Cheyenne Scouts Patrolling the Big Timber of the North Canadian, OklahomaIllustration fromCHEYENNE SCOUTS IN OKLAHOMAOriginally published inHarper’s Weekly,April 6, 1889
Two indians looking over a valleyIndians Reconnoitering from a Mountain-topThe keen eye of the Indian is able to distinguish objects even in such an extensive view as this appears to be. To the white man, however, the Western landscape—red, yellow, blue, in a prismatic way, shaded by cloud forms and ending among them—appears as something unreal.Illustration fromSUN-DOWN’S HIGHER SELFbyFrederic RemingtonOriginally published inHarper’s Magazine,November, 1898
Indians Reconnoitering from a Mountain-topThe keen eye of the Indian is able to distinguish objects even in such an extensive view as this appears to be. To the white man, however, the Western landscape—red, yellow, blue, in a prismatic way, shaded by cloud forms and ending among them—appears as something unreal.Illustration fromSUN-DOWN’S HIGHER SELFbyFrederic RemingtonOriginally published inHarper’s Magazine,November, 1898
The keen eye of the Indian is able to distinguish objects even in such an extensive view as this appears to be. To the white man, however, the Western landscape—red, yellow, blue, in a prismatic way, shaded by cloud forms and ending among them—appears as something unreal.
Our camp was very large and my chief was in the fullness of his command. Some of the Ogallallahs had joined us before and with the Cheyennes we were nearly fifteen hundred lodges. We made no effort at concealing our trail. We moved in a body, and where we went we left a broad and dusty road. We trailed leisurely up the Yellowstone to the mouth of the Rosebud and up the Rosebud to the head of a small creek which emptied into Greasy Grass Creek (a stream which the whites call the Little Big Horn) at a point where there was plenty of wood and good grazing.
The chief as he looked down upon this valley said: “It is good. We will camp here,” and to this they all agreed. It was indeed a beautiful place. I was but a lad, but I remember that beautiful scene, finer than anything in all our own lands. Hunting parties were at once sent out to find the buffalo, and some of the chief’s “Silent Eaters” mounted the hills to spy backward on our trail.
The hunters reported the country clear of foes and buffalo near, and as the spies brought no news of invaders the people threw off all care. With feasts and dances they began to celebrate their escape from the oppressor. We were beginning the world anew in this glorious country.
One day in midsummer—I remember it now with beating heart—just in the midst of our preparation for a dance, the cry arose: “The white soldiers—they are coming!Get your horses!”
I remember clearly the very instant. I was sitting in my father’s lodge, painting my face for the dance, when this sound arose. The shouting came from the camp of The Gall, whose lodges stood at the extreme south end of the circle. From where I stood I could see nothing, but as I ran up the west bank to find my horse I detected a long line of white soldiers riding swiftly down the valley from the south. They came like a moving wall and the sun glittered on their guns as they reloaded them. Before them the women and children were fleeing like willow leaves before a November wind.
My heart was beating so hard I could scarcely speak. I was but a boy and had never seen a white soldier, yet now I must fight.All around me were hundreds of other young men and boys roping, bridling, and mounting the plunging ponies.
As we came sweeping back my father passed us, leading the white horse of the chief, and as we came near the headquarters tent the chief came out wearing a war-bonnet and carrying his saddle. This he flung on his horse, and when he was mounted my father and his guard surrounded him and they rode away. My father took my horse and I saw neither him nor the chief till night. I heard that he tried to check the battle, but the young men of Chief Gall’s camp had routed the enemy’s column before he reached there and the soldiers were spurring their horses into the river and dashing up the hills in mad effort to get away.
The camp was a mighty whirlpool of confusion. The women were taking down the lodges, weeping and singing, the old men and boys were roping the horses together, and the ground was covered with a litter of blankets, saddles, pouches, and other things which escaped notice or seemed unimportant, and all the time we could hear the rapid cracking of the guns and it seemed as if we were all to be killed. No one knew how many soldiers there were. All seemed lost, our shining, peaceful world about to be shattered and destroyed.
