sullen, difficult to deal with and in the end became a powerful
influence in checking the progress of the Shi-an-nay along the white
man’s road. The agent took little pains to help him clear away his
doubts and hates, and so it was that Claude, the interpreter, ended
by saying, “and so Howling Wolf no send children to school—no take it
rations, and never comes to agency—never.”
Captain Cook sat down and wrote a telegram to the agent of the
Sho-sho-nee, saying, “Fifteen of my people are gone without leave to
visit the Messiah. If they come into your reservation arrest them and
send them back at once.”
Some days later the Wind River agent replied: “Eleven of your Indians
came in here—I’ve sent them home. Four went round me to the west.
Probably they have gone into the Twin Lake Country, where the Messiah
is said to be.”
Some weeks later Big Bear, the policeman, came in with the second
announcement, “Howling Wolf come.”
“You tell Howling Wolf I want to see him,” said Cook. “Tell him I
want to talk with him, say to him I am his friend and that I want to
talk things over.”
Two days later, as he sat at his desk in his inner office, the
captain heard the door open and close, and when he looked up, a tall,
handsome but very sullen red man was looking down upon him.
“How!” called Cook, pleasantly, extending his hand.
The visitor remained as motionless as a bronze statue of hate, his
arms folded, his figure menacing. His eyes seemed to search the soul
of the man before him.
“How—_how_!” called Cook again. “Are you deaf? What’s the matter with
you? How!”
At this the chief seized the agent’s hand and began shaking it
violently, viciously. It was his crippled arm and Cook was soon tired
of this horseplay.
“That’ll do, stop it! Stop it, I say. Stop it or by the Lord I’ll
smash your face,” he cried, seizing a heavy glass inkstand. He was
about to strike his tormentor, when the red man dropped his hand.
Angry and short of breath the agent stepped to the door.
“Claude, come in here. Who is this man? What’s the matter with him?”
“That Howling Wolf,” replied the interpreter, with evident fear.
Cook was enlightened. He turned with a beaming smile. “Howling Wolf,
how de do? I’m glad to see you.” And then to Claude: “You tell him
my arm is sick and he mustn’t be so hearty with his greetings. Tell
him I want to have a long talk with him right off—but I’ve got some
papers to sign and I can’t do it now. Tell him to come to-morrow
morning.”
They shook hands again, ceremoniously this time, and Howling Wolf
withdrew in dignified reserve.
After he went away Cook informed himself thoroughly concerning the
former agent’s treatment of Howling Wolf and was ready next morning
for a conference.
As he walked into the yard about nine o’clock the agent found fifteen
or twenty young men of Howling Wolf’s faction lounging about the
door of the office. They were come to see that their leader was not
abused—at least such was Cook’s inference.
He was irritated but did not show it. “Go out of the yard!” he said
quietly. “I don’t want you here. Claude will tell you all you want to
know.” He insisted and, though they scowled sullenly, they obeyed,
for he laid his open palm on the breast of the tallest of them and
pushed him to the gate. “Come, go out—you’ve no business here.”
Claude was shaking with fear, but regained composure as the young men
withdrew.
As they faced Howling Wolf in the inner office, Cook said, “Well now,
Wolf, I want you tell me just what is the matter? I am your friend
and the friend of all your people. I am a soldier and a soldier does
his duty. My duty is to see that you get your rations and that no one
harms you. Now what is the trouble?”
Howling Wolf mused a while and then began to recount his grievances
one by one. His story was almost exactly as it had been reported by
others.
[Illustration: An Indian Trapper
_This Indian trapper depicted by Remington may be a Cree, or
perhaps a Blackfoot, whom one was apt to run across in the
Selkirk Mountains, or elsewhere on the plains of the British
Territory, or well up north in the Rockies, toward the outbreak
of the Civil War._
_Illustration from_
SOME AMERICAN RIDERS
_by_ Colonel Theodore Ayrault Dodge, U.S.A.
_Originally published in_
HARPER’S MAGAZINE, _May, 1891_]
[Illustration: A Questionable Companionship
_In frontier days when the white man and the Indian met on a
lonely trail it was natural for them to watch each other with
suspicion as they rode side by side. To both the companionship
seemed questionable, until finally some words of the red man
convinced the white man that his companion was trustworthy. After
that there were a sharing of food or water or tobacco and an
admixture of comfort to the companionship._
_Illustration from_
A QUESTIONABLE COMPANIONSHIP
_Originally published in_
HARPER’S WEEKLY, _August 9, 1890_]
The other agent had sworn at him and once had kicked at him—“for
which I will kill him”—he added with quiet menace. “He has tried
to steal away my children to teach them white man’s ways. I don’t
want them to learn white man’s ways. White man lie, and steal and
quarrel. Then the agent cut off my rations which are a part of our
treaty and I was hungry. For all this I am angry at white men.”
