he rode he planned a campaign which should secure justice for Howling
Wolf. His meeting with the half-frenzied wife of the captive only
added new vigor to his resolution. With face haggard with suffering
the poor woman cried out to him, “Where is he—my husband?”
He gave her such comfort as he could and drove on mentally writing
letters, which should make the townsmen writhe with shame of their
inhumanity.
Court did not sit for many weeks, but Howling Wolf knew nothing of
that. He lived in daily hope of being released. He fed his heart
on the words of his friend the agent. He brooded over his wrongs
like a wounded wolf in his den, till his heart became bitter in his
bosom. The glow of his new found love of the white man had died
out—smothered by the cold gloom of his prison. He remembered only one
white face with pleasure—that of his agent. All others were grinning
or hateful or menacing.
He would have gone mad but for the visits of his wife and children
who came to see him and were allowed to approach the bars of his cell
so that he might lay his hands on the head of his little son. These
brief visits comforted him—for the sake of his wife and children he
lived.
In a week or two the people of Big Snake had quite forgotten Howling
Wolf. If any word recalled him to their minds they merely said, “Do
him good to feel the inside of a stone wall. It’ll take the fight out
of him. He’ll be good Injun once he gets out. He’s in luck to escape
being strung up.”
Now the town possessed a baseball team that had defeated every other
club in the State, excepting one. St. Helen’s had proved a Waterloo
to Big Snake on the Fourth of July and so its citizens fairly ached
for a chance to “do St. Helen’s up,” and win back some of the money
they had lost.
One morning about two weeks after his imprisonment Howling Wolf’s
keen ears caught the sound of far-off drums and he wondered if the
soldiers were coming at last to release him. His heart leaped with
joy and he sprang to his feet vigorous, alert, and so listened long.
He could hear plainly the voice of the bugle and he fancied he could
detect the marching of columned feet. His friend, the agent, was
coming to punish his captors.
He was not afraid of the soldier chiefs. They fought honorably. They
did not shut their enemies up in cells and take their arms away. They
made war in the open air and on the hills. A shout of joy was about
to break from his lips when the jailer entered the corridor much
excited. He talked as he came, “I’ll take the redskin along—anyhow.”
He made a great many signs to his captive, but Howling Wolf only
understood one or two of them. “Come with me,” and “I’ll kill you.”
He drew his blanket round him and thought. “I will go. I will at
least escape these walls. If I die I will die under the sky where the
sun can see me.”
He quietly followed the sheriff outside, but when he saw the
handcuffs he rebelled and shook his head.
The sheriff made bungling signs again and said, “All right—but if you
try to run away I’ll bore a hole in ye big as a haystack—that’s all.
I won’t stand any funny business.”
Howling Wolf comprehended nothing of all this save the motion
toward the gun, which he took to mean that he was to be killed. The
excitement of his captor, the mystery of all he did, his threatening
gestures were convincing. But Howling Wolf was a chief. He had never
flinched in battle and as he felt the wind of the wide sky on his
face he lifted his head and said in his heart:
“If I am to die, I am ready; but I will die fighting.”
The sheriff motioned him to get into his buggy and he obeyed—for the
hand of the sheriff was on his revolver—and they rode through the
town, which was almost deserted. Far up the street Howling Wolf could
hear the noise of the drum and his heart swelled big with a sense of
coming trouble. Was he being led out to be tortured? Perhaps he would
be permitted to fight his way to death? “No matter—I am ready.”
A man at the door of the drug store called jovially:
“Where are you going, Mr. Sheriff?”
“Out to see the ball game. I happened to have only this one prisoner
so thought I’d take him along. Blowed if I’m going to miss the game
for a greasy buck-Injun.”
“Look out he don’t give you the slip.”
The sheriff winked meaningly. “There’ll be a right lively fox hunt
if he does. The boys would like nothing better than to rope an Injun
to-day. It would draw better than a bullfight.”
They both laughed at this notion and Howling Wolf seized upon the
menace in the sheriff’s voice though his words were elusive. As they
neared the grand stand the noise of the great crowd reached across
the quiet fields and Howling Wolf saw hundreds of people streaming
along the road before him. His limbs grew tense. It was plain that
his captor was driving directly toward this vast throng of savage
white people.
