Bill Dugan_War Chiefs 03 (19 page)

While he tried to frame some sort of answer, something to meet his mother’s concerns without compromising his own position too severely, Four Horns entered the lodge. He nodded to Sitting Bull and sat down across from his nephew.

“The white men have asked us to meet with messengers from the Great Father in Washington,” he said.

Sitting Bull scowled. “You’re not thinking that we should meet them, are you?”

Four Horns shook his head. “No, I’m not thinking that, but some chiefs are.”

“Running Antelope,” Sitting Bull said, not bothering to conceal his scorn.

Again, Four Horns nodded. “Yes, but not only him. There are others, too. And not just Bear’s Rib.”

Sitting Bull spat when he heard the name of the young chief. “Bear’s Rib has been helping the Long Knives at Fort Rice. He is selling his land and his people for wagons full of white man food.”

Four Horns took a deep breath and held it for what seemed an eternity. “There is much that we should think about before we decide what to do,” he said.

“There is nothing to think about. I know that I
will not meet with anyone from the Great Father, not as long as the Long Knives are in Lakota lands. And he is not
my
father, anyway. He is nothing to me.”

Four Horns smiled. “You have a way of putting things that does not allow one to misunderstand you,” he said.

Sitting Bull laughed. “I suppose so. But this is too important a thing for me to be misunderstood.”

“So, you won’t go? Under any circumstances?”

Sitting Bull shook his head. “Never!”

“Then neither will I.”

And when the peace commissioners came, bringing with them yet another packet full of paper promises, Running Antelope and Bear’s Rib touched the pen. So did chiefs from the other Lakota tribes. They were promised annuities in exchange for leaving white travelers alone and for withdrawing from white travel routes, both existing and as established in the future. When Sitting Bull heard the last, he knew he had not made a mistake in refusing to attend the conference.

Encountering Running Antelope a few days after the conference ended, he asked, “And where will the whites travel in the future?”

Running Antelope looked at him blankly, and Sitting Bull repeated the question, this time with a preface. “You touched the pen to the white man’s treaty paper. The paper said that Lakota would withdraw from white man travel places now and in the future. Where will they be in the future?”

Running Antelope still seemed not to comprehend the question.

Sitting Bull pressed again. “You don’t know, do you?”

“No.”

“But you won’t go there, when the white man does? No matter where it is?”

“No.”

“Suppose he comes here? Will you leave?”

“I …”

“Suppose he goes to
Paha Sapa?
Suppose he finds something there in the Black Hills that he wants? Will you let him have
Paha Sapa?”

“No!”

“But the paper says you will. It says that you will withdraw from any place he wants to travel. It does not say that he won’t travel to
Paha Sapa,
does it?”

Running Antelope had no answer. He licked his lips, and Sitting Bull watched him closely. The chief’s eyes seemed to be focused anywhere but on Sitting Bull, and he soon made an excuse to leave. Sitting Bull let him go. There was no point in trying to change his mind, and even if he could, the treaty paper had already been signed, and there was nothing that Running Antelope could do about it now.

For the rest of the year, Sitting Bull continued to snipe at Fort Rice, but the defenses were stronger than ever. Aside from running off stock and an occasional ambush, there was no success to speak of. And now, the Long Knives were building another fort, one they called Fort Buford. It was even deeper in Lakota territory, not far from the mouth of the Yellowstone, and followed the same plan as Fort
Rice. It was the deepest permanent military intrusion into Hunkpapa territory, and Sitting Bull was determined that it had to be eliminated before it got fully entrenched.

While Sitting Bull turned his energies to ridding his land of Fort Buford, Red Cloud and Crazy Horse found they had to contend with three similar fortifications in Oglala territory in the Powder River valley—Forts Reno, Kearny, and C. F. Smith. Whether intended or not, the erection of these forts had a direct effect on Sitting Bull and the Hunkpapa, as well as the Oglala. Their presence meant that Sitting Bull could not count on help from the Oglalas, who were now busy with their own occupying army.