When he had finished the agent said, “You’re all wrong, Howling Wolf.
Some white men are bad, but many are good and want to do the Indian
good. I am one of those who are set aside by the Great Father to
see that your rights are secured. You may depend on me. Go ask Red
Beard, Wolf Voice, or White Calf, they will tell you the kind of man
I am. I’m going to be your friend whether you are my friend or not.
I want you to come and see me. I want you to draw your rations and
be friends with me. Will you do it? I want you to think about this
to-night and come and see me again.”
For fully five minutes Howling Wolf sat thinking deeply with his eyes
on the floor. His lips twitched occasionally and his broad breast
heaved with profound emotion. It was hard to trust the white man
even when he smiled, for his tongue had ever been forked like the
rattlesnake and his hand exceedingly cunning. His deeds also were
mysterious. Out of the east he came and monstrous things followed
him—canoes that belched flame and thunder, iron horses that drew
huge wagons, with a noise like a whirlwind. They brought plows that
tore the sod, machines that swept away the grass. Their skill was
diabolical. They all said, “dam Injun,” and in those words displayed
their hearts. They desolated, uprooted and transformed. They made
the red men seem like children and weak women by their necromancy.
Was there no end to their coming? Was there no clear sky behind this
storm? What mighty power pushed them forward?
And yet they brought good things. They brought sugar and flour and
strange fruits. They knew how to make pleasant drinks and to raise
many grains. They were not all bad. They were like a rainstorm which
does much harm and great good also. Besides, here was this smiling
man, his agent, waiting to hear what he had to say.
At last he was able to look up, and though he did not smile, his face
was no longer sullen. He rose and extended his hand. “I will do as
you say. I will go home and think. I will come to see you again and I
will tell you all my mind.”
When he came two days later he met the agent with a smile. “How! My
friend—How!” he said pleasantly.
The agent took him to his inner office where none might hear and made
the sign “Be seated.”
Howling Wolf sat down and began by saying, “I could not come
yesterday, for I had not yet finished thinking over your words. When
night came I did as you said. I lay alone in my tepee looking up at
a star just above and my thoughts were deep and calm. You are right,
Howling Wolf is wrong. Nobody ever explained these things to me
before. All white men said, ‘Go here,’ ‘Do that,’ ‘Don’t go there,’
‘Don’t do that,’—they never explained and I did not understand their
reasons for doing so. No white man ever shook hands with me like a
friend. They all said, ‘Dam Injun’—all Shi-an-nay know those words.
You are not so. You are a just man—everybody tells me so. I am glad
of this. It makes my heart warm and well. I have taken on hope for my
people once more. I had a heart of hate toward all the white race—now
all that is gone. It is buried deep under the ground. I want to be
friends with all the world and I want you to make me a paper—will you
do it?”
“Certainly,” replied the agent. “What shall it be?”
The old man rose and with deep solemnity dictated these words to be
mysteriously recorded in the white man’s wonderful tablet:
“Say this: I am Howling Wolf. Long I hated the white man. Now my
heart is good and I want to make friends with all white men. I want
to work with a plow and live in a house like the white man. These are
my words. Howling Wolf.”
To this the old man put his sign: and as he folded the paper and put
it away in his pouch, he said, “This shall be a sign to all men. This
paper I will show to all Shi-an-nay and to all the white men. It will
tell them that my heart is made good.”
And he went out with the glow of good cheer upon his face.
II
Now Howling Wolf was a chief. He had never lifted a heavy burden in
his life—though others of the Shi-an-nay came often to the Agency
farmer for work. They enjoyed freighting and whenever there were
hides to go to the distant railway or goods to be fetched, the agent
employed them and, though their ponies were small and shifty, they
managed, nevertheless, to do creditable work with them. They cut wood
and made hay and mended bridges cunningly and well. Howling Wolf had
kept away from all this work. He did not believe in it.
Two days after his talk with the agent the clerk was amazed to see
Howling Wolf drive down to the warehouse to secure a load of hides.
