and commanded them to camp again. This they did, but in a different
place, farther down the river, near where the Crow agency now stands.
The chief was very sorrowful, for he realized the weight of this
battle. Foolish ones rode about exulting, but he rebuked them. “This
is all bad. The Great Father at Washington will now be very angry,
for we have killed his soldiers. The war chief will come against us
with greater fury than ever. We cannot remain here.”
I was told that he did not visit the field of the dead. I do not know
the truth of this, but he sat in his lodge, pondering, while Gall
and his men held Reno prisoner on the hill. It was only a matter of
wearing them out and then the whole army would be defeated, so the
foolish ones said.
All the chiefs met in council at sunset, and The Sitting Bull said:
“We cannot afford to make war on the white soldiers. They are too
many and too brave. My heart is heavy with this day’s work. It is our
first battle with the bluecoats and I now look to see all their war
chiefs assemble against us. We must leave this place. There is no
refuge for us here. We must go farther into the unknown world to the
west. In ancient days our people migrated and now our turn has come.”
There was little sleep that night. All through the long hours the
wail of the grief-stricken ones went on, and over the field of the
dead the “war women” ran frenzied with grief, mutilating the bodies
of their enemies. It was a night to make a boy grow old. My father
said: “All hope of ever seeing our ancient home is gone. Henceforth
we must dwell in the lands of our enemies.” And his face filled one
with despair. I wept with my mother.
Early next day the mass of our warriors swept out against Reno,
and he, too, would have perished like Custer but that the chief’s
ever-watchful spies from a distant butte caught and flashed forward
these terrifying signs.
“_More soldiers are coming up the river—a mighty host in steamboats._”
Then the chief sent forth his camp soldiers among the lodges with
this news and with orders to get ready to move instantly. Couriers
rushed away to the hills to recall those who were besieging Reno. The
women and old men again hurriedly packed the lodges, whilst we lads
gathered up the ponies, and at last, following the old chiefs and The
Sitting Bull, we streamed away up the river toward the mountains,
leaving the field to our enemy’s scouts, but on every hill stood a
“Silent Eater,” and through them we had knowledge of each movement of
those who rescued Reno and buried the dead.
We camped that night in the hills far toward some great shining,
snowy peaks, the like of which we had never seen.
The troops which were under command of General Terry did not stay
long. They did not even look about very closely. They were afraid
they might find us, I think. They hurriedly buried the dead and
retreated quickly down the Big Horn to the Yellowstone, followed by
our scouts, who reported every movement to The Sitting Bull.
This retreat of Terry made many of our leaders bold, and some of
them, like The Gall, wished to pursue and strike again, but my chief
opposed that. It is true he gave orders to return to the mouth of
what is now Reno Creek, but he did this because in our haste we had
left many ropes and saddles and other things lying scattered on the
grass, and we needed them. This was the third day after the battle
and no enemy was in sight.
On this night the chiefs counciled again and The Sitting Bull advised
flight. “Let us set our breasts to the west wind and not look back,”
he said. “The white man fills the East. Toward the setting sun are
the buffalo. Let us make friends with all our red brethren and go
among them, and live in peace.”
But the old men were timid. They said: “We do not know the land to
the west; it is all very strange to us. It is said to be filled with
evil creatures. The mountains reach to the sky. The people are strong
as bears and will destroy us. Let us remain among the Crows whom we
know. Let us make treaty with them.”
To this the chief at last agreed, and gave orders to be ready to
march early the next morning. “When a man’s heart beats with fear it
is a good thing to keep moving,” he said to my father.
Thus began a retreat which is strange to tell of, for we retraced our
trail over the low divide back into the valley of the Rosebud, and so
down the Yellowstone to the Missouri, ready to enter upon our exile.
It was all new territory to most of us. Our food was gone, and when
our hunters brought news of buffalo ahead we rushed forward joyously,
keeping to the north, and so entered the land of the Crows.
Meanwhile the white soldiers had also retreated. They didn’t know
where we were. Perhaps they were afraid we would suddenly strike
them on the flank. Anyhow, they withdrew and filled the East (as I
afterward learned) with lies about us and our chiefs. They said the
chief had four thousand warriors, that he was accompanied by a white
soldier, and many other foolish things.
