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 otherdrew 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 ofthe 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.
Trapper on horseback