I ran to catch another horse, and when I was mounted and once more in sight of the valley it was almost deserted. The women and children were all gathered in throngs on the west bank, straining their eyes toward the cloud of smoke which marked the retreat of soldiers to the southeast, singing songs of prayer and exaltation.
Suddenly a wild cry arose, and looking where an old woman pointed, I saw on the bare crest of the hill to the east a fluttering flag. A moment later four horsemen appeared, then four more, and so in column of fours they streamed into view, a long line of them.
“Go tell the warriors,” screamed my mother to me, and, lashing my pony, I started down the slope diagonally toward a body of our soldiers who were returning from pursuit of the other soldiers.
They were warned by some one nearer to them than I. I saw them turn and spur their horses in a wild race along the river bank. I had no weapon, but I kept on till I joined the rear rank. There were hundreds in this charge.
You have heard that my people ambushed Custer. This is a lie. The place where he stood to view our camp was a hill as bare as your hand. He saw us, knew how many we were, and rode to meet us. It was an open attack on our part. Chief Gall led his band up a steep ravine and swept round behind the troopers, each man clinging to the far side of his horse and shooting beneath his neck.
You have heard it said that we outnumbered Custer ten to one. This, too, is false. We had less than twelve hundred warriors, counting old and young. We had old-fashioned guns—many of our men had only clubs or arrows or lances. Many were boys like myself, with not even a club. We were taken unawares, not they. They had the new magazine rifles and six-shot revolvers. They were all experienced warriors, while we were not; indeed most of our men had never been in battle before and they had no notion of discipline. Each man fought alone, without direction. We were a disorderly mass of excited men. Everybody gave orders; no one was leader. That is the way of my people. We have no commander-in-chief. We fight in bands. Chief Gall led one charge, the daughter of Old Horse led another, American Horse led a third, and so it proceeded as a mob goes to war.
I could not see much of what followed, for a great cloud of dust and smoke covered the hill. Nobody had any clear idea of the battle. It was very hot and we took no notice of time, but it must have been about half past ten when the fight began. It did not last very long.
Once as I dashed near I caught a glimpse of the white soldiers, some kneeling, some standing, with their terrible guns ever ready,crack—crack—crack, while our warriors circled around them, dashing close in order to fire and retreating to reload. It seemed thatsome of the soldiers ran out of ammunition early, for they sat holding their guns without firing.
The fire was slackening as I rode down to the river to drink, and when I returned all was still and the smoke was slowly drifting away. Once or twice a band of young braves dashed in close to the last group of tangled bodies, and when no weapon flashed back they dismounted to peer about, looking for Long Hair.
We did not know then that General Custer had cut his hair short, and we all took the body of a man with long black hair to be the chief. I now see that we were mistaken. He was a scout. Some of the men stripped the bodies of the white men of their clothes, while others moved about, counting the dead. There were not many red men killed. Our manner of fighting saved us from heavy loss. You have heard that our soldiers mangled the dead. This is not true. Some crazy old women and a few renegades did so, but our chiefs did not countenance this. You call this a “massacre,” but to us it was a battle, honorable to us as to the bluecoats.
The chief’s “Silent Eaters” rode forth among the old men and women and commanded them to camp again. This they did, but in a different place, farther down the river, near where the Crow agency now stands.
The chief was very sorrowful, for he realized the weight of this battle. Foolish ones rode about exulting, but he rebuked them. “This is all bad. The Great Father at Washington will now be very angry, for we have killed his soldiers. The war chief will come against us with greater fury than ever. We cannot remain here.”
I was told that he did not visit the field of the dead. I do not know the truth of this, but he sat in his lodge, pondering, while Gall and his men held Reno prisoner on the hill. It was only a matter of wearing them out and then the whole army would be defeated, so the foolish ones said.
All the chiefs met in council at sunset, and The Sitting Bull said: “We cannot afford to make war on the white soldiers. They aretoo many and too brave. My heart is heavy with this day’s work. It is our first battle with the bluecoats and I now look to see all their war chiefs assemble against us. We must leave this place. There is no refuge for us here. We must go farther into the unknown world to the west. In ancient days our people migrated and now our turn has come.”