Our people rejoiced now, and at The Sitting Bull’s advice our band
broke up into small parties, the better to hunt and prepare meat
for winter. It was easier to provide food when divided into small
groups, and so my chief’s great “army,” as the white men called it,
scattered, to meet again later.
It must have been in October that we came together, and in the great
council which followed, the chief announced that the white soldiers
were coming again and that it was necessary to push on to the north.
This was on the Milk River, and there you may say the last stand of
the Sioux took place—for it was in this council that the hearts of
the Ogallallahs, our allies, weakened. One by one their orators rose
and said: “We are tired of running and fighting. We do not like this
cold northland. We do not care to go farther. The new white-soldier
chief is building a fort at Tongue River. He has many soldiers and
demands our surrender. He has offered to receive us kindly.”
My chief rose and with voice of scorn said: “Very well. If your
hearts are water, if you desire to become white men, go!” And they
rose and slipped away hastily and we saw them no more.
Then the Cheyennes said: “We, too, have decided to return to our own
land. We dread the desolate north.”
Then my chief was very sad, for the Cheyennes are mighty warriors.
“Very well, my brothers,” he replied. “You came of your own accord
and we will not keep you. We desire your friendship. Go in peace.”
So they left us. We were now less than half of our former strength,
but we faced the north winds with brave hearts—even the women sang to
cheer our way.
We were near the Missouri when Miles, the white chief, suddenly threw
himself in our way and demanded a council.
A battle would have been very unequal at this time, for our warriors
were few and our women and children many; therefore, The Sitting Bull
and five chiefs went forth to meet Miles and his aides.
Perhaps you have read the white man’s side of this. I will tell you
of the red man’s part, for my father rode beside our chief at this
time.
Colonel Miles had over four hundred men and a cannon. His men were
all armed perfectly, while we had less than a thousand men and boys,
and many of even the men had no guns at all. We were burdened with
the women and children, too.
Six white men met The Sitting Bull and his five braves. My father was
one of these men and he told me what took place.
The chief rode forward slowly, and as he neared the white chief he
greeted him quietly, then lifted his hands to the sky in a prayer
to the Great Spirit. “Pity me, teach me. Give me wise words,” he
whispered.
“Which of you is The Sitting Bull?” asked Colonel Miles.
“I am,” replied the chief.
“I am glad to meet you. You are a good warrior and a great leader.”
To this my chief abruptly replied: “Why do you remain in my country?
Why do you build a camp here?”
Thereupon Miles sternly answered: “We are under orders to bring you
in. I do not wish to make war on you, but you must submit and come
under the rule of the department at Washington.”
The Sitting Bull made reply quietly, but with emphasis: “This country
belongs to the red man and not to the white man. I do not care to
make war on you. My people are weary of fighting and fleeing.”
“Why do you not come in and live quietly on your reservation at the
Standing Rock?”
“Because I am a red man and not an agency beggar. The bluecoats
drove us west of the Missouri, they robbed us of the Black Hills,
they have forced us to take this land from the Crows, but we wish
to live at peace. You have no right to come here. You must withdraw
all your troops and take all settlers with you. There never lived a
paleface who loved a redskin, and no Lakota ever loves a paleface.
Our interests are directly opposed. Only in trade can we meet in
peace. I am Uncapappa and I desire to live the ways of my fathers
in the valleys which the Great Spirit gave to my people. I have not
declared war against Washington, but I will fight when you push me
to the wall. I do not like to be at strife. It is not pleasant to be
always fleeing before your guns. This western world is wide; it is
lonely of human life. Why do you not leave it to us? All my days I
have lived far from your people. All that I got of you I have paid
for. My band owes you nothing. Go back to the sunrise and we will
live as the Great Spirit ordained that we should do.”
General Miles was much moved, but said: “I want you to go with me to
meet the Great Father’s representatives and talk with them.”
“No,” my chief replied. “I am afraid to do that, now that we have
had a battle with your soldiers. We went far away and your warriors
followed us. They fell upon us while we were unprepared. They shot
our women and children and they burned our tepees. Then we fought, as
all brave men should, and we killed many. I did not desire this, but
so it came about. Do not blame me.”