He had no wagon of his own, but he had hired one of his son-in-law,
Painted Feather, and was prepared to do his share. In the glow of his
new peace he wished to do more than his share. He helped everybody to
load and waited till the last, willing to take what was left.
The agent, hearing of this zeal of his convert, came down to see him
and smilingly asked, “Why work so hard, Howling Wolf?”
“I will tell you,” said Howling Wolf. “In my evil days I took no part
in making the fences and laying the bridges—now I want to catch up.
Therefore I must work twice as hard as anyone else.”
“Howling Wolf, you do me honor,” said the agent. “I shake your hand.
You are now safely on the white man’s road.”
To this Howling Wolf only said, “My heart is very good to-day. I am
happy and I go to see the white man’s big camp. I shall keep my eyes
open and learn many good things.”
The teams laden with their skins had just passed the big red jaws of
Bitterwood Cañon when a party of cowboys overtook them.
“Hello there,” yelled one big fellow. “Where you going with those
hides?”
Howling Wolf heard the curses, but his heart was soft with newborn
love for his enemies and he smilingly greeted his foes. “How! how!”
“See the old seed grin. Let’s shoot him up a few and see him hustle.”
“Oh come along, let ’em alone, Bill,” said one of the other men.
“That’s old Howling Wolf,” put in the third man. “Better let him be.
He’s a fighter.”
“Are you old Howling Wolf?” asked Bill, riding alongside.
Howling Wolf nodded and smiled again—though he understood only his
name.
“Fighter, are you?” queried the cowboy, “Eat men up—hey?”
“How, how!” repeated the old man as pleasantly as he was able, though
his eyes were growing stern.
“I’d like to hand him out a package just for luck. He’s too
good-natured. What say?”
“Oh, come along Bill,” urged his companions. As they rode by the next
wagon, wherein sat a younger man, Bill called out, “Get out o’ the
road!”
“Go to hell!” replied the driver, Harry Turtle, a Carlisle student.
“You are a big fool.”
Bill drew his revolver and spurred his horse against Harry’s off pony
and bawled, “I’d cut your hide into strips for a cent!”
Harry rose in his wagon and uttered a cry of warning which stopped
every team, and his eyes flamed in hot anger. “You go!” he said,
“or we will kill you.” The cowboys drew off, Brindle Bill belching
imprecations, but his companions were genuinely alarmed and rode
between him and the wagons and in this way prevented an outbreak.
Howling Wolf reproved young Turtle and said: “Do not make any reply
to them. We must be careful not to anger the white men.”
They reached the railway safely and, having unloaded their freight,
went into camp about a half mile from the town on the river flat
beneath some cottonwood trees.
To every white man that spoke to him Howling Wolf replied pleasantly
and was very happy to think he was serving the agent and also earning
some money. The citizens were generally contemptuous of him, and some
of them refused his extended hand, but he did not lay that up against
them. It had been long since he had seen a white man’s town and he
was vastly interested in everything. He was amazed at the stores of
blankets and saddles and calico which he saw. He looked at the gayly
painted wagons with envy, for he had no wagon of his own and he saw
that to travel on the white man’s road a wagon was necessary. He
looked at harnesses also with covetous eyes. Every least thing had
value to him, the pictures on the fences, on the peach cans, on the
tobacco boxes, the pumps, the horse troughs and fountains—nothing
escaped his eager eyes. He was like a boy again.
He was standing before a shop window lost in the attempt to
understand the use of all the marvelous things he saw there, when a
saloon door opened and a party of loud-talking white men came out.
He turned his head quickly and perceived the three cowboys who had
passed him on the road. They recognized him also and their leader
swaggered up to him, made reckless with drink, and began to abuse him.
“So you’re Howling Wolf, are ye? Big chief. Drink blood. Why I’d
break you in two pieces for a leatherette. I’m Brindle Bill, you
understand, I’d a killed you on the road only——”
Howling Wolf again understood only the curses, but he turned a calm
face upon his enemy and extended his hand. “How? How, white man?”
Bill spat into his hand.
Quick as a flash Howling Wolf slapped the ruffian’s face. “Coyote!”
he cried in his own tongue.
The cowboy jerked his revolver from its holster, but Howling Wolf
leaped behind a signpost and the bullet, going wild, glanced from an
iron rod and entered the knee of a man who stood in the doorway of
the saloon. With a scream of terror he fell flat on the walk as if
killed.
Instantly the peaceful street became a place of savage outcry.