There was little sleep that night. All through the long hours the wail of the grief-stricken ones went on, and over the field of the dead the “war women” ran frenzied with grief, mutilating the bodies of their enemies. It was a night to make a boy grow old. My father said: “All hope of ever seeing our ancient home is gone. Henceforth we must dwell in the lands of our enemies.” And his face filled one with despair. I wept with my mother.
Early next day the mass of our warriors swept out against Reno, and he, too, would have perished like Custer but that the chief’s ever-watchful spies from a distant butte caught and flashed forward these terrifying signs.
“More soldiers are coming up the river—a mighty host in steamboats.”
Then the chief sent forth his camp soldiers among the lodges with this news and with orders to get ready to move instantly. Couriers rushed away to the hills to recall those who were besieging Reno. The women and old men again hurriedly packed the lodges, whilst we lads gathered up the ponies, and at last, following the old chiefs and The Sitting Bull, we streamed away up the river toward the mountains, leaving the field to our enemy’s scouts, but on every hill stood a “Silent Eater,” and through them we had knowledge of each movement of those who rescued Reno and buried the dead.
We camped that night in the hills far toward some great shining, snowy peaks, the like of which we had never seen.
The troops which were under command of General Terry did not stay long. They did not even look about very closely. They were afraid they might find us, I think. They hurriedly buried thedead and retreated quickly down the Big Horn to the Yellowstone, followed by our scouts, who reported every movement to The Sitting Bull.
This retreat of Terry made many of our leaders bold, and some of them, like The Gall, wished to pursue and strike again, but my chief opposed that. It is true he gave orders to return to the mouth of what is now Reno Creek, but he did this because in our haste we had left many ropes and saddles and other things lying scattered on the grass, and we needed them. This was the third day after the battle and no enemy was in sight.
On this night the chiefs counciled again and The Sitting Bull advised flight. “Let us set our breasts to the west wind and not look back,” he said. “The white man fills the East. Toward the setting sun are the buffalo. Let us make friends with all our red brethren and go among them, and live in peace.”
But the old men were timid. They said: “We do not know the land to the west; it is all very strange to us. It is said to be filled with evil creatures. The mountains reach to the sky. The people are strong as bears and will destroy us. Let us remain among the Crows whom we know. Let us make treaty with them.”
To this the chief at last agreed, and gave orders to be ready to march early the next morning. “When a man’s heart beats with fear it is a good thing to keep moving,” he said to my father.
Thus began a retreat which is strange to tell of, for we retraced our trail over the low divide back into the valley of the Rosebud, and so down the Yellowstone to the Missouri, ready to enter upon our exile. It was all new territory to most of us. Our food was gone, and when our hunters brought news of buffalo ahead we rushed forward joyously, keeping to the north, and so entered the land of the Crows.
Meanwhile the white soldiers had also retreated. They didn’t know where we were. Perhaps they were afraid we would suddenly strike them on the flank. Anyhow, they withdrew and filled theEast (as I afterward learned) with lies about us and our chiefs. They said the chief had four thousand warriors, that he was accompanied by a white soldier, and many other foolish things.
Our people rejoiced now, and at The Sitting Bull’s advice our band broke up into small parties, the better to hunt and prepare meat for winter. It was easier to provide food when divided into small groups, and so my chief’s great “army,” as the white men called it, scattered, to meet again later.
It must have been in October that we came together, and in the great council which followed, the chief announced that the white soldiers were coming again and that it was necessary to push on to the north. This was on the Milk River, and there you may say the last stand of the Sioux took place—for it was in this council that the hearts of the Ogallallahs, our allies, weakened. One by one their orators rose and said: “We are tired of running and fighting. We do not like this cold northland. We do not care to go farther. The new white-soldier chief is building a fort at Tongue River. He has many soldiers and demands our surrender. He has offered to receive us kindly.”
My chief rose and with voice of scorn said: “Very well. If your hearts are water, if you desire to become white men, go!” And they rose and slipped away hastily and we saw them no more.
Then the Cheyennes said: “We, too, have decided to return to our own land. We dread the desolate north.”