He looked round him. On either side were rows of growing corn and
beyond the field on the right was the grove of trees which marked the
course of the river. As he remembered this his final resolution came.
“If I am to die I will die now,” and he sprang from his seat to the
ground and dived beneath the wire fence. He heard the sheriff’s gun
crack twice and thrice, but he rose unhurt and with a wild exultation
in his heart ran straight toward the river. Again the sheriff fired,
his big revolver sounding loud in the windless air.
Then, as if his shooting were a signal, a squad of cowboys rose out
of a gully just before the fugitive, and with wild whoopings swept
toward him. They came with lariats swinging high above their heads,
and Howling Wolf, knowing well their pitiless ferocity, turned and
ran straight toward the sheriff, who stood loading his gun on the
inside of the fence. As he ran Howling Wolf could see great ranks of
yelling people rushing over the field. He ran now to escape being
dragged to death, hoping the sheriff might shoot him through the
heart as he came near.
[Illustration: The Arrest of the Scout
_Suspected of having kidnaped an Indian girl and murdered her
mother, this man was traced to a tiswin camp, where he was
found carousing with other drinkers. Though a member of their
own corps, his brother scouts, after disarming and binding
him, brought him back to the post, where he was lodged in the
guard-house._
_Illustration from_
MASSAI’S CROOKED TRAIL
_by_ Frederic Remington
_Originally published in_
HARPER’S MAGAZINE, _January, 1898_]
[Illustration: An Indian Duel
_The Indian on the pinto pony is armed with a big buffalo-lance,
while his opponent wields a skin-knife. As depicted by the artist
the buffalo-lance is being driven clean through his antagonist’s
shoulder._
_Illustration from_
SUN-DOWN LEFLARE’S WARM SPOT
_by_ Frederic Remington
_Originally published in_
HARPER’S MAGAZINE, _September, 1898_]
The officer shot twice at long range but missed, and, as the panting
red man ran straight toward him the sheriff fell to the earth
and crawled away, leaving Howling Wolf to face a squad of twenty
infuriated cowboys and a thousand citizens just behind on foot. With
the light of hell on their faces they shot down the defenseless man
and then alighted, and, with remorseless hate, crushed his face
beneath their feet as if he were a rattlesnake. They stabbed his
dead body and shot it full of bullets. They fought for a chance to
kick him. They lost all resemblance to men. Wolves fighting over
the flesh of their own kind could not have been more heartlessly
malevolent—more appalling in their ferocity.
In the clamor of their breathless cursing and cries of hate a strong
clear voice made itself heard—a vibrant manly voice:
“STOP, _in the name o’ Christ_!” And through the wolfish mass a tall
young man in the garb of a Catholic priest forced his way. His big,
broad face was set with resolution and his brow gleamed white in the
midst of the tumbling mass of bronzed weather-beaten border men.
“_Stand back!_ Are you fiends of hell? Where is your shame? A
thousand to one! Is this your American chivalry? Oh, you cowards!”
He stood above the fallen man like a lion over the body of his mate.
His voice quivered with the sense of his horror and indignation.
“God’s curse on ye if you touch this man again.” The crowd was silent
now and the priest went on: “I have seen the beasts of the African
jungles at war and I know the habits of the serpents of Nicaragua—I
know your American bears and wolves, but I have never seen any
savagery like this.”
Every word he spoke could be heard by the mob; every man who listened
looked aside. They were helpless under the lash of the young priest’s
scorn. “You are the brave boys of whom we read,” he said, turning to
the cowboys. “You are the Knights of the plains——” Then his righteous
wrath flamed forth again. “Knights of the plains! The graveyard
jackals turn sweet in your presence. Brave men are ye to rope and
drag a defenseless man—and you!” He turned to the slinking sheriff.
“You are of my parish—I know you. The malediction of the church hangs
over _you_ for this day’s work.” He paused for breath; then added:
“Take up the body of this man. He is dead but his blood will yet make
this town a stench in the nostrils of the world. You cannot do these
things to-day and not be condemned of all Christian peoples.”
With a contemptuous wave of his hand he dismissed the mob. “Go home!
Go back to your wives and children and boast of your great deed.
Leave the dead with me.”
The crowd slunk away, leaving the sheriff, the priest, and a doctor,
who volunteered his services, to examine the bleeding flesh that had
once been a tall and powerful red chieftain.
