Part 10

“That’s about the way the thing stands,” replied Wilson, in response to the question that was in the old chief’s steady eyes. “I’m here to stay. This ain’t your land; this is Uncle Sam’s land, and part of it’ll be mine as soon as the surveyors come to measure it off.”

“Who gave it away?” asked the chief. “My people were cheated out of it; they didn’t know what they were doing.”

“I can’t help that; that’s for Congress to say. That’s the business of the Great Father at Washington.”

There was a look of deep sorrow in the old man’s face. At last he spoke again: “The cattleman is welcome; but he must go, because whenever one white man goes and calls it good, the others come. Drifting Crane has seen it far in the east twice. The white men come thick as the grass. They tear up the sod. They build houses. They scare the buffalo away. They spoil my young men with whisky. Already they begin to climb the eastern hills. Soon they will fill the valley, and Drifting Crane and his people will be surrounded. The sod will all be black.”

“I hope you’re right,” was the rancher’s grim reply.

“But they will not come if the cattleman go back to say the water is not good, there is no grass, and the Indians own the land.”

Wilson smiled at the childish faith of the chief. “Won’t do, chief—won’t do. That won’t do any good. I might as well stay.”

The chief rose. He was touched by the settler’s laugh; his eyes flashed; his voice took on a sterner note. “The white man _must_ go!”

Wilson rose also. He was not a large man, but he was a very resolute one. “I shan’t go,” he said through his clenched teeth.

It was a thrilling, a significant scene. It was in absolute truth the meeting of the modern vidette of civilization with one of the rear guard of retreating barbarism. Each man was a type; each was wrong, and each was right. The Indian as true and noble from the barbaric point of view as the white man. He was a warrior and hunter; made so by circumstances over which he had no control.

The settler represented the unflagging energy and fearless heart of the American pioneer. Narrow-minded, partly brutalized by hard labor and a lonely life, yet an admirable figure for all that. As he looked into the Indian’s face he seemed to grow in height. He felt behind him all the weight of the millions of westward-moving settlers; he stood the representative of an unborn state. He took down a rifle from the wall, the magazine rifle, most modern of guns; he patted the stock, pulled the crank, throwing a shell into view.

“You know this thing, chief?”

The Indian nodded slightly.

“Well, I’ll go when—this—is—empty.”

“But my young men are many.”

“So are the white men—my brothers.”

The chief’s head dropped forward. Wilson, ashamed of his boasting, put the rifle back on the wall.

“I’m not here to fight. You can kill me any time. You could ’a’ killed me to-night, but it wouldn’t do any good. It’ud only make it worse for you. Why, they’ll be a town in here bigger’n all your tribe before two grass from now. It ain’t no use, Drifting Crane; it’s _got_ to be. You an’ I can’t help n’r hinder it.”

Drifting Crane turned his head and gazed out on the western sky, still red with the light of the fallen sun. His face was rigid as bronze, but there was a dreaming, prophetic look in his eyes. A lump came into the settler’s throat; for the first time in his life he got a glimpse of the infinite despair of the Indian. He forgot that Drifting Crane was the representative of a “vagabond race”; he saw in him, or rather _felt_ in him, something almost magnetic. He was a _man_; and a man of sorrows. The settler’s voice was husky when he spoke again, and his lips trembled.

“Chief, I’d go to-morrow if it’ud do any good, but it won’t—not a particle. You know that when you stop to think a minute. What good did it do to massa_cree_ all them settlers at New Ulm? What good will it do to murder me and a hundred others? Not a bit. A thousand others would take our places. So I might just as well stay, and we might just as well keep good friends. Killin’ is out o’ fashion; don’t do any good.”

There was a twitching about the stern mouth of the Indian chief. He understood all too well the irresistible logic of the pioneer. He kept his martial attitude, but his broad chest heaved painfully, and his eyes grew dim. At last he said, “Good-by. Cattleman right; Drifting Crane wrong. Shake hands. Good-by.” He turned and strode away.

“This is all wrong,” muttered the settler. “There’s land enough for us all, or ought to be. I don’t understand—Well, I’ll leave it to Uncle Sam, anyway.” He ended with a sigh.

THE STORY OF HOWLING WOLF

THE STORY OF HOWLING WOLF

Within two weeks after Captain Cook took charge of the Snake River Agency his native policemen reported that fifteen of his people had crossed the reservation line on their way to the Wind River Country.

“Where have they gone?”

“They gone to see it—their Ghost Dance Saviour,” explained Claude, the agency interpreter.

“Who have gone?”

Claude rapidly ran over the names, and ended with “Howling Wolf.”

“Howling Wolf? Who is he? He isn’t on the rolls. I don’t know anything about him.”

“He head man of Lizard Creek Camp.”

