Man on Two Ponies

by Don Worcester

  “Last year when you refused to accept the bill, Congress came very near opening the reservation anyway. I’m certain that you will never get better terms than are offered in this bill, and the chances are you won’t get so good. It strikes me that instead of complaining about the past you had better provide for the future.” When he finished speaking, he told them to talk about it among themselves and to return in the morning. The Brulés broke up into groups, and Billy saw that in each the mixed bloods were doing most of the talking. The Brulés don’t want to sell their land. Those men can’t possibly make them change their minds.

  The next morning Crook explained the agreement’s benefits for the Tetons. “I have no personal interest in this matter,” he told them. “It’s up to you. Think about it and talk it over for a few days, then decide. We have other work to do and can’t stay much longer. If you don’t sign the agreement soon we ’II assume that you don’t intend to sign it, and go on our way.”

  Billy felt relieved to hear that—it was what he’d expected of Three Stars. “All we have to do is hang on for a few more days,” he told Culver. “Then the commission will leave and we’ll still have our land. At least he isn’t trying to bully us into selling.”

  “Don’t bet on it. A lot of that was just so it won’t appear that the commission is being heavy handed. He knows this is the best offer the Tetons will ever receive and that they must accept it. He’s not likely to leave until they do, and there’s been a lot of money changing hands.” Billy said nothing, hoping Culver was wrong.

  At the next council old Swift Bear invited squawman Charles Jordan to speak, while the fullbloods narrowed their eyes. Jordan had lived among the Tetons for many years, and his wife was Oglala, but that didn’t give him the right to speak. “I am convinced we should sell the land they want,” he said. “The men who oppose selling it just want to sit around forever, eating free rations and neglecting their families.” Billy sensed a wave of anger sweeping over the fullbloods, who scowled at Jordan. Squaw-men and mixed bloods, their inferiors, were boldly speaking up in councils and acting important only because they knew more about the whites. They’d have it out with them right now, Billy thought as he looked at their angry faces, but they’re afraid of Three Stars. Crook had praised these men as the most forward-looking element, the hope of the Sioux, but to the fullbloods they were traitors.

  After the commissioners left the council ground, the Brulés all tried to talk at once. “three Stars is right!” Louis Richards shouted. “It’s to our advantage to sell now, not later.”

  “We don’t want to sell!” White Crow roared. “If we do they’ll cut our rations!”

  “No! They’ll cut them if we don’t,” Richards replied.

  They argued heatedly for half an hour. Billy noticed that some fullblood progressives were silent, and he felt fear. They’re weakening, he thought, and he remembered seeing some of them talking to Three Stars. It appeared that all who spoke privately with Crook came away agreeing with him. Only a month earlier all had sworn to remain united, to stand fast against the land sale. Now that unity was drifting away before their eyes, vanishing like the smoke of a campfire. Billy’s shoulders sagged. He felt helpless. As they were leaving, Hollow-Horn-Bear walked up to Richards. “Don’t tell Three Stars about this talk,” he said. The mixed blood nephew of Swift Bear didn’t reply. Three Stars pays him, so he’ll tell him.

  “The Brulés have many worries,” Culver observed when Billy told him about the quarrelling. “Some are real, some are imaginary. For one thing, they’re sure that any government proposal is a bag of snakes; the sweeter the offer, the more deadly the bite. The Edmunds crowd confirmed their suspicions. They look for deception in every sentence; they’re especially nervous when they can’t find it, for they’re sure it’s there. They know what they have now, but they don’t know what they’ll have if they agree. They’ve been burned so many times they’re sure it will happen again if they say yes. That’s unfortunate, for this is a good offer, and one they should accept. But however it turns out, it will leave bad feelings that won’t go away soon. That’s also unfortunate.”

  J. T. Lea, a white man that the Indian Bureau had sent several weeks earlier to take a census of the Brulés, entered the trading post to buy a hunting knife. “How’s your work coming?” Culver asked.

  “They sure hate to be counted, but I’m getting it done.”

