Sitting Bull

“Shall we have time to stop to get Sitting Bull’s autograph” was eagerly asked one afternoon at Fort Yates.

A small party was starting in the ambulance to attend an Indian dance. We had several visitors with us from the East, to whom our intimacy with the Indians, and knowledge of their habits, was a constant source of wonder. When they had learned that the warrior, “Sitting Bull,” had returned, after a short absence, o the agency, and that they might procure his autograph, their enthusiasm was unbounded. For some time had occupied a large share of their conversation, and they had not been content until I had promised to take them to see him.

Some years previous, at Fort Buford, I had known the chief, and when we again met at Fort Yates he continued his friendship, unusual as it was in a way. It certainly was not customary for a buck to notice a woman of his own people in public, much less for a dignified warrior to accord especial attention and respect to a white woman, the wife of an Army officer.

The Indians could not forget – as the effective quelling of open rebellion was yet of too recent date – that te Army posts were as sentinel boxes through the West. The presence of officers and men typified restraining authority to the high-spirited red man. However, Sitting Bull was big enough to disregard circumstance and race prejudice when personal feeling entered into the case.

When I first knew him he had been much pleased by my knowledge of his language; and seemed to enjoy a chat with me in his own tongue. My husband and I entertained “Tatonka Iotaonka,” as he was known in Sioux, to lunch. This courtesy he never forgot, though his natural dignity and reserve kept him from expressing his appreciation in words. So the friendship grew. Whenever I took visitors to see him he was so unusually pleasant with them that it became a habit to ask me to accompany post visitors to the warrior’s shack.

The day of which I speak seemed especially propitious for such a visit; we were to pass the place on our “sight-seeing” jaunt. Sight-seeing at that time on the prairie naturally did not include the view of noted buildings, or even hills, interesting as having figured in widely known events. Nor were the waving fields of grain or prosperous ranch colonies within easy traveling distance. More unique were our sight-seeing excursions, in the human interest they engendered – for it was the savage people that claimed the onlookers’ whole attention.

Post people, who were stationary for a couple of years at a time, were unwilling to miss the large Indian gatherings. We knew that that phase of world history was fast passing away, though with what astonishing rapidity we could not then realize. It was our custom to make up parties for the special events with the impulsive enthusiasm of the isolated West.

During guard-mount this particular morning we had heard the Indian “criers” announcing a “Grass Dance” for that afternoon. It was to be in honor of some visiting Crows. They and the Sioux had been at enmity for generations, and only recently had the hatchet been buried. About 150 Crows had been invited to pay a visit to the agency, and their consequent presence was being made the occasion of special ceremony and celebration. The Indian was scrupulously punctilious in observing the niceties of his social code. From the ‘crier” we learned that the dance was to be a big affair. “Many gifts” were to be distributed – a special sign of hospitality, even when the “gifts” were bestowed upon members of the same tribe.

The day was beautiful, a Friday in autumn, and we were all glad of the opportunity to make up a party to attend the dance. The Quartermaster put an ambulance and driver at our service, and immediately after luncheon we were ready for our short ride to the scene of action.

The start was sufficiently early for us to see Sitting Bull, as our guests had requested; and when the ambulance stopped before a shack not at all or promising appearance, the strangers were sitting with expectant faces. In answer to our call from the wagon, the door was opened by a squaw, to whom I told our errand. She silently re-entered to carry our message, and did not again appear while we waited.

The chief’s appearance as he emerged from the hut was sufficient to gratify a wish for dramatic effect. As the big man, erect and dignified, keen-eyed, of inscrutable face, stood silently for a second on his door-step, he personified medieval America in all its savage strength of frame and splendor of adornment. He was dressed for the dance, though his role was that of dignified host and onlooker, rather than participant in the festivity itself. His beaded belt and moccasins were elaborate in color and design. His blanket was new and of a very gorgeous color scheme. His feathered head-dress, rising as it did above his painted face, gave the man an added aspect of force and power. The picture, however momentary, of Sitting Bull framed in his doorway, must have made an impression on those seeing him for the first time.

When he came to the side of the ambulance I told him these four friends would like him to write his name for them. Some one during his later life had taught him to form the letters of his name, and since he had sprung into historic prominence he had frequently sold his autographs for a dollar apiece. I think the fact of his being able to supply the flattering demand was much a part of his pleasure as was the acceptance of the money n payment. We had brought paper along with us for the purpose, and one of the gentlemen loaned his pencil. It was incongruous to see the big, gaily decked savage bending over the slips of paper, and, with cramped fingers and unaccustomed schoolboy motions, tracing the English letters of his name.

When he had finished the number requested, I told him I, too, wanted a copy. As we started away I handed him my money, with that of the other recipients of his handiwork. But Sitting Bull was incensed at my action, and would not hear of my paying him.

