keen, and the people had little meat and no meal. They were dependent
on the agency issue for their daily food. They were forbidden to
leave the reservation to hunt and there was very little game left
anywhere. This order drew the line sharply between those who had
faith in the dance and those who only pretended to sympathize with
it. To remain was to starve and freeze; to go was to acknowledge the
final supremacy of the white man and all he stood for. Such was the
desolating decision thrust upon them.
When the order reached The Sitting Bull’s camp the dancers were
thrown into confusion. A hurried council was called and the leaders
were soon decided on the question of giving up the dance. Most of
them at once said: “It is of no use. The Great Spirit has not heard
us. There is but one thing to do. Let us obey the agent. To fight is
foolish.”
There were others who said: “What does a few months of life in
captivity matter? Let us dance, and if the white man comes to fight
let us all die like braves.” And as they spoke the women began to
sing old battle songs, urging resistance to the invaders. “We can
starve and die, for when we die we go to the happy land. A little
pain and all is over. Let us fight!”
As soon as the chief had thought the matter out he said: “So long as
I have cattle or money you shall be fed,” but he had little left. He
had already given all he had.
I do not know the mind of my chief at this point. I think that at
times when his indignation mounted high he, too, said: “Let us fight
to the death. The happy hunting grounds are near. They await us. Why
do we continue in our hunger and despair?” And then, as some good man
spoke to him, recalled to him the friends he had among the palefaces,
he had a gleam of hope, and recalled his bitter words.
That he was not afraid I know. Death held nothing appalling. Life
offered little. Why should he fear to die? He was fifty-six years old
and his days were nearly done. Furthermore, he could not look into
the future without pain, for he saw his people slaves or vagabonds
among an alien race.
During these weeks fear and hate of him revived among the settlers
in all the Western states and the papers were filled with demands
for his death. The near-by white settlers called loudly for troops,
and some of those to the north went so far as to patrol the borders
of the reservation in order to meet the warriors of The Sitting Bull
when they broke forth in war array. They were glad of an excuse to
utter their charges against us as cumberers of the earth, which they
desired. Feeling the millions of their fellows back of them and
knowing that troops were near, they were very brave.
In spite of the agent’s cruel order, a large number of the sternest
warriors of the Uncapappas remained at Rock Creek, and when he saw
this he was afraid to carry out his plan for arresting the chief.
With intent to league himself with cold and snow, he waited for
winter to fall, keeping vigilant eye on the War Department, lest the
Secretary should steal away the honor of arresting the chief. He was
not anxious to invite interference on the part of the military. “I
can take care of the reservation,” he repeated to the commander of
the post.
The chief understood his feeling and said to my father: “I will obey
the orders of the great war chief, but I will not be ordered about by
this agent. He has used me like a dog. The Great Father at Washington
said to me: ‘Sitting Bull, you are the head of the Sioux nation,
and I hold you responsible for the conduct of your people. Keep the
peace.’ I promised him that I would do this, but the agent has always
turned his back to me or has thrown words at me that are like stones
or mud. He has lied about me and his letters have made the settlers
angry. He now wishes to shut me up merely that he can smile and say:
‘I am a great chief; I have conquered The Sitting Bull.’ This I will
not permit him to do.”
Therefore, his armed sentries continued to ride the buttes
surrounding the camp. No one could come within twenty miles of his
camp without seeing shadowy horsemen appear and disappear on the
high hills. Every blanket concealed a weapon, while the dance went
on almost day and night, and one by one his cattle were killed and
eaten, till at last all were gone.
My own position became each day more intolerable. Within my heart
opposing passions warred. Here were my brothers about to fight their
last battle—persisting in a defiance which was as insane as their
religion. I could not deceive myself. The instant I returned to
the white men and the sight of my books I acknowledged the tragic
desperation of my people. The dance became merely another of the
religious frenzies which wise men say have attacked the human race,
at intervals, for ten thousand years. A letter from The Blackbird
said: “Keep away, Philip. Don’t mix in that mess. You can do no good.
Your letter makes it evident that a tragic end is inevitable. You
have done all you can. Throw in your lot with the white man. On the
whole, the white man has the organization for the new conditions. To
die with your people would be superb, but it would be wasteful. Don’t
do it, my boy. Use your best influence against violence, but avoid
danger. There is work for you to do in helping your people bridge the
chasm between their mode of life and ours.”
I told him that I was already denounced as a coward and a traitor to
my race. He replied: “No matter; ten years from now those who are
still alive will see you in the light of a wise leader.” And in the
spirit of this letter I sent word to my chief, saying that it was
best to accept the agent’s rule.
The department did not like to be called rash; it feared the
influence of the Indians’ friends in the East and so it hesitated,
and these days of waiting were days of torture to us all. I could not
look any man in the face. I went about my duties as if I, too, were
in a trance. I really could have been called a spy, for when one of
the scouts of my father asked me what was going on at the agency I
told him I was under suspicion by both races and knew not where to
turn for comfort.
