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

by Sir William Francis Butler

Morning again; a thin rain fell. The south-west wind carried with it fleecy folds of mist, that at times completely obscured the prairie and wrapt ridges and hollows in veils of vapour.

As we pursued our course and the mid-day sun began to exercise more influence upon the vapoury clouds, the mists drew up from the valleys and drifted slowly along from the ridges and elevations. All at once the wind changed; a light, dry breeze swept over the land, driving before it all traces of fog and mist, until the whole plain stood revealed to its depths before our eyes.

The first sight that greeted us was ominous. A little to the west a long cavalcade of Indians was passing towards the south. Scarcely a mile intervened between us and them; the ground on all sides was bare and open; recognition by the cavalcade was immediate; from its front, centre, and rear braves were seen to start simultaneously towards us, and ere five minutes had elapsed twenty or thirty Indians had surrounded us. The meeting was not a hostile one; the Indians were not on a war-trail. It was the whole camp which was on the move, and though trouble might afterwards arise from the meeting no violence was now offered or threatened. Still there was a display of force on the part of the new comers that made compliance with their wishes necessary, and when they turned their horses’ heads back towards the cavalcade it was evident that the Sioux and I were virtually prisoners.

“There is trouble before us,” said Red Cloud to me, as we rode towards the spot where already, in anticipation of our arrival, camp was being pitched. “These are Blackfeet; but they will not detain you.”

Upon reaching the camp, we were conducted at once into a circle of Indians who were seated upon the ground, apparently waiting to receive us. Prominent amid the circle sat a powerful Indian, whose dress and bearing proclaimed him chief. He wore a deer-skin shirt beautifully embroidered on the breast with stars, and circles of coloured porcupine-quill work. The sleeves were fringed with human hair. On his head he carried a sort of helmet or cap, of ermine tails and eagle feathers, and his leggings and moccasins bore similar tokens of elaborate handiwork.

In common with many of the surrounding braves he smoked in solemn silence.

Penoquam, or the Far-Off Dawn, was indeed a savage well worthy of the name he bore, and of the power which he wielded. His fame had for years spread far over prairie land. Twenty years before the time we speak of, his reputation for dauntless bravery had been for ever established by an extraordinary raid which he had made alone, far down the Missouri River, into the countries of the Mandan and Minatarree Sioux. A few years later he had engaged in single combat with a celebrated Crow chieftain named Octoo, or the Lightning. The combat had been in full view of the rival tribes, and both Blackfeet and Crows had fairly kept the conditions of the conflict and abided faithfully by its issue.

A favourite tale by Blackfeet camp-fire for many years after, was that long and varying struggle. The old men loved to dilate upon the joy that filled the hearts of the onlookers when they saw the horse of the Crow chief fall pierced by an arrow, leaving his rider on foot, almost at the mercy of his still mounted antagonist; and how that feeling of wild exultation changed to anxious suspense when they beheld their champion spring from his horse, disdaining to accept the fortunes thus given to him, and advance on foot to meet his foe on equal terms of ground and weapon.

Not less terrible were the feelings with which they watched the closing moments of the fight. When the combatants met in the last deadly embrace, from which one should never rise; and how at last that deadly struggle ended in the victory of the Far-Off Dawn, who, bleeding at many wounds, rose alone from the sandy soil, gained with a great effort his saddle, and rode slowly back to his people, to fall into their ready arms, while their shouts of triumph fell unheard upon his ears.

On the medicine robe of the Far-Off Dawn’s history, the central figure, representing a man standing over the prostrate form of another man, and holding aloft the scalp of his enemy, still commemorated that great victory.