Knowing his father had been with Sitting Bull and fearing he might have been killed, Billy approached Black Badger, one of the Hunkpapas. “Do you know where Pawnee Killer is?” he asked anxiously. “He’s still alive, isn’t he?”
Black Badger nodded. “He came south with us. When Big Foot promised to turn us over to the soldiers, we slipped away. Big Foot is sick, and Pawnee Killer refused to leave him. The last we heard they started for Pine Ridge the next day and should be across the White River by now.”
Billy pondered that. It was clear the Ghost Dance would soon end and that the Indian Messiah would never appear. Now all that mattered was for his father to recognize him as his son. That yearning had been almost forgotten from time to time in the excitement of the Ghost Dance, but it had never been far from his thoughts. If the Messiah had come, as promised, he and his father would have been quickly reunited, but that was not to be. I must find him, he thought, before it’s too late. After that I don’t care what happens.
He rolled up his blankets, packed enough cooked beef to last a few days, and caught his thin pony. As he rode out of the big camp Short Bull saw him.
“Where are you going?” the sharp-faced medicine man asked. “You’re not deserting me like the others?”
“I’ve got to find my father. That’s the only thing that matters to me now.” Short Bull frowned but said nothing more as Billy headed for the land bridge and left the Stronghold.
After searching for a half day he found where Big Foot’s wagons had come down the slope, and at dark stopped where his people had camped several days earlier. He hurried along their trail in the morning, passing two other camps not far apart, and he was greatly relieved to see they were traveling slowly. At dark, when he rolled up in his blankets not far from Little Wound’s village, he smelled the smoke from their fires and was elated to know he would overtake them in the morning.
At dawn Billy arose and followed the wagon tracks into Little Wound’s village. His heart beat faster as he saw thin spirals of smoke still rising from the chimneys of the abandoned cabins. Still wearing his Ghost Shirt, he trotted after the Miniconjus, and in few miles caught up with the rear wagons escorted by sullen warriors who saw his Ghost Shirt and let him pass. He continued riding past the wagons until he saw his mother in one.
Scarlet Robe gazed at him sorrowfully. “My son, soldiers are looking for us and must soon find us. I have a bad feeling that something terrible will happen, and I’m afraid for your father. Protect him from harm if you can.” He nodded and rode on, wondering what terrible thing was in store for them. Perhaps the soldiers would attack them on sight and refuse to allow them to surrender. He looked for his father, but Pawnee Killer was with the scouts riding ahead of the wagons.
In the lead wagon he saw Big Foot, his burly form wrapped in blankets, his nose bleeding, his face contorted with pain caused by the jolting wagon. The column moved steadily on despite Big Foot’s discomfort, and before noon crossed the divide between American Horse Creek and Porcupine Tail Creek. As they were descending Pawnee Killer and other warriors rode up to Big Foot’s wagon with four captives—the famous mixed blood scout Little Bat, Old Hand, and two other Oglalas, the scouts Major Whitside had sent out that morning from his camp on Wounded Knee Creek. While his people stopped to eat at Porcupine Tail Creek, Big Foot sent Old Hand and another Oglala to tell Whitside he was bringing his people to the soldiers’ camp.
When interpreter John Shangreau relayed Old Hand’s message to him, Major Whitside ordered his bugler to sound “Boots and Saddles.” “But Major,” Shangreau interposed, “Big Foot told them he was coming to the camp, and we may as well wait for him here.”
Whitside reminded him that Major Henry’s column was searching for Big Foot somewhere to the north, and there was danger the two might clash. “And don’t forget,” he added, “that Big Foot told Colonel Sumner the same thing before he struck out. We can’t take any more chances.”
The sun was directly overhead in the cloudless sky when Whitside set out with his four cavalry troops, two Hotchkiss guns, and an army ambulance, moving at a trot. In two hours they reached Pine Creek, which made its way between pine-covered hills below Porcupine Butte. Over the next divide was Porcupine Tail Creek, where Old Hand had left the Miniconjus. Two horsemen suddenly topped the distant ridge and galloped down the slope toward the troops—Little Bat and the other Oglala, who’d been released. As their ponies slid to a halt in front of Whitside, several Miniconjus crossed the ridge toward them nearly two miles away. Others soon followed.
