“How many Indians were killed in the fight?”
“I don’t remember, but about ten and four or ten and six.”
“How about Curley, the Crow scout, who claims to have escaped?” asked Mac.
“Ugh! I know Curley. He is a liar. He never was in the fight. His pony stumbled and broke something. He stayed behind to fix it. When he heard the firing, he ran off like a whipped dog. One long sword escaped, though; his pony ran off with him and went past our lodges. They told me about it at Chicago. I saw the man there, and I remembered hearing the squaws tell about it after the fight.”
Rain-in-the-Face (Itiomagaju) is about sixty years of age now, and is the only chief that survives to tell the tale of the Custer fight. Gall and Sitting Bull have both gone to hunt the white buffalo long since. Rain can write his name in English. I taught him to do it at the World’s Fair in order to sell Longfellow’s poem, entitled “The Revenge of Rain-in-the-Face.” He doesn’t know the significance of it after he writes it. His knowledge of English is confined to about thirty words, but he can’t say them so any one can understand him, though he can understand almost anything that is said in English. Like all other Indians, his gratitude is for favors to come and not for favors already shown. He is utterly heartless and unprincipled, physically brave but morally a coward. His redeeming feature lies in the fact that you can depend upon any promise he makes, but it takes a world of patience to get him to promise anything. Even at the age of sixty he is still a Hercules. In form and face he is the most pronounced type of the ideal Fenimore Cooper, dime novel Indian in America.
[93]. The Sun Dance is that ceremonial performance in which the young Sioux aspirant gives that final proof of endurance and courage which entitles him to the toga virilis of a full-fledged warrior. One feature of it is the suspension in air of the candidate by a rawhide rope passed through slits cut in the breast, or elsewhere, until the flesh tears and he falls to the ground. If he faints, falters, or fails, or even gives way momentarily to his anguish during the period of suspension, he is damned forever after, and is called and treated as a squaw for the rest of his miserable life.
Rain-in-the-Face was lucky when he was so tied up. The tendons gave way easily, and he was released after so short a suspension that it was felt he had not fairly won his spurs. Sitting Bull, the chief medicine man, decided that the test was unsatisfactory. Rain-in-the-Face thereupon defied Sitting Bull to do his worst, declaring there was no test which could wring a murmur of pain from his lips.
Sitting Bull was equal to the occasion. He cut deep slits in the back over the kidneys—the hollows remaining were big enough almost to take in a closed fist years after—and passed the rawhide rope through them. For two days the young Indian hung suspended, taunting his torturers, jeering at them, defying them to do their worst, while singing his war songs and boasting of his deeds. The tough flesh muscles and tendons would not tear loose, although he kicked and struggled violently to get free. Finally, Sitting Bull, satisfied that Rain-in-the-Face’s courage and endurance were above proof, ordered buffalo skulls to be tied to his legs, and the added weight with some more vigorous kicking enabled the Indian stoic to break free. It was one of the most wonderful exhibitions of stoicism, endurance, and courage ever witnessed among the Sioux, where these qualities were not infrequent. Rain-in-the-Face had passed the test. No one thereafter questioned his courage. He was an approved warrior, indeed. It was while suspended thus that he boasted of the murder of Dr. Hontzinger, and was overheard by Charlie Reynolds, the scout, who told Custer and the regiment.
Mr. Edward Esmonde, a companion of Mr. Thomas during the season he had Rain-in-the-Face and his fellows at the World’s Fair in Chicago and afterward at Coney Island in his charge, gave me the information in this note.—C. T. B.