Part 19

For a long time the messenger lay as if dead and no one dared disturb him. My chief sat smoking, patiently waiting for Kicking Bear to speak. At last he came to life again and sat up. “I have seen the Father,” he said, with shining face, “and he has given me a sign. He has made my left hand stronger than the strongest man. Come and see!” He held out his hand and my father took it, but it scared him and he flung it away from him. It made his muscles contract and his flesh sting as if needles had been thrust into it. Then The Bear cried out: “See! I am telling the truth. I have seen the Messiah. He has given me an arm of power for a sign. He told me to return and teach The Sitting Bull the new religion.” He laid hold of a heavy white cup. “See the sign?” he cried, and ground the cup to pieces on his hand.

The Sitting Bull was deeply troubled. “We will talk of this to-morrow,” and he went away profoundly stirred by what he had seen.

The next morning he called a council of his close friends, and at last sent for Kicking Bear, and said: “Your story is sweet in our ears. It may be true. I do not think so, but we will try. We have come to the time when all weapons are useless. We are despairing and weak. Guns are of no avail. The Great Spirit has certainly turned his face away. It may be that prayer and song will cause him to smile upon us again. _You may teach us the dance._”

X

THE DANCE BEGINS

So it was that in the prepared soil of my people’s minds this seed of mystery fell. It was not a new religion; it was indeed very old. Many other races had believed it; the time was come for the Sioux to take it to themselves. In their despair they greedily seized upon it. In their enforced idleness they welcomed it.

Swiftly the news flew, wildly exaggerated, of course. It was said that the Messiah had sent a message direct to the chief, and that a sign had been given to the courier which had convinced my father and many others—though The Sitting Bull yet doubted.

Uncapappas are like any other folk. There are excitable ones and doubting ones, those who believe easily and those who are disposed to prove all things. Many old women with sons and daughters lately passed to the spirit land laid hold upon this news with instant belief. Winter was coming again; food was scarce; the children were ailing; life was joyless and held no promise of happier things. So, as among the white people, the bereaved were quick to embrace any faith which promised reunion.

At last men of keener intelligence, like my father, considered it, saying: “It may be true. The white man had a Saviour. Why should not the Great Spirit send one to us? We can at least examine into this man’s story. We can go and see the dance.”

Others, who had outgrown the faith of their fathers, and who had also rejected the Christian religion, smiled and said, “It is foolish!” Nevertheless, curious to see what was done, they loitered near to look on and laugh.

Last of all were those who brooded bitterly upon the past—the chained lions who had never accepted the white man’s dominion, who feared nothing but captivity, and who sat ever in their tepees with their blankets around them smoking, ruminating, reliving the brave, ancient days. “We are prisoners,” they said. “We are not allowed to leave the narrow bounds of our bleak reservation. We can neither hunt nor visit our friends. What is the use of living? Why not die in battle? Is it not better to be slain and pass at once to the spirit land than to die of starvation and cold? We know the fate of the dead cannot be worse than our lot here.”

In the light of memory the country of their youth was a land of waving grass, resplendent skies, rippling streams, shining tepees, laughter, song, and heroic deeds. In dreams they were once more young scouts, selected for special duty. In dreams they rode again over the boundless swelling plain, hunting the great black cattle of the wild. They lay in wait for the beaver beside streams without a name. They sat deep in pits, hearing the roaring rush of the swooping eagle, and always when they woke to reality they found themselves ragged beggars under the control of a white man, betrayed and forgotten by their recreant allies.

What had they retained of all this mighty heritage? A minute patch of barren ground and the blessed privilege of working like a Chinaman or a negro. Of all the old-time adventurous, plentiful, and peaceful life the white settlers had bereft them. Mile by mile the invaders had eaten up the sod. The buffalo, the elk, the beaver had disappeared before their guns. Stream after stream they had bridged and in the valleys they had set their fences. The agent always talked as though every red man who wished could have a large house and fruit trees and pleasant things, but it was quite certain now that nothing remained for these proud hunters of the bison but a practical slavery to the settler; to clean the dung from the white man’s stables was their fate.

With this view the “Silent Eaters” had most sympathy. In the days immediately following their return from the north they had caught some of the enthusiasm of their teachers. They, too, had hoped for some of the good things of the white man’s civilization.

The Sitting Bull himself had been hopeful. He had spoken bravely to them advising them to set their feet in the white man’s road; but as the years passed one by one he had felt with ever-increasing bitterness the checks and constraints of his warden. He had seen sycophants and hypocrites exalted and his own wishes thwarted or treated with contempt and his face had grown ever sadder and sterner. When he looked into the future he saw the almost certain misery and final extinction of his race, so inevitably he, too, had turned his eyes inward to dream of the past. Having no hope of earthly things, he was now, in spite of himself, allured by the stories of this Saviour in the West. Certainly he could not forbid his people this comfort.