“Why isn’t he on the rolls?”

“He don’t get it—no rations.”

“Why not?”

“He is angry.”

“Angry? What about?”

Out of a good deal of talk the agent secured this story. Seven years before, a brother of Howling Wolf, a peaceful old man, was sitting on a hilltop (near the road) wrapped in evening meditation. His back was toward a white man’s cabin not far away and he was looking at the sunset. His robe was drawn closely round him, and his heart was at peace with all the world, for he was thinking that the way is short between him and the Shadow Land.

A couple of cowboys came out of the door of the cabin and one pointed at the meditating man with derisive gestures. The other drew his revolver and said, “See me knock the hat off the old fool.”

As he fired the old man sprang to his feet with a convulsive leap, the blood streaming over his face. Numbed by the shock and blinded with his own blood, he ran frenziedly and without design toward the miscreant who shot him, and so on over the hill toward Howling Wolf’s camp.

Springing to their horses the two ruffians galloped away with desperate haste.

It was well they did so, for an hour later nothing remained of the ranch but a heap of smoking embers. A hundred angry red men had swept back over the hill—swift to avenge the madness of old Medicine Crow.

The old man was not killed, he lived for more than a year after the wound, but he was never quite himself and when he died Howling Wolf made a solemn declaration of war against the white cattlemen and could not be convinced that the cowboys meant merely to frighten and not to kill his brother. He lived in the hope of some time meeting those men. No one had seen them but David Big Nose, who had been to the white settlement that day, had met the fugitives, and was able to describe them very well and every word of his description burned itself into Howling Wolf’s memory. Thereafter on all his excursions among the whites his eyes were ever seeking, his ears ever listening. He never for an instant lost hope of revenge.

He withdrew from all friendly association with the whites. He was sullen, difficult to deal with and in the end became a powerful influence in checking the progress of the Shi-an-nay along the white man’s road. The agent took little pains to help him clear away his doubts and hates, and so it was that Claude, the interpreter, ended by saying, “and so Howling Wolf no send children to school—no take it rations, and never comes to agency—never.”

Captain Cook sat down and wrote a telegram to the agent of the Sho-sho-nee, saying, “Fifteen of my people are gone without leave to visit the Messiah. If they come into your reservation arrest them and send them back at once.”

Some days later the Wind River agent replied: “Eleven of your Indians came in here—I’ve sent them home. Four went round me to the west. Probably they have gone into the Twin Lake Country, where the Messiah is said to be.”

Some weeks later Big Bear, the policeman, came in with the second announcement, “Howling Wolf come.”

“You tell Howling Wolf I want to see him,” said Cook. “Tell him I want to talk with him, say to him I am his friend and that I want to talk things over.”

Two days later, as he sat at his desk in his inner office, the captain heard the door open and close, and when he looked up, a tall, handsome but very sullen red man was looking down upon him.

“How!” called Cook, pleasantly, extending his hand.

The visitor remained as motionless as a bronze statue of hate, his arms folded, his figure menacing. His eyes seemed to search the soul of the man before him.

“How—_how_!” called Cook again. “Are you deaf? What’s the matter with you? How!”

At this the chief seized the agent’s hand and began shaking it violently, viciously. It was his crippled arm and Cook was soon tired of this horseplay.

“That’ll do, stop it! Stop it, I say. Stop it or by the Lord I’ll smash your face,” he cried, seizing a heavy glass inkstand. He was about to strike his tormentor, when the red man dropped his hand.

Angry and short of breath the agent stepped to the door.

“Claude, come in here. Who is this man? What’s the matter with him?”

“That Howling Wolf,” replied the interpreter, with evident fear.

Cook was enlightened. He turned with a beaming smile. “Howling Wolf, how de do? I’m glad to see you.” And then to Claude: “You tell him my arm is sick and he mustn’t be so hearty with his greetings. Tell him I want to have a long talk with him right off—but I’ve got some papers to sign and I can’t do it now. Tell him to come to-morrow morning.”

They shook hands again, ceremoniously this time, and Howling Wolf withdrew in dignified reserve.

After he went away Cook informed himself thoroughly concerning the former agent’s treatment of Howling Wolf and was ready next morning for a conference.

As he walked into the yard about nine o’clock the agent found fifteen or twenty young men of Howling Wolf’s faction lounging about the door of the office. They were come to see that their leader was not abused—at least such was Cook’s inference.

He was irritated but did not show it. “Go out of the yard!” he said quietly. “I don’t want you here. Claude will tell you all you want to know.” He insisted and, though they scowled sullenly, they obeyed, for he laid his open palm on the breast of the tallest of them and pushed him to the gate. “Come, go out—you’ve no business here.”

Claude was shaking with fear, but regained composure as the young men withdrew.