“Kill him! Kill the red devil!” shouted a dozen who knew nothing
of what had happened, except that a man was shot and an Indian was
present.
Like a bear at bay, Howling Wolf faced his hereditary enemies. “I am
peaceful. I have done nothing,” he called, jerking a paper from his
pocket. “See, this is true, read it!”
The paper saved his life, for all were curious to see what this long
official envelope contained. It occurred to one of the men in the
circle to investigate.
“Hold on, boys! Wait a minute! This may be a courier. Be quiet now
till I see.”
He took the envelope and opened the paper while the crowd waited.
“Read it Lannon.”
Lannon read in a loud voice: “_I am Howling Wolf. Long I hated the
white man. Now my heart is good._”
A burst of derisive laughter interrupted the reader.
“Oh, is it!”
“Kill the old fool for luck!”
“Lynch him.”
But, though they laughed at it, the letter cooled the excitement of
the crowd, and when the sheriff came he had no trouble in arresting
Howling Wolf, who went willingly, for he feared for his life in the
face of the crowd in the street—which grew greater each moment.
He recoiled sharply as they came to the door of the jail. He knew
what that meant. “I will not go!” he said. “Why do you put me in
there? I have done nothing.”
The sheriff, ready to make capital for himself in the eyes of the mob
which had followed him, put his revolver to his captive’s head and
said brutally:
“Git in there or I’ll blow your head off.”
Wolf understood the man’s action, and, fearing the crowd which
followed, submitted to be pushed into the cell and was locked in. He
still held in his hand the document which had been contemptuously
thrust back upon him, and now sat half-stunned by the sudden fury of
the white men toward him. That the three cowboys should make trouble
did not surprise him—but that all the white men should run toward him
with angry faces and armed fists appalled and embittered him. Perhaps
there were only a few friendly white men after all. Perhaps the agent
was mistaken and the Shi-an-nay must war to the death with these
infuriated cattlemen.
“I did wrong to come here,” he thought. “I should have remained deep
in my own country among the rocks and the coyotes. I have put myself
into the hands of my deadly enemies. I shall die here alone, because
I have been a child and have listened to sweet words.”
Meanwhile grossly distorted accounts of the affair passed from saloon
to barber shop and at last it took this shape: “A gang of drunken
reds had struck Hank Kelly for a drink and when he refused one of
them shot him in the stomach. All escaped but one, old Howling Wolf,
one of the worst old reprobates that ever lived. He ought to be
lynched and we’ll do it yet.”
Bill the cowboy was a hero. He swaggered about saying, “I had him in
a hole. I winged him so’t sheriff had him easy.”
Ultimately he grew too drunk to throw any light on the subject at all
and his companions took him and fled the town, leaving Howling Wolf
to bear the weight of the investigation.
Harry Turtle went to the sheriff and said abruptly: “I want see
Howling Wolf.”
“You can’t see him,” replied the sheriff.
“Why can’t I see him?”
“Because I say so. Get out o’ here.... The whole tribe of ye ought to
be wiped out. Git—or I’ll put you where the dogs can eat ye.”
Turtle went away with a face dark with anger. He said to his
companions, “I must go back to the agent at once to tell him what has
happened. You better all keep together with me so if the cowboys try
to kill us we can defend ourselves. Come, let us go.”
They went out into the darkness and traveled all night very hard, and
when morning came they were out of danger.
When Turtle entered the agent’s office late next day he showed little
sign of what he had been through.
“Hello, Harry, I thought you went to town?”
“I did. I got back. Heap trouble come.”
“What’s matter?”
“Cowboy fight Howling Wolf—Howling Wolf fight, too. White man get
killed. Howling Wolf in calaboose. I come quick to tell you.”
Cook grew grave. “Is that so, where are the other men?”
“Outside.”
“Bring ’em in, Claude,” he said to his interpreter. “You talk with
these people and find out what it is all about.”
In the end he ordered his team and with Claude drove away to town,
a long, hard, dusty road. He reached the hotel that night too late
to call on the sheriff and was forced to wait till morning. The
little rag of a daily paper had used the shooting as a text for its
well-worn discourse. “Sweep these marauding fiends out of the State
or off the face of the earth,” it said editorially. “Get them out of
the path of civilization. Scenes of disorder like that of yesterday
are sure to be repeated so long as these red pets of the Government
are allowed to cumber the earth. The State ought to slaughter them
like wolves.”