He had, too, the natural pride of the leader. He considered himself as he was, the head man of his tribe, and it hurt him to find himself completely shorn of command. The agent now deliberately humiliated him, ignoring his suggestions and misrepresenting him among the white men. “These old chiefs must give way,” he said. “If we are to civilize these Indians, all of the old tribal government must be torn up.” And in this he had the support of many friends of my race.

One of the most serious differences existing at this time lay in The Sitting Bull’s refusal to recognize the authority of the agent’s native police. “I am still the head of my tribe,” he proudly said. “I do not need your help in order to keep the peace.”

Then the agent very shrewdly appointed those who were jealous of the chief to be the heads of his police force, and so made sure of them in case of trouble. The chief was made to look and feel like a man living by sufferance, while renegades whom he despised and recreants whom he hated were put in power over him. Yet he was bearing all this quietly; he had even submitted to personal abuse, rather than prove a disturber.

This message from the Messiah came, therefore, just at a time when the chief and his “Silent Eaters” were suffering their final degradation at the hands of the agent. It was hard to die at this time like outcast dogs, with no hope for their people. They could not understand why they should be made the target of the agent’s malice. They had the pride of leadership. It was honorable to be a chief. The qualities which went to make a chieftain were not mean; they were noble. Why should other and lower men be placed in contemptuous authority over them?

And so these proud spirits shut their eyes to the future and longed, as no white man can ever know, for the glorious days of the buffalo.

For three days The Kicking Bear instructed the few who believed, preparing them for the dance. “You must cast aside everything that the white man has brought to you,” he said. “The Messiah commands that all metals be thrown away. Lay down all weapons, for this is a dance of peace. It is needful that you dress as in the olden time before the invader came. Let each one who dances and accepts the word of the Father wear a white eagle plume, for this will be a sign when the new earth comes. You will be caught up into the clouds by reason of your faith, while all others will perish. You must purify yourselves, also, by use of the sweat lodge, and after the dance you must bathe in clear, cold water. During this time you must put away all anger and harshness and speak kindly to all persons. Thus says the Father.”

There was something lofty in all this and it moved men very deeply and the chief listened intently to it all.

On the third night of his preaching I was present, for my father had sent for me to come. After drawing from me a promise to tell no white man, he described all that had happened. I was not at first impressed. “It is foolish,” I said.

“Nevertheless you must come and see this man. He is a wonderful magician. I do not understand him.”

The meeting took place in the chief’s tepee, which was large and strong. As I entered I saw many men and women sitting just outside the door in little groups, but only about fifteen people had been invited to join the circle which I soon found was formed to rehearse some of the ceremonial songs of the Messiah. A small, clear fire glowed in the center of the lodge, and the chief’s strong face was fixed in its place at the back of the lodge. On his right was The Kicking Bear. On his left was a vacant place; this my father took. At a sign from the chief I sat next my father.

[Illustration: A Fantasy from the Pony War Dance

_Among the many interesting features of the pageant given on special occasions by the Blackfoot Indians on their reservation in Canada, the most spectacular is the Pony War Dance, or the_ Departure for Battle. _In this scene about sixty young men take part, riding horses as wild as themselves. The acting is fierce—not like the conduct of a mimic battle on our stage—but performed with the desperate zest of men who hope for distinction in war._

_Illustration from_ CHARTERING A NATION _by_ Julian Ralph

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

[Illustration: Chis-Chis-Chash Scout On the Flanks

_The Cheyenne, or—to use the name the Cheyennes apply to themselves—the Chis-Chis-Chash, scouts belonged to the corps from Pine Ridge organized on that reservation, and, with other Cheyennes from Tongue River, rendered valuable service to Uncle Sam during the Sioux outbreak of 1890 in South Dakota. In December of that year these brave Indians had many a skirmish with the savage Sioux, who, clothed in the ghost shirt, went on the warpath, taking refuge in the Bad Lands—a region that seemed made for stratagem and murder, with nothing to witness its mysteries but the cold blue winter sky._

_Illustration from_ LIEUTENANT CASEY’S LAST SCOUT _by_ Frederic Remington

_Originally published in Pony Tracks_, Harper & Brothers, 1895]

Shortly after our entry the chief lit his pipe, and after offering it to the Earth Spirits and to the Spirits Above, handed it to his visitor. The Bear made the same offering, and after smoking passed it on. So it went round the circle. When the chief had it in his hands once more, The Kicking Bear and his five companions rose and, stretching their hands to the west, stood still while The Bear prayed:

“O great spirit in the west Our Father, Take pity on us. We are poor and weak. Send us good tidings. Help us to see the good land. Help us to see our loved ones.”

