Man on Two Ponies

by Don Worcester

  Culver drew on his pipe. “If the Hunkpapas hang together and follow Grass that’s not likely to happen even if Pratt harangues them for a month. You saw Grass when he was here. He’s the Hunkpapas’ leading progressive, and he’s plenty smart, not one who can be stampeded by loud talk. I’d bet on him over Pratt.”

  Billy wasn’t entirely convinced. “If you think so, I’ll take the chance. I wouldn’t want to miss seeing them turn Pratt down.”

  When the time came, he and three mixed bloods who’d been to school in Nebraska traveled by train from Valentine to the Missouri, then boarded a riverboat for Standing Rock Agency upriver. Billy’s thoughts went back to the time they had sailed from Black Pole, while everybody wailed. A dozen reporters were also on their way to cover what they called the Great Sioux Land Cession. They were of all shapes and sizes, and they prattled on incessantly. One of them, a freckle-faced redhead who was chewing on the stub of a cigar, saw Billy and stopped him.

  “You look like an honest to God Indian,” he said, removing the cigar with tobacco stained fingers. “Can you speak English?”

  “Yes. I’m one of the intetpreters.”

  “Where’d you learn it?”

  “Six years at Carlisle.” The redhead’s face brightened and his freckles seemed to dance.

  “Carlisle! Then you must know Captain Pratt.” Billy glumly nodded.

  “I wish I’d never heard of him.”

  The freckled reporter slapped his thigh. “You can’t mean he ain’t the great humanitarian, the friend of the Sioux, like they say? That’s funny. I’ve had my doubts about that turkey all along, just from what I’ve heard about the way he runs his school. Kinda like a prisoner of war center, I hear. Fill me in on him.” Billy did.

  When he finished the redhead introduced himself. “I’m Bud Jones of the Epigraph. I need an intetpreter, and you’re the man for me. The paper’ll pay you two dollars a day. Agreed?”

  Pleased, Billy shook hands with him.

  Captain Pratt, looking more important than ever, arrived with the commission and several aides a few days later. Billy recognized the Reverend William J. Cleveland, the mild-mannered Episcopalian missionary at Rosebud who was well-acquainted with the Brulés and fluent in Lakota. The third commissioner was James V. Wright.

  “He’s a treaty maker for the Indian Service,” Jones explained. “Knows treaties but not Indians. This looks to be Pratt’s show. I think I’m goin’ to enjoy it.”

  “I hope we both do.” Billy was still worried.

  Agent James McLaughlin, a heavyset, white-haired man who was acknowledged the most experienced and ablest Sioux agent, didn’t conceal the fact that he opposed the sale. “But my orders are to assist the commission,” he told the reporters. He assembled the Hunkpapas the following day, and they set up canvas tipis in a big area near the agency. Then they squatted in a half-circle facing a table set up for the commissioners in front of agency headquarters. Billy saw chief Grass sitting on a stump and looking solemn. Sitting Bull, whose camp was forty miles away, had refused to come.

  Before the talks started, Pratt, exuding confidence, had copies of the sale agreement distributed among the Hunkpapas, but they refused to touch them. Pratt smiled grimly, then began talking through his intetpreter.

  “First,” he said, trying to make his voice sound pleasant, “I want to assure you that no character of threat, menace, or force will be used to influence your votes.” He paused for the interpreter. “It is a matter that will be left entirely to your free will,” he added, still smiling. Then the smile faded and his face darkened. “Of course I should warn you that failure to approve the agreement will make further action which will be taken in regard to the reservation problematical.” Then he straightened up to full height and looked down at the faces of the Hunkpapa men seated on the ground in front of him.

  Jones snorted and wrote something on his notepad. “If that’s not a threat I don’t know what is. He’s trying to intimidate them right off.” He lit a match with his thumbnail and lighted his cigar.

  The Reverend Cleveland, in his squeaky preacher’s voice, slowly translated the agreement, explaining the meaning paragraph by paragraph. The Hunkpapas listened in icy silence, moving only to brush flies from their faces. Grass sat with arms folded, his face like carved granite.

  When Cleveland finished, Pratt asked if there were any questions. No one responded. Frowning, Pratt dismissed them for the day to talk it over among themselves.