“The man is alive!” said the doctor with a tone of awe. “Life is not
extinct. Bring me some water.”
“Save him—for the love of Christ!” exclaimed the priest as he dropped
on his knees beside the torn and trampled red man. “It would be a
miracle, a blessed miracle, if he should live. It is impossible!”
“His heart is beating—and I think it grows stronger,” repeated the
doctor as he fell to work with deft energy.
“What is this?” asked the priest as he picked up a bloody and
crumpled paper. He opened it and, as he finished reading it, he
raised his eyes and prayed silently with a sort of breathless
intensity, while the tears ran down his cheeks:
“Lord Jesus, grant me humbleness and patience with these people. Let
my heart not harden with hate of this injustice.”
Then, looking at the poor bruised body of Howling Wolf, he said:
“O God, the pity of it! The pathos of it! His heart was good toward
all men and they crushed him to earth!”
They took Howling Wolf up, the priest received him in his house and
cared for him and he lived—but so battered, so misshapen that his own
wife did not know him.
The cloud of his hate and despair never lifted. He spoke no word to
any white man save to the good priest and to his friend, the agent,
and when he died neither of them knew of it. No white man knows where
his body was hidden away.
THE SILENT EATERS
THE SILENT EATERS
I
THE BEGINNINGS OF POWER
I was born a soldier.
I have lived thus long.
In despite of all, I have lived thus long.
_——Sioux War Song._
One day in 1854, while the Uncapappas, a branch of my father’s
people, were camped in pursuit of buffalo on a tributary of the
Platte River, a half-breed scout came into the circle from the
south, bearing a strange message. He said: “The great war chief of
the whites is coming with beads and cloth and many good things.
He desires all the red men to meet him in a council of peace. He
is sorry that we are at war. Therefore, he is inviting all your
chieftains to his lodge to receive presents and to smoke.”
Up to this time the Uncapappas had never made talk with the soldiers,
and many, like myself, had never seen a white man. Our home lay to
the east and north of the Black Hills, far away from contact with the
settlers. Of them we had heard, but only remotely. Many of our own
men had never seen a French trapper. Our lives still went on as they
had been going since the earliest time.
We followed the buffalo wherever they went within the limits of the
hunting grounds which we claimed. On the east were our cousins, the
Yanktonaise and Minneconjous. To the north of the Cannonball lived
the Rees and Mandans; to the northwest, across the Powder River
lurked the Crows, our ever-ready enemies. On the headwaters of the
Arkansaw the Utes, a powerful mountain people, dwelt. The Comanches
and many other unknown folk held the country far, far to the south,
while to the east lay a land more mysterious than any other, for it
was said that both white men and red men claimed it and warred for
the mastery of it. Of the rest of the world most of us knew nothing;
all was dark as a cave inhabited by bats and serpents.
Therefore, when the messenger had made his plea the chiefs called a
great council to ponder this new and important matter. At this time
the four head men, the civic chiefs, of my people, were The Four
Horns, The Red Horn, The Running Antelope and The Loud-Voiced Hawk.
These men had full power to call a convention and all the people came
together obediently and some of the boys, like myself, crept near to
listen.
It was in early summer. The grass was new and sweet; the buffalo were
fat, the horses swift, and each day was a feast, with much dancing,
and we lads raced horses when the old men would permit. Not one of
all our tribe had care as a bedfellow at this time. Even the aged
smiled like children.
In those days the plains were black with buffalo and the valleys
speckled with red deer and elk, and no lodge had fear of hunger or
frost. In winter we occupied tepees of thick warm fur with the edges
fully banked with snow and we were not often cold. We had plenty of
buckskin to wear and no one went unsatisfied. You would look long
to find a people as happy as we were, because we lived as the Great
Spirit had taught us to do, with no thought of change.
Nevertheless, our wise men had a foreboding of coming trouble, and
when The Hawk, who was a very old man, rose in the council to speak,
his face was deeply troubled. Once he had been ready of speech, but
his tongue now trembled with age and his shoulders weighed heavy upon
his lungs, for he coughed twice before he could begin.
