The People's Warrior

By John Foxjohn

When soldiers began to arrive to force the Indians out, Andy, having been raised as Sioux, has to choose between his race and his culture. He joins his Indian brother in an attempt to save their land. The brother is not an imposing sight, but the mention of his name drives a dagger of fear through the hearts of whites.
The brother’s name is Crazy Horse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Foxjohn
• Release date: Jun 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301478767

John Foxjohn

The Pineywoods of East Texas have produced many things, including award winning and best-selling author John Foxjohn. Known as the master of pace, Foxjohn is considered a rising star in publishing. Not only has Foxjohn published books in six different genres, but three different ones have become best-sellers. In 2014, Foxjohn's romantic suspense, Law of Silence, received the prestigious WMP Award of Excellence for the best book of 2014. Despite the book sales and accolades, Foxjohn says, "I'm just a country boy at heart. "I was born and raised so far back in the woods that they had to pump sunshine to us." With little to do but hunt and fish, Foxjohn's environment created an atmosphere that fostered imagination and dreams, something he would excel at. At the tender age of seventeen, he quit high school and joined the army. Foxjohn's six years would see him graduate from jump school, Ranger school, and become the youngest sergeant in peacetime army. A tour of Viet Nam and Germany highlighted an extremely successful stint for Foxjohn. After an honorable discharge, Foxjohn followed that up with ten years in law enforcement, including a long tour as a homicide detective. Fulfilling a promise to his dying mother, Foxjohn graduated from college and began a new adventure of teaching and coaching football. Foxjohn had another of his childhood dreams left to accomplish. When he was twelve, he read a book about Crazy Horse. He said then that one day he would write a book about the fabled Lakota war chief. After retiring, Foxjohn became a writer, and the first book he wrote was an historical fiction titled The People's Warrior: a book about Crazy Horse. Today Foxjohn spends an enormous amount of time traveling in Texas and across the country, signing books and talking and teaching writing groups about the craft of writing.

Book preview

The People’s Warrior

John Foxjohn

Watermark Press

This book is published by Watermark Press

New York, New York 10014 USA

Copyright 2015 by John Foxjohn

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction of distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing by the author or publisher.

Chapter one

Eight-year-old Andy Johansson crept along the wagon train’s back trail. The odor of horse manure swam in the night air. The moonlight cast scary shadows in the grass and trees. Sounds of rustling brush and cloth, along with wood smoke, knifed through the thick fog rising from the ground.

He told himself not to be scared, but his chest tightened and he had trouble breathing. He tried to swallow but his throat felt like a dry creek bed.

His steps faltered and he listened for several long moments. The morning had an unnatural mood to it, but he couldn’t place what was alarming him.

I shouldn’t’ve left camp, he whispered to the darkness, but I can’t turn around. Charcoal, his horse had wandered off because of him. He had to bring the horse back. He’d promised his father he’d be responsible, and he couldn’t return and tell everyone he didn’t find the horse because he was scared of shadows.

He took a step, then another. Icy fingers crawled down his spine. He sensed something, but what? Two more steps and he stopped. The night sounds had died—no birds were chirping or frogs—no crickets.

His body shook and he couldn’t stop it. Sweat popped on his forehead even with the night’s chill. Several more steps, and he stopped to look back. He shook his head and marched on with his head high like he thought a man would do.

Andy reached the river as the night sky eased to grey. Treetop outlines were visible, and he realized he wouldn’t be able to return to camp without his father catching him. He had hoped to find the horse and sneak in before everyone in the wagon train woke.

I’m gonna get in trouble, but at least I’ll have Charcoal.

He found the black stallion eating grass after searching along the river. The picket line was still attached and dragging behind him. The horse had pulled the stake out of the ground and walked off.

Charcoal nuzzled Andy like he always did, looking for sugar. He spoke in a soothing voice as he stroked the horse’s neck. I should’ve staked you out right, but you were a bad horse for leaving the way you did.

Charcoal’s ears perked up. The horse listened for a few minutes and went back to eating.

Andy hesitated. Far away, sounds of yipping coyotes and popping like distant gunfire drifted with the wind. He wasn’t sure where they came from or what caused them. The cry of a baby jerked him upright.