  After Lea left, Culver shook his head while sparks flew from his pipe. “This is the worst time for making a head count, while the commission is trying to negotiate a sale.”

  “Why did they choose this time?”

  “Someone in the Indian Bureau figures there may not be as many men as are on the rolls. To help the commission, they want to reduce the number and make it a lot easier to muster a three-fourths vote. But nothing arouses the Sioux more than being counted. They know nothing good ever comes of it, and it worries them.”

  “Should it?”

  “It should worry them more than they realize. Right now that count is to help the commission, but it can also affect their rations. Sioux rations have been reduced each year since ’85 to way below what the treaty guaranteed. When Congress wants to save money, it thinks first of the Indians—they don’t vote. The Brulés have kept from starving only by not reporting deaths and by claiming more children than they have. There are a lot fewer people than are listed on the rolls, and some will avoid being counted if they can. This head count may help get the land, but it could mean disaster for the Tetons.” Billy remembered the Friends of the Indians’ talk about starving the Sioux into submission and shuddered.

  “Another thing they fear is that this agreement will cancel the 1868 treaty, and they don’t like the pricing system. All of them are smart enough to see that if settlers wait five years they can have the best land for fifty cents an acre.”

  “All of this land was once ours. It’s up to us to hang on to what’s left.”

  “I know, and I don’t blame the Sioux for not wanting to part with any more. They’ve heard, too, that tribes whose reservations have been broken up into individual allotments are in worse shape than before, worse off even than the Sioux. And allotment is likely to follow the land sale, sooner or later. The old chiefs know very well that allotment will break up the tribe and end what influence they still have. In spite of all this, I agree with Crook that this is the best offer they’ll ever receive and they should take it while they can.”

  At the next council, White Bird asked the question most often on the lips of the Brulés: “What about our rations? As soon as you get our land, the government will cut our rations.”

  “I assure you that there is no connection between the land sale and your rations,” Crook answered wearily. Like the others, White Bird didn’t appear convinced. Being confined to a reservation was bad enough, but having to see their families go hungry was a frightening specter. Again and again the commissioners had insisted that the land sale had nothing to do with rations, but the question refused to die.

  As he listened to the talk after the council ended, Billy was appalled to see that many fullblood progressives were wavering. What held them back was worry over what Pratt and the Friends of the Indian had said about scrapping treaties and ending rations. They needed positive, unequivocal assurance from Three Stars himself.

  “We have told you repeatedly that what you fear won’t happen,” Crook told them gruffly in the morning. “I have now written our promises to you on this paper and signed it. I will leave it with you.” A murmur of approval rose from the Brulés. Three Stars had won over many fullbloods, that was clear. Soon some of them were arguing in favor of the agreement, and that made Billy feel queasy.

  When they met on June 7, Hollow-Hom-Bear, who still opposed the sale, spoke. “The Brulés,” he said, “have chosen twelve men to represent them, and those men have asked me to speak for the tribe. The Brulés don’t want to talk to the commission. They want a big council of all the Teton chiefs to deal with
it. If four men have to decide, and two are here and two far away, they will decide differently. Only by having all the chiefs together can we reach a decision fair to all. That is all the Brulés have to say.”

  Crook thanked him, then invited any man who wanted to speak to come forward. Billy was shocked. The Brulés had chosen Hollow-Hom-Bear to speak for them. No one else had the right to talk. Three Stars must know that.

  “He’s trying to get around the chiefs and the tribal council by appealing to individuals,” Culver said quietly, as he and Billy stood at the edge of the crowd.

  “He talked about being fair. What he’s doing is unfair. The Brulés chose Hollow-Horn-Bear to speak for them.”

  After a long silence, Louis Richards, Swift Bear’s mixed blood nephew, arose. “Every man has a right to his own opinion,” he said. “The tribal council has no right to decide for all. Many of us have studied this agreement, and it has lots of advantages for us.” He looked over the crowd. “The commissioners would like to see you men who are against it.”

