Part 22

The chief turned to me. “Is this true? Have they talked of putting me in prison?”

I could not deny this, and while I sat in silence, seeking words which would not inflame him, Catch the Bear said: “I have heard that they have planned to kill you. Do not go to the agency.”

The chief was now convinced that the agent and myself had come to entice him into a snare. He rose, and his face took on the warrior’s lionlike look as he said: “I will not go to the agency. I will not die in prison. If I am to die it will be here, as a soldier, on the spot where I was born.”

Even then the agent could have won him by pacific speech, but he too was angry, and he said: “I give you till to-morrow morning to decide. If you do not come to the agency I will send the police and take you.” He then went back to the school.

To Carignan he said, as he got into his wagon: “You had better send all your people up to the post. I am going to arrest The Sitting Bull to-night and it may make trouble,” and in this spirit he drove away.

XIII

THE CHIEF PLANS A JOURNEY

That was a dark night in The Sitting Bull’s camp. The women were weeping and the men, with faces sullen and fierce, gathered in solemn council. Black Wolf, Catch the Bear and The Two Strike loudly advocated resistance, their hot hearts aflame, but the chief kept on smoking his pipe, which is the sign of indecision. He was still the peacemaker and concerned over the welfare of his people.

When he spoke he said: “To fight now is to die. The white man will crush us like flies. I know that for I have seen his armies. The happy hunting grounds are as near to me as to any of you, but I am not ready to die. I have thought deeply over the matter, and I have resolved not to fight, for unless we intend to kill all our children and so leave no one to follow us, the white man will visit his hate on those who remain. If the agent comes with his renegades to arrest me I will resist to the death, but if the soldiers come for me I will go with them, for they have the hearts of warriors and know how to treat a chief. This is my decision; but whatever comes, let no one interfere in my behalf, for to do so would only mean bloodshed, and that will do no good. I am your head—they will visit their punishment on me. I will meet them alone.”

Thereupon he spoke to his “Silent Eaters” and said: “Put sentinels on the hills and keep watch on all that is done at the agency. Let no spy approach us.”

The dance went on after that in a sort of frenzy, as if desperate by need. The cries of those who prayed were heart-breaking to hear. “O Great Spirit, save us; bring the happy land quickly, ere the white man slays us,” this they wailed over and over again, for the days were fleet and the wolves of winter near.

When the chief did not appear as he had promised, then the agent drew a dead line between the agency and the camp, and brought into play the forces of hunger and cold. He sent word to all the Grand River people, commanding them to move up and go into permanent camp near the agency. “Those who do not come will be cut off from their rations.” And to his clerk he said: “That will show the old chief’s followers where they stand.”

The effect of this order cannot be overstated. The north wind was now 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.