We were becoming more generous, or more confident, by this time, and doubled the value of the money prize, and issued a challenge to the “medicine men” to try their powers. Several of them did so, only to be baffled and disgraced. No matter what “medicine” they made use of, no matter what “medicine song” they chanted, our “medicine song” was more potent: never were the strains of “Pat Malloy” warbled to a nobler purpose, and ere long it began to be bruited about from “tepi” to “tepi”—from “Sharp Nose’s” hearth-fire to “White Thunder’s,” and farther down the vale to where the blue smoke from “Little Wolf’s” cottonwood logs curled lazily skyward—that “Wichakpa-yamani” (“Three Stars,” the Sioux name for General Crook) had a “Mini-hoa” (Ink Man-Adjutant General) whose “medicine song” would nullify anything that Cheyenne or Arapahoe or Dakota could invent; and naturally enough, this brought “High Wolf,” the great doctor of the Cheyennes, to the fore. The squaws nagged him into accepting the gauntlet thrown down so boldly. Excitement ran high when word was passed around that “High Wolf” was going to test the power of the battery. There was a most liberal attendance of spectators, and both whites and reds knew that the ordeal was to be one of exceptional importance. “High Wolf” had with him a good deal of “medicine,” but he asked a few moments’ delay, as he had to make some more. I watched him closely to guard against trickery, but detected nothing to cause me any apprehension: he plucked one or two lengths of grass just peeping above the ground, rolled them in the palms of his hands, and then put them into his mouth, wherein he had previously placed a small stone, glanced up at the sun, and then at the cardinal points, all the while humming, half distinctly, his “medicine song,” in which two sympathizing friends were joining, and then was ready for the fray.
I was not asleep by any means, but putting in all the muscle I could command in revolving the handle of the battery, and so fully absorbed in my work, that I almost forgot to summon “Pat Malloy” to my aid. “High Wolf” took one of the poles, and of course felt no shock; he looked first at the glittering dollar in the bottom of the bucket, and next at the extra prize—five dollars, if I remember correctly—contributed by the officers standing by; and in another second his brawny left arm was plunged up to the elbow in the crystal fluid. Not being an adept in such matters, I am not prepared to say exactly how many hundred thousand volts he got in the back of the neck, but he certainly had a more thorough experience with electricity than any aborigine, living or dead, and, worst of all, he couldn’t let go. He was strong as a mule and kicked like a Texas congressman, smashing the poor, rickety battery all to pieces, which was a sad loss to us. He was neither conquered nor humiliated, and boldly announced his readiness to repeat the trial, a proposal we could not in honor decline. The battery was patched up as well as we knew how, and we allowed him to try again; this time, as the crafty rascal knew would be the case, the wheezy machine furnished no great current, and he fished out the dollar, although moisture gathered in beads around his neck, and his fingers were doubled upon his wrists. He got the rest of the money, according to promise, and the decision of the onlookers was that the whole business must be adjudged a “draw.” “High Wolf” was a powerful “medicine man” as of yore, and he alone of all the Indians at Red Cloud could compete with the white man’s “medicine box” whose wheels went whir-r-r-whir-r-r-r.
The Arapahoes were well represented. Their principal men were of fine mental calibre, and in all that galaxy of gallant soldiers, white and copper-colored, whom I met during those years, none stands out more clearly in my recollection than “Sharp Nose.” He was the inspiration of the battle-field. He reminded me of a blacksmith: he struck with a sledge-hammer, but intelligently, at the right spot and right moment. He handled men with rare judgment and coolness, and was as modest as he was brave. He never spoke of his own deeds, but was an excellent talker on general topics, and could not, as a matter of course, refrain from mention, at times, of active work in which he had had a share. “Washington,” his boon companion and councillor, was a handsome chief who had assumed this name in token of his desire to “walk in the new road.” He had been taken on a trip East, and had been so impressed with all the wonders seen, that he devoted most of his time to missionary work among his people, telling them that they could only hope for advancement by becoming good friends of these progressive white men and adopting their ways.
“Friday Fitzpatrick” had been lost when a mere child, during a fight which arose between the Arapahoes and Blackfeet, at a time when they were both on the Cimarron, engaged in trading with the Apaches, New Mexico Pueblos, Kiowas, Utes, Pawnees, and Comanches, some distance to the south of where the foundry and smelter chimneys of the busy city of Pueblo, Colorado, now blacken the air. The lost Indian boy fell into the hands of Mr. Fitzpatrick, a trader of St. Louis, who had him educated by the Jesuits, an order which had also given the rudiments of learning to Ouray, the head chief of the Utes. “Friday” was intelligent and shrewd, speaking English fluently, but his morals were decidedly shady. I used to talk to him by the hour, and never failed to extract pages of most interesting information concerning savage ideas, manners, and customs. He explained the Indian custom of conferring names each time a warrior had distinguished himself in battle, and gave each of the four agnomens with which he personally had been honored—the last being a title corresponding in English to “The Man Who Sits in the Corner and Keeps His Mouth Shut.”