As they faced Howling Wolf in the inner office, Cook said, “Well now, Wolf, I want you tell me just what is the matter? I am your friend and the friend of all your people. I am a soldier and a soldier does his duty. My duty is to see that you get your rations and that no one harms you. Now what is the trouble?”

Howling Wolf mused a while and then began to recount his grievances one by one. His story was almost exactly as it had been reported by others.

[Illustration: An Indian Trapper

_This Indian trapper depicted by Remington may be a Cree, or perhaps a Blackfoot, whom one was apt to run across in the Selkirk Mountains, or elsewhere on the plains of the British Territory, or well up north in the Rockies, toward the outbreak of the Civil War._

_Illustration from_ SOME AMERICAN RIDERS _by_ Colonel Theodore Ayrault Dodge, U.S.A.

_Originally published in_ HARPER’S MAGAZINE, _May, 1891_]

[Illustration: A Questionable Companionship

_In frontier days when the white man and the Indian met on a lonely trail it was natural for them to watch each other with suspicion as they rode side by side. To both the companionship seemed questionable, until finally some words of the red man convinced the white man that his companion was trustworthy. After that there were a sharing of food or water or tobacco and an admixture of comfort to the companionship._

_Illustration from_ A QUESTIONABLE COMPANIONSHIP

_Originally published in_ HARPER’S WEEKLY, _August 9, 1890_]

The other agent had sworn at him and once had kicked at him—“for which I will kill him”—he added with quiet menace. “He has tried to steal away my children to teach them white man’s ways. I don’t want them to learn white man’s ways. White man lie, and steal and quarrel. Then the agent cut off my rations which are a part of our treaty and I was hungry. For all this I am angry at white men.”

When he had finished the agent said, “You’re all wrong, Howling Wolf. Some white men are bad, but many are good and want to do the Indian good. I am one of those who are set aside by the Great Father to see that your rights are secured. You may depend on me. Go ask Red Beard, Wolf Voice, or White Calf, they will tell you the kind of man I am. I’m going to be your friend whether you are my friend or not. I want you to come and see me. I want you to draw your rations and be friends with me. Will you do it? I want you to think about this to-night and come and see me again.”

For fully five minutes Howling Wolf sat thinking deeply with his eyes on the floor. His lips twitched occasionally and his broad breast heaved with profound emotion. It was hard to trust the white man even when he smiled, for his tongue had ever been forked like the rattlesnake and his hand exceedingly cunning. His deeds also were mysterious. Out of the east he came and monstrous things followed him—canoes that belched flame and thunder, iron horses that drew huge wagons, with a noise like a whirlwind. They brought plows that tore the sod, machines that swept away the grass. Their skill was diabolical. They all said, “dam Injun,” and in those words displayed their hearts. They desolated, uprooted and transformed. They made the red men seem like children and weak women by their necromancy. Was there no end to their coming? Was there no clear sky behind this storm? What mighty power pushed them forward?

And yet they brought good things. They brought sugar and flour and strange fruits. They knew how to make pleasant drinks and to raise many grains. They were not all bad. They were like a rainstorm which does much harm and great good also. Besides, here was this smiling man, his agent, waiting to hear what he had to say.

At last he was able to look up, and though he did not smile, his face was no longer sullen. He rose and extended his hand. “I will do as you say. I will go home and think. I will come to see you again and I will tell you all my mind.”

When he came two days later he met the agent with a smile. “How! My friend—How!” he said pleasantly.

The agent took him to his inner office where none might hear and made the sign “Be seated.”

Howling Wolf sat down and began by saying, “I could not come yesterday, for I had not yet finished thinking over your words. When night came I did as you said. I lay alone in my tepee looking up at a star just above and my thoughts were deep and calm. You are right, Howling Wolf is wrong. Nobody ever explained these things to me before. All white men said, ‘Go here,’ ‘Do that,’ ‘Don’t go there,’ ‘Don’t do that,’—they never explained and I did not understand their reasons for doing so. No white man ever shook hands with me like a friend. They all said, ‘Dam Injun’—all Shi-an-nay know those words. You are not so. You are a just man—everybody tells me so. I am glad of this. It makes my heart warm and well. I have taken on hope for my people once more. I had a heart of hate toward all the white race—now all that is gone. It is buried deep under the ground. I want to be friends with all the world and I want you to make me a paper—will you do it?”

“Certainly,” replied the agent. “What shall it be?”

The old man rose and with deep solemnity dictated these words to be mysteriously recorded in the white man’s wonderful tablet:

“Say this: I am Howling Wolf. Long I hated the white man. Now my heart is good and I want to make friends with all white men. I want to work with a plow and live in a house like the white man. These are my words. Howling Wolf.”