He was allowing the night to spook him again.

He wiped the sweat-soaked black hair out of his face. Other strange sounds he couldn’t identify rushed toward him. Shaking and almost in tears, he wanted to go on, but his feet froze.

He needed to get back with Charcoal. Andy had to tug several times because the horse didn’t want to leave, and he was too small to mount him.

I know you like the water and grass here, but we need to get back. I’m gonna get a whooping.

More unidentified sounds sped through the air, and he stopped to listen, but continued when they disappeared.

He lurched forward for a long time—his small legs drained, and at last, the camp’s cook fires came into view.

The amount of smoke brought him up short. Too much smoke for the campfires. Tingling fear exploded up his back.

Something was wrong.

He sighed, and then nodded several times. Someone dropped something and caused a grass fire. He stroked the horse’s neck. They can’t blame that on me.

Several minutes later, thick black smoke boiled up from the direction of the wagons. Tears formed in Andy’s eyes. He shook his head, not wanting to believe it.

His voice trembled. That’s not a grass fire.

Hooves thundered and vibrated the ground. One thought flashed through his mind—the sleeping guards when he left.

Mr. Thule, the wagon train scout, had warned everyone about the dangers of an Indian attack, but they’d refused to listen. Too many thought they knew more than he did.

A long time passed before Andy moved. He wasn’t sure what to do. Something told him he had to go to the camp, but his legs refused.

After several long minutes, he wobbled forward like a newborn colt. He stopped, his lips trembling. The sight when he topped the hill seared into his brain. It was an image that would never fade.

He expected to see the wagons’ dingy brown covers, but they had vanished.

Fire ate the wagons. Not one live person was in sight. Many lay on the ground, stripped, and with arrows in them. Sweet coppery odors assaulted his senses but the charred stench overpowered the blood. He threw up until nothing remained in his stomach.

He should behave like a grown up, but didn’t know how.

Scalding tears flowed as he stumbled down the hill. His stomach convulsed and his entire body trembled. He didn’t want to go down there, but had to.

Please let my parents be OK.

Sidestepping and snorting, Charcoal plodded with Andy, stopping every few moments. He would pet the horse and then they tottered on.

One of the first bodies Andy found was his Uncle Albert. He lay face up, stripped naked with part of his scalp gone.

Andy wrenched his gaze away, ashamed of the nakedness. Like a drunk, he staggered through camp, crying. He recognized first one person, then another. Most had parts of their hair missing. Blood welled up where the scalp used to be.

Violent heaves slashed at his stomach when he recognized Mr. Thule’s body, but the Indians treated him different. They didn’t scalp him, and left his clothes on. No weapons were in sight, except by Mr. Thule. He was the only one, until Andy located his own father and mother.

By the time he found his parents, numbness had taken over.

Andy fell to his knees beside his father. He shook him. Pa. Pa. Please talk to me.

Andy jerked back from his father’s staring eyes.

He fell backward in the dirt with an anguished wail, beating the ground with his fists. He turned over and crawled to his mother. He screamed, Momma, please talk to me. I need you. Don’t leave me here by myself. He lay his head on her bloody chest and cradled her head.

What should he do? He was in the middle of nowhere. Everyone was dead. He had nowhere to go, and no way to get there.

What about the Indians? Would they come back? He’d better get out of here, but where should he go?

Too dazed to move and too scared to stay, he felt a tug on his arm. He spun around expecting an Indian. But it was only Charcoal pulling on the picket line. Andy couldn’t think, so he let the horse do it. Charcoal seemed to know where to go. Andy held on to the horse’s tail and followed as Charcoal headed back toward the river.

In a daze, he trudged after the horse through the thick grass. Andy’s knuckles turned white gripping the tail. He couldn’t lose Charcoal, too.

He didn’t know how far they wandered. Through the morning mist, he toddled behind the horse, one step at a time.

Late in the afternoon, before darkness overtook the day, Charcoal stopped at a stream. Bone-weary tiredness like none Andy had ever experienced washed over him. He collapsed on thick grass beneath a massive oak and within seconds he fell asleep.

Andy awoke as day peeked over the horizon. He gazed at the remaining stars. He’d dreamed everything. Happiness overtook him. He jumped up to tell his parents about his wild dream.