  “Who do the Hunkpapas listen to?” Jones asked.

  “Chief Grass. The whites call him John Grass.”

  “Let’s talk to him.” They caught up with Grass as he was heading for his tipi.

  “This man would like to ask you a few questions,” Billy told him in Lakota. Grass looked at Billy, then at Jones, who held notepad in one hand, cigar in the other, and apparently decided the reporter was friendly.

  “First,” Jones asked, “how do you and your people feel about selling your surplus land?”

  “We don’t have any land that our descendants won’t need in the future. Our land is not for sale. It was promised to us forever. All Tetons have agreed not even to discuss selling it with these men.”

  “Thanks, you’ve answered all my questions.”

  Although the Tetons had agreed not to take part in the talks, the Hunkpapas finally decided that Grass should reply to Pratt. Speaking with great dignity, he brought up the Treaty of 1868, going over its provisions point by point, while Pratt glared at him. Then Grass went over the government’s unfulfilled promises one by one. “In every treaty we have made with the Great Father we have had to give up more land,” he said. “Now we have no more land than we and our children will need. Half of our land is unfit for farming anyway, and whites wouldn’t buy it.” He paused, while Pratt glowered at him.

  “I think it is wrong for the government to offer us only fifty cents an acre,” he continued, “when it plans to sell it for $1.25. Go back to Washington and tell the Great Father that the government should fulfill its promises in the old treaty. After that we may be willing to talk, not before. If the government hasn’t kept its old promises, why should we expect it to keep its new ones?”

  The Reverend Cleveland looked shocked. “Bless my soul!” he said.

  “I know nothing about old treaties,” Pratt said testily. “We’re here to make a new agreement, not waste time talking about what’s over and done. Stick to the subject.” The stony faced Hunkpapas gave no sign of being persuaded.

  Red-faced, Pratt leaned forward, both hands on the table. “You had better talk about this some more, until you come to your senses,” he said. “You can be making serious trouble for yourselves.” Then he picked up the agreement and stalked away. Billy looked out over the Hunkpapas, fearful he’d see signs that they were weakening. He saw none, and exhaled deeply.

  The same process was repeated day after day for two weeks, with the Hunkpapas listening to Cleveland explaining the terms of the agreement and Pratt assuring them that it was favorable to the Sioux and hinting that dire things would happen to them if they failed to approve it. Cleveland was getting hoarse, while Pratt appeared increasingly impatient.

  Jones and other reporters had quickly realized that they were unlikely to write about the Great Sioux Land Cession after all and they began calling Pratt a bungler and worse. The man from the New York Tribune called his methods “bulldozing.” Jones described Pratt as heavy-handed, incompetent, conceited, and tyrannical. Toward the end of the second week someone sent Pratt a clipping of Jones’ remarks.

  Clutching it in his hand, Pratt charged up to McLaughlin, his face livid, his oversize nose red. “I demand that you have the Indian police eject this man from the reservation,” he almost shouted, shoving the clippings in McLaughlin’s face. The agent shrugged.

  An Indian policeman rowed Jones across the Missouri, off the reservation, where he set up his tent. “Don’t miss a word he says,” he told Billy. “When they finish for the day
, come over and tell me. If that SOB thinks he can silence me, he’s in for a surprise.”

  Finally Pratt could stand no more. “Unless you’re simpleminded,” he said, “all of you understand this agreement and its advantages. It has been explained often enough. The time has come to vote. This ballot means in favor.” He held up a paper that was printed in red ink. That was Cleveland’s idea. He knows red means life and happiness. Pratt held up a ballot printed in black ink. “This one means against.” Black was a bad color. “Come forward and choose one or the other.”

  Chief Grass sat with arms folded, his face expressionless, his eyes fixed on Pratt. All of the Hunkpapas silently watched Grass, to see what he would do.

  “Come forward and vote!” Pratt repeated hoarsly. “Now!” No one stirred, while Pratt’s face turned crimson. “You will vote, and you will vote right!” His voice was shrill.

