THE END OF SITTING BULL.
“What is up?” demanded Carl, who raised himself on his elbow and looked
at the man in surprise. He thought, from the look of his face, that
something dreadful had happened.
“Young man,” replied Harding, coming close to the place where the
scout lay, hissing out the words from between his clenched teeth and
shaking both his brawny fists under his nose, “the English language is
not strong enough to make me do this subject justice. You are at the
end of your rope, and I would not give two cents for your life. Nobody
knows, except the few who were with me when you were captured, that I
have got you a prisoner here in the camp; but if one of those warriors
chooses to split on me, you would be food for the wolves in less than
half an hour.”
“Well, can’t you tell me what is the matter?” exclaimed Carl, growing
more surprised. “I haven’t been doing anything.”
“No, but your kind have. Sitting Bull is murdered—shot through the body
by Bull Head and Red Tomahawk, who were men that he has led into action
more than once.”
A wonderful thrill went all through Carl Preston as he listened to
these words. Sitting Bull was dead! How often had he wished for that
very thing to happen, but he had never dreamed that it would be done
by some of his own men. The squawman watched him closely to see how
he took the news, but Carl never showed in his countenance what his
feelings were. He could have listened to the worst news that any boy
ever heard, but he wouldn’t show it in his face.
“Why, how did it happen?” said he, knowing that he must say something.
“You know as much about it as I do,” returned the squawman. “Now the
next thing is——”
He turned and spoke some words to the Indian women; but Carl, although
he had been on the plains all his life, could not understand him. He
hated an Indian as he hated nothing else on earth, and he had not
taken the pains that some people do to acquire a knowledge of their
language. But the Indian women understood him, and straightway set up
a howl as if they had lost some of their friends. One would think they
were professional criers who had been hired to shed abundant tears over
Sitting Bull’s untimely death.
“Can’t you keep still for a minute?” shouted the squawman, shaking
both his fists at the women, and forgetting in his excitement that he
had been addressing them in their own language. “You two stay here and
watch this prisoner while I go down and see how it all came about. You
had better keep your eyes on him, for the Indians may come up and call
for him at any moment.”
The squawman plunged through the door and went out, but he left three
excited women behind him. They wanted to learn the full particulars of
the murder of Sitting Bull the same as the squawman did, but for a time
they kept their places on the bed, comparing notes with each other and
howling alternately. Finally one arose to her feet and slipped through
the door, and she had been gone but a little while before another went
out.
“I tell you the time is coming for me to make a strike for freedom,”
soliloquized Carl, drawing his feet under him so that he could go out
of the other side of the tepee if this one should follow the example of
her comrades. “If I once get out of this tepee, I bet they will never
see me again.”
Carl did not know much about women, but he naturally judged of what
he would have done himself if he were left with a task on his hands
in which he was not particularly interested. He would not have sat
there alone in suspense while all the rest of the camp, men, women and
children, were out to hear the report of the scout and get all the
news. She sat uneasily on her bed, but finally got up and went to the
door. As she did so a long, mournful howl, followed by a chorus of
yells which denoted that some of the tribe were growing excited, came
to her ears, and that was more than she could stand. In an instant she
opened the door and went out.
Almost any one who was placed in Carl Preston’s situation would have
been thrown off his balance by this unlooked-for incident, coming as it
did on the heels of his disappointment in regard to the Ghost Dance,
but it had no effect upon the scout. His face never changed its color,
and his hands never trembled a particle. Quietly he arose to his feet
and approached the door. It was dark outside, and he could not see a
single thing. The yells had ceased now, and the braves were listening
to a speech from somebody.
“Now is my chance, if ever,” said Carl, going back to the squawman’s
bed and hastily tumbling the buffalo robes and blankets aside. “If I
stay here I will surely be staked out, and I believe I would rather die
at once.”
