by Jim Fergus
Now I pull my dress to my waist and squat alongside a low-growing sagebrush, the only available protection from the wind, and a thin one at that. The most “uninteresting of vegetation,” Captain Bourke calls it, and I suppose it is, although at least it has a strong and to my nose not disagreeable scent, and there have been times when I have rubbed it on my body as a kind of hygienic measure—the savage version of French perfume, I should say.
There is no moon tonight and the wind has scoured the clouds from the sky and the heavens shine above me. As I squat to pee I look upward at the billions of stars and planets in the heavens and somehow my own insignificance no longer terrifies me as it once did, but comforts me, makes me feel a part, however tiny, of the whole complete and perfect universe … and when I die the wind will still blow and the stars still shine, for the place I occupy on earth is no more permanent than the water I now make, absorbed by the sandy soil, dried instantly by the constant prairie wind …
28 September 1875
We take our time making our way back to the Powder River country, describing a circuitous route in the process. The Indians have a peculiar way of traveling that might seem to a white person unplanned and quite random. In this case, the scouts lead the way, the People follow—first north and then veering as if by sudden change of plan to the east and the pine-timbered hills around Camp Robinson, where this journey truly began all those months ago. But this time we skirt the camp itself, and avoid the few white settlements that are springing up around it. These are mostly a hastily contructed and seemingly haphazard grouping of shacks and lean-tos, with sod roofs and mud streets; there is nothing graceful about them and it is difficult to recognize in their shantytown appearance the refined hand of civilization—or for that matter any particular improvement upon the raw countryside itself.
There are cattlemen moving into the country around Camp Robinson, and one day as we were passing through some of our young men went out on a hunting party and killed and slaughtered several beeves. I tried to explain to my husband that the cattle belonged to the settlers and that by killing them we would only bring trouble down upon the People, but Little Wolf answered that the settlers had driven off the buffalo and killed out the game in this country and that the People must eat as they travel. In any case, he said, he could not control the young men who went out to hunt and found cows where once there had been buffalo. As is so often the case, I found it difficult to mount an effective argument against Little Wolf’s plain logic.
But at the feasts that followed this hunt, the diners made faces of disdain and much grunting of disapproval at the taste of the beef—and I admit that it is not so flavorful as the wild buffalo to which even I now confess a preference.
From the hills above Robinson we made a short visit to the nearby Red Cloud Agency, where Little Wolf powwowed with some of the Dakota leaders, including Red Cloud himself. They discussed the government commission, which was presently at the Army camp trying to negotiate the purchase of the Black Hills, and which included our former Reverend’s superior, Bishop Whipple. Little Wolf chose not to attend these meetings, as did many of the Sioux, for the simple reason that neither he, nor they, had any intention of “selling” the Black Hills, even if authorized to do so, which, of course, none are.
However, as usual, the Indians are very much divided on the question. Perhaps because he is already settled on his own agency, Red Cloud himself seems to be in favor of the sale—even though his people have been so poorly provided for by the Great White Father that they seem nearly destitute compared to ours. At the council, Red Cloud told Little Wolf that so many white miners had already invaded the Black Hills that it was no longer possible to stem the tide, that the tribes might as well receive something for the land, rather than nothing, for one way or another, it was being taken from them, in the same way that the whites took everything. After much, sometimes rather heated, discussion and smoking of pipes, no real consensus on the matter was reached. This division and inability to mount a united front is, as John Bourke suggested, one of the greatest disadvantages that the Indians face in their dealings with the United States government.
While camped briefly at Red Cloud, we were visited by the agent there, a smarmy, unctuous fellow named Carter, who came to our lodge in an effort to enroll Little Wolf’s band on the agency rolls. When I spoke to the man in English, he was quite taken aback, having paid me no mind as “just another squaw.” Evidently he had no knowledge of the Brides program, for he assumed at first that I must be a captive white woman, and even offered to rescue me! The man became ever more agitated when I explained to him that I was married to the Chief, and that there were others like me also living with the Cheyennes of our own free will. I quite enjoyed Agent Carter’s discomfort and did not feel it necessary to elaborate on the subject of the program which had brought us here.
“Ma’am, you’re awful pretty to be in such a terrible mess,” he said solicitously, assuming me to be among that unfortunate class of “fallen whores,” who in their descent from respectable whoredom had, as a last resort, attached themselves to the savages. And then he told me that he knew a woman who had recently opened a respectable “boardinghouse” in the little town of Crawford, which has sprung up near Robinson. Her establishment is frequented by soldiers at the camp, mail and freight carriers, muleskinners, miners, and the general riffraff that has attached itself to our western outposts—although to hear this fellow tell it, a far more genteel clientele than the savages whom we had been forced to service, and who, he assured me, were not allowed to so much as set foot in Mrs. Mallory’s place, let alone fraternize with her girls.