  At that twenty-two squawmen and mixed bloods arose and walked to the table. There they chose ballots in favor of the agreement, while the Hunkpapas frowned at them. Pratt glared at the silent men, looking like he wanted to kill them. When Grass finally arose, Pratt smiled nervously and mopped his red face with his handkerchief.

  But Grass didn’t come forward. “We have listened to your talk long enough,” he said. “We are going home to tend to our fanns.” He turned and walked majestically away, the others following. Pratt made a strangling sound while the Reverend Cleveland looked like he had been caught worshipping false idols.

  Elated, Billy glanced at Agent McLaughlin and saw him put his hand over his white handlebar mustache to conceal his smile. The Hunkpapas had remained united, and Pratt had been humiliated. It was enough to make Billy feel like singing and dancing. Now, if the others followed the Hunkpapas’ lead, the land agreement was dead. He watched the Hunkpapa women strike the tipis and load the wagons. Pratt remained seated at the table, face in hands, but Billy couldn’t feel sorry for him. When McLaughlin approached Pratt, Billy sidled closer to hear what was said, wondering if Pratt had recognized him. If he had, he’d given no sign.

  “I hear that the Indians at all the big agencies are also united against selling any land,” McLaughlin told Pratt. “That means there’s no use going to Cheyenne River, Rosebud, or Pine Ridge.” Pratt looked at him blankly, as if he hadn’t heard or understood.

  “My friends at Crow Creek and Lower Brulé tell me they’re not opposed,” the Reverend Cleveland said timidly.

  “You’re sure?” Pratt asked, clearing his throat.

  Cleveland nodded, but his face didn’t reflect confidence. “That’s what they told me,” he hedged.

  “We’ll go there then.”

  Billy hurried to tell Jones. “We’ll just tag along,” the freckle-faced Jones said, throwing away a soggy cigar butt. “Pratt doesn’t know for sure who I am, and he’s got no right to stop me anyway.” When the riverboat paddled south the next day, he was with the other reporters. Pratt stayed in his room, out of sight.

  At Crow Creek, which was east of the Missouri, Billy talked to some of the fullbloods and quickly learned that most were opposed to the land sale and fearful over the possibility of losing their farms. The agent assembled the Indians, and before Pratt had a chance to talk Chiefs White Ghost and Drifting Goose informed him that they wanted him to send word to Washington for them. “Tell the Great Father,” they said, “that we want to see him and tell him about our problems.” Pratt brushed them aside.

  “We’re here to talk about a land agreement,” he told them, “not to waste time talking about going to Washington. The Great Father wants you to approve this paper he sends you. If you don’t, no telling what Congress might do about your rations.”

  Cleveland wearily explained the agreement yet another time, then told them to discuss it and return in the morning to vote.

  When the votes were counted the next day, 120 squawmen, mixed bloods, and progressive fullbloods voted in favor, while 282 said no. The Reverend Cleveland’s friends had been mistaken.

  Jaw set, Pratt took his commission to Lower Brulé, which was across the Missouri. When he learned that the Lower Brulés were also opposed, he changed his tactics but not his brusque manner.

  “Pratt sent word to Iron Nation that if the vote on the agreement is favorable, he’ll ask the Indian Commissioner to order all the chiefs here for a council,” Billy told Jones. “That will be a great honor for these people, so don’t be surprised if they say yes.” Jones chewed on his cigar and wrote on his notepad.

  “That’s strange,” he said. “The Commissioner has always been dead set against letting the Sioux get together to discuss anything. It’s easier to deal with them separately, so they can’t know how the rest think.” The vote was 244 in favor, 62 opposed. Jones chuckled. “You figured that one right,” he said.

  A week later the delegates began arriving from other agencies in wagons and setting up tipis. Billy saw Agent Spencer with old Two Strike, Crow Dog, and other Brulé headmen. When all had arrived, the commission and chiefs sat under a canvas awning in front of agency headquarters, while the rest crowded around them. Cleveland explained the agreement again. “He could probably recite it backwards by now,” Jones said, knocking the ash from his cigar.

  Pratt was next to speak. “You have been brought here to take steps to end the bad conditions under which your people live, and to bring them up to the level of whites,” he told them. “You must not stand in their way. “His tone was harsh.