Then he began singing a song—a song of promise—and these were the words:

“The Father says so, He has promised surely You shall see your dead once more. They will come to life again. You shall see your kindred Of the spirit land. This the Father saith To his faithful ones.”

This song moved me, though I was a doubter. It was sung with great vigor and earnestness. It was the opening song of the dance, The Bear explained to us, and then all sat down, and one by one the visitors took up and sang the songs they had learned. There were many of them and they were based upon the same idea—that of a resurrection of the dead, the renewal of the worn-out old earth and the return of the buffalo.

As they sang my head was filled with many great but confused thoughts. In that light, with those surroundings, any magic seemed possible. It was thus that the disciples of Christ of Galilee came together and talked of his message. I had listened often to the white man’s religion, and yet the hymns of the martyrs could not move me as did these songs. The past and the present fused together strangely in my mind as the ancient shining winds blew and the old rejoicing days came back.

You shall reset the tepees. You shall eat pemmican once more. You shall hang up the buffalo meat. And there shall be plenty everywhere. You shall live and not die in the old world which returns anew. You shall chase the buffalo. You shall gayly race on the bright prairie.

These were the promises of the songs, and as the visitors sang my despairing people became like little children; their hearts melted, they laughed and wept and shouted in time to the music. Some strange power seemed to go with the motions of The Bear’s hands. We all seemed to be looking upon the very scenes of which he sang, and my throat closed with an emotion I could not control.

An old man, called Looking Eagle, suddenly rose and, stretching forth his hands, cried out in a thrilling voice:

“I see it—the new land! I can see the buffalo feeding in myriads. It is Spring and the grass is new. My father stands at the door of his lodge. He calls with his hand. My mother is there. Ho! I come, my father.”

Then he fell on the ground and The Kicking Bear and his friends joined hands and, breaking into a song which made my own heart leap, they began to dance in a circle about the fire:

“The whole world of the dead is returning. Our nation is coming, is coming, is coming. The eagle has brought us the message, Bearing the word of the Father— The word and the wish of the Father. Over the glad new earth they are coming, Our dead come driving the elk and the deer. See them hurrying the herds of the bison. This the Father has promised, This the Father has given.”

One by one those sitting gave way and rose and joined the dance, till only the chief, Slohan, and I remained seated. My father joined them at the last, and outside the tepee the voices of women could be heard catching and trying the song. It was agonizing to hear. It strained every heart to bursting with longing and sadness.

Suddenly The Bear’s head began to rock violently from side to side; it seemed as if it would wrench itself from its place. His eyes set in a dreadful stare, his mouth fixed in a horrible gape. Then shaking himself free, he fell close to the fire, face downward.

The others danced for a little while longer, then took seats and waited for the return of the spirit of their priest. Looking Eagle still slept.

The Sitting Bull sat in silence, smoking gravely, slowly, but his hand trembled. It was plain that he, too, longed to believe in the dance, but he could not. My own nerves were quivering with the excitement and I waited with almost breathless eagerness for the waking of the sleepers.

It was a long time—it seemed that it was nearly morning—when The Bear began to stir again and to rub his eyes as if wakened from sleep. He was very quiet and his voice was gentle as he said: “I have been with the Father. He gave me another message to The Sitting Bull. This it is: ‘_All the people to the South are dancing my dance. Will the chief of all the Sioux walk behind his nation?_’”

Then the chief said, “When my son there,”—he touched my arm—“or one of my trusted warriors can go to the spirit world and return to tell me it is true, then I may believe. If this religion is true all other deeds are worthless. Bring me proof. My ears are open, my eyes are not yet dim. If these songs are true, then I shall weep no more. If they are not true, then I wish to die. Let us hold a dance to-morrow.” And with a sign he dismissed us, but he himself remained alone with Looking Eagle, who still lay motionless where he had fallen.

XI

THE BREAKING OF THE PEACE PIPE

A knowledge of the dance spread like flame throughout all the Grand River district, and young and old began to flock to The Sitting Bull’s camp, eager to hear more, eager to experiment. “We also wish to see our friends who have gone before us,” they said. “We wish to hear what they say. Teach us the way of the trance.”

I felt the influence of their thought very strongly what time I sat 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.