In the Footsteps of Crazy Horse Read Online Free

marks on the ground.
How many wagons made those deep marks?
he wondered. He could not imagine what hundreds and thousands of wagons looked like.
    â€œImagine,” said Grandpa Nyles, “if one day you suddenly saw hundreds of flying saucers in the sky. What would you think? How would you feel?”
    â€œI’d be scared,” admitted Jimmy. “And . . . and I’d wonder who was in them. The flying saucers, I mean.”
    Grandpa Nyles smiled. “You know, I’d bet that’s exactly what Light Hair thought, back in about, oh, 1852.”

    The way it was—summer 1852
    A slow, lazy breeze floated through the grasses. It was a hot summer afternoon. From the top of a hill, young Light Hair looked to the west. The front of the line of covered wagonswent out of sight over a far hill. He looked to the east. Wagons at the back of the line were just coming over the horizon
.
    A few riders were on either side of the wagons. Some people walked, but no one seemed to be in a hurry
.
    Light Hair was careful to stay down behind the grasses. Beside him was Little Hawk, his uncle, who was just as astonished at the sight of the endless line of wagons. One after another, pulled by oxen. Since warriors always carried their weapons, Uncle Little Hawk had his black powder percussion rifle with him. His bow and arrows were tied on his horse
.
    â€œAre they people?” Light Hair whispered
.
    â€œI think so,” Uncle Little Hawk replied. “But not like us. Their skin is pale, and many of the men have beards. Their clothing is different.”
    â€œWhere are they going?” the boy wondered
.
    â€œSomewhere to the west. They have been doing this for four or five summers now. But I don’t remember seeing this many.”
    Light Hair and his uncle watched in silence. They had seen wagons before. The Long Knives at Fort Laramie used them. Wagons hauled soldiers and other people. They alsocarried food, flat wood, guns and powder, tools, clothing, and even water. All the things the white people needed and used. But never had the Lakota seen so many at once. Wagons were end to end, from one horizon to the other. And even more people with them
.
    Light Hair did not know what to think. In a way, he was scared, and he wondered if his uncle was or if his father, Crazy Horse, was
.
    â€œAs long as they keep going,” Little Hawk said, “that will be good. We don’t want those people staying here, on our lands. They leave their trash behind and scare away the buffalo. The wagon wheels leave marks—they scar the land.”

    Jimmy looked at the empty land along the river. Some cattle grazed on the other side. A few antelope could be seen.
    â€œHow many wagons went through here?” he asked his grandpa.
    â€œHard to know, but history says that three hundred and fifty thousand people traveled on the Oregon Trail.”
    Jimmy was astonished. “Three hundred and fifty thousand? Wow! That’s . . . that’s a lot of counting.”
    â€œFor sure. They started from the state of Missouri, went by here, and ended up in California or Oregon. They did that for twenty years.”
    â€œThat’s older than me,” Jimmy declared. “What happened to them all?”
    â€œWell, that’s the problem,” Grandpa Nyles said with a sigh. “Some of them decided to stay. Later, more came to stay. They farmed and raised cattle and sheep. They forced our people off their own lands.”
    â€œDid our people try to stop them?”
    â€œYes, they did. There were battles. When Light Hair became Crazy Horse, he fought in many of them.”
    Fort Laramie
    Fort Laramie National Historic Site was a group of old buildings. They stood around a yard that seemed very large to Jimmy. People were walking around and looking into the buildings.
    Grandpa Nyles drove into the parking lot and stopped. “Remember the ruts back there, along the