Then my chief was very sad, for the Cheyennes are mighty warriors. “Very well, my brothers,” he replied. “You came of your own accord and we will not keep you. We desire your friendship. Go in peace.”
So they left us. We were now less than half of our former strength, but we faced the north winds with brave hearts—even the women sang to cheer our way.
We were near the Missouri when Miles, the white chief, suddenly threw himself in our way and demanded a council.
A battle would have been very unequal at this time, for our warriors were few and our women and children many; therefore, The Sitting Bull and five chiefs went forth to meet Miles and his aides.
Perhaps you have read the white man’s side of this. I will tell you of the red man’s part, for my father rode beside our chief at this time.
Colonel Miles had over four hundred men and a cannon. His men were all armed perfectly, while we had less than a thousand men and boys, and many of even the men had no guns at all. We were burdened with the women and children, too.
Six white men met The Sitting Bull and his five braves. My father was one of these men and he told me what took place.
The chief rode forward slowly, and as he neared the white chief he greeted him quietly, then lifted his hands to the sky in a prayer to the Great Spirit. “Pity me, teach me. Give me wise words,” he whispered.
“Which of you is The Sitting Bull?” asked Colonel Miles.
“I am,” replied the chief.
“I am glad to meet you. You are a good warrior and a great leader.”
To this my chief abruptly replied: “Why do you remain in my country? Why do you build a camp here?”
Thereupon Miles sternly answered: “We are under orders to bring you in. I do not wish to make war on you, but you must submit and come under the rule of the department at Washington.”
The Sitting Bull made reply quietly, but with emphasis: “This country belongs to the red man and not to the white man. I do not care to make war on you. My people are weary of fighting and fleeing.”
“Why do you not come in and live quietly on your reservation at the Standing Rock?”
“Because I am a red man and not an agency beggar. Thebluecoats drove us west of the Missouri, they robbed us of the Black Hills, they have forced us to take this land from the Crows, but we wish to live at peace. You have no right to come here. You must withdraw all your troops and take all settlers with you. There never lived a paleface who loved a redskin, and no Lakota ever loves a paleface. Our interests are directly opposed. Only in trade can we meet in peace. I am Uncapappa and I desire to live the ways of my fathers in the valleys which the Great Spirit gave to my people. I have not declared war against Washington, but I will fight when you push me to the wall. I do not like to be at strife. It is not pleasant to be always fleeing before your guns. This western world is wide; it is lonely of human life. Why do you not leave it to us? All my days I have lived far from your people. All that I got of you I have paid for. My band owes you nothing. Go back to the sunrise and we will live as the Great Spirit ordained that we should do.”
General Miles was much moved, but said: “I want you to go with me to meet the Great Father’s representatives and talk with them.”
“No,” my chief replied. “I am afraid to do that, now that we have had a battle with your soldiers. We went far away and your warriors followed us. They fell upon us while we were unprepared. They shot our women and children and they burned our tepees. Then we fought, as all brave men should, and we killed many. I did not desire this, but so it came about. Do not blame me.”
The white chief was silent for a time, then he said: “If you do not give up your arms and come upon the reservation I will follow you and destroy you.”
At this my chief broke forth: “My friend, we had better quit talking while we are good-natured.” Then lifting his arm in a powerful gesture, he uttered a great vow: “So long as there is a prairie dog for my children, or a handful of grass for my horses, The Sitting Bull will remain Uncapappa and a freeman.” And he turned his horse about and returned to our lines.
During this time our spies had discovered the guns which Miles had pointed at the chief, and knew that the soldiers were ready to shoot our envoys down.
When the chief was told this he said: “No matter. We have held up our hands to the Great Spirit; we must not fire the first shot.”
He was anxious for peace, for, while he was still the leader of many men, he knew something of the power of the War Department and he feared it. All that night he sat in council with the chiefs, who were gloomy and disheartened. Next morning, hearing that General Miles was coming toward his camp, The Sitting Bull sent out a white flag and asked for another talk. This Colonel Miles granted and they met again. My chief said:
“We have counseled on the matter and we have decided on these terms. We ask the abandonment of this our country by your soldiers. We ask that all settlements be withdrawn from our land, except trading posts, and our country restored to us as it was before the white settlers came. My people say this through me.”
