among them, but afterward, when I had returned to the agency, it
appeared but the rankest folly, and when others asked me about it I
always said: “It is but a foolish thing; do not value it.” But my
words did not check the wave of belief in it.
While no special pains were taken to conceal the fact from the white
people, it was several days before the agent had any knowledge of
Kicking Bear or his mission. This agent, let me say, was a good man,
but jealous of his authority, and when he learned that the chief had
himself invited The Kicking Bear into the reservation he was angry
and said, “I won’t have any of this nonsense here,” and calling Crow,
lieutenant of the police, he said: “Crow, go down to The Sitting
Bull’s house and tell him this Kicking Bear and Messiah business must
stop. Put Kicking Bear off the reservation at once!”
I was very much alarmed by the order, and waited anxiously to learn
what the chief would say. I feared his revolt.
The next day the Crow returned from Rock Creek like a man walking in
his sleep. He could give the agent no intelligible account of himself
or of what he had seen. “He is a wonder worker,” he repeated, “I
couldn’t put him away. When he took my hand I was weak as a child. I
saw the dance, and when he waved a feather I became dizzy, I fell to
the ground, and my eyes were turned inward.”
The agent stared at him as if he were crazy; then he turned to me and
said: “Iapi, I wish you’d go down and see what all this hocus-pocus
means. Take a couple of policemen with you and make sure that they
start this mischief maker on his way home. And tell The Sitting Bull
that I want to see him. Say to him the agent expects him to fire
Kicking Bear off the reservation.”
I did not tell him that I already knew what was being done. I felt
that if some one must carry such a message to the chief it was well
for me to do it, for he was in no mood to be reproved like a boy. I
took no policemen, but rode away alone with many misgivings.
No sooner had I passed the fort than I regretted my acceptance of the
mission. After all, I was Uncapappa and I honored my chief. Whenever
I entered the shadow of a tepee I was no longer alien; I fused with
my tribe. The gravity and order of my chieftain’s lodge were pleasant
to me, and the sound of the women’s songs melted my bones. I was not
white; I was red. Acquiring the language of the conquering race had
not changed my heart.
For all these reasons I saw that I was set forth on a dishonorable
mission. To speak the words of the agent were impossible to me. When
I met Circling Thunder, an old playmate of mine, and learned that
many were dancing, my face stiffened. I had hoped to be able to have
a word with the chief in private.
“Do you believe in it?” I asked.
My friend shook his head. “I don’t know. Many claim to have visited
the spirit world—and Looking Eagle brought back a handful of
pemmican, so they say. The buffalo were thick over there and the
people were very happy.”
“How do you know it was pemmican?”
“I tasted it.”
“Perhaps it was only beef.”
“It may be so,” he said, but his eyes were still dim with dream.
Many of those whom I met were in this state of doubt. They wished to
be convinced. It was so sweet to dream of the old-time world, and
yet they could not quite believe it. They stood too near the stern
reality of hunger and cold, and yet my people are a race of seers.
To them the dream has not yet lost its marvelous portent. In time of
trouble they go upon the hills and wait for the vision which shall
instruct and comfort them.
In my youth I had shared in these beliefs. I had had my days of
fasting and prayer; yes, I too had entered the sleep which reveals. I
had met and talked with birds and animals, and once I felt the hand
of my dead mother move in my hair. I had fasted until I could walk
among the painted tepees of the spirit world and I had gazed on the
black herds of buffalo.
My training among scholars had given me a new understanding of these
conditions, but I could not impart my knowledge to my people. My
wisdom was accounted alien and therefore to be distrusted. Of what
avail to argue with them when the frenzy was upon them?
It was brilliant October, very warm and hazy, and our cruel,
treacherous land was indolently beautiful. The sky was without
cloud—a whitish blue—and the plain, covered with tawny short grass
on the uplands, and with purple and golden garments of blue-joint in
the hollows, seemed to lift on every side like a gigantic bowl. My
horse’s hoofs drummed on the dry sod as I hurried forward.
This is an inexorable land—a land in which man should be free to
migrate like the larks or the buffalo. In the old days we never
thought of living on these high, wind-swept spaces. They were merely
our hunting grounds. Our winter camps were always beside the river,
behind the deep banks, in the shelter of the oaks and cottonwoods.