“Six Feathers,” “White Horse,” and “Black Coal” were also able men to whom the Arapahoes looked up; the first was as firm a friend of the whites as was “Washington”—he became General Crook’s “brother”; others of our mess were equally fortunate. Being an Arapahoe’s “brother” possessed many advantages—for the Arapahoe. You were expected to keep him in tobacco, something of a drain upon your pocket-book, although Indians did not smoke to such an extent as white men and very rarely used chewing-tobacco. If your newly-acquired relation won any money on a horse-race, the understanding was that he should come around to see you and divide his winnings; but all the Indian “brothers” I’ve ever known have bet on the wrong plug, and you have to help them through when they go broke. “White Horse” was a grim sort of a wag. One day, I had him and some others of the Arapahoes aiding me in the compilation of a vocabulary of their language, of which the English traveller, Burton, had made the groundless statement that it was so harsh, meagre, and difficult that to express their ideas the Arapahoes were compelled to stand by a camp-fire and talk the “sign language.” I am in a position to say that the Arapahoe language is full of guttural sounds, and in that sense is difficult of acquisition, but it is a copious, well-constructed dialect, inferior to none of the aboriginal tongues of North America. We had been hard at work for several hours, and all were tired. “To eat,” said “White Horse,” “is so and so; but to eat something good, and hot, and sweet, right now, right here in this room, is so and so and so, and you can tell your good cook to bring it.” It was brought at once.
I have not introduced the lesser figures in this picture: men like “American Horse,” “Young Man Afraid,” “Blue Horse,” “Rocky Bear,” and others who have since become, and were even in those days, leaders among the Dakotas. My canvas would become too crowded. It must do to say that each of these was full of native intelligence, wise in his way, and worthy of being encouraged in his progress along the new and toilsome path of civilization. But I must make room for a few words about “Three Bears” (“Mato-yamani”), a warrior fierce in battle and humane to the vanquished. I remember his coming into my tent one dismally cold night, while we lay on the Belle Fourche, on the outskirts of the Black Hills, after wiping out “Dull Knife’s” village. “Three Bears’s” eyes were moist, and he shook his head mournfully as he said, “Cheyenne pappoose heap hung’y.”
“Sorrel Horse” (“Shunca-luta”) was a “medicine man,” a ventriloquist, and a magician. The women and children stood in awe of an uncanny wretch who boasted that, if they doubted his power, they might let him cut off a lock of their hair, and inside of three days they should die. After my electrical duel with “High Wolf,” “Sorrel Horse” manifested an inclination to show me what he could do. He lay down on the floor, put the hot bowl of a pipe in his mouth, and alternately inhaled the smoke or caused it to issue from the stem. Pretty soon he went into a trance, and deep groans and grunts were emitted from the abdominal region. When he came to, he assured us that that was the voice of a spirit which he kept within him. He shuffled a pack of cards, and handing it to General Mackenzie, bade him take out any one he wanted and he would tell the name; Mackenzie did as he desired, and “Sorrel Horse” promptly fixed his fingers in diamond-shape and called out “Squaw,” for the queen of diamonds, and similarly for the seven of clubs, and others as fast as drawn. He again lay down on the floor, and opened his shirt so that his ribs were exposed; he took a small piece of tobacco, and pretended to swallow it. To all appearances, he became deathly sick: his countenance turned of an ashen hue, perspiration stood on his brow, the same lugubrious grunts issued from his stomach and throat, and I was for a moment or two in alarm about his condition; but he soon recovered consciousness, if he had ever lost it, and triumphantly drew the moist leaf of tobacco from beneath his ribs. He had been a great traveller in his day, and there was but little of the Missouri or Yellowstone drainage that he was not familiar with. I have known him to journey afoot from Red Cloud to Spotted Tail Agency, a distance of forty-three measured miles, between two in the morning and noon of the same day, bearing despatches. The Apaches, Mojaves, and other tribes of the Southwest are far better runners than the horse Indians of the plains, but I have known few of them who could excel “Sorrel Horse” in this respect.
Nothing was to be done at this time except wait for news from “Red Cloud” and “Crazy Horse.” The Cheyennes were impatient to go out to war, but it was war against “Crazy Horse” and not the white man. However, the promise had been sent by General Crook to “Crazy Horse” that if he started in good faith and kept moving straight in to the agency, he should be allowed every reasonable facility for bringing all his people without molestation. “Red Cloud” sent word regularly of the march made each day: one of the half-breeds with him, a man who prided himself upon his educational attainments, wrote the letters to Lieutenant Clarke, who, with Major Randall, was in charge of the Indian scouts. The following will serve as an example:
A Pril 16th 1877.
Sir My Dear I have met some indians on road and thare say the indians on bear lodge creek on 16th april and I thought let you know it. And I think 1 will let you know better after I get to the camp so I sent the young man with this letter he have been to the camp before his name is arme blown off