However, the Commission did what it could for the Indians and made a very voluminous report to Congress.
There were numberless peace conferences in the early days, and we do not lack Congressional committees at the present time, and with such an Indian as Sitting Bull, most any of them might have had trouble. McLaughlin himself found Sitting Bull a pretty handful, and much of his dislike of the Indian is probably entirely justified.
Sitting Bull was never an agency Indian. He lived in the past. He was tolerant of the white man and his ways because he was compelled to subsist on the bounty of the white man. His own son, Crow Foot, believed in his father’s medicine and died with him. Truly, greater proof of faith could not be produced.
If Sitting Bull had been as cowardly as McLaughlin states, he would rather have surrendered. Instead, he fought his way to Canada. He would have spent his days on the reservation, meekly accepting whatever the authorities wished to dole out to him. But he was the incarnation of the fighting spirit of the Sioux. I think that a man possessed of the ability of Sitting Bull, under different environment, would have become an Indian Bismarck. He was a man of blood and iron, and accustomed to scenes of bloodshed. He was unscrupulous—so was Bismarck—he tried to lead his followers into action; although the cause for which he fought was well-nigh hopeless. He realized that one person cannot single-handed fight a regiment, yet he often fought when his support was meagre. He brooded over the past greatness of his people. He saw little good in the white race. If we are to judge Sitting Bull by our standards, we must consider him a “bad Indian.” If we are to analyze Sitting Bull as a Sioux of the old type, a man who desires to have our Government fulfill its obligations, and having established certain Indians upon a tract of land the boundaries of which are definitely defined, expects them to live there and enjoy peace, liberty and happiness, Sitting Bull was right. Sitting Bull could not fathom the intricacies and the duplicity of the average white man’s mind. During his stormy career, he had met more bad than decent white men. He had faith in the medicine of his fathers, and he lived and died in that faith. He was consistent in his belief and consistent in his hatred to the end.
He had been dissatisfied with life at Standing Rock, where those who sought to cultivate the good will of the Superintendent carried stories of his doings. Doubtless these lost none of their force in the transmission. He could not dance, visit his relatives or friends at a distance, because of continual espionage. To a man of strong feelings this was intolerable and hastened the end. He believed all were against him. “They have taken our game, our lands, our health, and now they take our religion.” Well might he have said these words—as did another prominent Indian.
So he broke his peace-pipe—deliberately. All his followers saw him. He had kept it since his return from Canada in 1881. But now it was destroyed. This was equivalent to saying to Washington, “I break with you.” The word was carried to McLaughlin, and the police redoubled their watch. The end came speedily and the curtain fell upon the last act of Sitting Bull’s life.
A parallel between Sitting Bull and Geronimo is easily drawn. They were not pleasant persons. They rendered an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, and by so doing they won more than did the leaders of the California, or the Chippewa bands, whose last days have been pathetic in the extreme.
The times in which Sitting Bull lived, and the incidents surrounding him were such as will produce an unscrupulous, crafty, and cruel man. Yet, with all of that, we must admit that he was a great man and that the words of his prediction were verified—he never became a reservation Indian.
After writing this chapter, the proofs were sent to my friend Dr. Eastman. His reply is interesting.