Carl speedily found the Winchester of which he was in search, together
with a murderous-looking knife, which he proceeded to buckle around
his waist. Then he caught up the rifle, drew his knife, and with two
quick steps approached the side of the tepee opposite the door. One
slit with his knife and he was free; or at least he was free until the
Sioux got after him and captured him. With long, noiseless strides he
took his way over the hill in front of which the tepee was pitched,
and then turned abruptly off to the right and followed a direction
exactly contrary to the one in which he wanted to go. Fort Scott lay
pretty near south of him, and he argued that when the Sioux came to
pursue him, which would be in the course of a few minutes at the very
farthest, they would turn in the direction of the fort. When they had
given up the pursuit he would turn around and follow his rightful road.
Meanwhile the squawman, having left his prisoner, as he supposed, in
safe hands, broke into a run, and arrived at the dancing-ground just as
the medicine man began his speech. He was urging the warriors to take
to the warpath immediately and avenge the death of Sitting Bull. For a
time it seemed as though he would succeed in arousing the anger of the
Sioux to fever heat; but when it came right down to the point, their
chief man was gone, and there was no one ready to take his place. After
he got through, the scout, who had brought the news to the camp, took
upon himself the part of orator. He gave a pretty strict account of the
death of Sitting Bull, and we will go on and tell it in our own way,
for it was a long time before Carl heard the truth of the matter.
It happened on the morning of December 14th, although the arrest was
not made until the 15th. At that time a courier came from Grand River
with the news that Sitting Bull had received an invitation to appear at
Pine Creek Agency, for the Messiah was about to appear. Sitting Bull
at once resolved to go, sending a request to his agent for permission
to do so; but at the same time he saddled his horses, to be ready to
take a long and hard ride in case that permission was refused. The
agent saw that something must be done immediately, and he at once held
a consultation with General Miles, during which it was decided that the
arrest should take place on the 15th. The arrest was to be made by the
Indian police, assisted by a detachment of troops, who were to follow
within supporting distance.
The next thing was to inform the police of what was expected of them.
There was already a camp of twenty-eight policemen under Lieutenant
Bull Head, a man of undoubted courage, and who afterward shot Sitting
Bull, about forty miles from Standing Rock Agency; and couriers were at
once dispatched in other directions to order the force to concentrate
on Sitting Bull’s house, so as to make the arrest on the following
morning. This happened about sundown; but with loyal promptness the
Indians mounted their horses, and by riding from one agency to another
they collected forty-three trained and determined policemen to carry
out their orders. In accomplishing this service Sergeant Red Tomahawk
covered the distance of forty miles in four hours and a quarter; and
another, Hawk Man, made a hundred miles in a roundabout way, over an
unfamiliar road, in twenty-two hours. So it seems that those who found
fault with the Indians’ promptness did not know what they were talking
about.
By daylight the next morning the policemen surrounded Sitting Bull’s
house. He had two log cabins built a few rods apart, and in order to
make sure of their man eight Indians entered one house while ten went
into the other, the rest remaining on guard outside. They found Sitting
Bull asleep on the floor of the larger house. He was awakened, and told
he was a prisoner and must go to the agency.
“All right,” said Sitting Bull. “I will dress and go with you.”
He then sent one of his wives to the other house to get some clothes
that he intended to wear, and requested that his favorite saddle-horse
might be made ready for him to ride; and this was done by the police.
On looking around the house they found two rifles and several knives,
which they took possession of.
Now Sitting Bull seems to have changed his mind, for he decided that
he would not go with the police, after all. Probably one thing that
forced him to come to this decision was the appearance of his son,
Crow Foot, seventeen years of age, who urged his father to give the
war-whoop and not stir one step.
“Father, you have often given the war-whoop; give it now, when there
are two hundred men to assist you,” shouted Crow Foot, standing in
front of Sitting Bull and striving to push away the police who were
guarding him. “You shall not go to the fort. Give the war-whoop now.”
While this commotion was going on his followers to the number of one
hundred and fifty men had congregated about the house, and by the time
he was dressed an excited crowd of Indians had surrounded the police
and were pressing them to the wall. When Sitting Bull came out and saw
how many men he had to depend on, and compared them with the small
number of police, he determined that he had gone far enough.
