by John Benteen
“Explains what?”
“The old one up there, Martin Fain. He’s Texas, too. Came up here ten, twelve years ago with a trail herd, latched on to a lot of rangeland over around the Belle Fourche, fast as the Indians were shoved off of it. He raises prime stock, sells it to the miners in the Black Hills, and he’s got the agency beef contracts at Pine Ridge and Rosebud, too. Only he doesn’t sell them prime stock—he brings up culls from Texas and Mexico to fill his contracts, walkin’ wrecks. For a while, he had no competition. Then I moved in and bought some land and started Thunderbird. Fain paid me no attention until I got my herd built up where I could bid for the reservation contracts last year.”
“You get ’em?”
Sundance laughed harshly. “Not by a long shot. I offered real beef, crossbred Angus, at five dollars a head less than Fain offered to sell his culls for, but he got both contracts. It’s not the money that bothered me, I can sell everything I raise in Rapid City or Deadwood for premium prices. But I wanted to see the tribes get decent rations, the meat they were entitled to. Anyhow, I’ve got some connections in Washington—”
“So I’ve heard. You used to hire a man there to lobby Congress for the Indians—”
Sundance nodded. “Anyhow, I went to my contacts, got an investigation rolling. Up until then, Fain and I didn’t rub each other one way or another. But as soon as he got wind of that, Hoffman showed up, Fain took him on as foreman. What you said just backs up what I thought; he wasn’t hired for his cow-sense.”
Sergeant Blake shot a long stream of amber. “Well, he’s fast, everybody says that. But unless you’ve slowed down a lot, I’d put my money on you to take him.”
Sundance’s face went hard. “I don’t want to have to take him. But, yeah, it might come to that—whether Fain wants it to break like that or not. He wants to try me out so bad he can taste it. Well, maybe after this conference today, I’ll have to deal with him. Thanks for telling me his background. It always helps to know who you’re up against.”
Blake was silent for a while. “Funny,” he said at last. “I’d begun to think the fightin’ was over. Railroads, telegraph, big towns all across the country, everything so different from what it was twenty years ago when I first come out. Civilized, now, a man figures. And here we are talkin’ about two kinds of war. You with Fain and Hoffman, me and the Seventh Cavalry with the Sioux. It’s like ... like time has slipped a notch somewhere, is turnin’ backward.”
Sundance nodded. “I don’t want to fight,” he said. “All I want is to build up my spread and maybe have a son someday to hand it over to. All the same, if I have to, I haven’t forgotten how.”
Blake looked at him appraisingly. “No, I don’t think you have. Neither has the Seventh Cavalry.” Then he looked across the prairie, and now, beyond the line of a creek, they could see a few scattered cabins and around it the white blotches that were teepees: it was a settlement of Oglala Sioux. “But for that matter,” he added, “I reckon Red Cloud’s people haven’t either.”
Then Cochrane yelled irritably: “All right, back there, Blake, close it up.”
Blake looked at Sundance, spat again, and spurred his horse.
Chapter Two
The Pine Ridge reservation was not the largest in South Dakota; the adjoining Rosebud reservation was, in terms of acreage, bigger. But Pine Ridge was the most populous, with almost seventy-five hundred Oglala Sioux plus another five hundred Northern Cheyennes; and its agency was the size of a fair-sized town. It lay between two creeks, on a plateau: east of the road that divided it were a long, low building that served as a hotel, three trading posts, and two churches; to the west was the agency itself, a sprawl of shops, warehouses, stables, a water tank, a grim-looking boarding school for Indian children, and the rambling building housing the agent’s office, council room, and headquarters of the Indian police. Scattered around the outskirts were log cabins mostly inhabited by half-breeds or white employees of the place, and to the west, not far away, on White Clay Creek was Red Cloud’s village. That was another scattering of cabins up and down both sides of the stream, dominated by the two story house the government had built for the tough old Oglala chief who, almost senile now, was losing his authority over his tribe.
In addition to all that, the land around the agency now was ranked with row upon row of tents, a vast city of them, horse lines, and an artillery park for the Gatling guns and Hotchkiss guns, for the Army was here in force, and it wanted the Indians to know it.
The detail drew up before the Agency headquarters. Sundance and Blake joined it, just as Martin Fain addressed his riders. “All right, you men. Likely this will take all day. Have yourself some drinks over at Finley’s place, but stay out of trouble with the soldiers and the Indians. Joe Bob, you come with me.” He swung down, as his riders wheeled their mounts, galloped off, whooping. Sundance gave him time to enter the agency, Hoffman trailing, before he dismounted.
Cochrane sat his horse, the platoon formed behind him, and looked down at Sundance as the half-breed looped the Appaloosa’s reins around the hitch rack. Again, Sundance could feel the curious pressure of the hostility in the lieutenant’s eyes, and it seemed to him that there was more of it there than called for by the ordinary white man’s hatred of a half-blood or an Indian. But he did not acknowledge it, only said, without looking up, “Thanks for the escort, Lieutenant.”
