the greatest strengths of the Sioux and the rest of the Plains Indians was their courage and their desire for the honor of striking the first blow against their most bitterly hated enemies. Yet it was also one of their greatest weaknesses.
In their wish to count coup by touching the whites, the braves frequently got in each other's way, making themselves easier targets for the Cavalry and rendering their own fire-power much less effective.
And that was what was happening.
Instead of being presented with a strung-out line of Indians, able to surround and swamp his own small command, Crow faced a helter-skelter mob, screaming and waving bows. One man nearly went down in the jostle, his pony stepping into a prairie dog's hole and lurching sideways sending the charge into even worse confusion.
Crow rarely permitted himself the luxury of opening the pages of the past but when he considered the group fights that he'd been involved in, it was always surprising how they became a fragmented mass of memories. It was as if the mirror of the scene had been shattered and all the myriad shards collected together in a jumble, each with a tiny piece of the truth imprinted on it, yet with no way of regaining a clear picture of what happened.
So it was with that skirmish in the Dakota Territory in the spring of eighteen seventy-six.
The Sioux warrior who had heeled his pony to the front was flanked by two other young braves. All three of them painted with streaks of colors, wearing fringed shirts and with feathers in their long, flowing black hair. And immediately behind them came another four or five, followed by a second, larger bunch, about thirty yards behind.
It was in this sort of situation that Crow's peculiar choice of a weapon was fully justified. Doc Holliday carried a sawn-down ten-gauge Meteor scatter-gun that he sometimes called his street howitzer. He used it in 'eighty one at the O.K. Corral There are those who say that the Doc copied this from the gun carried by the notorious Mormon Avenger, Porter Rockwell.
Others say that he learned it from a chance meeting with a tall man dressed in black years earlier.
The Purdey was drawn and cocked and Crow didn't wait to get within range for maximum accuracy. The charge that crammed the scatter-gun would burst out like a lethal star. In this kind of battle it was more important to take out several of the Indians, even if they weren't killed, rather than pick off just one man. The Sioux were like other tribes in that the killing of their war-chief would often send them fleeing from the field, demoralized and dispirited, to go back and talk in their groups to select another leader. In this the
akicitos,
or warriors' societies, were paramount among the Sioux. Like Masonic gatherings there would be several in each tribe and they would provide the men of authority.
Crow knew all of this. But he also knew that there would not be a chief among such a small party. If Crazy Horse led the Oglala in the region, he would be up with the main body of Indians, attacking Menges. The fact that he could send twenty braves as a diversionary party was an indication of how many there were likely to be in the band that had ambushed the sixteen men with the Captain.
Crow knew Crazy Horse.
Had met him.
Talked with him.
It had been some time back and Crow had been a different man to the soldier he had become. But he knew Crazy Horse and respected him as a great and brave warrior and cunning leader.
One day he felt he would see the chief again. Perhaps soon. But he was not among this group of young men anxious to establish their reputations for courage. Crazy Horse had made himself conspicuous among his people by his modesty. Not for him the bright colors and warbonnets of eagles' feathers.
Crazy Horse wore only breech-cloth and leggings. In his long hair, lighter than any Indian Crow had ever met or seen, there would be the single feather of a hawk, and before riding out to fight or hunt he would
In their wish to count coup by touching the whites, the braves frequently got in each other's way, making themselves easier targets for the Cavalry and rendering their own fire-power much less effective.
And that was what was happening.
Instead of being presented with a strung-out line of Indians, able to surround and swamp his own small command, Crow faced a helter-skelter mob, screaming and waving bows. One man nearly went down in the jostle, his pony stepping into a prairie dog's hole and lurching sideways sending the charge into even worse confusion.
Crow rarely permitted himself the luxury of opening the pages of the past but when he considered the group fights that he'd been involved in, it was always surprising how they became a fragmented mass of memories. It was as if the mirror of the scene had been shattered and all the myriad shards collected together in a jumble, each with a tiny piece of the truth imprinted on it, yet with no way of regaining a clear picture of what happened.
So it was with that skirmish in the Dakota Territory in the spring of eighteen seventy-six.
The Sioux warrior who had heeled his pony to the front was flanked by two other young braves. All three of them painted with streaks of colors, wearing fringed shirts and with feathers in their long, flowing black hair. And immediately behind them came another four or five, followed by a second, larger bunch, about thirty yards behind.
It was in this sort of situation that Crow's peculiar choice of a weapon was fully justified. Doc Holliday carried a sawn-down ten-gauge Meteor scatter-gun that he sometimes called his street howitzer. He used it in 'eighty one at the O.K. Corral There are those who say that the Doc copied this from the gun carried by the notorious Mormon Avenger, Porter Rockwell.
Others say that he learned it from a chance meeting with a tall man dressed in black years earlier.
The Purdey was drawn and cocked and Crow didn't wait to get within range for maximum accuracy. The charge that crammed the scatter-gun would burst out like a lethal star. In this kind of battle it was more important to take out several of the Indians, even if they weren't killed, rather than pick off just one man. The Sioux were like other tribes in that the killing of their war-chief would often send them fleeing from the field, demoralized and dispirited, to go back and talk in their groups to select another leader. In this the
akicitos,
or warriors' societies, were paramount among the Sioux. Like Masonic gatherings there would be several in each tribe and they would provide the men of authority.
Crow knew all of this. But he also knew that there would not be a chief among such a small party. If Crazy Horse led the Oglala in the region, he would be up with the main body of Indians, attacking Menges. The fact that he could send twenty braves as a diversionary party was an indication of how many there were likely to be in the band that had ambushed the sixteen men with the Captain.
Crow knew Crazy Horse.
Had met him.
Talked with him.
It had been some time back and Crow had been a different man to the soldier he had become. But he knew Crazy Horse and respected him as a great and brave warrior and cunning leader.
One day he felt he would see the chief again. Perhaps soon. But he was not among this group of young men anxious to establish their reputations for courage. Crazy Horse had made himself conspicuous among his people by his modesty. Not for him the bright colors and warbonnets of eagles' feathers.
Crazy Horse wore only breech-cloth and leggings. In his long hair, lighter than any Indian Crow had ever met or seen, there would be the single feather of a hawk, and before riding out to fight or hunt he would
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