News from the Powder River was sketchy, but late in December the Hunkpapas were cheered by word that nearly a hundred Long Knives had been killed by Oglala warriors under Red Cloud and Crazy Horse. Sitting Bull learned of the attack on Captain Fetterman and his troopers firsthand from his nephew, White Bull, who was there at Fort Kearny during the battle.

As the winter settled in, Sitting Bull established a village ten miles up the Yellowstone, within easy striking distance of Fort Buford. His first assault enabled him to gain control of some outlying buildings, but when the soldiers rallied the following morning, the Hunkpapa were forced to surrender their modest gain. The troopers were supported by heavy artillery fire, and the exploding shells and grapeshot took a heavy toll on the besieged warriors. The Hunkpapas withdrew in defeat once
more. They set fire to stacks of firewood work crews had been cutting for several months, but it was small satisfaction.

The winter turned bitter-cold, but Sitting Bull kept up the pressure. Between the presence of his warriors and the terrible weather, he was able to cut the fort off completely from contact with the outside world. No one dared come out, and it was impossible for anyone to make it through the deep snow. No one was foolish enough to try, anyway, with the mountains full of Lakota warriors.

But when the spring came, the Long Knives were still there. Sitting Bull kept sending messages to the fort through traders at nearby Fort Union that he intended to burn the fort to the ground and wipe every last trace of the stockade off the face of the earth. But all his bluster served only to galvanize support for the beleaguered soldiers, and as soon as the thaw permitted travel, Sully sent reinforcements and supplies, including a shipment of improved breechloaders, which made the Hunkpapa position even more difficult.

To make matters worse, the soldiers began building yet another fort. It was beginning to look as if there would soon be more Long Knives than Lakota warriors in the Missouri Valley.

Missouri River Valley
1868

W
HILE THE FIGHTING CONTINUED,
the Hunkpapa, including Sitting Bull and Gall, another chief prominent in the war faction, continued to barter with the white traders at Fort Berthold. Most of the trading posts were surrounded by Lakota villages, some of them virtually permanent, as many of the people became what the war faction referred to as “hang-about-the-forts.” But even those characterized by the government as hostiles were growing increasingly dependent on the forts for goods they could get nowhere else.

The Lakota were developing a taste for coffee and processed sugar, which they could not get except in trade. But their primary dependence on the traders was for ammunition and weapons. The government was trying to regulate Lakota access to firearms, but there was a legitimate need for rifles, which were used with increasing frequency in
hunting buffalo. In addition, many of the traders knew that the Lakota would get weapons and ammunition from wandering bands of Canadian Indians, the Red River Metis, itinerant traders who were called Slota by the Lakota.

Rather than see the business for weapons go elsewhere, the traders tended to ignore regulations and make weapons, including some of the new breech-loading Spencer rifles and some Winchester and Springfield repeating rifles, available to the Lakota, without regard to whether the Indians in question followed Running Antelope or one of the other peace chiefs, or were adherents of the war faction under Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse, or Gall. Business, after all, was business.

Sitting Bull insisted on strict decorum whenever trading at one of the forts. He did not want to give the traders any cause for alarm, or the small army garrison reason to interfere. Rather than risk being cut off from access to Fort Berthold, it was better to swallow a little pride and get what was needed to pursue the war more effectively.

There were times when the war seemed pointless—and possibly endless—to Sitting Bull. As always, he confided in Four Horns, the one man among the Hunkpapa with whom he felt he could be completely honest, now that Jumping Bull was gone.

In early 1867, they were riding back from Fort Berthold to their village, twenty-five miles away. It was a beautiful evening in late spring, and the thick grass was already a brilliant green. The first flowers were beginning to bloom, and the rolling
hills were draped in half a dozen different shades of purple, pink, and blue. It was so beautiful, and it made Sitting Bull’s heart ache to think that all that beauty might somehow be taken away from his people. But it was beginning to seem increasingly as if there was nothing that could prevent that from happening.