His surroundings choked him. He dropped his head and he closed his eyes tight. He whispered to the morning dampness. I didn’t dream it. I’m alone. What should I do? I can’t go where the train was going—there isn’t anything there. We had planned to build it when we got there. All my family and friends are in Missouri, a long ways off.

He had to think, but everything was confusing and he didn’t know what to do. His stomach rumbled and he realized he hadn’t eaten anything since supper the night before. He had no food. Maybe if he drank water he wouldn’t feel as hungry.

He crept to the small creek, lay down, and drank straight from the trickling stream. Evidently it was a good idea, because Charcoal joined him. After drinking, he sat on the bank, staring at his hands. He jumped up and rushed into the water without thinking about his surroundings or the dangers. Hysterically, he scrubbed his hands and arms in an attempt to remove the blood.

Charcoal watched the boy but went back to drinking when Andy plodded out of the creek.

The horse’s head jerked up, his ears laid back, and he faced down stream. Andy’s heart thundered, and he sat still while water dripped off Charcoal’s muzzle.

What’s wrong, boy? What’d you hear? He picked up the picket line, wrapped it around his arm, and tiptoed down the creek, away from whatever was causing Charcoal’s unease. It might have been an animal coming to the creek to drink, but Charcoal was acting funny. Andy couldn’t take a chance. If Indians found him they’d kill him without a second thought.

Andy again pondered what he would do as he eased away, but he couldn’t come up with anything. What would his father or Mr. Thule do?

***

Andy trudged behind the horse with a tight grip on the picket line. A sweet fragrances blew across wild flowers carpeting rolling hills. Manzanta bushes with purple flowers clung to the earth near gullies and washouts, while birds swooped low hunting for insects and bees searched for water.

They arrived at another clear creek that gurgled over a rock bed in a multitude of different sparkling colors when the sun rose high overhead. The water moved through a large stand of oaks and Andy believed it would hide them from the Indians.

A thick patch of grass swayed with the wind beside the creek, and Charcoal set out to prove how much he could eat. Andy made a discovery as the horse ate.

Tangles of blackberry vines stretched almost to edge of the water. Almost starving, he shoveled the berries down his throat by the handful.

Sweet juices ran out the corners of his mouth. He ate so many he threw up.

Well hidden, and with grass for Charcoal, and no way of taking the berries with him, he decided to stay the night. He’d take more care eating the berries next time.

Later, with the sun dropping from the sky, he went back to the patch. He ate enough to take the edge off his hunger, but not enough to make himself sick. On his way back from the berry patch, rattling sounds stopped him. His heart raced, and his lips trembled. Slithering from the brush, a large rattlesnake made its way across the trail. Holding his breath, he let it out in a loud whoosh. With a combination of relief and fear, he was glad it wasn’t an Indian, but realized how close he’d come to stepping on the thing.

I need to be careful, he said, jamming his trembling hands in his pockets.

He lay on the grass when full darkness shielded him, trying to think what to do. At last, he decided he would try to make it back to Fort Laramie. He wasn’t sure what he’d do there, but at least they might feed him.

Thoughts of food made him hungry. His mouth watered thinking about his mother’s sourdough biscuits, and his stomach balled in a knot.

I’ve got to stop thinking about food. Maybe if I drink some more water, my stomach will stop growling.

Charcoal nuzzled next to him while he drank.

OK, boy, what’re we going to do? I sure wish you could talk.

Charcoal rolled his eyes at him. As Andy stroked the horse’s mane, Charcoal’s ears perked up and he snorted, his attention directed along the creek bed.

Andy’s neck tingled as the hairs stood up. He put his hand over Charcoal’s nose to keep him quiet, but couldn’t hear anything.

Charcoal’s ears remained up, his gaze riveted along the creek. Andy stood still, heart racing and knees trembling. At first, no sound indicated what was bothering the horse. Soon, the brushing of cloth on undergrowth made Andy’s pulse race faster. He was unaware that he was holding his breath.

A soft step of a hoof, and several more invaded his thoughts.

Strange sounds of talking seeped closer, but he couldn’t make out any words. They were Indians—perhaps on the warpath and searching for him.