The white chief was silent for a time, then he said: “If you do not
give up your arms and come upon the reservation I will follow you and
destroy you.”
At this my chief broke forth: “My friend, we had better quit talking
while we are good-natured.” Then lifting his arm in a powerful
gesture, he uttered a great vow: “So long as there is a prairie dog
for my children, or a handful of grass for my horses, The Sitting
Bull will remain Uncapappa and a freeman.” And he turned his horse
about and returned to our lines.
During this time our spies had discovered the guns which Miles had
pointed at the chief, and knew that the soldiers were ready to shoot
our envoys down.
When the chief was told this he said: “No matter. We have held up our
hands to the Great Spirit; we must not fire the first shot.”
He was anxious for peace, for, while he was still the leader of many
men, he knew something of the power of the War Department and he
feared it. All that night he sat in council with the chiefs, who were
gloomy and disheartened. Next morning, hearing that General Miles
was coming toward his camp, The Sitting Bull sent out a white flag
and asked for another talk. This Colonel Miles granted and they met
again. My chief said:
“We have counseled on the matter and we have decided on these terms.
We ask the abandonment of this our country by your soldiers. We ask
that all settlements be withdrawn from our land, except trading
posts, and our country restored to us as it was before the white
settlers came. My people say this through me.”
To this Miles harshly replied: “If you do not immediately surrender
and come under the rule of the reservations, I will attack you and
pursue you till you are utterly destroyed. I give you fifteen minutes
to decide. At the end of that time I open fire.”
Then the heart of my chief took flame. Shaking his hand at the
soldiers, he whirled his horse, and came rushing back, shouting:
“Make ready! The white soldiers are about to shoot!”
Under his orders I and other lads rushed to the front and began to
fire the grass, thus making a deep smoke between us and the enemy.
While the women hurriedly packed the tepees the men caught their
horses. All was confusion and outcry. But our warriors held the enemy
in check so that we got our camp out of harm’s way. We were afraid of
the big gun; we had little fear of the horsemen and their carbines.
For two days Miles pushed us and we gave way. The white historians
are always ungenerous, if not utterly false. They do not give my
people credit. Consider our disadvantages. Our women and children
were with us and must be protected. It required many of the young
men to take care of our ponies and the camp stuff. We were forced
to live on game and game was scared away, while the white soldiers
had rations and the best of horses. The country was not a good one
for us. Hour by hour Miles pushed us, and in spite of all the skill
of our chiefs, we lost most of our ponies and a great deal of our
food and clothing, and our people became deeply disheartened. The
rapid-fire gun of the white soldiers terrified us—and though the
earth grew blacker and darker, we fled northward.
At last, on the third day, decisive council took place among the
chiefs. The Sitting Bull and The Gall said, “We will not surrender!”
But many of the lesser ones cried out: “What is the use? The white
man is too strong. The country grows more barren, the game has fled.
Let us make peace. Let us meet Miles again.”
But my chief indignantly refused. “Are we coyotes?” he said. “Shall
we slink into a hole and whine? You Yanktonaise and Minneconjous
have eaten too much white man’s bread. It has taken the heart out of
you. Do you wish to be the sport of our enemies? Then go back to the
agencies and grow fat on the scrap they will throw to you. As for me,
I am Uncapappa, I will not submit. I owe the white race nothing but
hatred. I do not seek war with Miles, but if he pursues me I will
fight. My heart is hot that you are so cowardly. I will not take part
in this peace talk. I have spoken.”
Once again he rose, and spoke with the most terrible intensity,
struggling to maintain his supremacy over his sullen and disheartened
allies, but all in vain. He saw at last that his union of forces had
been a failure, and, drawing his “Silent Eaters” around him, he sent
criers through the camp calling on all those who wished to follow him
to break camp.
It was a solemn day for my race, a bitter moment for my chief. He
saw his bond of union crumbling away, becoming sand where he thought
it steel. When Crazy Horse and the Cheyennes fell behind he could
not complain, for they were but friends who had formed a temporary
alliance, but the desertion of the Yanktonaise was a different
matter. They were of his blood and were leaving us, not to fight, but
to surrender. They were deserting us and all that we stood for. And
my chief’s heart was very sore as he saw them ride away. Less than
two hundred lodges went with The Sitting Bull; the others surrendered.