“How does it look with those Indians?” Shangreau asked Little Bat.
“They look plenty tough,” was the reply. “We’re liable to catch it today.”
The troops continued until they were nearly halfway to the advancing Indians before halting. Whitside ordered his troopers to dismount and form a skirmish line, while the horse-holders led the mounts to the rear. Then he signalled the gunners to move the Hotchkiss guns in front of the troops. The Miniconjus continued to advance, spread out in a long line, most of them carrying rifles. Several had tied up their ponies’ tails as they did in the old days when preparing for battle. A few raced back and forth, holding their Winchesters aloft. A white flag hung limply from a pole attached to Big Foot’s wagon. When a hundred yards away the warriors stopped, then two headmen dismounted and walked toward the troops.
Shangreau met them and accompanied them to Big Foot’s wagon, which was moving through the line of warriors toward Whitside. Big Foot lay heavily wrapped in blankets, with blood dripping from his nose and freezing on the wagon bed. The nervous warriors rode around in small circles, a few of them menacingly working the levers of their Winchesters. Dewey Hom Cloud rode quietly up to the troopers, but made no threatening gesture. Instead, he leaned over and thrust two fingers into the muzzle of one of the Hotchkiss guns. When asked later why he did that, he replied, “I wanted to die right then.”
Billy watched Whitside reach down to shake hands with Big Foot as the warriors crowded around the wagon. Pawnee Killer, he noticed, kept his distance from the troops, eyeing them suspiciously. Through Shangreau, Whitside informed Big Foot that he must bring his people to the army camp on Wounded Knee Creek.
“All right,” Big Foot weakly replied. “I’m going there.” He added that he was on his way to Pine Ridge to settle a quarrel and receive 100 ponies.
Turning to Shangreau, Whitside said, “Tell him I want their horses and guns. “
Billy was shocked and Shangreau looked alarmed. “Look here, Major,” he exclaimed, ’ ’if you do that there’ll most likely be a fight, and if there is you’ll kill all those women and children and the men will get away.”
Whitside frowned. “But General Brooke’s orders are to disarm and dismount them.”
“That may be, major, but you’d better get them in camp and then take their guns and ponies.” Whitside glanced at the scowling, well-armed warriors and knew what Shangreau said was true. “Very well,” he said, “tell Big Foot to move down to the camp.” Shangreau spoke to Big Foot in Lakota.
“All right,” Big Foot replied. “I’m going down to the camp. I was going there anyway.” He weakly shook hands again with Whitside.
Seeing that the ailing Big Foot was jolted mercilessly in the springless farm wagon, Whitside signaled for the ambulance. Troopers took hold of Big Foot’s blankets, carefully lifted him out of the wagon, and then gently lowered him into the ambulance while his warriors’ keen eyes watched for any sign of treachery. The blue-clad cavalrymen mounted their horses and took their positions around the Miniconjus. Two troops led the way, followed by the ambulance; then came the Indians. The other two troops and the Hotchkiss guns brought up the rear.
On the way, Whitside sent a courier ahead with a message to be flashed to Brooke, the good news that Big Foot’s band, 120 men and 250 women and children, had surrendered. He also requested that Col. Forsyth bring the rest of the Seventh Cavalry to Wounded Knee Creek to help in disarming
the warriors. “My object,” he remarked later, “was that, by their presence, we could overawe the Indians so they would submit quickly to being disarmed. I was convinced from a hostile demonstration at the time of surrender that otherwise, trouble might ensue.”
Brooke smiled in relief when he received the news of Big Foot’s surrender and ordered Col. James Forsyth to prepare to march at once with the four troops of the Seventh Cavalry’s First Squadron and two Hotchkiss guns. Forsyth, a popular Civil War veteran with a square chin, piercing eyes, and bushy eyebrows, had no previous experience with Indians. While he made hasty preparations, Brooke wired the welcome news to Miles, suggesting that once the Indians were disarmed they should be taken immediately to the railroad station at Gordon, Nebraska, and put on a train to Omaha.
“All right,” Miles replied. “Use force enough. Congratulations.”