He didn’t know how to tell a friendly Indian from a bad one.

He’d asked Mr. Thule this after the scout had talked to the friendly Indians who had rode up to the train. Mr. Thule had laughed and told him, You hold up your right hand and if they don’t kill you, they’re friendly.

He didn’t think he’d try that. He couldn’t even if he wanted to.

Leading Charcoal, he eased back into the dark wood line. It would be hard to see the black horse in the darkness. He stepped under the horse’s neck to put the horse between himself and the Indians. He caught Charcoal’s nose with his hand to keep him from whinnying and stroked his neck to calm him.

Soft crunching noises wafted through the night. They came again.

What was that?

The sound came closer and stopped. Footsteps in sand.

Andy strained to see through the darkness. Charcoal trembled and he stroked the horse’s neck again. At first, he didn’t see anything. Then, he made out a shadow.

He almost swallowed his tongue. An Indian stood twenty feet away. He was searching the shadows. Andy was certain the Indian saw them, but a sharp voice called from behind the lone Indian.

The Indian stood for several more moments. His head was turning, looking.

With a last look, the Indian turned, but glanced back. Andy breathed for the first time when the Indian ambled off.

It seemed like hours before the hooves left the creek bed. Andy sucked in deep breaths like he hadn’t breathed for hours. He gulped air like a thirsty dog laps up water. Sudden weariness overtook him, and he staked Charcoal out close to the water and grass where he could drink. This time he made sure to drive the picket in deep.

He whispered to the horse. We’ll get away in the morning. We might run into them in the dark. They may not have gone far, and they’ll hear us if we leave now.

Although tired, he couldn’t sleep. The deaths of his parents, his friend Homer, Mr. Thule, and all the others were his fault. If he’d awakened his father to tell him about the sleeping guards, he’d have done something and everyone would be alive. Why did he live when everyone else had to die?

Tears flowed down his cheeks. Racking sounds erupted from his throat. He tried to control them, to stop them, but they wouldn’t go away. All the fear, horror, guilt, and loneliness tumbled out. He had to be quiet, but he couldn’t stop. Sometime late, he cried himself to sleep.

Andy woke late the next morning with sun in his eyes. Fear raced through him. He leaped up and checked on Charcoal. He couldn’t lose his horse.

Relief surged through him at the sight of his horse

He drank his fill of water and ate more berries. He didn’t want to leave, but knew he’d better. He’d stayed there too long.

If the Indians knew about the creek, they might come to the spot where he had camped.

He stayed in the woods after leaving the hiding place.

He still couldn’t ride Charcoal because he hadn’t found a place to climb onto so he could mount him. West along the creek, he found a narrow, shallow crossing that led to a small clearing. Wary, he hesitated and he didn’t know why.

His skin crawled as he eased across the creek—taking small steps to make as little sound as possible.

He turned to check his back trail. He trembled as his gaze bore into every shadow—any place someone could be.

Why was he acting this way?

A soft sound thundered behind him. He spun around.

He was staring into the eyes of an Indian.

Chapter Two

Andy thought he was going to die. Many times on the wagon train, he’d daydreamed of what he’d do, how he’d act if this situation came up.

Now, the time was here, and all he could do was stare. His heart fluttered like a feather in the wind—roaring in his ears prevented him from hearing any other sound. He couldn’t breathe. On weak, shaky legs, he thought he’d collapse at any moment.

At first, Andy thought the person sitting the horse was an Indian. As the moments passed he wasn’t sure. He dressed like one, but he sure didn’t look like one.

Neither uttered a word. The creek bank, thick, green brush, and fertile grass spun like a top. A gentle breeze carried the scent of honeysuckle

A fierce determination rushed through Andy. He was certain the Indian would kill him, but he wouldn’t show fear.

The Indian sitting his horse in front of Andy seemed different—he looked like an Indian but at the same time he didn’t. Andy’s think black hair and tanned skin contrasted to that of the person sitting the horse. Andy looked more like an Indian than he did.

Piercing black eyes stared at Andy, but his light skin and long unbraided light-brown wavy, almost curly hair was, confusing—strange.

Andy’s heart leaped into his throat when the strange Indian or whatever he was gigged his horse toward him. He had an arrow notched and ready to fire. Andy thought his chest would explode.

