Carl the Trailer

by Harry Castlemon

That was all that was needed on the part of Sitting Bull to draw on a fight. While the majority of the police were trying to clear the way, one of his men turned and shot Bull Head in the side.

“Now is the chance to see if your ghost shirts will do what you say they will!” shouted the lieutenant; and, though mortally wounded, shot Sitting Bull through the head. Almost before the smoke of the revolver had died away, Red Tomahawk, who guarded the prisoner behind, came to the relief of his chief, and Sitting Bull dropped dead in his tracks.

Then began a hand-to-hand fight of forty-three police against one hundred and fifty Indians. Catch-the-Bear, the man who fired the first shot and was the means of giving Bull Head his mortal wound, and Crow Foot, were killed; and after a hard fight the trained policemen drove their assailants into a piece of timber close by. Then they returned to the house, carried their dead and wounded into it, and held it for two hours, until the arrival of the troops. During the fight the Indian women attacked the police with knives and clubs; but in spite of the excitement the policemen simply disarmed them and put them in one of the houses under guard.

The fight lasted but a few minutes, but it was fatal to some of the contestants. Six of the policemen were killed or mortally wounded, and eight of the Indians, in spite of their ghost shirts, were sent to the happy hunting-grounds. The warmest praise was given to the policemen by those who knew all the circumstances, for some of those who faced death had near relatives opposed to them.

The war that had so long been predicted by the soldiers had now fairly commenced. Some of the Indians who were engaged in the effort to release Sitting Bull fled to the Bad Lands, but the majority at once made preparations to go to their agent and surrender. That was what the courier, who was at that moment speaking to the Indians, wanted them to do; but the most of them were for gathering up their tepees and joining those who had retreated to the Bad Lands, for if they once got among them the soldiers would find it a desperate task to whip them. Of course this raised a discussion which became fiercer as the talking progressed, until finally an Indian jumped into the midst of the disputants and succeeded in commanding attention so that he could speak.

“You talk mighty big about going to the Bad Lands and fighting the whites,” said he, “but before you do that I want you to decide the fate of a prisoner who is now held by the camp. A white man was captured while passing through our lines six days ago, and I am one of the few who took him.”

The yells which broke out on every side were appalling. The braves crowded up around the speaker, shook their weapons in his face, and threatened him with all sorts of punishment. The idea of a prisoner being captured while they were not on the warpath was a little too much for the Indian to stand. He could not comprehend it. The speaker waited until their anger had somewhat subsided, and then went on:

“Those ghost shirts you are making so much fuss about will not help you one bit,” said he. “They are nothing but buckskin, and the white people’s bullets will go through them very easily. Now, I want all of you who are willing to go to the agent and surrender, to go with me; and all of you who want to fight, go to the Bad Lands.”

The squawman, who stood around listening, heard all that was said about his prisoner, and he was remarkably uneasy over it. If the Indians proved to be so angry at one of their number as to threaten his life, what would they do to him? Those who wanted to surrender would probably take the prisoner along with them and give him up to the agent as a proof of their good will, while those who wanted to go to the Bad Lands and fight it out would no doubt kill him at once.

“And even if they don’t include me in the killing I might as well be alone, for there are my partners who will go to jail,” said the squawman, who looked all around to make sure that there was nobody watching him, and then started for his lodge. “It was a mighty fool trick of me, my capturing that fellow, and I am sorry I did it. I wish he was back at the fort, where he belongs.”