On the Border with Crook

by John Gregory Bourke

How fleeting is all human joy! A little cloud of dust arose above the hills to the northeast in the direction of the Raw-Hide; it grew bigger and bigger and never ceased until, in front of the commanding officer’s quarters, it revealed the figures of “Spotted Tail,” the head chief of the Sioux, and a dozen of his warriors. The great chief had come, he said, for the bones of his child; he was getting old, and his heart felt cold when it turned to the loved one who slept so far from the graves of her people. The way was long, but his ponies were fresh, and to help out the ride of the morrow he would start back with the rising of the moon that night. Consternation! Panic! Dismay! Use any term you please to describe the sensation when the steward confessed to the surgeon, and the surgeon to the commanding officer, the perilous predicament in which they were placed. The commanding officer was polite and diplomatic. He urged upon “Spotted Tail” that the requirements of hospitality could not permit of his withdrawal until the next day; neither was it proper that the bones of the daughter of so distinguished a chief should be carried off in a bundle uncoffined. He would have a coffin made, and when that should be ready the remains could be placed in it without a moment’s delay or a particle of trouble. Once again, a ladder, a rope, and the silence of night—and the secret of the robbery was secure. When the story reached our camp on Goose Creek, Terry’s Crow Indian messengers were relating to Crook the incidents of the Custer massacre.

I thought then with horror, and I still think, what might have been the consequences had “Spotted Tail” discovered the abstraction of those bones? Neither North nor South Dakota, Wyoming nor Montana might now be on the map, and their senators might not be known in Congress; and, perhaps, those who so ably represent the flourishing States of Kansas, Nebraska and Colorado might have some difficulty in finding all of their constituents. The Northern Pacific Railroad might not yet have been built, and thousands who to-day own happy homes on fertile plains would still be toiling aimlessly and hopelessly in the over-populated States of the Atlantic seaboard.

We found “Spotted Tail” a man of great dignity, but at all moments easy and affable in manner; not hard to please, sharp as a brier, and extremely witty. He understood enough English to get along at table, and we picked up enough Dakota to know that when he asked for “ahúyape,” he meant bread; “wosúnna” was butter; “wáka-maza,” corn; that “bellô” was the name for potatoes, “tollô” for beef, “pazúta-sápa” for coffee, “witká” for eggs; that white sugar became in his vocabulary “chahúmpiska,” salt was transformed into “minni-squia”; and that our mushrooms and black pepper resolved themselves into the jaw-breaking words: “yamanuminnigawpi” and “numcatchy-numcapa,” respectively. He was addicted to one habit, not strictly according to our canons, of which we never succeeded in breaking him: if he didn’t like a piece of meat, or if he had been served with a greater abundance than he needed of anything, he lifted what he didn’t want back upon the platter. His conversational powers were of a high order, his views carefully formed, clearly expressed. My personal relations with him were extremely friendly, and I feel free to say that “Spotted Tail” was one of the great men of this country, bar none, red, white, black, or yellow. When “Crow Dog” murdered him, the Dakota nation had good reason to mourn the loss of a noble son.

“Spotted Tail” was several times accompanied by “White Thunder,” a handsome chief, most favorably disposed towards the whites, and of good mental calibre, but in no sense “Spotted Tail’s” equal. On other occasions we had both “Spotted Tail” and “Red Cloud” at dinner or lunch on the same day. This we tried to avoid as much as possible, as they were unfriendly to each other, and were not even on speaking terms. However, at our table, they always behaved in a gentlemanly manner, and no stranger would have suspected that anything was wrong. “Red Cloud” had shown a better disposition since the coming in of the Cheyennes, their avowed intentions having as much of an effect upon him as upon “Spotted Tail.” The delegation of Ogallalla warriors had done such good work during the campaign that General Crook had allowed the members of the other bands to give to the more deserving some of the ponies taken away from them and distributed among the other divisions of the Sioux. This developed a much better feeling all around, and “Red Cloud” had asked to be enlisted as a soldier, to show that he meant well.