Dismounting, the strange Indian kept his horse between them. Although scared half out of his mind, the ease at which the Indian dismounted surprised him, and reminded Andy of Mr. Thule.

The Indian spoke for the first time, but Andy didn’t understand a word. He guessed the stranger was an Indian after all.

The light-haired one attempted some signs with his hands, but Andy didn’t know this any more than the language.

The Indian jerked his hand fast, motioning for Andy to mount his horse.

Andy pondered what he should do. How could he tell him he was too small to get on the horse?

He figured that if he tried to mount, the Indian would understand he couldn’t do it. After an attempt, the strange Indian grunted, and strode forward, lifted Andy up on the horse, and without a word, mounted his own like someone would straddle a chair.

He couldn’t be much older than Andy, but he’d ridden horses all his life.

The Indian walked his horse away from the creek never glancing back to see if the boy followed.

Andy could take off on Charcoal and there’d be no way anyone could catch him, but where would he run? He had no place to go.

The Indian led him on a trail going away from the creek. Facing away from the sun, he knew enough to know they were traveling west. A breeze blew the odors of the Indian back to the boy. His nose wiggled at wood smoke and other, unfamiliar smells.

Andy had listened from the shadows of the wagons as the men discussed these Indians. Most believed they were savages, less than human with no God, just silly superstitions.

Andy’s father never joined in these conversations, but Mr. Thule would argue that the Indians were no different from whites. They just observed different customs. He said that there were good ones and bad ones like all people, but the other men would talk him down and he’d walk away shaking his head.

Now, Andy wished his father had joined in these conversations. He desperately needed to know what his father’s thoughts were.

They rode in silence all morning, but with the sun on top of them, the Indian stopped at a small stream in a valley. The creek, only about three feet across and four or five inches deep, allowed them to drink and let the horses have their fill.

With the horses fresh after the water and grass, they traveled until the sun dipped in the west toward the horizon.

Andy’s fears lessened as time passed.

Late afternoon they crossed over a ridge covered with low growth and topped a hill.

A giant thunderclap of fear exploded through Andy when they met two Indians.

Maybe the strange one was taking him to his tribe so they could help kill him.

The trio took turns glancing at Andy as they talked. One of the Indians turned his horse and left. The other continued the conversation with the strange Indian for another couple of minutes and then both followed after the other Indian. Neither one glanced at him to see if he was following.

Wood smoke billowed from campfires as they rode out of the forest. When they neared the clearing, tepees came into view.

Andy’s teeth clattered. He clenched his jaws to stop the two Indians from hearing. He was determined to die well, as he’d heard the men on the wagon train talk about. Not sure what they’d meant, he would try since the men of the wagon train seemed to think so much of it.

A strange sensation washed over him when they entered the village. It appeared the whole village had turned out to gawk at him—older adults, men, women, and children. Obnoxious odors caused Andy’s belly to revolt.

Tingling shot up his spine and a thundering stampede in his heart. He stared as spectators gathered, whispering to each other.

A large group of Indians circled around him. The strange-looking Indian dismounted in front of a large tepee, and an older man strode out to talk to the light-haired one. Not knowing what he should do, Andy remained sitting on Charcoal, waiting for the worst to happen. It was too late to run, now.

Andy’s attention riveted on the tepee while the Indians talked. It had several different colored horses painted on the outside by the door. Most of the horses ran or jumped. Stick figure riders shot bows from the backs of the horses. He calculated how he’d change the stick figures into real people. He’d have their long black hair flowing in the wind instead of sitting lazily on their heads. The horses were also wrong. Their legs didn’t look natural, and the paintings had no shadows.

Andy’s attention jerked away from the paintings. With an angry scowl, another Indian stepped forward and joined in the conversation.

Not knowing what they were saying, Andy knew it couldn’t be good. The Indian with the scowl shouted and gestured at him.

The mad one turned and said something to Andy, but the boy didn’t know what he wanted.

The mean Indian’s eyes narrowed and his mouth compressed into a thin line. He rushed forward and jerked him off the horse.

Andy landed with a dust-raising, dull thud on his back, and lay gasping for air.

The mean Indian strode toward him, but the