from breaking an axle in one of the deep, frozen ruts. How can he tell this gentle man that Crazy Horse would have preferred to pull his own guts out through a hole in his belly—or to slaughter Doane Robinson’s entire extended family—rather than allow the
wasichus
who betrayed and killed him to carve a likeness of him into Paha Sapa granite? He takes a breath.
—
You remember, Mr. Robinson, that Crazy Horse never allowed any of the frontier photographers to take a photograph of him.
—
Ah, you’re right, of course, Billy. He was obviously afraid of the camera “capturing his soul,” as some of the Plains Indians feared. But I’m quite sure that a sculpture created by a great artist would not have offended
T’ašunka Witko’s
sensibilities in that way.
Paha Sapa knows beyond any doubt that Crazy Horse had no fear of a camera “capturing his soul.” The warrior simply would never give his enemy the satisfaction of capturing even an image of him.
—
What about Sitting Bull, then, Billy? Do you think the Lakota would be honored if there was a monumental sculpture of
Tatanka Iyotake
here in the Hills?
The highway is especially churned up into ridges and gulleys here, a Badlands in miniature, and Paha Sapa stays silent as he bounces the Nash across the least threatening patch of frozen road and shoulder. He remembers the time, only nine years after the rubbing out of Long Hair at the Little Big Horn, when Sitting Bull traveled east with Bill Cody’s Wild West Show—this was eight years before Paha Sapa went to Chicago with the same troupe—and was so impressed by the numbers and power of the
wasichus
and by the size of their cities and the speed of their railroads. But Paha Sapa spoke to a missionary whohad known
Tatanka Iyotake
upon his return to the agency, and Sitting Bull had said to the white holy man—
The white people are wicked. I want you to teach my people to read and write, but they must not become white people in their ways of living and of thinking; it is too bad a life. I could not let them do it. I myself would rather die an Indian than live a white man.
Paha Sapa finds it difficult to breathe. There is a wild pounding on the inside of his rib cage and a pressure of pain in his skull that blurs his vision. Another man might think it was a heart attack or stroke happening to him, but Paha Sapa knows that it is the ghost of Long Hair gibbering and capering within him, pounding to get out. Does Long Hair hear these words through Paha Sapa’s ears, see the Needles columns through Paha Sapa’s eyes, and imagine the large sculptures of the Lakota men mentioned—Robinson has certainly not mentioned Custer for one of the sculptures—by seeing into Paha Sapa’s mind?
Paha Sapa does not know. He has asked himself similar questions many times, but although the ghost speaks to him nightly, he has no clear idea as to whether Long Hair sees and hears through him or shares his thoughts the way that Paha Sapa is cursed to suffer Long Hair’s.
—
Did you know Sitting Bull, Billy?
Doane Robinson sounds concerned, perhaps embarrassed, as if he is worried that he has offended the Lakota man he knows as Billy Slow Horse.
—
I knew him slightly, Mr. Robinson.
Paha Sapa makes his voice as friendly as he is able to.
—
I saw Sitting Bull from time to time, but I was, of course, only a boy when he fought and then surrendered and then was killed by the Indian policemen who came to arrest him.
T HE
WIWANYAG WACHIPI S UN D ANCE at Deer Medicine Rocks two weeks before they killed Long Hair lasted only two days.
The older boys and young men who had come for their manhood ceremony lay down at the base of the tall
waga chun
now bedecked with paint and poles and braided tethers. The boys and young men had been similarly painted by Limps-a-Lot and the other holy men, and did not move or cry out as the
wičasa wakan
then cut strips out of their chestsor backs so that loops of rawhide could be pushed in under
wasichus
who betrayed and killed him to carve a likeness of him into Paha Sapa granite? He takes a breath.
—
You remember, Mr. Robinson, that Crazy Horse never allowed any of the frontier photographers to take a photograph of him.
—
Ah, you’re right, of course, Billy. He was obviously afraid of the camera “capturing his soul,” as some of the Plains Indians feared. But I’m quite sure that a sculpture created by a great artist would not have offended
T’ašunka Witko’s
sensibilities in that way.
Paha Sapa knows beyond any doubt that Crazy Horse had no fear of a camera “capturing his soul.” The warrior simply would never give his enemy the satisfaction of capturing even an image of him.
—
What about Sitting Bull, then, Billy? Do you think the Lakota would be honored if there was a monumental sculpture of
Tatanka Iyotake
here in the Hills?
The highway is especially churned up into ridges and gulleys here, a Badlands in miniature, and Paha Sapa stays silent as he bounces the Nash across the least threatening patch of frozen road and shoulder. He remembers the time, only nine years after the rubbing out of Long Hair at the Little Big Horn, when Sitting Bull traveled east with Bill Cody’s Wild West Show—this was eight years before Paha Sapa went to Chicago with the same troupe—and was so impressed by the numbers and power of the
wasichus
and by the size of their cities and the speed of their railroads. But Paha Sapa spoke to a missionary whohad known
Tatanka Iyotake
upon his return to the agency, and Sitting Bull had said to the white holy man—
The white people are wicked. I want you to teach my people to read and write, but they must not become white people in their ways of living and of thinking; it is too bad a life. I could not let them do it. I myself would rather die an Indian than live a white man.
Paha Sapa finds it difficult to breathe. There is a wild pounding on the inside of his rib cage and a pressure of pain in his skull that blurs his vision. Another man might think it was a heart attack or stroke happening to him, but Paha Sapa knows that it is the ghost of Long Hair gibbering and capering within him, pounding to get out. Does Long Hair hear these words through Paha Sapa’s ears, see the Needles columns through Paha Sapa’s eyes, and imagine the large sculptures of the Lakota men mentioned—Robinson has certainly not mentioned Custer for one of the sculptures—by seeing into Paha Sapa’s mind?
Paha Sapa does not know. He has asked himself similar questions many times, but although the ghost speaks to him nightly, he has no clear idea as to whether Long Hair sees and hears through him or shares his thoughts the way that Paha Sapa is cursed to suffer Long Hair’s.
—
Did you know Sitting Bull, Billy?
Doane Robinson sounds concerned, perhaps embarrassed, as if he is worried that he has offended the Lakota man he knows as Billy Slow Horse.
—
I knew him slightly, Mr. Robinson.
Paha Sapa makes his voice as friendly as he is able to.
—
I saw Sitting Bull from time to time, but I was, of course, only a boy when he fought and then surrendered and then was killed by the Indian policemen who came to arrest him.
T HE
WIWANYAG WACHIPI S UN D ANCE at Deer Medicine Rocks two weeks before they killed Long Hair lasted only two days.
The older boys and young men who had come for their manhood ceremony lay down at the base of the tall
waga chun
now bedecked with paint and poles and braided tethers. The boys and young men had been similarly painted by Limps-a-Lot and the other holy men, and did not move or cry out as the
wičasa wakan
then cut strips out of their chestsor backs so that loops of rawhide could be pushed in under
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