The agent required my presence in his office each day, and to see my
father and my chief meant a night ride of nearly eighty miles. This I
dared not attempt, for the chief now reasoned that I had surely gone
over to the enemy and I was certain he would not let me come to him.
I was despised and rejected of both white man and red man, and had no
one to comfort me.
The weather continued mild. Each day I searched the sky for signs of
a storm. If only a tempest of snow would sweep over us it would stop
the dancing, it would cool the fury of anger, and yet when the hate
and contempt of the white man broke forth in my presence I hoped that
my chief would fight. Better to die like the lion than live like a
trapped wolf.
Meanwhile the chief and his little band continued to test the new
religion, but the Chief was not satisfied.
“Why do these visions come only to the women and weak men? Why do
they not come to my ‘Silent Eaters?’ Why does it not happen that I
can go and see these things and return?”
He was growing weary of his prison and longed for the bright world
where the spirits were. At last he came to a great resolution. He
determined to leave the reservation and visit The Kicking Bear in
order to learn more of the Messiah. He wished to know whether any new
revelation had been made to other tribes. He had exhausted the value
of the phenomena in his own camp and remained unconvinced.
He said: “The agent is going to send for me soon. I may go to the
agency and I may not. No matter. You must not get into trouble on my
account.”
Can you imagine what it means to a chief, when his proud, free race
sinks to the position of beggars and children, forbidden to trade,
forbidden to hunt, forbidden to make presents, ordered into line like
cattle, debarred from amusement like convicts, and condemned to wear
the white man’s cast-off clothing?
“If this religion is true, then we may hope. If it is not, then all
is over,” he said. “I will myself go seek those who saw the wonder
worker. Perhaps I shall find him and he will take pity on us and save
us from destruction. Wait patiently till I return, for then you will
know the truth.”
He arranged to leave at daybreak, and his guard was to follow him
later to see that he was not mistreated. There were not many of the
“Silent Eaters” now, but they were ready to go where he went, and die
with him if need rose.
I do not pretend to follow the turnings of his mind, but I think
he had resolved to leave the reservation even at the risk of being
arrested and brought back by the police, considering that the word
and the promise he sought to verify were worth more than anything
else on the earth.
It must have been in some such mood that he prepared for his long
journey, while still the dance went on, and the white people accused
him of leading a revolt.
XIV
THE DEATH OF THE CHIEF
The news of the chief’s intended departure, which was brought to
the agent by a spy, decided him to act at once. In accordance with
instructions from the department he went to Colonel Drum, the
commander of the garrison, and arranged to seize the chief before he
rose the next morning. The native police were to make the arrest, but
the troops were to be within supporting distance and to share in the
honor!
The leaders of the police were enemies of the chief. The Shave Head
was especially malignant. The reason was this: When The Sitting
Bull visited the Crows in 1884 Shave Head accompanied him. During a
dance one night the Crows grossly insulted the visitors and Shave
Head wished to kill them, but the chief counseled mild speaking.
“We must not quarrel,” he said, and went away. Shave Head was very
angry, and for his forbearance called The Sitting Bull a coward,
when, as a matter of fact, a single gesture by this reckless fool
might have involved the whole camp in an uproar. Thereafter he lost
no opportunity for insulting and annoying the chief, who bore it
patiently, knowing that a harsh word in reply would only make matters
worse.
Big Head, the lieutenant of police, was also opposed to the chief;
in truth the entire force was carefully chosen from those hangers-on
at the agency or from the Yanktonaise, ready, under the white man’s
pay, to act against the chief, whose contempt for such traitors and
weaklings was well known. In the days of The Sitting Bull’s power
these factions existed. The Gall and The Gray Bear were jealous of
his great fame, although The Gall never became actually disloyal. The
Gray Bear did and lost no chance of doing his old chief harm. It is a
disgraceful thing to say of my people, but some of them, for a new
uniform and twenty dollars, would kill their blood relatives. Witness
the so-called “scouts” of the army in Arizona.
My father says that The Sitting Bull advised against all violence,
but I must admit that his supporters were armed and that they had
sworn to protect him against mistreatment. Perhaps he accepted their
loyalty gratefully, and when he decided to go forth on his search for
the Messiah they asked to go with him in a body.
It would not seem strange to me if he had decided never to be taken
from his people alive.
He was growing old, and to suffer exile would be to die lingeringly.
How much he knew of the agent’s plan to imprison him I do not know,
but I have heard him assert his right (which the commissioner had
orally given him) to come and go as any other citizen of the state.
As chief man of his nation he considered it a gross injustice to be
told, “You shall not cross this line.” “So long as I go peaceably
and feed myself I do not see what right the agent has to object.
Washington has said it and I go.”
On the night before his departure he addressed the “Silent Eaters.”
“Be peaceful, do nothing harsh,” he said; “wait for my return. I go
to visit Mato. Perhaps he has a new message for us. Perhaps he has
again visited the Messiah. If he has not, then we will go together.”
He was at the dance till midnight and, being weary was still sleeping
soundly when just before dawn Bull Head and seven other renegades
gathered silently round his bed.
As Bull Head laid a hand on him the chief opened his eyes and quietly
asked. “What do you want?”
