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 the East (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.”