“I have an admiration for you, and should you pay me for what I give you?” he explained in Sioux, and his tone voiced wounded friendship.

Then, with adieux and mutual satisfaction at the interview, our party left Sitting Bull’s shack, expecting to watch him with friendly eye at the grass dance later.

As we neared the scene of the dance the bedlam of whooping, yelling, beating tom-toms and “singing” grew louder. On the open prairie the groups of figures could be seen for quite a distance through the cloud of dust raised by their travel. At close range, in the glare of the sun, the brightly colored figures, constantly mingling and separating only to re-form into multi-colored groups, had the aspect of a titanic kaleidoscope.

The men with their long grass bustles that kicked their heels as they stepped, their waving grass bonnets, and their grass and ribbon-decked sticks, had formed an irregular circle. Some hundred yards distant the squaws had congregated and made their own dance ring. Some sat on the ground, while a few at a time stood and danced in the center. In emulation of the holiday attire of the men, they were gaily dressed and their faces were flushed with unaccustomed color in the excitement.

When the women saw me, those dancing beckoned me to join tem. Of course I shook my headed in refusal, but they paid me no heed. In words that kept the rhythm of their chant they invited me to come dance with them. Again I smilingly declined, exclaiming “Meah o mespeshney” (“I am not skillful!”) My “no” however, was to no effect, for two of the dancers came toward me, and each taking an arm led me toward their circle, continuing to chant and beckon. I tried to hold back, but when a couple of members of our party added their voice to the persuasive ones of my would-be hostesses, I succumbed and entered the ring.

Once there I entered with my best grace into the dance. Although it was not the first time I had done so, it was my first appearance “in public,” as I had learned to dance only at small camp-fire rings. When the women began throwing gifts in the shape of pieces of calico and packages of tobacco at my feet I caught the spirit and really think I forgot my assumed audience, and hopped the squaws in a progression of semi-circles in true Indian fashion. Whether or not I joined in the song, which was familiar, I do not now recall, though I am inclined to think I did, for I believe in thoroughness.

It must have been quite a spectacle – my figure in the ring. There I hopped on toe and heel beside streaming-haired, blanketed squaws, surrounded by others sitting on the scattered clumps of buffalo grass. All were singing in a strange tongue to a weird minor air; those seated supplying time for the chant by clapping their hands, in place of the men’s tom-toms. If the white spectators laughed I surely can appreciate their amusement at the sight.
I had come prepared to give “presents,” and when the time came I had reason to be satisfied with the squaws’ pleased reception of the ten-pound can of hard-tack, a dozen packages of tobacco, and as many loaves of bread.

We saw from a distance with what dignity Sitting Bull deported himself among his people and the visitors. The deference paid him by all was received by him as his due, without haughtiness, as he moved or sat with them.

Toward sundown the squaws began the preparation of the supper feast. They cooked the fresh meats and fat cakes in Dutch ovens that stood in a scattered group near at hand. There seemed a certain amount of system in the confusion of squaws, for when we started on our homeward way we saw that certain groups of women had charge of the cooking, others of waiting on the men, still others looked after the fires, etc.

Despite our visitors’ interests in the grass dance, Sitting Bull remained their hero of the day. Indeed, I doubt not that their last look as we were driven away from the scene included the figure of the warrior whose autograph they carried.

My last glimpse of him, some time later, was les bright and typical of the life to which he belonged.

The occasion was our leaving Fort Yates – on being relieved by the 12th Infantry – to take station in New York State. We went by boat up the Missouri to Bismarck, North Dakota, and to the boat came Sitting Bull to say farewell. He seemed indeed sorry to have us go, and I had never seen him manifest so much feeling as he did on that occasion.

When we had boarded the boat in the evening Sitting Bull came on and attached himself to our party, seating himself near me at the gunwale of the boat It was a glorious evening, but the mosquitoes were so attentive that I well remember my annoyance at them. The chief, however, seemed not to know of their existence. He sat very quietly, scarcely speaking except to tell me how bad his heart was that was going so far away. I felt the pathos of parting from my unusual admirer, yet as the evening advanced and the amusement of the party at his prolonged call increased, I felt it incumbent upon me to shorten his farewell. I told him I should have to say good-bye so we could retire early, as our boat pulled away at daylight.

Then in the deepening twilight, with none of his people near, the deposed chief sat and sang farewell to a white woman to whim he had given his friendship. His song was a parting song that in the peculiar circumstance and with his quiet dignity was pathetic, and yet to this day ring in my ears the tender words and weird music.

And so, on the deck of the river boat, Sitting Bull left us, nor did we ever again meet the chief – so cool and distant to the great majority of those who knew him, but lavish with his friendship for those to whom it once was given.