In those days the plain seemed less ferocious than now, when we are
forced to cross it in all kinds of weather, poorly clothed. In the
days of the buffalo we chose our time and place to migrate; now we
were fastened to one spot like chained coyotes.
As I came to the hill which overlooked the wooded flat I saw a
great many tepees set about the chief’s cabin, and I perceived also
that the dance was going on. Occasionally a cry reached me, pulsing
faintly through the hazy air. In some such way, perhaps, the white
fisher folk of Galilee drew together to greet the coming of their
Messiah. Was this Saviour of the west any more incredible than Christ?
So I mused as I rode slowly down the hill. What if it were all true?
The white man who claims to know all things believes in his Bible and
his Bible is full of miracles.
Soon I could hear the song. It was the sad song I had heard them sing
in the chief’s tepee. It was in most violent opposition to the sunlit
earth and the soft caressing wind, and reached my heart like the
wail of a mourning woman. Soon I was near enough to hear the wistful
words. It was all of entreaty:
“Our Father, we come.
We come to you weeping.
Take pity on us, O Father.
We are poor and weak,
Without you we can do nothing.
Help us, O Father.
Help us to see the old world,
The happy hunting ground of the buffalo,
The glorious land of our childhood.
Hear us, Great Spirit.”
They were dancing in a great circle, some sixty men and women, their
hands interlacing, their eyes on the ground. Each dancer wore a plain
buckskin shirt without ornament. No one carried a weapon of any kind.
They had deliberately gone far back of the white man, discarding
all things on which his desolating hand had been laid. On each head
(even of the women) waved an eagle plume, the sacred feather, and all
were painted with a red paint, which the Mato had brought with him—a
sacred paint he called it. Around them were many others, watching,
and here and there on the ground lay those who were entranced.
Just as I came up the song ended and Mato, who stood in the circle,
lifted a peculiar wand in his hand and cried out like a priest:
“Think hard only of that which you wish to see in your sleep, and it
will be given to you. The old shall be young and the sick shall be
made well. Put away all anger and hatred and turn your thoughts to
the Messiah in the west who listens to all his children.”
Then some one started another song and they began again to dance. I
looked for the chief, and saw him sitting in the shadow of a small
tree close to the circle of dancers. My father, Slohan, Circling
Hawk, and another whom I do not recall, sat with him. They were all
very grave and very intent. They hardly saw me and my task grew heavy
and hard.
I motioned to my father and he came out, and I said: “I am from the
agency. I am hungry and so is my horse.”
He sent a boy with my pony and took me to his tepee near by, and
there I ate some bread and meat in silence. When I had finished I
began: “Father, I have come to stop the dance and to put the priest
away.”
My father looked troubled. “Do you come from the agent?”
“Yes, he has heard of the dance and his orders are to stop it.”
“My son, all that is bad. It makes my heart sore. Do not speak to the
chief now. Wait till evening, when he is weary. The agent is wrong.
There is no harm in this dance. Has not the Messiah said, ‘_Do not
strike anyone_; leave all punishment to the Great Spirit?’ Go back
and tell the agent there is no harm in it.”
I did not listen well, for the song outside was wilder and sadder
each moment. They were dancing very fast now, and the ground, bare
and very dry, had been tramped into dust, fine as flour, and this
rose from under their feet like smoke, half concealing those on
the leeward side. All were singing a piteous song of entreaty. The
women’s voices especially pierced me with their note of agonized
appeal. It was a song to make me shudder—the voice of a dying people
crying out for life and pleading for the return of the happy past. I
could not understand how the white men could listen to it and not be
made gentle.
The chief gazed intently at the circle. He seemed waiting in rigid
expectancy, his face deeply lined and very sad. He looked like one
threescore and ten sitting so. It was plain that he did not yet
permit himself to believe in the message. He, too, felt the pain and
weariness of the world, but still he could not join in the song. His
mind was too clear and strong to be easily confused.
The interest was now very great. Waves of excitement seemed to
run over the circle and those who watched. Shouts mingled with the
singing. The principal song, which they repeated endlessly, was the
Messiah’s promise of eternal life:
“There the Father comes,
There the Father comes,
Speaking as he flies.
Calling, as he comes, this joyous word,
‘You shall live again,’ he calls,
‘_You shall live beyond the grave_,’
He is calling as he comes.”
