SIT-TA-RE-KIT SCALPED ALIVE--AN INDIAN NEVER CARES TO LIVE AFTER HE
HAS LOST HIS SCALP.
During the month of May, 1865, the scouts were given permission to go
with the Pawnees on their annual buffalo hunt. The Pawnees were greatly
pleased, for where there are buffaloes there are Indians; and the Sioux
were ever on the lookout for an opportunity to drop in on the Pawnees
when they were least expected. Late one afternoon a party, eight in
number, of the scouts became separated from the main force during the
excitement incident to a chase after buffaloes; and, before they had
the slightest hint of danger, were completely surrounded by a band of
at least two hundred Sioux. The hunters were in a small basin in the
sand-hills while the low bluffs fairly bristled with feathers. The
Sioux would dash forward, shoot, and then retreat. Lieutenant Creede,
two other white men and five Pawnees composed the party of scouts. This
little band formed a circle of their horses, but at the first charge
of the savage Sioux, the poor animals sank to the sand and died. The
scouts now crouched by the dead horses, and half a dozen Sioux fell
during the next charge. One savage who appeared to be more fearless
than the rest, dashed forward, evidently intending to ride over the
little band of scouts. Alas for him! there were besides the Lieutenant,
three sure shots in that little circle, and before this daring brave
had gotten within fifty yards of the horse-works, a bullet pierced his
brain. Instead of dropping to the ground and dying as most men do,
this Indian began to leap and bound about, exactly like a chicken with
its head cut off, never stopping until he rolled down within fifteen
feet of the scouts.
There was a boy in Creede’s party, Sit-ta-re-kit by name, a very
intelligent Pawnee, eighteen years old, who had gone with the
Lieutenant to Washington to see the President of the United States.
There seemed to be no shadow of hope for the scouts; and this young
man started to run. Inasmuch as he started in the direction of the
camp, which was but a mile away, it is but fair to suggest that he may
have taken this fatal step with the hope of notifying the Pawnees of
the state of affairs. This was the opinion of Lieutenant Creede; while
others thought he was driven wild by the desperate surroundings. He
had gone less than a hundred yards when a Sioux rode up beside him and
felled him to the ground with a war club. The young scout started to
rise, was on his knees, when the Sioux, having dismounted, reached for
the scout’s hair with his left hand. All this was seen by the boy’s
companions.
[Illustration]
“Oh, it was awful!” said Creede, relating this story to the writer. “We
had been together so much. He was so brave, so honest and so good. Of
course, he was only an Indian; but I had learned to love him, and when
I saw the steel blade glistening in the setting sun--saw the savage
at one swift stroke sever the scalp from that brave boy’s head, I was
sick at heart.” After he had been scalped, the boy got up and walked
on, right by the savage Sioux. He was safe enough now. Nothing on earth
would tempt an Indian to touch a man who had been scalped, not even to
kill him.
A Pawnee squaw was working in the field one day when a Sioux came down
and scalped her. She knew if she returned to her people she would be
killed. It was not fashionable to keep short-haired women about; and,
in her desperate condition, she wandered back to the agency. The agent
was sorry for her and he took her in and cured her head and sent her
back to her people. But they killed her; she had been scalped.
But let us return to the little band in the basin surrounded by the
Sioux. It is indeed a small band now. Four of them are dead, one
scalped and gone; but as often as their Winchesters bark, a Sioux
drops. There was nothing left for them now but to fight on to the end.
Death in this way was better than being burned alive. There was no
hope--not a shadow; for, how were they to know that one of their
companions had seen the Sioux surround them and that the whole force
of Pawnee scouts were riding to the relief of this handful of men, who
were amusing themselves at rifle practice while they waited for death.
With a wild yell, they dashed down upon the murderous Sioux, and,
without firing a shot, they fled from the field, leaving thirteen
unlucky Indians upon the battle ground.
The brave boy never returned. He took his own life, perhaps; for an
Indian never cares to live after he has lost his scalp, knowing that
his companions look upon him as they look upon the dead.