It took heroic courage to set face to the north at that time of the
year. The land was entirely unknown even to our guides, and the
winter was upon us. It was treeless, barren, and hard as iron. As the
snows fell our sufferings began. I have read the white historians’
account of this. I have read in Miles’s book his boasting words of
the heroism of the white troops as they marched in pursuit of us in
the cold and snow, but he does not draw attention to the fact that
my chief and his people traversed the same road in the same weather,
with scanty blankets and no rations at all. According to his own
report his troops outnumbered us, man, woman, and child, and yet he
did not reach, much less capture, a man of us.
Our side of all this warfare has never been told. You have all the
newspapers, all the historians. Your officers dare not report the
true number of the slain, and they always report the red men to be
present in vast number. It would make the world smile to know the
truth. You glorify yourselves at our cost, and we have thus far had
no one to dispute you. I am only a poor “Injun,” after all, and no
one will read what I write, but I say the white soldiers could never
defeat an equal number of my people on the same terms.
[Illustration: The Brave Cheyennes Were Running Through the Frosted
Hills
_This is Dull Knife’s band of Northern Cheyennes, known as the
Spartans of the plains. And deservedly were they called a Spartan
band, for, relentlessly pursued by cavalry troops for over ten
days, these gallant warriors fought to their last nerve, making
their last stand only when nature itself was exhausted._
_Illustration from_
A SERGEANT OF THE ORPHAN TROOP
_by_ Frederic Remington
_Originally published in_
HARPER’S MAGAZINE, _August, 1897_]
[Illustration: Campaigning in Winter
_A body of United States cavalry in winter rig in pursuit of a
band of Minneconjous Sioux, who had left their agency and were
making for the camp of the hostiles in the Bad Lands._
_Illustration from_
A SERGEANT OF THE ORPHAN TROOP
_by_ Frederic Remington
_Originally published in_
HARPER’S MAGAZINE, _August, 1897_]
Our moccasins grew thin with our hurrying. We were always cold and
hungry. No wood could be found. We burned our lodge poles. Our horses
weakened and died and we had no meat. The buffalo had fled, there
were no antelope, and the wind always stung—yet we struggled on,
cold, hungry, hearing the wails of our children and the cries of our
women, pushing for a distant valley where our scouts had located game.
At last the enemy dropped behind and we went into camp near the mouth
of the Milk River on the Big Muddy, and soon were warm and fed again,
but our hearts were sore for the unburied dead that lay scattered
behind us in the snow. Do you wonder that our hate of you was very
great?
There we remained till spring. The soldiers had been relentless in
pursuit until the winter shut down; after that they, too, went into
camp and we lived in peace, recuperating from our appalling march.
And day by day The Sitting Bull sat in council with his “Silent
Eaters.”
Our immediate necessities were met, but the chief’s heart was
burdened with thought of the future. All our allies had fallen away.
The Cheyennes and Ogallallahs were bravely fighting for their land in
the south, but the Yanktonaise and Minneconjous, our own blood, with
small, cold hearts, were sitting, self-imprisoned, in the white man’s
war camp.
You must not forget that we had no knowledge of geography such as
you have. We knew only evil of the land that lay to the north and
west of us. We were like people lost in the night. Every hill was
strange, every river unexplored. On every hand the universe ended in
obscurity, like the lighted circle of a campfire. A little of the
earth we knew; all the rest was darkness and terror.
We could not understand the government’s motives. Your war chief’s
persistency and his skill scared us. We were without ammunition, we
could neither make powder nor caps for our rifles, and our numbers
were few. Miles had the wealth of Washington at his back. This you
must remember when you read of wars upon us. Where we went our women
and children were obliged to go, and this hampered our movements.
What would Miles have done with five hundred women and children to
transport and guard?
All these things made further warfare a hopeless thing for us, for we
were dependent upon our enemy for ammunition and guns, without which
the feeding of our people was impossible. To crown all our troubles,
the buffalo were growing very wild and were retreating to the south.
Up to this time we had only temporary scarcity of food, but now, when
we could not follow the buffalo in their migrations, my chief began
to see that they might fail us at the very time we most needed them.