Many did not sing; they only cried out for help, entreating to be
shown those who had died. “Oh, hear me! Great Spirit, let me see my
little one—my boy; let me hear his voice,” pleaded one woman, and her
voice shook me till my hair moved as if a spirit passed.
Some of the women’s faces were distorted with grief, and a kind
of nervous action which they could not control seized upon
them. One by one as they began to show this tension, Mato and
his helpers confronted them, waving before their eyes a feather
on a wand and uttering a hoarse chant, monotonous and rapid,
“Ha—ha—ha—ha—ha—_hah_!” until the frenzied one, convulsed and
dreaming, fell into the ring and lay stiff and stark in the dirt.
But the ring did not halt. The fall of each new convert seemed to add
new vigor to the song, for each hoped to be the next one smitten.
Suddenly Shato, dropping the hands of those dancing near him, flung
his hands to the sky with a gesture as if he would tear the sun from
its place. The hooked intensity of his fingers was terrible to see.
He remained fixed in that way, rigid as iron, yet standing on his
feet firm as an oak. No one touched him; on the contrary, all were
careful not to disturb those who were in trance. Another man stood
at bay, buffeting the dancers to keep them from trampling upon his
wife, who, being sick of some wasting disease, had joined the circle,
seeking health of the Great Spirit.
As I looked my heart contracted. It seemed that I was looking upon
the actual dissolution—the death pangs—of my race. My learning was
for the moment of no avail. I shook like a reed in the gust of this
primeval passion. Was it insanity or was it some inexplicable divine
force capable in very truth of uniting the quick and the dead in one
convulsive, rapturous coalition?
A thrill of momentary belief swept over me. Was it not better to
end it all, to die and go with all my people to the happy hunting
grounds! The white man’s world, what was it but a world of care and
grief?
The songs continued, but they grew quieter. Several of those who
called loudest now lay silent in the dust. Those who circled and
sang were keener of eye and calmer of feature. These were they who
reasoned, and to them the trance could not come. I began to see that
those who had taken on the dream were not the most intelligent but
the most emotional men and women of my tribe, those who were weakened
by the loss of dear ones.
The song was no longer a cry—it had beautiful words. It grew more
joyous:
“Do you see the world a-coming?
A new serener world is near.
The eagle brings the message to our tribe.
Thus the Father sayeth.
Covering all the plain they come,
The Buffalo and elk and deer.
The crow has brought the message to the tribe.
Thus the Father sayeth,
Thus he gives us cheer.”
At the end of this song, four times repeated, the dancers unclasped
hands and sat down on the earth. As they did this the chief arose
and, stepping into the circle, took a seat near Mato, who arose and,
lifting his hands to the west, again prayed silently for a moment,
then said:
“My friends, you see the words of the Messiah are true words. Many
are asleep. They will return soon and tell us of their good journey
to the spirit world. Ever since the Messiah talked to me I have
thought upon what he said and I see only good in it. It is a sweet
religion. The white man’s religion is not for us. Its words are
all strange. It deals with unknown animals and tells of far-off
countries. The names of the chiefs we do not understand, but this
new religion all can understand. It is filled with familiar words.
It is for us. Our Messiah has told us that all our dead are to come
back to the earth, and as the earth is too small for such a throng he
must remove the white man. He will also bring heaven down to make the
world wider, and then all the red men will be able to dwell together
in friendship. There will be no more war, only hunting and feasting
and games. This good world will come to us if we do as he commands.”
At this moment Chasing Hawk, who acted as usher, brought to the
circle a woman who had just wakened out of a trance. Her face was
shining with happiness, but her tongue was thick, she could barely
make herself heard. As she spoke the chief listened intently.
“What did you see?” asked Mato.
“I saw my little one,” she replied.
“Where was he? What was he doing?”
“He was playing in the grass, in a beautiful country. My grandmother
was near, cooking for him.”
Mato called her answers aloud to all who listened, and everyone
crowded near to hear the glories of the land from which her spirit
had returned. Cries of joy arose in swift echo of the priest’s
shouting, but the chief’s face remained gravely meditative.