  Old Two Strike, who was not ashamed to be called nonprogressive or to admit that he opposed the land sale, immediately replied. “The tribal council has always had the right to choose who will speak for the tribe, as you know very well.” He scowled at Richards. “It has chosen Hollow-Horn-Bear to speak for all,” he said, then sat down.

  Good Voice leaped to his feet. “I am a man who works hard,” he said, “and I am as good a progressive as you.” He glared at Richards. “When Hollow-Horn-Bear spoke for the tribe he spoke for me. You try to make it sound like the tribal council is fighting Three Stars, when it asked only for all Teton chiefs to be brought together to talk to the commission.”

  Crook slowly arose. “The Great Father didn’t call a general council,” he said, holding the lapels of his corduroy jacket, “because that would make too many Sioux neglect their farms during the planting season.” Yet planting time would soon be past for the Brulés, and it appeared that they would remain at the agency until the commission released them. When several men told Spencer they wouldn’t sign the agreement and wanted to look after their cattle, the agent threatened to arrest them if they left.

  “When I was here before,” Crook continued, “I expected much good of you, and now after eleven years I come back and find that you have done very little toward civilization. You have been content to sit and eat rations the government gives you, thinking it is always going to support you in idleness. When I was here before I was proud of you. You were full of manhood, and any decision that was required of you, you gave it right away.”

  After Crook finished, Standing Bear spoke for the progressives in his band. “We want to sign the agreement,” he said. “We haven’t done so because no one is sure we will continue to receive rations.”

  Crook, who had addressed this fear again and again, slowly arose and discarded his friendly pose. “I have assured you that rations will not be cut,” he said sharply, his face flushed. The tone of his voice gave Billy visions of bluecoat soldiers. At that a group of mixed bloods started to push through the crowd toward the table where the copy of the agreement lay, along with an inkpot and quill pens.

  The fullbloods leaped to their feet. Hollow-Horn-Bear shouted for all who stood by the tribe to leave at once. Most of the Brulés rushed away like the cavahy was after them, but they soon stopped and looked back like a bunch of startled but curious antelopes. Billy watched, hoping they wouldn’t return. Old Swift Bear, who had never said no to a white official, rushed to the table and grabbed a pen, shouting for someone to write his name. At his elbow was Crow Dog. Crook and the other commissioners looked on, unsmiling.

  All of the Brulés who had stopped to watch now began shrieking, while chiefs and headmen tried to hero the others away before they could be stampeded into signing. Agent Spencer sent the Indian police to stop the chiefs from driving the waverers away.

  Many of those who had rushed away began drifting back. Hollow-Horn-Bear hurried to Crook. Through the interpreter he begged Three Stars to let them return to their farms.

  Unruffled, Crook replied, “Why not stay until tomorrow and have another talk? It’s not good to quit when you’re mad, and I can see you’re hopping mad.”

  “I’m not mad!” Hollow-Horn-Bear roared. In the meantime the police had stopped Yellow Hair and White Horse from trying to make the others leave.

  Billy realized that nearly three hundred had already signed, mostly mixed-bloods and squawmen, but also the fullblood members of the Loafer and Corn bands. Louis Richanis and other mixed bloods now went among those who remained away from the table. “You’re disloyal,” Billy heard Richanis say, “and you know what happens to disloyal men.” No Teton wanted to be accused of disloyalty, and the hint that disloyal men would suffer later troubled them.

  The councils continued. Those who remained opposed loudly protested their loyalty while more and more men touched the pen as their names were written. As he watched, Billy had a sinking feeling. Crook had broken their resistance. On June 12 he announced that more than the necessary three-fourths of Brulé men had signed. The commission’s work at Rosebud was successfully concluded.

  Episcopalian Bishop W. P. Hare, who had observed the councils, remarked to Culver that the commission, “convinced that the bill was essential, carried persuasion to the verge of intimidation. I don’t blame them if they sometimes did. The wit and patience of an angel would fail often in such a task.” Charles Hyde, who had also been watching, called the commission’s actions a “shakedown.”