At this I took real umbrage; I explained to the man again that we were wives, not prostitutes—married in the eyes of the church and our own government—that we were here of our own free will, and that, indeed, such a demeaning institution as prostitution did not even exist among the Cheyennes. And I further suggested to him that if he didn’t leave our lodge at that very moment, I would inform my husband of his insults and he would very likely be skinned alive as punishment and possibly roasted over a hot fire for our heathen supper to boot! I am happy to report that a faster exit has never before been accomplished!
3 October 1875
From Red Cloud Agency we moved north into the Black Hills; Little Wolf wished to see for himself the influx of whites into the area, and also wishes to make a ceremony at Novavose—Medicine Lodge—before winter sets in. This place, called Bear Butte by the whites, is a perfectly symmetrical flat-topped mountain on the northern edge of the Black Hills—sacred ground to the Cheyennes. As I learn more about their beliefs, it strikes me that one reason the savages had not more enthusiastically embraced Reverend Bunny’s efforts to convert them to Christianity is that they already have in place an elaborate and to their way of thinking perfectly satisfactory religion of their own—complete with a messiah character, named Motse’eoeve—Sweet Medicine himself, a kind of prophet and instructor who rather than coming from such a distant and incomprehensible place as Nazareth, hails right here from Novavose—the very heart of the Cheyennes’ own country. Is it any wonder they don’t wish to give this land up?
According to legend, Sweet Medicine appeared to the People here long, long ago and told them that a person was going to come among them. This person was going to be all sewed up (the Indian manner of saying wearing white man clothing), and that he was going to destroy everything that the People needed to live—he would come among the People and from them take everything, including the game and the earth itself.
While the Indian religion may be rife with superstition, Sweet Medicine’s prophecy is lent some credibility by the fact that it is so clearly coming true in our own times.
Regarding matters of spirituality, our anchorite, “Anthony of the Prairie,” is already becoming, as I had predicted he would, quite popular among us all. The Cheyennes immediately accepted him as a holy man—for his spirit of simplicity and self-denial is something that they great
ly admire—as they do his daily recitation of liturgies, for the Indians are inordinately fond of any form of chanting and religious observance.
I must say that I look forward to our other white women meeting Anthony as well, for I take from him myself a certain strength. He is a quiet, devout man, and yet has a rather mischievous sense of humor. Although I have never been of a highly religious nature myself, I can’t help but have the feeling that he has come among us for some reason, and will serve some valuable purpose. Good Lord … perhaps I am finding faith after all!
As to the Black Hills, prettier country I have never before seen, timbered with pine, fir, and juniper, and teeming with game of all variety. Thankfully, the weather has turned mild again, perfect autumn temperatures that seem to promise some brief respite from the coming winter. All of our moods have improved immeasurably with the warmer climate and this new, beautiful country. I think we were all rather dispirited by our short visit at the Red Cloud Agency, which seemed so poor, the people there so dejected. Is that, then, to be the inevitable grand end of our mission? —to bring our own people from freedom and prosperity to this state of abject impoverishment and inactivity—hardly assimilated so much as simply confined …
Since we left Fort Laramie I have had several conversations with my husband about the necessity for him to give up his People at one of the agencies. I have, toward this end, invoked the name of his child whom I carry and that of all the other expectant mothers, pointing out that if born on the agency, these children will not only be safe from harm but will also have the advantage of attending schools, which will enable them, in turn, to help teach the People the new white man life. “This is what you wanted,” I say to Little Wolf. “This is what you requested when you went to Washington.”
And Little Wolf will only answer that the People are quite prosperous at the moment and have managed to keep away from the whites, and he does not wish to give up this good life just yet. As to your children, he says, they will belong to the white tribe soon enough, but they should have the opportunity to know something about their fathers’ world, as well, about how it was to live in the old way—even if this is only for the first year of their lives. They have plenty of time later to learn the new white man way of living.
“We will look back on this life that we have now,” Little Wolf said softly, “and we will think that no people on earth were ever happier, were ever richer; we have good lodges and plenty of game; we have many horses and beautiful possessions and I am not yet prepared to give this up to live in the white man way. Not yet. Another fall, another winter, perhaps one more summer … then we shall see.”
The Cheyennes have a different conception of time than we do; such things as calendar deadlines and ultimatums mean little to them; their world is less static in this way than ours, and does not lend itself well to temporal matters beyond those of the seasons.
“But the Army won’t give you that time,” I tried to explain to Little Wolf. “This is what I am telling you. You must take the People into the agency this winter.”
I wonder now if it was partly for this reason that Little Wolf brought us to Red Cloud, to see the sobering future we can expect for our children in such a place. For truly if that is what we have to look forward to, our present freedom, however temporary, seems more precious than ever.
5 October 1875
All of our efforts to avoid encounters with the invading miners notwithstanding, we have seen much evidence of them in the Black Hills. We have cut the trails of several large wagon trains moving through the country; and have come upon a number of new settlements along the way. Our scouts have also reported the presence of Army troops in the region. Under strict orders from Little Wolf, our warriors have harassed no one, and we passed so stealthily that I doubt the whites were even aware of our presence. However, Phemie told me that some of the young men, including her own husband—Black Man—had slipped off to join a war party of Oglala Sioux who were making raids upon the immigrants. Nothing good can come of this, I know.