When this woman was led away Eagle Holder, another dreamer, came into
the circle, one who needed no crier. He was a proud orator. Reaching
out his hand in a gesture of exultation, he cried:
“In my sleep I saw a vast eagle coming toward me. He came rushing;
the noise of his wings was like a storm, his eyes were red like the
moon at dusk. As he came near I caught him by the neck, and with a
rush he carried me away.” Cries of astonishment broke forth. “He
swept away with me high up and toward the east; the wind cried about
my ears and for a time I could see nothing; all was mist. At last
he began to circle and I looked away and I saw the new land of the
Messiah.” (“Hah! Hah!” called the people.) “It was a prairie country”
(the women began to sing) “with countless buffalo feeding” (“Ah!
Ah!”) “and lakes with great white birds sailing about. On the bank of
the lake was a circle of tepees and they were made of skins whitened
by clay, and they were very large and clean and new. A hunting party
was just riding forth; they were very happy and sang as they went.”
He paused abruptly, while the women wailed in rapture. At last he
continued: “Then the eagle entered a cloud and I saw no more. I woke
and found myself here on the ground.”
This story, magnificently told though it was, affected the hearers
less than the shining, ecstatic face of the mother who had seen her
spirit child. Her slow, dreamy utterance was more eloquent than the
vivid gestures and musical voice of Eagle Holder.
One by one others awoke and told of meeting friends and revisiting
old scenes. Some told of people they had never met in life, and
minutely described lodges they had never entered. These stories awoke
wild cries of amazement and joy. It was plain that many believed.
I had not seen my people so happy since I was a child, before the
battle of the Big Horn.
At last when all had spoken they arose and joined hands and began
singing once more; then the chief rose and left the circle, and I,
intercepting him, said: “Chief, I bring a message to you.” He made a
motion which means follow, and I accompanied him to his tepee, which
he loved because of its associations with old days, and to which he
went for meditation and council.
It would be wrong if I did not confess that I knew the chief
distrusted me, for he did. After I had taken my position under the
agent he was less free to speak his mind to me, and this was a grief
to me. My father saw us go and joined us, and I was glad of his
presence. His kind old face made it easier for me to begin.
The chief took his seat at the back of the lodge and said: “Speak. I
listen.”
“Sire,” I said, “the agent has heard bad things of this dance on
other reservations, and some days ago he sent policemen down here to
forbid it. He now hears it is still going on and he has sent me to
say that Mato, the messenger, must go away and the dance must stop.”
I could see the veins of his neck fill with hot blood as he listened,
and when I had finished he said: “Are we dogs to be silenced by
kicking! You say to the agent that the white men have beaten us and
left us naked of every good thing, but they shall not take away our
religion. I will not obey this command! I have said it!”
Here my father broke in, saying to me: “You yourself have told me
that you saw among the white people dreams like this. Why do they
seek to prevent us? You have read us the white man’s sacred Big Book,
and you say it is full of medicine dreams. Why should we not dream
also?”
I then replied: “_I_ do not come commanding these things. It is the
agent who says them. Do not blame me.”
The chief, who had regained his composure, interposed quietly: “My
son, you are right. We should not blame you, but the one who sent
you. Therefore I say take these words to the agent: ‘_I will not give
up the dance._’”
In the hope of persuading him, I asked: “Do you believe in the dance?”
“I do not know,” he replied. “I am watching, I am listening. It is
like the white man’s religion—very wonderful and very difficult to
believe. I wish to try it and see. The white men are very wise, yet
their preachers say that the sun stood still for Joshua, and Christ,
their great Medicine Man, healed the lame and raised the dead.”
“But that was long ago,” I hastened to say.
“If such wonders happened then they can happen now,” he answered.
Then he passionately broke forth: “I desire this new earth. My
people are in despair, their hearts are utterly gone. We need help.
My warriors will soon be like the Chinaman at the fort, fit only to
wash windowpanes. Our rations are being cut off. What is there to
look forward to? Nothing. I saw in the east many poor people. They
worked very hard and wore ragged clothes. All were not rich and
happy. Among the white men my people would be only other poor people,
ragged and hungry, creeping about, eating scraps of food like hungry
curs. I fear for them, therefore my ears are open to the words of
this new religion which assures me that the old world—the world of
my fathers—is to return. You say the agent is displeased. Is there
anything I can do which does not displease him? The white men have
their religion—they pray and sing. Why should not we sing if we have
heart to do so? Go ask him if he is afraid that the Messiah has come
of a truth, and that the white man is to be swept away.”
“He thinks it is a war dance,” I said. “He is afraid it will stir up
strife.”