“My friends, listen to me. I am an old man. I shall not be able to
meet in council again. The rime of many winters has stiffened my
lips, but I am glad this matter has come up now. My heart is full of
things to tell you. My children, I have had a dream. Last night I
went forth on the hill to pray and as I prayed I grew weary and fell
asleep, and I saw a great council such as that the Graybeard now asks
us to attend. I beheld much food and many blankets given away, and
then a great fight began. A cloud of thick smoke arose. There were
angry confusion and slaying and wailing in the midst of the smoke, so
that my limbs seemed rooted to the ground in my fear. Now I know this
dream was intended for a warning. Beware of those who come bringing
gifts. They seek to betray you.” With uplifted hand he faced all
the people and called again, very loud, “Beware of those who bring
presents, for they will work sorrow among you.”
Then he sank back exhausted and all the chiefs were silent, but The
Hawk’s wife began to sing a sad song, and as she sang, one by one the
other chiefs rose and said: “The Hawk is wise. We will not go to meet
this man. We will not take his presents. He comes like a Comanche
disguised as a wolf. We will be as cunning as he. Why should he offer
presents unless he wishes to gain an advantage of us?”
At last a young warrior, a grave man of gentle and serious face,
stood in his place and said: “My father, I am a young man. I have
seen only twenty-two winters and perhaps you will not listen to me,
but I intend to speak, nevertheless. I have always listened when
my elders have spoken, and especially have I opened my ears when
strangers from the East came to our lodges. Your decision is wise. It
is well to have nothing to do with these deceitful ones. Listen now
to my request. I desire to be the chief soldier in this matter. If
you wish to oppose the givers of gifts and the policy which goes with
their refusal, place the matter in my hands and I will see that your
desires are carried out.”
The firm, courageous bearing of this youth pleased the elders, and
after deliberation they said: “It is well. We will make you our
executive in this matter. You shall be Chief Soldier of Treaties.”
In this way was my chief _Ta-Tank-io-Tanka_, The Sitting Bull, made
what you would call “Secretary of War” over seven hundred lodges
of my people. He had already attained rank as a valiant but not
reckless warrior. The Rees knew him, and so did the Crows. He came
of good family, though his father was only a minor chief. His uncle
was Four Horns, and his grandfather, The Jumping Bull, was an active
and powerful man whose influence undoubtedly was of use to the young
chief. His name had never been borne by any other man of his tribe.
At fourteen he had counted _coup_ on a Crow. He had been wounded in
the foot while dashing upon an enemy, and he still walked with a
slight limp. He was active, unassuming, and capable of many things.
But his fame as a peacemaker had already far outrun his renown as a
warrior. He had been made a chief by the Ogallallahs because of his
firm sense of justice. Only a year before this time a band of the
young warriors of his own tribe had stolen from their cousins a herd
of horses while the two tribes were camped side by side, and The
Sitting Bull, having heard of this, went to the young men and said:
“We do not make reprisals upon our friends. We only take from our
enemies,” and thereupon had led the horses back to their owners.
In return for this good deed the Ogallallahs had made him a chief
among them, though he took no part in their councils.
He was a natural leader and a persuasive orator. A chief among my
people, you know, is a peacemaker, and The Sitting Bull was always
gentle of voice. If he saw two men squabbling he parted them and
said: “Do not make war among yourselves. What is the matter? Tell me
your dispute.” Sometimes he would say: “Here is a horse for each of
you. Go and wrangle no more.” When he was very successful in the hunt
he always went about the camp, and wherever a sick man or an aged
woman lived, there he left a haunch of venison or some buffalo meat.
This made him many friends. He did not desire riches for himself, but
for his tribe.
Therefore nearly all the tribesmen were glad when he was made treaty
chief and given the charge of all such matters. He was at once what
the white people would call Secretary of State and of War.
Immediately after his election he called the treaty messenger into
his lodge and said: “Return to those that sent you and say this:
‘The Uncapappas have no need of your food or clothing. The hills are
clouded with buffalo, the cherries are ripening in the thickets.
When we desire any of the white man’s goods we will buy them. Go in
peace.’”
In this way the white men first heard of The Sitting Bull.
Yes, in those wondrous days my people were many and powerful. The
allied tribes of Sioux (as you white men call them) held all the
land from Big Stone Lake westward to the Yellowstone River and south
to the Platte—that is to say, all of what you call South Dakota,
part of Wyoming, and half of Nebraska. We often went as far as the
Rocky Mountains in our search for food, for the buffalo were always
shifting ground. As the phantom lakes of the plain mysteriously
appear and disappear, so they came and went.
