SITTING BULL, THE MEDICINE MAN
THE LAST GREAT INDIAN UPRISING
N a slight elevation in a western town across which the gusty wind was sweeping, sat a stolid, glum-looking Indian, slowly writing his autograph on slips of paper and handing them out to the amused persons in front of him. The thrifty red man charged a dollar and a half for each signature, and was doing a thriving business. Not the ghost of a smile lit up the wrinkled, iron countenance, though now and then he grunted, which might have meant pleasure over his profits, or possibly disgust that he had not charged a higher tariff. He never made any mistake against himself in changing the bills passed over to him.
A plump, military man of short, stocky build, in civilian suit, with big mustaches, and looking for fun in everything, bought one of his autographs. A glance at the round pleasing face showed that he was General Philip H. Sheridan, while the man standing on his left, with close-cropped sandy beard, and smoking a black cigar, was a still more famous American.
General Sheridan studied the awkward signature for a minute or two, and then turning to his friend at his elbow, who was doing the same with his autograph, said:
"Grant, I'll be hanged if the old fraud doesn't write a better hand than you."
General Grant turned his bit of paper over several times, held it away and then quite close to his face, as though interested only in the scrawl, then removed his cigar and with a shadowy smile, replied to his old comrade:
"I don't see that you've any cause for boasting, Sheridan."