“You know, uncle,” he said, his voice barely audible, “sometimes I think perhaps I should try to make peace with the white man.” He lapsed into a silence that seemed to hang in the air like a cloud, smothering all sound.

Four Horns gazed at him questioningly, but didn’t press him, knowing that his nephew was trying to find the right words to say what was on his mind.

They had ridden nearly a mile before Sitting Bull continued. “I have fought so hard for so long against the white man that I don’t think they would ever leave me alone now, even if we did make a treaty. I have killed so many whites. I think maybe it would be best if I died in battle. At least then I would die true to the old ways, the Lakota ways, that I have tried so hard to protect.”

Four Horns tried to reassure him. “Other chiefs have killed whites, and they have managed to make peace.”

“But not a good peace. And it is a peace on the white man’s terms, a peace which takes everything from the Indian, leaving him nothing but memories. His freedom is taken away. He is told where to live, told to become a farmer instead of hunting the buffalo. I could never do that. It would weigh too
heavily on me. It would be like being crushed under a thousand rocks. That is no way to live. Even when I just
think
about what it would be like, I find it hard to breathe. It is not a good way for any Lakota. Certainly not for me.”

“Perhaps you could try. You could send a messenger to General Sully telling him you wanted to talk about peace. After you hear what he has to say, you could make up your mind whether it is something you could live with.”

Sitting Bull shook his head. “I don’t trust them. They tell us lies and when we tell them they have lied, they lie about that, too. You remember what Little Crow said about living on the reservation, how it was like being in a lodge that had no door, no way in or out.”

“Little Crow is dead,” Four Horns reminded him.

“True, but at least he died a free man, not a captive on a reservation.”

“You have to decide whether it is better to die a free man, or live as one who is not quite so free but at least is alive.”

“Crazy Horse and I have talked about this, and he thinks as I do. I think it would be worse than being dead—watching our lands ruined, watching our people give up the old ways, making themselves white on the outside. Soon they would be white on the inside, too. What would happen to them then?”

“Each man has to decide for himself.”

“But he has to know what he is deciding. If only I could truly know what it would be like. I think I
believe what Little Crow said. And what Inkpaduta said. That the reservation is a terrible place.”

“If you believe that in your heart, then you have to keep on fighting. If you stop, there will be no one among the Hunkpapa who will continue.”

“Gall would.”

“Gall is like you. He wants to protect the people, but he has the same doubts. I have spoken to him more than once, and we have had a conversation very much like this one. No one knows what to do. But maybe that is part of being free. If you have no uncertainty, you also have no control. Everything is already decided, no matter what you think or want to do.”

“Then I cannot stop fighting.”

“Then you shouldn’t. You know that I am with you, no matter what you decide. You have the respect of your people. You have the respect of the Strong Hearts and the Kit Foxes and the other warrior societies. They will follow wherever you lead. As I will.”

“If only I knew where.” Once more he lapsed into silence, and for the rest of the trip he said not another word. Four Horns looked at him once and thought he saw the silver rivulet of a tear on his cheek. He turned away. It was better not to talk about such things.

When they reached home, Her Holy Door pulled him into her lodge to tell him that news had come from the west. A Black Robe was coming on a peace mission. “The one they call De Smet is coming,” she said. “He is coming to talk to us about peace with the white man.”

Sitting Bull, like most plains Indians, knew of Pierre Jean De Smet. The Jesuit had been traveling across the plains for years, often going where no white man had ever been. And always, he treated the Indians he encountered with respect. He seemed to understand their ways as no other white man did, and he had a kind of courageous dignity the Indians respected. He did not talk down to them, and he did not lie to them.

Maybe, Sitting Bull thought, there is a way out after all. He listened while Her Holy Door told him the rest of what she had heard, then sent runners westward to try to learn more details. And while he waited to learn more, he continued his war.

A week later, messengers reached the Hunkpapa with news that the Great Father had established a peace commission, and that its members wanted to talk to Sitting Bull about settling the dispute over right-of-way for the railroads. But Sitting Bull was not interested in compromising just yet.