“Be silent. The agent wants you to come to him,” Bull Head replied in
a low voice. “Get up quickly.”
The chief lay for a time in thought. He saw the armed men and knew
them to be enemies. Across the room his wife was sleeping with her
children. Resistance would mean death. He did not wish to die in her
presence.
“Very well,” he said, calmly, “I will go.” He partly rose. “But I
must dress. It is cold, I wish to wear my new overcoat. Let me wake
my wife to fetch it.”
Bull Head, less savage than Shave Head, said: “Good. We will wait,”
but as the wife realized what these men had come to do she began to
wail, “They will take him away,” and this wakened the children, who
also began to cry.
Soon many feet were heard running rapidly. Catching up their blankets
and concealing their rifles beneath their garments, the “Silent
Eaters” came hurrying to the rescue, not knowing what was happening,
but ready for battle.
The whole camp was in a tumult before Bull Head could rush The
Sitting Bull to the threshold.
One of the first of the old guard was The Bear Catcher, a man of
fiery resolution, who cried out in a loud voice: “They are taking our
chief. Let us prevent them.”
Bull Head replied: “The agent has ordered it. Keep away!”
Bear Catcher again cried: “Let us stop this thing,” and, flinging
aside his blanket, leveled his rifle at Bull Head and fired. The
renegade fell, but in falling shot the chief. At almost the same
instant Shave Head, recreant dog, seized the opportunity to put a
bullet into the great heart of my chief, who fell and died without
speaking a word, while the battle went on above his prostrate body.
For a time nothing could be heard but the shouts of the warring
ones and the crack of their guns. When it was ended eight of the
“Silent Eaters” lay dead beside their chief, and with them fell four
renegades who went to their tragic end under a mistaken call of
duty—to be forever execrated for slaying their chief at the white
man’s command.
Taking shelter in the house, the other traitors killed the mute son
of the chief and were about to be burned out by the “Silent Eaters”
when the sound of a cannon on the hill announced the coming of the
soldiers. The renegades were saved by the bluecoats.
* * * * *
It is well that the body of my chief fell into the hands of his
honorable enemies, for it was being mutilated when the colonel
interfered. There were Sioux warriors so misbegotten that they were
ready to crush the dead lion’s helpless head, but the white commander
of the garrison took every precaution that the bones of the chief
should lie undisturbed in death.
The post surgeon at Fort Yates received the body and prepared it
for burial. In the afternoon of the following day it was sewn up in
canvas and placed in a coffin and buried in the northeast corner
of the military cemetery, without ceremony and with few to mourn,
though far away my people were waiting in unappeasable grief over the
passing of their great leader.
And so it is that in spite of vandal white men and traitorous reds
the dust of my chieftain lies undisturbed in a neglected corner of
a drear little military graveyard, near the Great Muddy River which
was the eastern boundary of his lands. The sod is hot with untempered
sun in summer, and piled with snow in winter, but in early spring
the wild roses bloom on the primeval sod above his bones. No hand
cares for the grave, no one visits it, and yet, nevertheless, the
name written on that whitewashed board is secure on the walls of the
red man’s pantheon, together with that of Red Jacket and Tecumseh,
Osceola and Black Hawk. Civilization marches above his face, but the
heel of the oppressor cannot wear from the record of his race the
name of “Ta-tank-yo-tanka,” The Sitting Bull.
He epitomized the epic, tragic story of my kind. His life spanned
the gulf between the days of our freedom and the death of every
custom native to us. He saw the invader come and he watched the
buffalo disappear. Within the half century of his conscious life he
witnessed greater changes and comprehended more of my tribe’s tragic
history than any other red man.
These are the words of my father, the chief of the “Silent Eaters,”
and his voice was tremulous as he spoke them: “Ta-tank-yo-tanka was a
great chief and a good man. He had nothing bad about him. He was ever
peacemaker, and just and honorable in his dealings. He cared only
for the good of his people. He was unselfish and careful of others.
He will grow bigger like a mountain as he recedes into the past. He
was chief among red men and we shall never see his like again. If the
Great Spirit does not hate his red children, our Father is happy in
the home of the spirits—the land of the returning buffalo.”
THE END
FOOTNOTES:
[1] In Indian use the word “medicine” should be understood to mean
magic power. A medicine man may heal the sick, but a healer is not
necessarily a medicine man. A medicine man is a seer, a yogi.
[2] A substantially true account of an incident well-known to border
men.
+----------------------------------------------------------------------+
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+----------------------------------------------------------------------+
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within
the text and consultation of external sources.
Some hyphens in words have been silently removed, some added,
when a predominant preference was found in the original book.
Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text,
and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.
Pg 194: ‘while our brethern’ replaced by ‘while our brethren’.
Pg 200: ‘ ut we come’ replaced by ‘But we come’.
Pg 218: ‘Will your break down’ replaced by ‘Will you break down’.
Pg 219: ‘of the widsom of’ replaced by ‘of the wisdom of’.
Pg 219: ‘Menneconjous’ replaced by ‘Minneconjous’.