To this the old man put his sign: and as he folded the paper and put it away in his pouch, he said, “This shall be a sign to all men. This paper I will show to all Shi-an-nay and to all the white men. It will tell them that my heart is made good.”

And he went out with the glow of good cheer upon his face.

II

Now Howling Wolf was a chief. He had never lifted a heavy burden in his life—though others of the Shi-an-nay came often to the Agency farmer for work. They enjoyed freighting and whenever there were hides to go to the distant railway or goods to be fetched, the agent employed them and, though their ponies were small and shifty, they managed, nevertheless, to do creditable work with them. They cut wood and made hay and mended bridges cunningly and well. Howling Wolf had kept away from all this work. He did not believe in it.

Two days after his talk with the agent the clerk was amazed to see Howling Wolf drive down to the warehouse to secure a load of hides. He had no wagon of his own, but he had hired one of his son-in-law, Painted Feather, and was prepared to do his share. In the glow of his new peace he wished to do more than his share. He helped everybody to load and waited till the last, willing to take what was left.

The agent, hearing of this zeal of his convert, came down to see him and smilingly asked, “Why work so hard, Howling Wolf?”

“I will tell you,” said Howling Wolf. “In my evil days I took no part in making the fences and laying the bridges—now I want to catch up. Therefore I must work twice as hard as anyone else.”

“Howling Wolf, you do me honor,” said the agent. “I shake your hand. You are now safely on the white man’s road.”

To this Howling Wolf only said, “My heart is very good to-day. I am happy and I go to see the white man’s big camp. I shall keep my eyes open and learn many good things.”

The teams laden with their skins had just passed the big red jaws of Bitterwood Cañon when a party of cowboys overtook them.

“Hello there,” yelled one big fellow. “Where you going with those hides?”

Howling Wolf heard the curses, but his heart was soft with newborn love for his enemies and he smilingly greeted his foes. “How! how!”

“See the old seed grin. Let’s shoot him up a few and see him hustle.”

“Oh come along, let ’em alone, Bill,” said one of the other men.

“That’s old Howling Wolf,” put in the third man. “Better let him be. He’s a fighter.”

“Are you old Howling Wolf?” asked Bill, riding alongside.

Howling Wolf nodded and smiled again—though he understood only his name.

“Fighter, are you?” queried the cowboy, “Eat men up—hey?”

“How, how!” repeated the old man as pleasantly as he was able, though his eyes were growing stern.

“I’d like to hand him out a package just for luck. He’s too good-natured. What say?”

“Oh, come along Bill,” urged his companions. As they rode by the next wagon, wherein sat a younger man, Bill called out, “Get out o’ the road!”

“Go to hell!” replied the driver, Harry Turtle, a Carlisle student. “You are a big fool.”

Bill drew his revolver and spurred his horse against Harry’s off pony and bawled, “I’d cut your hide into strips for a cent!”

Harry rose in his wagon and uttered a cry of warning which stopped every team, and his eyes flamed in hot anger. “You go!” he said, “or we will kill you.” The cowboys drew off, Brindle Bill belching imprecations, but his companions were genuinely alarmed and rode between him and the wagons and in this way prevented an outbreak. Howling Wolf reproved young Turtle and said: “Do not make any reply to them. We must be careful not to anger the white men.”

They reached the railway safely and, having unloaded their freight, went into camp about a half mile from the town on the river flat beneath some cottonwood trees.

To every white man that spoke to him Howling Wolf replied pleasantly and was very happy to think he was serving the agent and also earning some money. The citizens were generally contemptuous of him, and some of them refused his extended hand, but he did not lay that up against them. It had been long since he had seen a white man’s town and he was vastly interested in everything. He was amazed at the stores of blankets and saddles and calico which he saw. He looked at the gayly painted wagons with envy, for he had no wagon of his own and he saw that to travel on the white man’s road a wagon was necessary. He looked at harnesses also with covetous eyes. Every least thing had value to him, the pictures on the fences, on the peach cans, on the tobacco boxes, the pumps, the horse troughs and fountains—nothing escaped his eager eyes. He was like a boy again.

He was standing before a shop window lost in the attempt to understand the use of all the marvelous things he saw there, when a saloon door opened and a party of loud-talking white men came out. He turned his head quickly and perceived the three cowboys who had passed him on the road. They recognized him also and their leader swaggered up to him, made reckless with drink, and began to abuse him.

“So you’re Howling Wolf, are ye? Big chief. Drink blood. Why I’d break you in two pieces for a leatherette. I’m Brindle Bill, you understand, I’d a killed you on the road only——”

Howling Wolf again understood only the curses, but he turned a calm face upon his enemy and extended his hand. “How? How, white man?”

Bill spat into his hand.