  “Some of you have asked to be taken to Washington to see the Great Father,” he continued. “He doesn’t want to see any of you until this land matter is settled and settled to his satisfaction.” His voice had a metallic tone. “He considers you chiefs bad leaders. You have failed to get your people to support themselves by fanning. The Great Father has asked you many times to do these things. His patience with the Sioux is nearly exhausted. He has only to raise his hand, and bad things can happen to you. Don’t forget that.” He looked at them coldly, letting his words sink in.

  “The government has tried for years to destroy the influence of the chiefs,” Billy told Jones. “It hasn’t let us have a head chief since Spotted Tail was killed. Now Pratt’s blaming the chiefs for everything that’s gone wrong.” Jones chewed on his cigar and wrote on his pad.

  J. V. Wright, the treaty maker, who had done nothing but yawn frequently for days now spoke. “The Great Father has given you this opportunity to sell some land you don’t need,” he told them, “but all you do is talk about going to Washington to see him. He knows what’s best for you. Why don’t you behave yourselves and do as he asks?”

  “Why didn’t he just call them bad boys and threaten to spank them?” Jones asked, scribbling away.

  Pratt arose again. “The time has come,” he said. “The Great Father has asked you to sign this agreement”—he tapped the paper lying on the table—"then to go home and tell your people to sign it.” He held up a quill pen. “Who’ll be first to do what the Great Father asks?” Not a single Indian came forward. Pratt turned on his heel and stamped away, muttering to himself.

  The canvas tipis soon came down as the delegates prepared to return to their agencies. Billy collected his pay then shook hands with Jones, whose face was more freckled than when he arrived.

  “Thanks for your help,” he said. “If I ever need an interpreter again I’ll call on you.”

  Billy rode back to Rosebud in one of the agency’s wagons, smiling inwardly the whole way, eager to tell Culver what had happened. The government had sent Pratt to bully the Tetons into selling half their land, but he’d succeeded only in making them more united than before. He felt proud of the Hunkpapas for standing up to Pratt. Now maybe they ’II realize the Tetons won’t sell any land and leave us alone.

  Captain Pratt wrote a short, bitter report in which he recommended that the government ignore treaties and seize the Sioux lands without further discussion. The editor of the Word Carrier, a little mission paper, learned what was in the report. He noted th
at because Pratt had failed he was recommending breaking the Treaty of 1868 and taking Sioux land by force, if necessary. In his anger he vengefully even urged the government to issue bacon to the Sioux instead of fresh beef. The Word Carrier quoted a former Sioux agent: “The ill effects of a salt pork diet on the health of the Indians is notorious,” he said. “It would be far more humane for the government to issue them arsenic instead of bacon and get the poisoning process over quickly.” Of Pratt’s methods of dealing with the Sioux, the editor said that “few were good, some were criminal, and most were impractical.”

  The Dakota Territory papers continued to blast Pratt for bungling the land agreement. Dakotans, they said, want half of the Great Sioux Reserve and they want it now. The government should send real men to deal with stubborn Indians, not blustering nonentities like Captain Pratt. The Friends of the Indian, for reasons of their own, also urged the government to reduce the Great Sioux Reserve by half.

  Although the government had denied again and again that chiefs had any authority, it now invited the leaders of each Teton tribe to Washington in an effort to salvage the land deal. Because so many newspapers had covered the Pratt commission’s dealings with the Sioux, many now sent reporters to cover the Washington council in detail. Over the years the Sioux had learned much in their dealings with white officials, and they did most of the talking. The Indian Bureau officials listened patiently, trying occasionally to steer the talk to the land sale. The chiefs ignored them, jumping from complaint to demand while carefully avoiding any mention of the land agreement. They rambled on endlessly, while the glum officials squirmed in their seats, crossed and recrossed their legs, stifled yawns, and peeked at their watches in disbelief.

  The Oglalas, as they had at every opportunity, brought up the old matter of payment for the ponies General Sheridan’s troops had taken from them in 1876. The officials looked at one another. Then, hoping that a conciliatory gesture might get the talks onto the right track, they promised to ask Congress to make a generous settlement. The Oglalas smiled.