Where the bison were, there plenty was; we had no fear. But they
roamed widely. For these reasons my people required much territory,
and, though the wild cattle were many, we were sometimes obliged
to enter the lands of our enemies to make our killing, and these
expeditions were the causes of our wars with the Crows on the west
and with the Comanches on the south. However, these wars were not
long or bloody. For the most part we lived quietly, peacefully, with
only games to keep our sinews tense.
In the expeditions which followed The Sitting Bull’s promotion he
became the executive head. He was chief of police by virtue of his
office, and his was the hand which commanded tranquillity and order
in the camp. Whenever a messenger entered the circle the sentinels
brought him directly to the chief’s lodge and there waited orders. No
one thought of stepping between The Sitting Bull and his duties, for,
though so quiet, he could be very stern.
He laid aside all weapons—for this is the custom among the
chiefs—and carried only his embroidered pipe-bag and his fan, nothing
more. His face was always calm and his voice gentle. He seemed to
have no thought of self, but spoke always of the welfare of his
tribe. When a question came to him for decision he said: “This is
good for my people. We will do it.” Or, “This is bad for my people.
We will refuse.” He raised himself by building upon the welfare of
his race.
It was for this reason he refused again to meet General Harney in
1855 at Fort Pierre. He knew something then of the floods of white
men pouring into Iowa and Minnesota. He had his spies out and was
aware of every boat that came up the Missouri. He already possessed
a well-defined policy. To every trader he said: “Yes, I am glad to
see you. My people have skins to sell and tobacco and ammunition to
buy. This exchange is good. Come and trade.” But to the messenger of
the white men’s government he said: “I do not want your presents. My
young men earn their goods by hunting. We are not in need of treaty
makers.”
So it was that his fame spread among the border men and he came to
be called a fierce warrior, ever ready to kill, when the truth is he
protected those who came to his camp; even the spies of Washington
had reason to thank The Sitting Bull for his clemency.
The years passed pleasantly and my tribe had little foreboding of
danger. Our game remained plentiful and, though the rumors of the
white man’s coming thickened, the people paid little heed to them,
though the chiefs counciled upon it gravely. Then one day came the
news that the Dakotas, our cousins, were at war with the whites. Soon
after this, word came that they had been driven out of their land
into our territory. Then it was that the Uncapappas first began to
know the power of the invaders. I was but a lad, but I remember well
the incredulous words of my father and mother when the story of the
battles first were told at our fireside. The head men were uneasy and
The Sitting Bull seemed especially gloomy and troubled.
In council he said: “Our brothers have been wrong. They should not
make war upon the white man. He has many things that we need—guns and
cloth and knives. We should be friendly with him. I do not make war
on him, though I fear his presents and stop my ears to his promises.
I forecast that we shall be pushed out.”
The news came to us also at this time that the white men were
fighting among themselves far to the south, but we never met anyone
who had seen this with his own eyes. We had no clear conception of
what lay to the east of us. We only knew that the Chippewas lived
there and many whites who were friendly with them, but no one of all
our wise old men could tell us more.
Once I heard the chief say: “I do not understand why the white man
leaves his own land to invade ours. It must be a sad country with
little game, and if he came here only to hunt or trade we would make
him welcome—but I fear he comes to steal our hunting grounds away. If
he is in need and comes peaceably, let him share our buffalo. There
is enough to feed all the world.”
Meanwhile the four head chiefs were growing old and lethargic, and
so, naturally, step by step, The Sitting Bull came to be the head of
all our band. He drew toward him all those who believed in living
the simple life of our ancestors far away from all enemies. With
songs and dances and feasts we marked the seasons, living peacefully
for the most part, except now and then when a small party was sent
out against the Crows or the Mandans, till in the 110th mark of
my father’s winter count—that is in 1869—the whites established a
trading post at the Grand River and put some soldiers in it and sent
out couriers to all the Sioux tribes to assemble there for a council.
The time had come (as it afterward appeared) when the settlers wanted
to inhabit our lands.
This, I think, was the first time the chief clearly understood
the attitude of the government toward him. Another day marks the
beginning of the decline of my people.