As Forsyth’s column prepared to move out late in the afternoon, Brooke issued him orders. “Disarm Big Foot’s band; take every precaution to prevent the escape of any; if they fight, destroy them. After they are disarmed, Major Whitside is to hold them with the Second Squadron on Wounded Knee Creek until ordered to march them to the railroad, while you and the First Squadron return to Pine Ridge.” The four troops, a company of Oglala scouts, and two Hotchkiss guns under Captain Allyn Capron, a huge man with a voice like a bull and courage enough for a hundred men, set out for Wounded Knee Creek at a trot.
Near sundown, Major Whitside and his prisoners reached the campground in the valley of Wounded Knee Creek. On the western side of the valley were two ridges separated by a dry ravine. The column passed midway between Mosseau’ s trading post and the ravine, where the cavalry tents were already standing in neat rows. It continued to the north edge of the ravine, where the Indians were told to set up their tipis. Whitside ordered the two guns placed on a low hill overlooking the Indian camp, and had sentinels positioned around Big Foot’s people.
At the south side of the cavalry camp was a large tent for the Indian scouts and another for Miniconjus who had no shelter. Near them a wall tent with a stove to warm it was set up for Big Foot. Assistant Surgeon James Glennan immediately did what he could for the ailing chief.
Col. Forsyth and the First Squadron arrived quietly after dark, and Whitside turned over command to his superior. Capron’s two Hotchkiss guns were also stationed on the hill and aimed at the Indian camp, and he assumed command of the four-gun battery. Then the officers relaxed briefly to celebrate the taking of the wily Big Foot. Trader James Asay had followed the troops in his wagon and had thoughtfully brought a small keg of whiskey.
There was no celebrating in the Indian camp that night and not much sleep. Forsyth had tried to slip into camp unnoticed, but Oglala scouts had called to their Miniconju friends that the rest of Long Hair Custer’s old regiment had arrived. Big Foot and some of the older warriors had helped wipe out half of that regiment in ’76, and they couldn’t help wonder if the Seventh’s troopers still thirsted for vengeance. They slept fitfully, and they weren’t eager for day to come.
At reveille on that chilly morning of December 29, Forsyth’s command numbered 438 officers and men, not counting the twenty artillerymen and two officers who manned the rapid-fire Hotchkiss guns. Six troop commanders were veterans who had served under Custer. Few of the soldiers, on the other hand, had ever heard a gun fired in anger, and nearly one-fifth were recent recruits whose only knowledge of Indians was from tales they’d heard of treachery and massacre. Also present were Father Francis Craft and three reporters from Nebraska newspapers. The weather was fair, although two days earlier Yellow Bird had predicted a blizzard within three days.
Because the 120 warriors were so badly outnumbered that any resistance would be suicidal, Forsyth and his officers were confident the Indians would quietly submit to being disarmed. After reveille the troops distributed bacon and hardtack among the Indians, and soon the aroma of frying bacon floated over their camp. Billy ate halfheartedly, for he knew the Miniconjus were to be disarmed, and he couldn’t dispel the feeling of impending disaster his mother predicted. Pawnee Killer was talking with the older warriors, while Scarlet Robe squatted near a fire with other women. Billy approached her. “Does my father know I’m his son?” he asked.
“He may, but I’m not sure.”
“Tell him, then. I have a strange feeling, and I want him to know as soon as possible.” She nodded.
At seven the bugler sounded “Officers Call,” and Forsyth gave each troop commander his orders. The warriors were to assemble in front of Big Foot’s tent, where they would be surrounded by a square of dismounted troops. Farther back, prepared to cut off any attempt to escape, would be the mounted troops. While the soldiers moved into position, Shangreau walked to the Indian camp, and soon Wounded Hand, the camp crier, was passing among the tipis calling the men to a council with Forsyth. Knowing that many more troopers of the Seventh had arrived during the night, the Miniconjus were apprehensive. Most were anxious to hear what the soldier chief had to say so they could be on the trail to Pine Ridge. As they headed for the square, their children played among the tipis, while the women appeared relieved the flight was finally over.
