Red Cloud, the Solitary Sioux: A Story of the Great Prairie

by Sir William Francis Butler

“Blood is stronger than what you call civilization; and when I got back again into the prairie, and to the sky-bound plain—when I felt beneath me the horse bound lightly over the measureless meadow—and when I knew that my people were about to make a last fight for the right to live on the land that had been theirs since a time the longest memory could not reach—then I cast aside every other thought, and turned my face for ever towards the wilderness and my home.

“The Mandans received me with joy. As a boy I had left them; as a man I returned. My father was still a chief in the tribe, and from his horses I had soon the best and fastest for my own.

“I had forgotten but few of the exercises which an Indian learns from earliest childhood. I could ride and run with the best of them, and in addition to the craft and skill of the wilderness, I had learned the use of the weapons of civilization, and the rifle had become as familiar to hand and eye as the bow had been in the days of my boyhood.

“Soon we heard that the Americans were advancing towards the coteau. We struck our lodges by the Minnie Wakan, fired the prairie, and set out for the south. By the edge of the coteau our scouts first fell in with the white men. We did not fire, for the chief had decided that we would not be the first to fight, but would seek a parley when we met. It was my work to meet the white people and hear what they had to say. I was able to speak to them.

“I approached their scouts with a few of my men, and made signs that we wished to talk. Some of the white people rode forward in answer, and we met them midway. I began by asking what they wanted in our land; that they were now in our country, and that our chief had sent me to know the meaning of their visit.

“One of them replied that they had come by order of the Great Father at Washington; that the land belonged to him from sea to sea; and that they could ride through it where they willed.

“While we spoke, one of my braves had approached a large, strongly-built man who rode a fine black horse. All at once I heard the click of a gun-lock. In token of peace we had left our guns in the camp; we carried only our bows. The gun thus cocked was in the hands of the white man riding the black horse. It has been said since that he did the act fearing that the Indian who stood near meant harm; if so, his belief was wrong, and it cost him his life. The Indian heard the noise of the hammer. With a single bound he was at the horse’s shoulders, had seized the barrel of the gun and twisted it from the white man’s hands. As he did so, one barrel exploded in the air. An instant later the other was discharged full into the white man’s breast, and before a word could be uttered, the brave was in his saddle, driving the black horse furiously over the plain. There was nothing for it but to gallop too; we were well mounted, and the shots they sent after us only made our horses fly the faster. We reached our people. The war had begun.

“I will not tell you of that war now. In the end we were beaten, as we always must be. Two men will beat one man, twenty will do it faster.

“Many of us were killed; many more fled north into English territory. My father was among the latter number. I remained with a few others in the fastnesses of the Black Hills.