“Go tell him what you have seen. Say to him that it is a peaceful
dance. There are no weapons here; there is no talk of fighting. It
is a magical prayer. Mato says those who lie out there are with the
spirits. You heard them tell what they saw. If these tales are true
and if we could all be as they, then would the white man’s world
indeed vanish like smoke and the pasture of the buffalo come again.
It is strange—that I know—but the white man’s religion is also very
hard to believe. The priest will tell you stories just as wonderful,
and the preacher, too. Their Messiah was born in a stable among
cattle; ours appears among the mountains. Their Christ rose from the
dead. So does ours. Their Christ came to the poor people, so they
say. Are we so despised of God that we cannot have our Messiah, too?
I do not say all this is true, I only wish to test it and see.”
I could see that his clear mind could not accept the new religion,
yet his heart desired it deeply. Once he had said: “I do not
understand your Christ and his teaching. I must have time to think;
I will not be pushed into it,” and as he had often reproved his
people for saying yes to everything the white man said, so now he
was equally cautious, only he was older, with a deeper longing to be
comforted.
My task was only half completed and I said: “Chief, the agent told me
to say to you, ‘Put Mato away.’ I beg you to come with me and meet
the agent and explain to him the meaning of the dance, and then maybe
he will not insist on this inhospitable thing.”
The chief’s face grew very stern. “The agent is a dog! He insults me.
I will not see him! If he wishes to talk with me let him come here. I
am waiting.”
My father made me a sign to go, and I went away. I could hear them
conversing in low voices, but I could not understand what they said.
At last my father called, and I went in again.
The chief looked less grim of lip and said to me, “Very well, Mato
will go to-night.”
“Good,” I said. “At ten o’clock to-night Bull Head and I will come to
take them across the river.”
My father and I went out and left him sitting alone.
When I returned at ten o’clock with Bull Head the chief’s lodge was
filled with people. The women were weeping and the men were sullen.
As I entered the tepee Mato was speaking. The chief sat smoking, with
his eyes fixed on the floor. The priest was saying:
“You see how it is! The red man can keep nothing from the white man,
who is jealous even of our religion. Washington would deprive us of
our dreams. The agent is a wolf. Nevertheless, I will go, for my
mission here is fulfilled. I have spoken the words of the Father; I
have taught you the ceremonials. Henceforth you can test for yourself
the truth of the _word_.” Then standing erect and in line the six
messengers of the Messiah lifted the palms of their hands toward the
west and prayed silently. A little later they began to sing this song:
“My children take this road,
My children go this way,
Says our Saviour.
It is a goodly road,
Says the Father;
It leads to joyous lands,
Says the Father.”
As they sang the people began to cry out, “Stay and tell us more,”
but Mato led the way out of the lodge.
As I stood at the door, ready to follow him, the chief stood upon his
feet, with a look on his face which silenced every one who saw it; it
was fierce, yet it was exalted. Holding his pipe in his outstretched
hands, his beloved pipe which he had carried since his first
chieftainship, he said: “Here break I my peace pipe. If this religion
is true then there is no more war. If it is not true, then I wish to
die as a warrior dies, fighting!” With a gesture he snapped the stem
in pieces. All the people cried out, and with a heart cold with fear
I went forth into the night.
My chief’s last war with the white invader had begun.
XII
THE CHIEF PROPOSES A TEST
Meanwhile the dance was going on not only among all the Sioux, but
among the Cheyenne, Arapahoe, and Shoshone peoples, and the settlers
of many states were greatly alarmed. They pretended to believe the
ceremonial was warlike. They knew nothing of the songs or prayers.
Cowboys, drunk and desiring a little amusement, raced into the
border towns shouting, “The Sioux are on the warpath!” and whole
settlements, frenzied with fear, fled to the east, crying loudly
for the government to send troops. “Stop this outbreak,” became the
demand.
All this pressure and excitement made our situation worse. Those who
believed said, “You see how it is, the white people are afraid of our
religion; they are seeking to prevent the coming of the new world”;
and those reckless ones who were willing to fight cried out: “Make
ready. Let us war!”
Letters and telegrams poured in upon the agent at the Standing Rock,
asking for a true statement of affairs. To all these he replied,
“There is no danger, these Indians are peaceful”; but he took
occasion in his answers to defame my chief.