On the morning of September 5, 1877, Lieutenant Lee led Crazy Horse, Touch-the-Clouds, and the rest of the band into Camp Robinson. Upon the group’s arrival, all the agency Indians assembled to cheer them. Lee escorted Crazy Horse to the adjutant’s office and asked him to wait while he spoke to Colonel Bradley to arrange a meeting between them. But when Lee reported to Colonel Bradley, he was stunned by the order he received.
Bradley ordered that Crazy Horse be put in the guardhouse, and advised him that the following morning a military guard detail would arrive to transport him, in chains, to Omaha, Nebraska, and from there he would be taken to the Dry Tortugas Military Prison on an island seventy miles off the coast of Florida, where a military tribunal had determined he would spend the rest of his life.
Bradley summoned the Officer of the Day, Captain Franklin Maynard, to accompany Lee to where Crazy Horse waited.
Back in the adjutant’s office, where Crazy Horse patiently sat, Lee simply said, “We’re ready to go, Chief.” Nodding that he understood, Crazy Horse went with the two officers, thinking he was being taken to talk with Bradley. But outside, Private William Gentles, his rifle with bayonet fixed, was standing next to an open door, as he had been ordered to do by Captain Maynard while Lee was in Bradley’s office. Crazy Horse was directed through the door. It led into a three-foot-by-six-foot windowless cell.
Crazy Horse took only one step inside the door — and halted, knowing he had been tricked. Stepping back out, he poised to run.
“Stab him! Stab the son of a bitch!” Captain Maynard shouted the order.
As Private Gentles swung his rifle down to the attack position, Crazy Horse took two running steps — and Gentles bayoneted him in the back.
Dr. McGillycuddy, who had treated Black Shawl for her whooping cough, rushed out to help the wounded man, but it was too late. The blood coming from Crazy Horse’s body was black; the bayonet had gone through his liver. All the doctor could do was listen to the dying warrior’s last words.
“Once we had buffalo for food, and their hides for clothing and for our tipis. Hunting was our way of life. But the white man’s government would not leave us alone. I was tired of fighting and came here to ask the white chief to let me live in peace. Instead, he killed me—”
The following morning, Crazy Horse’s body was turned over to his elderly parents.
Lieutenant Jesse Lee, despondent and aggrieved over the part he had been forced to play in the treachery, released Touch-the-Clouds from the guardhouse and allowed him to go with them. The huge warrior easily lifted his dead cousin onto a wagon and they left.
No white man ever saw Crazy Horse’s body after that day. His final resting place was never revealed.
Nelson Clay’s report on Crazy Horse’s genealogy contained no pertinent new information.
“I found nothing at all in his lineage or ancestry that would support the claim of Nelli Mae Feathers that she is a descendant of his.”
“That doesn’t negate the fact that she might know where Crazy Horse is buried,” the curator argued. “All those names she mentioned: Shawl-in-the-Sky, Blanket Woman; and that story of hers that a second daughter was born and given the same name as the earlier child who died of cholera, that’s just the sort of thing that a savage like Crazy Horse would do.”
“But there’s no record anywhere of Black Shawl having a second child. She lived on the Pine Ridge Reservation for forty-five years after Crazy Horse’s death, not dying until 1930, when she was eighty-four years old. Certainly if she had a second daughter, there would be some record of it.”
“True, very true,” Martin admitted. “Unless she gave the child to another family to raise, which was not uncommon among the Sioux. There are still loose ends to be tied up here. And if this Feathers woman does know where Crazy Horse is buried, whether she’s an heir to his remains or not, it will still be a major discovery. When did she agree to come here to the museum?”
“She’s waiting for either Naomi or me to set a time. One of us is to call her.”
“I see.” Martin rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, instead of calling her, let’s you and I pay her another personal visit. While Naomi is still going through army records in St. Louis, perhaps you and I can persuade Ms. Feathers to show us the grave’s actual location.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Nelson grumbled.
“You’re too negative, my boy,” the curator said firmly. “That’s one of your major faults. We’ll leave in the morning and visit her at the Buffalo Gap National Grasslands visitors center, where she works.”
The next afternoon, Martin and Nelson were waiting for Nelli Mae Feathers when her shift ended at the visitors center. Nelson introduced the curator. Martin was all smiles and charm.
“I happen to know of a splendid restaurant just off Interstate 90, in the little town of Wall,” he said pleasantly. “I wonder if you would consent to have supper with Mr. Clay and myself so we can discuss the matter of payment for the remains of your late, great warrior relative, Crazy Horse?”
Nelson was surprised. Martin had not previously mentioned bringing payment into the equation, before even verifying the authenticity of her claim. Now things seemed to be moving right along.
Nelli accepted the curator’s offer and they all drove back to I-90 and on to Wall, where Martin took them to the Red Rock, which was indeed a very nice restaurant. “I recommend any steak on the menu,” the curator said urbanely, as if he were a regular customer.
Throughout the meal, which as touted consisted of one of the best steaks Nelson had ever tasted, Martin praised his Great Plains Native American Museum in the most laudable and flowery language Nelson had ever heard him use. His usual sour countenance was replaced by a smiling grandfatherly face that Norman Rockwell might have painted. By the time they finished eating, Nelli Mae Feathers seemed all but enthralled. That was when the Crow blood began to flow and Martin White Cloud struck like the viper Nelson now thought him to be.
“Now, my dear,” he all but purred, “let’s discuss how we are to proceed to your best advantage in addressing your claim to being a descendant of Chief Crazy Horse. I presume you do expect some sort of recompense for bringing the matter to our attention, am I correct?”
“Well, yes, I guess so,” Nelli Mae replied demurely, looking down at her plate. “I hadn’t really given the matter any thought until recently, when some of my coworkers at the visitors center were discussing the fact that two of the most famous Native American war chiefs of all time, Crazy Horse of the Oglala Sioux and Cochise of the Chiricahua Apaches, had been buried secretly in unknown locations. Of course, none of them knew that I was a descendant of Crazy Horse. But one of my friends, Agnes Two Mules, who is part Blackfoot, commented that for anyone finding either of those graves, it would be like finding buried treasure.”
“Yes, so it might,” Martin reluctantly agreed. “But of course everything would depend upon verification of the remains, as well as authenticating your relationship to them. Establishing the identity of the endoskeleton — the bones — would require more than the small samples you submitted to us.”