill seeped around the recently installed glass and peppered her arms with goosebumps.

Sally closed the splintery shutters,  rubbed her forearms and turned to her mother, who straightened from the cast-iron stove, holding a browned apple pie.  “Momma, are you sure Santa can fly in this weather?”

“Don’t fret, Sally, you’ll cause wrinkles in that pretty little ten-year-old face of yorn.” Eliza O’Dell placed her pie with the others she’d baked in the stove she’d received as a gift last year and smiled.  “Santa can do anything.”  She swiped her hands down her apron, walked to the fireplace, and straightened the stockings hanging there.  "Be a darlin' and climb up to the loft and check to see if your sister's awake." ©gingersimpson

But, since I'm lacking the holiday spirit in my writing, I hope I make up for it with some tension and emotions that cause you to feel like you're walking in my character's shoes.  Odessa, my latest historical release, tells of a young woman on her way to a new and better life her father has planned for her in Phoenix.  Set in the 1880s, their current town has become overrun with outlaws, scoundrels, and her pa feels she needs the influence of her Aunt Susan now that ma has died.  Unfortunately, along the way, the wagon overturns, Pa is pinned beneath it and dies.  This scene is of Odessa, spending her first night alone in the middle of the Arizona desert:

The thought of being alone at night raised the hairs on the back of her neck. Predators filled this barren land and she had no desire to become a meal for one. Something rustled through the nearby scrub brush. She jumped, but sighed when she heard nothing further. At least if she remained with the wagon, she’d have some sort of shelter and could start fresh in the morning. She’d spent the night with Granny’s lifeless body in the house, so being with Papa was the lesser of her concerns. He loved her in life, and death wouldn’t change that. Perhaps he’d watch over her and keep her safe.

Odessa propped the rifle against the wagon, hung the canteens and pouch from a wheel hub and spread the blanket by the tailgate. Her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Papa had planned to stop for an early dinner in a good place to camp for the night, but the trip hadn’t lasted that far.

  She dropped to the ground, tucked her skirt around her legs, and pulled a sandwich wrapped in a blue-checkered cloth from the basket. The thought that Papa lay only a few feet away stole the taste from the ham and brought tears to her eyes again. While she chewed, she watched the bright orange sun sink lower in the western sky. Her heart hammered with dread of the coming night.

The temperature dipped along with the sunlight. The air grew cold and raised goose bumps on Odessa’s arms. She kept vigil at the end of the wagon and snuggled beneath her blanket. A golden slice of moonlight hovered above. The outline of the nearby saguaros took on a human appearance. Arms and legs and faces masked by darkness. She shivered as a coyote howled in the distance.

Before long, another desert dog launched into a hair-raising cry, only to be answered by yet another. This one sounded too close. Letting go of the blanket, Odessa reached for the carbine and pulled the weapon across her lap. She’d never shot at anything other than a bottle on a tree stump, but having the rifle slowed her racing heart.

Her gaze scanned the shadows for movement. An occasional rustling indicated something small skittering about, but that didn’t frighten her as much as the continued yowling that grew nearer. Her rigid shoulders ached and her eyes blurred from staring. Despite only muted moonlight, being so exposed made her uncomfortable.

What if the remaining food attracted the coyotes?  Odessa pushed the basket back beneath the wagon then realized a dead body was more likely to attract scavengers than her meager fare. Feeling foolish, she stood and gathered her canteens, then lay on the dusty ground and inched her way back beneath the tailgate, pulling the rifle in with her. There was not room enough to spread the blanket, and despite the stickers and pebbles poking at her, she’d much prefer the discomfort to the sharp teeth of a hungry animal.

On her stomach and clutching her weapon, Odessa peered into the darkness. She focused on happier times when Granny was still alive and had told stories of her own childhood. Most of them were tall tales, but what she wouldn’t give to be back next to the hearth and a roaring fire, listening to those yarns. Her favorite had always been about the ghost who lived in the pasture, but the fright Granny inspired by telling her spirit story was nothing compared to the lump of terror building in Odessa’s belly. She never realized the night held so many strange noises.

For what seemed like hours, she struggled to stay awake. The day had taken its toll and her eyelids drooped. Her head sagged to the ground. Inhaling dust, she sneezed, and tugged the blanket up between her cheek and the dirt.  She settled once more and hoped sleep would come at last.

Somewhere between dozing and consciousness, an angry growl yanked her awake. A pair of glowing yellow eyes stared at her from outside her shelter. Her heart pounded like hooves against the dirt, her breath caught in her throat. Death was but inches away and she couldn’t move.

If nothing else, perhaps I've made you feel safe and warm where you are now.  I wish for each of you the happiest of holidays and a blessed New Year.  Thanks, Lindsday and crew for letting me hog some space today. 

Odessa is offered through Eternal Press and featured on my Amazon page.