Mary and I: Forty Years with the Sioux

by Stephen Return Riggs

Only a few additional circumstances need to be noted. The sad story was carried speedily to the Indian tents, and those who were in the neighborhood came to look on and give what sympathy and help they could. That was not much. The deep hole was too deep to be reached by any means at our command. The waters rolled on, and to us, as we gazed on them, knowing that the dear brother, Thomas, was underneath them, they began more and more to assume a frightful appearance. For months and months after, they had that frightful look. I shuddered when I looked. The Indians said their water God, Oonktehe, was displeased with us for coming to build there. He had seized the young man. It did seem sometimes as though God was against us.

The Saturday’s sun went down without giving success to our efforts, and on Sabbath morning the Indians renewed the search somewhat, but with no better result. Toward evening the body was found to have risen and drifted to a sand-bar below. We took it up tenderly, washed and wrapped it in a clean linen sheet, and placed it in the new cabin, on which his hands had wrought. A grave was dug hastily under the scrub-oaks, where, with only some loose boards about it, we laid our brother to rest until the resurrection. That was our Allonbachuth. We were dumb, because God did it. That was the first great shadow that came over our home. It was one of ourselves that had gone. The sorrow was too great to find expression in tears or lamentations. The Dakotas observed this. One day old Black Eagle came in and chided us for it. “The ducks and the geese and the deer,” he said, “when one is killed, make an outcry about it, and the sorrow passes by. The Dakotas, too, like these wild animals, make a great wailing over a dead friend—they wail out their sorrow, and it becomes lighter; but you keep your sorrow—you brood over it, and it becomes heavier.” There was truth in what the old man said. But we did not fail to cast our burden upon the Lord, and to obtain strength from a source which the Black Eagle knew not of.

The old men came frequently to comfort us in this way, and it gave us an opportunity of telling them about Christ, who is the great Conqueror over death and the grave. Sometimes they came in and sat in silence, as old Sleepy Eyes and Tankamane often did, and that did us good. Old Gray Leaf had a gift of talking—he believed in talking. When he came in, he made an excited speech, and at the close said, “I don’t mean anything.”

About this time Mary wrote: “A few days after T. was drowned, some of the Indians here, entirely regardless of our affliction, came and demanded provisions as pay for the logs in our cabin. Mr. Riggs had previously given them two barrels of flour, and it was out of our power to aid them any more then, although Mr. R. told them, after their cruel speeches, that he would endeavor to purchase some corn, when the Fur Company’s boat came up. They threatened killing our cattle and tearing down our cabin, and husband’s proposition did not prevent their executing the first part of their threat. Just one week after dear T. was drowned, one ox was killed, and in eight days more the other shared the same fate. Then we felt that it was very probable our cabin would be demolished next.”

The summer was wearing away. We were getting some access to the people. On the Sabbath, we could gather in a few, to be present while we sang Dakota hymns and read the Bible and prayed. But there was a good deal of opposition. As our oxen had been killed and eaten, and we were approaching the winter, it was necessary that we have some means of drawing our firewood. So I bought one ox, and harnessed him as the Red River people do. He was a faithful servant to us during that winter, but the next summer he too was killed and eaten. This time they came boldly, and broke open our stable, and killed and carried away the animal. It seemed as if they were determined that we should not stay. Did the Lord mean to have us give up our work there? We did not want to decide that question hastily.

In the meantime, the field was proving to be a very unpromising as well as difficult one, because of the great quantities of whiskey brought in. St. Paul was then made up of a few grog-shops, which relied chiefly on the trade with the Indians. They took pelts, or guns, or blankets, or horses—whatever the Indian had to give for his keg of whiskey. The trade was a good one. The Lower Sioux bought for the Upper ones, and helped them to buy; and those at the Traverse and other points engaged in the carrying trade. When a keg was brought up, a general drunk was the result; but there was enough left to fill with water, and carry up farther and sell for a pony. This made our work very discouraging. Besides, we were often annoyed by the visits of drunken Indians. Sometimes they came with guns and knives. So that we all felt the strain of those years, and we often asked one another, “What good is to come of this?”

One winter night, Sleepy Eyes had come in from Swan Lake, and placed his horse at our haystack, while he himself went to the trader’s to spend the night. Just before we retired to rest, we heard voices and feet hurrying past our door. I went out and found that two men and a woman were at the stable—the men were shooting arrows into Sleepy Eyes’ horse. One of the men said, “I asked uncle for this horse, and he did not give it to me—I am killing it.” They had done their work. Perhaps I had interfered unnecessarily—certainly unsuccessfully. As they returned and passed by our cabin, I was behind them, and, as I was stepping in at the door, an arrow whizzed by. Was it intended to hit?

The next morning that Indian started off for whiskey, but a white man passed down the country also, and told the story at Fort Snelling. The result was that the man who killed his uncle’s horse was put in the guard-house. Not for that, but for shooting at a white man, he was to be taken down into Iowa, to be tried for assault. The commandant of the post at Snelling doubted whether good would come of it, and I fully agreed with him. And so, in the month of March, Tankamane (Big Walker) and I went down to the fort and procured his release. He promised well—he would drink no whiskey while he lived—he would always be the white man’s friend. He signed the pledge and went back with Big Walker and myself. A captain’s wife asked how I dared to go in company with that man. I said, “Madam, that man will be my best friend.” And so he was. He went up to the Blue Earth hunting-grounds, and brought us in some fine venison hams.

But still intemperance increased. A drunken man went to the mission singing, and asked for food. They gave him a plate of rice and a spoon, but he did not feel like eating then. After slobbering over it awhile, he compelled the white women to eat it. They were too much afraid to refuse. One time Mr. Hopkins and I were both away until midnight, when my friend, Tankamane, while drunk, visited the house and threatened to break in the door. But we reached home soon afterward, and the women slept. Thus we had the “terror and the arrow,” but the Lord shielded us.

These were very trying years of missionary work. It was at this time our good friend and brother, Simon Anawangmane, who had come from Lac-qui-parle, gave way to the temptation of strong drink. We were grieved, and he was ashamed. We prayed for him and with him, and besought him to touch it not again. He promised, but he did not keep his promise. He soon developed a passion for “fire water.” It was not long before he put off his white man’s clothes, and, dressed like an Indian, he too was on his way to the western plains, to buy a horse with a keg of whiskey. There were times of repenting and attempted reformation, but they were followed by sinning again and again. Shame took possession of the man, and shame among the Dakotas holds with a terrible grip. He will not let go, and is not easily shaken off. Shame is a shameless fellow; it instigates to many crimes. So eight years passed with Simon. Sometimes he was almost persuaded to attempt a new life. Sometimes he came to church and sat down on the door-step, not venturing to go in; he was afraid of himself, as well he might be.