  Billy had been appalled at the growing number of signers, remembering how the Hunkpapas had taken their cues from Grass and refused to let Pratt stampede them into signing. But among the Brulés, once the signing had started, the resistance of one group after another had collapsed out of fear of punishment, or at the least of losing a share of the benefits. And none wanted to be considered disloyal.

  “Three weeks ago we were united against it,” he said. “I’m still opposed, but most signed, whether or not they were in favor. What happened to us?”

  Culver lit his pipe and blew smoke toward the ceiling. “Crook is convinced that the well-being of the Sioux depends on accepting this agreement. He knows that if they refuse they’ll lose their land anyway and likely have little to show for it. So he had the agent corral everyone here where he could keep them under pressure until enough realized that it was a good agreement or their resistance broke down. To accomplish it Crook had to make many promises, and some of them will require action by Congress. He took that chance because he felt it was in the interest of the Sioux and necessary, but now his honor depends on Congress fulfilling his promises. I don’t envy him being in that position. It’s no place for an honorable man, and you have to admit he is that.”

  I still can’t believe it happened. Everyone was solidly against it, yet somehow three-fourths signed. And Three Stars was the one who did it.

  The signing had bitterly divided the Brutes and they quarreled violently. The non-signers said loudly that once the government got their land it would reduce rations, no matter what Three Stars and the others said. The signers hotly denied that would happen. “Which is right?” Billy asked Culver. He knocked the ash of his pipe and shook his head.

  “I don’t know what will happen when Lea turns in his census report. Right now the rations are barely enough to keep people from starving. A cut is too awful to think about, but everything depends on appropriations. Congress, not the commission controls them. All we can do is hope.”

  Chapter Seven

  “I offered my buckboard to carry some of the commission’s staff to Pine Ridge,” Culver said that evening. “I agreed you’d drive the team. You can stay and see what the Oglalas do if you want.” Billy looked glum, still bewildered by the collapse of Brulé unity.

  “My bet is that Crook will find Red Cloud and his people harder to break down, like the Brulés would have been if they still had Spotted Tail,” Culver continued. “Dr. Bland has b
ombarded the Oglalas with warnings not to sell. Crook versus Red Cloud—that should be a show worth watching.”

  The four wagons set out early on June 13 and reached Pine Ridge mid-morning of the third day. Billy had seen scouts watching them from a distance, and when the wagons approached Pine Ridge, several hundred mounted warriors in a long line moved toward them at a walk. All held Winchesters and were painted as for war. The sight of those stem warriors, with their feathers fluttering in the breeze, gave Billy a momentary chill. He glanced at the menacing line and then at Three Stars, who was feeling ill. He sat stiffly on the wagon seat, frowning. The warriors stopped a hundred yards away while the chiefs solemnly rode forward to greet the commission. If they were a welcoming committee, that wasn’t obvious.

  “I don’t like this,” Crook curtly told the chiefs through his interpreter. “We came to talk to the Oglalas as individuals, not as a tribe controlled by warriors.” The chiefs gave signals and the warriors wheeled their ponies and loped away, the ribbons in the ponies’ tails trailing behind them. Maybe Culver is right. The Oglalas look ready to fight.

  That afternoon they met in council, with a huge crowd of Oglalas seated in a big circle. In the center, Foster and Warner sat with Red Cloud, American Horse, Little Wound, and Young-Man-Afraid-of-His-Horses. While Crook remained in his tent, Warner read the agreement to the Oglalas, who listened with expressionless faces. When the interpreter finished translating the last sentence, the chiefs gave signals and a large body of mounted warriors began driving the other Oglalas away.

  “See here, what in thunder are you doing?” Foster asked sharply, snapping his fingers.

  “The tribal council has ordered that no one be allowed to talk about selling land,” Red Cloud replied, unawed by the commissioners, “for the Oglalas have already rejected the sale. There is nothing to discuss. It is time for you to leave.” Culver is right. Even the progressives refuse to sell. It won’t be easy for Crook to change that. He watched Foster and Warner. They showed no sign of being ready to leave. Then he glanced at Crook’s tent and saw several mixed bloods leaving it. He’s not too sick to try the same things that worked at Rosebud.