To this Miles harshly replied: “If you do not immediately surrender and come under the rule of the reservations, I will attack you and pursue you till you are utterly destroyed. I give you fifteen minutes to decide. At the end of that time I open fire.”
Then the heart of my chief took flame. Shaking his hand at the soldiers, he whirled his horse, and came rushing back, shouting: “Make ready! The white soldiers are about to shoot!”
Under his orders I and other lads rushed to the front and began to fire the grass, thus making a deep smoke between us and the enemy. While the women hurriedly packed the tepees the men caught their horses. All was confusion and outcry. But our warriors held the enemy in check so that we got our camp out of harm’s way. We were afraid of the big gun; we had little fear of the horsemen and their carbines.
For two days Miles pushed us and we gave way. The whitehistorians are always ungenerous, if not utterly false. They do not give my people credit. Consider our disadvantages. Our women and children were with us and must be protected. It required many of the young men to take care of our ponies and the camp stuff. We were forced to live on game and game was scared away, while the white soldiers had rations and the best of horses. The country was not a good one for us. Hour by hour Miles pushed us, and in spite of all the skill of our chiefs, we lost most of our ponies and a great deal of our food and clothing, and our people became deeply disheartened. The rapid-fire gun of the white soldiers terrified us—and though the earth grew blacker and darker, we fled northward.
At last, on the third day, decisive council took place among the chiefs. The Sitting Bull and The Gall said, “We will not surrender!” But many of the lesser ones cried out: “What is the use? The white man is too strong. The country grows more barren, the game has fled. Let us make peace. Let us meet Miles again.”
But my chief indignantly refused. “Are we coyotes?” he said. “Shall we slink into a hole and whine? You Yanktonaise and Minneconjous have eaten too much white man’s bread. It has taken the heart out of you. Do you wish to be the sport of our enemies? Then go back to the agencies and grow fat on the scrap they will throw to you. As for me, I am Uncapappa, I will not submit. I owe the white race nothing but hatred. I do not seek war with Miles, but if he pursues me I will fight. My heart is hot that you are so cowardly. I will not take part in this peace talk. I have spoken.”
Once again he rose, and spoke with the most terrible intensity, struggling to maintain his supremacy over his sullen and disheartened allies, but all in vain. He saw at last that his union of forces had been a failure, and, drawing his “Silent Eaters” around him, he sent criers through the camp calling on all those who wished to follow him to break camp.
It was a solemn day for my race, a bitter moment for my chief.He saw his bond of union crumbling away, becoming sand where he thought it steel. When Crazy Horse and the Cheyennes fell behind he could not complain, for they were but friends who had formed a temporary alliance, but the desertion of the Yanktonaise was a different matter. They were of his blood and were leaving us, not to fight, but to surrender. They were deserting us and all that we stood for. And my chief’s heart was very sore as he saw them ride away. Less than two hundred lodges went with The Sitting Bull; the others surrendered.
It took heroic courage to set face to the north at that time of the year. The land was entirely unknown even to our guides, and the winter was upon us. It was treeless, barren, and hard as iron. As the snows fell our sufferings began. I have read the white historians’ account of this. I have read in Miles’s book his boasting words of the heroism of the white troops as they marched in pursuit of us in the cold and snow, but he does not draw attention to the fact that my chief and his people traversed the same road in the same weather, with scanty blankets and no rations at all. According to his own report his troops outnumbered us, man, woman, and child, and yet he did not reach, much less capture, a man of us.
Our side of all this warfare has never been told. You have all the newspapers, all the historians. Your officers dare not report the true number of the slain, and they always report the red men to be present in vast number. It would make the world smile to know the truth. You glorify yourselves at our cost, and we have thus far had no one to dispute you. I am only a poor “Injun,” after all, and no one will read what I write, but I say the white soldiers could never defeat an equal number of my people on the same terms.
Tribe moving through snowy hills