“I will not go to the fort,” said he in a terrible rage. “You will
shut me up there until I am as white as the snows on the top of the
mountain. My children here will rescue me.”
That was all that was needed on the part of Sitting Bull to draw on a
fight. While the majority of the police were trying to clear the way,
one of his men turned and shot Bull Head in the side.
“Now is the chance to see if your ghost shirts will do what you say
they will!” shouted the lieutenant; and, though mortally wounded, shot
Sitting Bull through the head. Almost before the smoke of the revolver
had died away, Red Tomahawk, who guarded the prisoner behind, came to
the relief of his chief, and Sitting Bull dropped dead in his tracks.
Then began a hand-to-hand fight of forty-three police against one
hundred and fifty Indians. Catch-the-Bear, the man who fired the first
shot and was the means of giving Bull Head his mortal wound, and Crow
Foot, were killed; and after a hard fight the trained policemen drove
their assailants into a piece of timber close by. Then they returned
to the house, carried their dead and wounded into it, and held it for
two hours, until the arrival of the troops. During the fight the Indian
women attacked the police with knives and clubs; but in spite of the
excitement the policemen simply disarmed them and put them in one of
the houses under guard.
The fight lasted but a few minutes, but it was fatal to some of the
contestants. Six of the policemen were killed or mortally wounded, and
eight of the Indians, in spite of their ghost shirts, were sent to the
happy hunting-grounds. The warmest praise was given to the policemen by
those who knew all the circumstances, for some of those who faced death
had near relatives opposed to them.
The war that had so long been predicted by the soldiers had now fairly
commenced. Some of the Indians who were engaged in the effort to
release Sitting Bull fled to the Bad Lands, but the majority at once
made preparations to go to their agent and surrender. That was what
the courier, who was at that moment speaking to the Indians, wanted
them to do; but the most of them were for gathering up their tepees and
joining those who had retreated to the Bad Lands, for if they once got
among them the soldiers would find it a desperate task to whip them.
Of course this raised a discussion which became fiercer as the talking
progressed, until finally an Indian jumped into the midst of the
disputants and succeeded in commanding attention so that he could speak.
“You talk mighty big about going to the Bad Lands and fighting the
whites,” said he, “but before you do that I want you to decide the fate
of a prisoner who is now held by the camp. A white man was captured
while passing through our lines six days ago, and I am one of the few
who took him.”
The yells which broke out on every side were appalling. The braves
crowded up around the speaker, shook their weapons in his face, and
threatened him with all sorts of punishment. The idea of a prisoner
being captured while they were not on the warpath was a little too much
for the Indian to stand. He could not comprehend it. The speaker waited
until their anger had somewhat subsided, and then went on:
“Those ghost shirts you are making so much fuss about will not help
you one bit,” said he. “They are nothing but buckskin, and the white
people’s bullets will go through them very easily. Now, I want all of
you who are willing to go to the agent and surrender, to go with me;
and all of you who want to fight, go to the Bad Lands.”
The squawman, who stood around listening, heard all that was said about
his prisoner, and he was remarkably uneasy over it. If the Indians
proved to be so angry at one of their number as to threaten his life,
what would they do to him? Those who wanted to surrender would probably
take the prisoner along with them and give him up to the agent as a
proof of their good will, while those who wanted to go to the Bad Lands
and fight it out would no doubt kill him at once.
“And even if they don’t include me in the killing I might as well
be alone, for there are my partners who will go to jail,” said the
squawman, who looked all around to make sure that there was nobody
watching him, and then started for his lodge. “It was a mighty fool
trick of me, my capturing that fellow, and I am sorry I did it. I wish
he was back at the fort, where he belongs.”
Upon arriving at his lodge he lifted the door, but stopped very
suddenly when he caught a view of the interior of it. His bed was
torn up, his weapons were gone, and an opening in the tepee directly
opposite the door told the story of the escape. The women were nowhere
to be seen.