“Surely the Great Spirit has turned his face from us,” he said, as
his scouts returned to say the buffalo were leaving the valley.
If you were to talk for a day, using your strongest words, you could
not set forth the meaning of the buffalo to my people at this time.
They were our bread and our meat. They furnished us roof and bed.
They lent us clothing for our bodies. The chase kept us powerful,
continent, and active. Our games, our dances, our songs of worship,
and many of our legends had to do with these great cattle. They were
as much a part of our world as the hills and the trees, and to our
minds they were as persistent and ever-recurring as the grass.
To say “The buffalo will fail” was like saying “The sun will rise no
more.” Our world was shaken to its base when a red man began even to
dream of this. We spoke of it with whispered words.
“To go farther north is to say farewell to the buffalo,” the chief
said to my father—and in this line you may read the despair of the
greatest leader my tribe has produced. To go north was to face
ever-deepening cold in a gameless, waterless, treeless land; to go
south was to walk into the white chief’s snare.
One day as the old men sat in council a stranger, a friendly
half-breed from the north, rose and said:
“My friends, I have listened to your stories of hard fighting and
running, and it seems to me you are like a lot of foxes whose dens
have been shut tight with stones. The hunters are abroad and you
have no place of refuge. Now to the north, in my country, there is a
mysterious line on the ground. It is so fine you cannot see it; it is
finer than a spider’s web at dusk; but it is magical. On one side of
it the soldiers wear red coats and have a woman chief. On the other
they wear blue coats and obey Washington. Open your ears now—listen!
No blue soldier dares to cross that line. This is strange, but it
is true. My friends, why do you not cross this wonder-working mark?
There are still buffalo up there and other game. There is a trader
not three days’ ride from here, one who buys skins and meat. There
you can fill your powder cans and purchase guns. Come with me. I will
show the way.”
As he drew this alluring picture loud shouts of approval rang out.
“Let us go!” they said one by one. “We are tired of being hunted like
coyotes.”
The chief smoked in silence for a long time, and then he rose and
his voice was very sad as he chanted: “I was born in the valley of
the Big Muddy River. I love my native land, I dread to leave it, but
the pale soldiers have pushed us out and we are wanderers. I have
listened to our friend. I should like to believe him, but I cannot.
White people are all alike. They are all forked and wear trousers.
They will treat us the same no matter what color of coats they wear.
If any of you wish to go I will not hinder. As for me, I am not yet
weak in the knees, I can still run, and I can still fight when need
comes. I have spoken.”
Part of the people took the advice of the Cree and went across the
line, but The Sitting Bull remained in the valley of the Missouri
till the spring sun took away the snow.
IV
DARK DAYS OF WINTER
I shall never forget that dreadful winter. It seems now like one
continuous whirling storm of snow filled with wailing. We were cold
and hungry all the time, and the white soldiers were ever on our
trail. Many died and the cries of women never ceased. It was as if
the Great Spirit had forgotten us.
The chief, satisfied at last that the Cree had told the truth and
despairing of the future, turned his little band to the north, and
in the early spring crossed the line near the head of Frenchman’s
Creek and camped close to the hill they call Wood Mountain, where the
redcoats had a station and a small store. No one would have known
this small, ragged, sorrowful band as “the army of The Sitting Bull.”
My father was a great man—as great in his way as his chieftain—but
he was what you call a philosopher. He spoke little, but he thought
much, and one day soon after this he called me to him and said: “My
son, you have seen how the white man puts words on bits of paper. It
is now needful that some one of us do the same. We are far from our
home and kindred. You must learn to put signs on paper like the white
man in order that we may send word to those we have left behind. I
have been talking with a black-robe (a priest) and to-morrow you go
with him to learn the white man’s wonderful sign language.”
My heart froze within me to hear this, and had I dared I would have
fled out upon the prairie; but I sat still, saying no word, and my
father, seeing my tears, tried to comfort me. “Be not afraid, my son.
I will visit you every day.”
“Why can’t I come home each night?” I asked.
“Because the black-robe says you will learn faster if you live with
him. You must travel this road quickly, for we sorely need your help.”
He took me to Father Julian and I began to read.