A Good Man (55 page)
The Sioux insist that there be no pipe ceremony. They want it known that their only reason for coming to this meeting is because Long Lance had asked them to; they have no intention of solemnizing or sanctifying any part of it by smoking sacred tobacco with enemies who have never told them anything but lies. This puts Terry in a bind, forcing him to state his terms without benefit of the professions of good faith and eloquent speechifying that always characterize such meetings.
He commences by telling the Sioux that they can return to American soil without fear of any retribution or punishment being exacted for the massacre of Custer and his men. While he is saying this, Spotted Eagle keeps broadly winking at Walsh, as if to say, You can fool some of the people all of the time, all of the people some of the time, but you can’t fool all of the people all of the time.
Next, Terry informs the Sioux that in return for not being punished for their misdeeds, they must agree to go to a reservation and hand over their horses and guns. The government will sell this surrendered property and use the proceeds to buy cattle for the Sioux so they can begin a new life as ranchers and farmers. The minute he hears this proposal, Walsh knows Terry’s goose is cooked. These warriors will no more turn over their horses and guns for sale than they would put their women and children up on the auction block.
The chiefs say nothing, only light their pipes and puff away, faces stony. Minutes pass, the anxious silence occasionally broken by a cough, the scrape of a boot on the floorboards. Out of the corner of his eye, Walsh can see Macleod’s troubled look. The room grows warmer, begins to reek of musty long johns, tanned hides, and black shag tobacco.
At last, Bull gathers his blanket around his shoulders and rises to address the commission in a booming voice. Although this is Bull’s voice Walsh is hearing, the words don’t seem to belong to the man he knows. The Americans’ translator is making him sound like a pouty, incoherent child. The fellow is clearly incompetent.
Spotting Léveillé, Walsh beckons him over and asks him to interpret what Bull is saying. The Métis scout stands beside the Major, murmuring into his ear.
“Ever since we fought on the side of the British sixty-four winters ago, you have treated my people cruelly,” Bull says. “All we asked was to be left alone. But you kept stealing what was ours. You are responsible for all the troubles between the Sioux and the Americans. In the end we had nowhere to get away from you except the Old Woman’s country. I know this country well. It was on this side of the Medicine Line I learned to shoot a gun, and that was a good thing because if the Sioux had not learned that lesson, we would all be dead today. You would have killed every one of us. Now I have come back to this country and I am happy to be here. Someday soon I will visit the Red River country and thank the Slotas for teaching me how to defend myself from you.”
And then Bull breaks off his speech, approaches Macleod, shakes his hand, turns to Walsh, smiles, grips his hand hard and holds it for several moments, looking into his eyes. Then he faces the Terry Commission and announces, “I am a friend to every person on this side of the Medicine Line. You see how these men treat me with friendship? They gladly take a hand when it is offered to them. Use your eyes and your ears to learn that I live in peace with them. And why is that? Because they keep their promises to me. Today, the Old Woman lends us this house to use as a medicine house. Only the truth should be spoken here. But you come here to tell lies in her house. You dishonour her and you dishonour yourselves. The Sioux have let you speak because Long Lance said it was the Old Woman’s wish that we listen to you. But do not say two more words to us. Go back to where you came from. I intend to stay in the Old Woman’s land. All the Sioux think as I do. We will fill this country with the children we raise here, strong men and women.”
He stops his speech again and goes about the room, shaking hands with every Mounted Police officer he encounters. Walsh glances over to Case sitting at the table with Stillson and Diehl, pencil in his hand but writing nothing. The fool is not making a record of what is occurring here.
Sitting Bull halts beside a Santee chief, the One Who Runs the Roe, points to him, and says, “You drove the Santees out of their land over ten winters ago. Those of their leaders you did not drive away you put ropes around their necks and hung them. Now the Santees call this place home. Let this man make plain to you how you treated his people.”
Walsh listens to the Santee repeat Bull’s accusations that the Americans have stolen land, lied, and provoked war. A succession of other Sioux headmen say the same things. Finally, the wife of Bear That Scatters takes the floor. She whispers a few barely audible words. Walsh asks Léveillé what the woman has said, but his translator only shrugs, he too having been unable to catch her words. The Americans’ interpreter tells her to speak more loudly. She does. The interpreter calls out to Terry, “She says over there on the other side of the Medicine Line you don’t give her time to breed.” There is scattered laughter. The prim bachelor General flushes crimson.
A few more complaints are directed at Terry and then the Sioux rise and begin to make for the door. The General halts them, demanding to know if they are absolutely refusing the President’s amnesty.
Sitting Bull says contemptuously, “If we told you more, you would have paid no attention. That is all I have to say. This part of the country does not belong to your people. You belong on the other side. We are British Indians. This is where we belong.”
Once more he leads the headmen over to Macleod and Walsh and there is another round of handshaking. Bull takes the Major’s hand last. He holds it pressed between both of his, nodding his head slowly. The look on Bull’s face needs no translation. Walsh has no doubts that it gives the lie to every damn thing Case had said the night before.