He had also said that “Crazy Horse” could not travel in as fast as General Crook expected, partly on account of the soft state of the trails induced by a heavy January thaw, and partly because it would be necessary for him to hunt in order to get food for his women and children. If he, “Red Cloud,” were permitted to take out enough food to support the women and children on their way to the agency, it would deprive “Crazy Horse” of any excuse for delay, granting that he was disposed to be dilatory in his progress; he would go out to see the band of “Crazy Horse,” and tell them all to come in at once, and give to all the women and children who needed it the food for their support while coming down from the Black Hills. This proposition was approved, and “Red Cloud” started out and did good work, to which I will allude later on.

One day when the Cheyenne chief, “Dull Knife,” was at headquarters, I invited him to stay for luncheon.

“I should be glad to do so,” he replied, “but my daughters are with me.”

“Bring them in too,” was the reply from others of the mess, and “Spotted Tail,” who was present, seconded our solicitations; so we had the pleasure of the company, not only of old “Dull Knife,” whose life had been one of such bitterness and sorrow, but of his three daughters as well. They were fairly good-looking—the Cheyennes will compare favorably in appearance with any people I’ve seen—and were quite young; one of nine or ten, one of twelve, and the oldest not yet twenty—a young widow who, with the coquettishness of the sex, wore her skirts no lower than the knees to let the world see that in her grief for her husband, killed in our fight of November 25th, she had gashed and cut her limbs in accordance with the severest requirements of Cheyenne etiquette. Had she lost a child she would have cut off one of the joints of the little finger of her left hand.

Of the other Cheyennes, there were “Little Wolf,” one of the bravest in fights, where all were brave; and “Standing Elk,” cool and determined in action, wise in council, polite in demeanor, reserved in speech, and adhering in dress to the porcelain bead breastplates of the tribes of the plains. Last among this deputation was the medicine man, “High Wolf,” or “Tall Wolf,” or “Big Wolf ”; he had been proud to wear, as his pet decoration, a necklace of human fingers, which he knew had fallen into my possession in the fight with Mackenzie. There was no affection lost between us, but he imagined that by getting upon good terms with me negotiations might be opened for a return of the ghastly relic. But I knew its value too well: there is no other in the world that I know of—that is, in any museum—although the accounts of explorations in the early days in the South Sea, among the Andamanese, and by Lewis and Clark, make mention of such things having been seen. While we were destroying the Cheyenne village, “Big Bat” found two of these necklaces, together with a buckskin bag containing twelve of the right hands of little babies of the Shoshone tribe, lately killed by the Cheyennes. The extra necklace was buried, the buckskin bag with its dreadful relics was given to our Shoshone allies, who wept and wailed over it all night, refusing to be comforted, and neglecting to assume the battle-names with which the Pawnees were signalizing their prowess. The necklace belonging to “High Wolf” contained eight fingers of Indian enemies slain by that ornament of society, and has since been deposited in the National Museum, Washington, D. C.

There was an old, broken-down electrical apparatus in the post hospital, which had long ago been condemned as unserviceable, but which we managed to repair so that it would send a pretty severe shock through the person holding the poles. The Indian boys and girls looked upon this as wonderful “medicine,” and hung in groups about the headquarters, from reveille till retreat, hoping to see the machine at work—not at work upon themselves exactly, but upon some “fresh fish” which they had enticed there from among the later surrenders. Many and many a time, generally about the lunch hour, a semicircle would form outside the door, waiting for the appearance of some one connected with the headquarters, who would be promptly nudged by one of the more experienced boys, as a sign that there was fun in sight. The novice couldn’t exactly comprehend what it all meant when he saw at the bottom of a pail of water a shining half-dollar which was to be his if he could only reach it while holding that innocent-looking cylinder in one hand. There was any amount of diversion for everybody; the crop of shorn lambs increased rapidly, each boy thinking that the recollection of his own sorrows could be effaced in no better way than by contemplating those of the newer arrivals; and so from guard mount to parade the wonder grew as to what was the mysterious machine which kept people from seizing the piece of silver.