Lt. Harry Hawthorne, who was near the artillery on the hill overlooking the Indian camp, watched the troops form a square in front of Big Foot’s tent below and was puzzled. If a fight broke out, the troopers on opposite sides of the square would have to shoot directly at each other if they opened fire on the Indians between them. “Isn’t that a rather strange formation of troops in case there’s trouble?” he asked Capt. Ilsley.
The captain laughed. “There’s no possibility of trouble that I can see. Big Foot wants to go to the agency, and we’re a guard of honor to escort him.”
The warriors, many wearing Ghost Shirts under their blankets, began gathering in the square as ordered, but some of them nervously paced back and forth between Big Foot’s tent and their own tipis. Finally Forsyth ordered Shangreau to tell them to sit down and listen. Billy squatted nervously among the others, then noticed that Pawnee Killer was staring at him. I wonder if at last he knows I’m his son and is ready to accept me.
Through Shangreau, Forsyth explained in a friendly manner that to avoid the possibility of trouble it was necessary to ask them for their guns. Billy sensed a wave of shock and resentment that immediately spread through the young warriors. Forsyth assured them that without their guns they would be perfectly safe in the hands of their friends the soldiers, and that hunger and their other troubles were now happily over. The warriors glanced at one another, their expressionless faces concealing their anger. None had anticipated having to surrender his weapons. In every warrior’s head was the vision of soldiers taking their guns and then shooting them down as they tried to flee.
The headmen and leading warriors now began talking rapidly about what they must do. Finally two of them entered Big Foot’s tent to explain what the soldier chief demanded and to ask his advice. Shangreau accompanied them and heard Big Foot tell them to give up their bad guns and keep the good ones. Because of the rumor that Sitting Bull had been slain through treachery, he didn’t trust the troops enough to allow his people to surrender their weapons. Still, he had no wish for a fight.
“Better give up all your guns,” Shangreau advised Big Foot. “You can always buy more guns, but if you lose a man you can’t replace him.”
“No,” Big Foot replied. “We will keep the good guns.” Shangreau shook his head, while the two men left to tell the others what Big Foot advised.
When the two had entered the tent, the medicine man Yellow Bird began capering around in a circle in front of the warriors, chanting incantations. The young men glanced at him occasionally, but most of the time their eyes were fixed on the line of soldiers facing them with carbines in their hands. They watched every move the soldiers made, like they were expecting them to open fire.
Forsyth now sent twenty men from the left side of the line to the Indian camp to bring their rifl
es. While they were gone the others nervously milled about, while Yellow Bird continued his gyrations. The twenty men finally returned and threw down two useless carbines, insisting they had no others. Whitside was angry.
“We’ll never get them this way, that’s clear,” he told Forsyth. “When we met them yesterday they had plenty of new Winchesters. Let’s bring out Big Foot and order him to tell them to cooperate.” A hospital orderly and an Indian carried Big Foot outside the tent and stretched him out on his back facing his warriors. As he lay there weakly, his brothers-in-law Homed Cloud and Iron Eyes came forward and sat behind him. Regimental Surgeon Dr. Hoff was also beside him.
When the young warriors began milling about again, Big Foot asked to be raised so he could calm them, but his voice was too weak for them to hear. To prevent the warriors from wandering back and forth to the Indian camp and frightening the women, Forsyth had troops line up behind them. Then he had interpreter Philip Wells instruct Big Foot to order his men to hand over their weapons.
“They have no guns,” Big Foot replied. “The soldiers at Cheyenne River seized all of them.”
“You tell Big Foot,” Whitside ordered Wells, “thatyesterday, when they surrendered, they were well armed. I know he’s deceiving us.”
“They have no guns,” Big Foot insisted. “I gathered up all my guns at the agency and gave them to the soldiers. They burned them.”
Whitside and Crawford conferred again. “We’ll have to send details to search their camp,” Whitside said. Forsyth sent two officers and fifteen men to begin searching the tipis at the east end of the camp and others to start at the west end. To avoid frightening the women unnecessarily, only the officers entered the tipis, while the soldiers searched the wagons. Shangreau accompanied one group and Little Bat went with the other. As they began the search under Whitside’s supervision, he ordered the troops in the square to move a few paces closer to the Indians, which made them even more apprehensive.
Man on Two Ponies Page 21