October 20, 1877
I’ve tried to speak to Walsh, apologize for my behaviour, but each time I approach him he quickly busies himself with another task or conversation. Once he cut me off short by saying that a reporter who took no notes could scarcely be trusted to write anything that would portray a proper picture of Sitting Bull to the public or the government, and that I had been nothing but a waste of his goddamn time. He then stalked off in high dudgeon. Perhaps I ought to tell him that he can add deceit to the list of my misdemeanours, and inform him that although my posing as a journalist may have been inexcusable, I intended no harm to him by it. Quite the contrary.
With any luck, his frostiness may thaw and he may come to realize that despite the way I conducted myself with Sitting Bull, I felt I was acting as his faithful agent, just as I did in my communications to him from Fort Benton. I have always striven to serve his best interests, and never strayed from the desire to see to it that his recklessness does not set him on a wrong course.
At present, Walsh is busy trying to recruit Stillson and Diehl to assist him in improving Bull’s standing with the white man. So far, the Major has only managed to persuade the chief to let Stillson make a sketch of him, but both correspondents told me – rather smugly and triumphantly – that Walsh promises interviews will be granted in the next few days before Sitting Bull heads back to Pinto Horse Butte.
Of course, the Major has his own reasons for cultivating these gentlemen of the fourth estate. He knows the power of the press to buff a man’s reputation, has seen how it picks its darlings and displays them to advantage. They did it for Custer in the days before the Little Bighorn and, if they could do it for Long Hair, they can do it for Long Lance. Walsh wants to be regarded as the only fellow who can hold Bull in check, the one man who can preserve peace on the frontier. If he can be seen as indispensable, he believes no government, fearing a public outcry, will dare dismiss him.
But there are signs that Walsh’s superiors, who know of his penchant for saying things he oughtn’t, are angling to get him away from Stillson and Diehl just as quickly as they can. Colonel Macleod has ordered him to return to Pinto Horse Butte with the Sioux when they depart from Fort Walsh. I’ll wager Walsh is doing all he can to see that the Indians don’t leave here too soon. He wants more time o make an impression on the American journalists.
The meeting that occurred between Terry and Bull three days ago was quite the instructive spectacle, confirmation of my earlier suspicions that the United States never had any intention of treating seriously with the Sioux. The terms they offered Bull were ones he could never accept and keep the loyalty of his people. Terry obviously knew that.
The Americans are happy to see the Sioux remain here, and happy to saddle Canada with the responsibility for them. The United States could not avoid making some response to British pressure to negotiate with Sitting Bull. Now that they have sat down with him, it would be difficult to accuse them of bad faith. They will be able to argue, “We made an offer. It was refused. What more do you expect us to do?” It is clear what they wished to achieve from the very beginning.
If the Americans got what they wanted, so did Sitting Bull – for the time being. Given the situation he faced, a choice between remaining in Canada without assurances that his right to stay was recognized by our government, or returning to the United States under Terry’s terms, it appears Bull has decided to gamble on Canada. It was a masterstroke the way he managed to enter into the record his claim to be a British Indian. None of the Police, not even Colonel Macleod, disputed this assertion. How could they, after his effusive display of affection and loyalty towards the Old Woman’s pony soldiers, his flattering portrayal of British uprightness as opposed to American deviousness? I did not see a single red coat who did not take his depiction of us as anything but the truth. I could almost hear them thinking, “Yes, British fair dealing has tamed the savage.” But as yet, fair dealing has come without a price tag. It has cost us nothing. Let us see how we do when the time comes to put our hands in our pockets and provide material support for these people, as that day will surely come.
The Sioux, as yet, show no signs of being eager to set out for Pinto Horse Butte. They are making the rounds of the Police barracks, socializing with their new chums who enjoy playing host to them, enjoy basking in the esteem the Indians show them, and rewarding that esteem with dainties and delicacies unfamiliar to their guests: tinned sardines and saltine crackers, gingersnaps, and hot chocolate. After overindulging in rich plum pudding yesterday, Bear’s Cap was stricken with a stomach malady that left him groaning and in fear for his life. Surgeon Kittson ruthlessly dosed him with both an emetic and an enema. Kill or cure, I suppose. Bear’s Cap’s friends, who insisted on beholding the white man’s way of healing, found the results spectacular beyond expression.
There is no prospect yet of getting out of Fort Walsh. While the Sioux remain here, so does the Terry Commission, seemingly eager to maintain the pretense that if Sitting Bull would only relent in his hostility and obstinacy, they in turn would be more than willing to resume negotiations.
Walsh’s ostentatious shunning of me has spread a chill among all the Police; former acquaintances are barely civil to me. Stillson and Diehl, whom I am forced to bunk with in the wagon, are no friendlier. The Major has obviously not refrained from sharing his opinion of me with them.
Turn yourself, Bull had said. Right now, if I could go in any direction, it would be back to Benton, although I can scarcely expect my reception there will be any less wiry than it is here. I do not deserve a warmer one, having unconscionably loaded every responsibility for the ranch on Joe’s back ever since riding out with Ilges for Cow Island. I would not be surprised to find him long gone, and my cattle bawling from hunger.
And Ada. God knows I have no right to hope. God knows I still do.