8 October 1875
We have been camped for several days in the vicinity of the mountain called Novavose—at which site the savages are holding all manner of religious observances; there is feasting and dancing and vision seeking and the almost constant beating of drums; many of the ceremonies are too elaborate and too complicated to one unversed in the religion to understand or even attempt to record; there has been much fasting and sacrifices made and other self-imposed hardships endured by the men—including sundry bodily mutilations by the younger men, such revolting practices as piercing their breasts and tying themselves to stakes, or to painted shields (Helen’s artistic talents again very much in demand!) which they then proceeded to drag about the dance circle in excruciating pain. Whatever accommodations and adaptations we have been able to make to their life and religion—and these have been considerable—no civilized person can find these primitive customs of self-mutilation to be anything less than repugnant. However, our monk Anthony has been extremely interested in these practices and is taking copious notes on all of the heathens’ religious observances. He believes that they might have some application to—perhaps even roots in—Christianity itself. Wishful thinking on the part of the holy man, I should say, but then, I suppose that is, after all, his job. On Anthony’s behalf I shall also say that he spreads the Gospel of Jesus very gently among the People, with none of the Reverend Hare’s fire and brimstone or threats of damnation, and none of Narcissa White’s evangelical zeal. Rather he visits from lodge to lodge in such a spirit of honesty, humility, and generosity that the people hardly know that they are being preached to. He is, I think, our best hope yet for the salvation of their souls … if salvation they require …
Yesterday, Little Wolf’s primary advisor, Woman Who Moves Against the Wind, came to our lodge to tell the Chief of a vision she has had. She is a very strange creature, with wild black hair and a peculiar light in her eyes that is like the reflection of flames from a fire. She lives all alone, and because she, too, is a holy person, her needs are met by other members of the tribe. The men bring her game and the women keep her supplied with other necessities. She is considered to be a seer, one who lives with one foot in the other world—the “real world behind this one.” My husband the Chief holds her advice in very high esteem.
Now she sat cross-legged and whispered to Little Wolf: I sat as close as possible behind them and strained to hear her. “In my vision, I saw the People’s lodges consumed in flames,” she began. “I saw all of our possessions stacked by the soldiers in huge piles and set afire—everything destroyed, everything we own cO/Mumed by the flamed. I saw the People driven naked into the bills. where we crouched like animals among the rocks.” Here the woman wrapped her arms around herself and rocked back and forth as if freezing. I felt the chill of her words myself. “It is very cold, she continued, ”and the People are freezing, many dying, many babies freezing blue as, chunks of river ice in their mother’s arms …”
“No!” I suddenly cried out, as if involuntarily. “Stop that talk! It is nonsense! I do not believe in your visions, they are nothing but pure superstition. I do not listen to such talk! Someone run and find Brother Anthony for me, he will tell us the truth.” But I realized as soon as I said it that I was speaking English, and both Little Wolf and Woman Who Moves Against the Wind only looked at me somewhat impatiently, as if waiting for my outburst to be over. Then they huddled closer and I could no longer hear their words.
10 October 1875
Shortly after the seer left our lodge, Little Wolf, without a word to anyone, himself departed. Only later did I learn that he had climbed to the top of the butte to seek his own vision. The Chief is a solitary man and clearly has much on his mind, and presumably he went off to think over what the medicine woman had said.
Little Wolf returned to our lodge after three days and three nights. Of his vision quest he said simply, “I have made offerings to the Great Medicine that he might protect the Pe
ople from harm. But I had no sign from him.”
14 October 1875
From Medicine Lodge we make our way north and again west, moving silently across the undulating plains. After these several days of religious observance the people are reserved and subdued, exhausted by their ceremonies, and—having seen firsthand the continued invasion of the whites into their sacred land—anxious about their future. All have by now learned of the apocalyptic vision of Woman Who Moves Against the Wind. And all know that while Little Wolf made offerings to the Great Medicine, he failed in his own vision quest. This is not considered to be a good thing.
We do not travel hard after our visit to Novavose but continue to meander our way back toward the Powder River country. The fine autumn weather continues. The cottonwoods and box elders and ash turn yellow and red in the river bottoms, and the plains roll out before us—a sea of grass, now golden and ocher, the plum thickets in the coulee a deep shade of purple. There is much game along the way—great herds of buffalo already coming into their heavy winter coats, which hang beneath their bellies nearly to touch the ground; there are antelope by the hundreds, deer, and elk in the fall rut so that the bugling of the latter can be heard across the plains like the trumpets of the Gods. The geese and ducks and cranes are on the move, huge flocks that blacken the sky and fill the air with their honkings and cries. Truly it is a spectacle to behold. “We are blessed by God,” said Anthony in his pure simplicity as we watched the sky one day. And who can deny it?