Cook read this with a flush of hot blood in his face. He was quite
familiar with such articles, but he went to bed that night feeling
more keenly than ever in his life the difficult position he was
called upon to fill. To race hatred these people had added greed for
the Shi-an-nay lands. In this editorial was vented the savage hate of
thousands of white men. There could be no doubt of it—and were it not
for a fear of the general government the terms of its hatred would
have been carried out long ago.
In the early morning he took Claude and went to the jail.
The sheriff met him suavely. “Oh—certainly captain—you can see him,”
he said, but his tone was insulting.
When the agent and his interpreter entered his cell Howling Wolf
looked up with a low cry of pleasure. He took Cook’s hand in both of
his and said slowly:
“My friend, take me away from here. I cannot bear to be locked up. I
have done nothing. When I showed my paper the cattlemen laughed. When
I reached my hand in friendship they spat upon it. This made my heart
very bitter but I did not fight.”
When he had secured Wolf’s story in detail, the Major said, “Do not
worry, Wolf, I will see that you are released.”
To the sheriff he said: “What are you holding this man for?”
“For shooting with intent to kill.”
“But he didn’t shoot. He had no weapon. It is absurd.”
“How do _you_ know he didn’t?”
“Because all his companions say so; he says so.”
“Oh! You’d take his word would you?”
“Yes in a thing of that kind. Did you find a gun on him?”
“No—but—”
“What chance did he have for concealing it? Were you there when the
shooting took place?”
“No—but credible witnesses——”
“As a matter of fact the saloon keeper was struck by a bullet aimed
at Howling Wolf by a cowboy. Where is that cowboy? Why has he not
been arrested?”
“I don’t believe it. You’ll take——”
“It’s not your business to believe or disbelieve. Did you have a
warrant to arrest Wolf?” asked the captain sternly.
“No matter whether I did or not,” replied the sheriff insolently,
“he’s here and you can’t take him away. You can protect your thieves
and murderers in the reservation, but when they come in here and
go howling around you’ll find the case different.” In this tone he
blustered.
The captain was firm. “I believe Wolf to be entirely innocent and
I’ll see justice done.” He called Claude again and said, “Tell
Howling Wolf to be quiet—tell him not to be scared. He’ll have to
remain in jail till I can get a release. I’m going to see the judge
now. Tell him I’m his friend and I won’t let these people harm him.”
The visit to the judge was still more disheartening. He, too, was
suave and patient, but it was plain he intended to do nothing to
help the agent. “It may be that a mistake has occurred, but if so
the trial will clear your man. As it is the Indian is arrested in a
street brawl in which a man is shot. The Indian is arrested, I may
add, in due course of law and must stand trial.”
“Very well, we’ll go to trial—but meanwhile release my man on parole.
I’ll answer for him.”
The judge had been expecting this, but professed to ponder. “I don’t
think that would be wise. We’ve had great difficulty in apprehending
offenders. We might find this man hard to reapprehend. I appreciate
your desire to——”
“Judge Bray, you are mistaken,” replied Cook with heat, for he
understood the covert insult. “You have never failed of getting
your man but once, and then, as you know, it was the fault of
your sheriff. Where could this man go? I know every man on my
reservation. He could not hide out on the hills, and he would
be a marked man on any other reservation. Besides all these
considerations—I know Howling Wolf. I am peculiarly anxious to have
him released till his trial. He dreads confinement—he feels his
arrest as an injustice and it will embitter him. More than this I
have pledged my word to him to secure his release.”
The judge was obdurate. “The citizens are incensed at the frequent
depredations of your charges,” he said, “and they will not submit
longer to any laxity. I cannot help you.”
The agent rose grimly. “Very well, I’ll see justice done this man
if I bring the whole power of the department to bear on you. I will
enlist the aid of every lover of justice in the country. Howling Wolf
has been abused. So far from shooting he came in here as my messenger
unarmed and peaceful. Your drunken citizens assaulted him. I do not
wonder that my people say you have the hearts of coyotes.”
As Cook drove away out of the squalid town he felt as he had several
times before—the cruel, leering, racial hate of the border man, to
whom the red man is big game. He had a feeling that, among all these
thousands of American citizens, not one had the heart to stand out
and say, “I’ll help you secure justice.”
His heat made him momentarily unjust, for there were many worthy
souls, even in this village, who would have joined him could they
have been made intimately informed of the case. At the moment he felt
the helpless dismay of the red man when enmeshed by the laws of the
whites.