Cochrane did not answer. Sundance patted the horse’s neck, ducked under it, walked to the door of the agency. As he opened it, he heard Cochrane snap, almost savagely: “All right, Blake! Dismiss the men!” Then Sundance entered the big office where several clerks worked at desks behind a railing and shut not only the door but all thought of Cochrane from his mind. Fain and Hoffman had already disappeared, but a clerk gestured toward another door at the far end of the room. “Mr. Sundance? Agent Royer and Generals Miles and Brooke are waiting for you in there.”
“Much obliged, Mitchell.” Sundance hitched at his weapons belt and went into the council room.
It was big enough to accommodate a lot of Indians simultaneously, but now it had been converted into the headquarters of an Army command. There were maps on the walls, a big table in the center, a couple of desks, and a lot of men in uniform, plus some civilians, including Fain and Hoffman. One of the officers, tall and thick-chested, imposing with silver hair and mustache, stars glittering on his shoulder, saw Sundance. “Here he is now,” he said, and came forward, putting out his hand. “Sundance.”
“General Miles.”
They had known each other a long time, Sundance and General Nelson Miles, commander of the Division of the Missouri, which took virtually the entire West, and while there was no great liking for each other between them, there was a certain amount of respect, slowly acquired over a lot of years. Next to Crook, Miles had done more Indian fighting than any other general, and now that Crook was dead likely understood the psychology and customs of the tribes better than any other military man. Which, Sundance thought wryly, was not saying much. Still, he was the man with the power here now, and he would have to be dealt with carefully.
“Now that you’re here, I think we can begin,” Miles went on, and then he addressed the room. “Gentlemen, will you please take your seats.” He led Sundance to the long table, gestured to a chair directly across from the one in which Martin Fain was sitting. Hoffman, next to Fain, looked at Sundance with those strange eyes of his, grinned faintly, coldly, then looked away. Fain did not look at him at all.
Miles went to the head of the table. “Gentlemen, let’s get everyone introduced around.” He indicated a plump, balding man in uniform on his right. “General John Brooke, who will have active field command in the Dakotas.” A lean, graying cavalryman next to Brooke was James Forsyth, commanding the Seventh Cavalry. “Mr. Martin Fain and his foreman, Mr. Hoffman. I’ve asked them here today in their capacity as suppliers of beef under contract to the agency, as certain additional demands may be made on them, and we must know whether or
not they can fulfill them. Next, Dr. Eastman—”
Eastman grinned at Sundance. Himself a Yanktonais Sioux, he was young, intelligent, well-educated.
“And Dr. Daniel Royer, of course, Agent here at Pine Ridge ...” Royer was in his thirties, a nervous, ineffectual man, only recently appointed agent; given the post as a political plum, he knew nothing about Indians. The Sioux, Sundance knew, called him, in fact, Young-Man-Afraid-of-Indians.
“And, at the foot of the table, Major James McLaughlin, Agent at Standing Rock, to the north.”
Sundance looked at McLaughlin appraisingly. This man was a different case entirely from the nervous, indecisive Royer. Although still young, his hair was prematurely white, and there was strength, determination, and arrogance written on his face. So far as Sundance knew, he was honest and conscientious, two qualities usually rare in Indian agents.
Miles went on: “Colonel Carr, Sixth Cavalry; Major Whitside, Seventh Cavalry; and Mr. Jim Sundance—”
Fain said, harshly: “What’s he doing here?”
Miles’ heavy white brows drew together. “I beg your pardon?”
Without looking up, Fain rasped: “I asked, why’s Sundance here? What business has he got at a meeting like this?”
“Primarily, Mr. Fain, because he’s an expert on Indians. He grew up as a Cheyenne, but his father was a trader and traveled among most of the tribes out here. Sundance knows them all, speaks their languages, has been adopted into several of them. There have been times when he’s been extremely useful to General Crook and myself, and, indeed, to Generals Sherman and Sheridan. Although, I’ll admit, there’ve been times when he’s been on the other side of the fence as well—”
“A renegade, you mean,” Fain said, flatly.
Before Miles could speak, Sundance said: “Ease off, Fain. Yeah, I’ve worked hard for a square deal for the tribes, even fought on their side when that was necessary. You think I’m gonna deny that, when I’m half Cheyenne? But the main thing has always been trying to work out a fair peace—”
“Mr. Fain,” Miles cut in. “The past is past; we’re dealing with the present, and I intend to solicit Sundance’s advice and counsel. I trust you will not question my authority to do so.”
Fain said nothing, looking not at Sundance, but staring at his hat on the table in front of him. Hoffman was on the edge of his chair, sitting straight up, and Sundance automatically checked to make sure both his hands were in sight. They were.
“Now,” Miles said, going to a map on the wall, “if you’ll forgive me, I think the first thing is to recapitulate this whole situation, right from the beginning.”
He took a pointer. “Once,” he said, “all of South Dakota west of the Missouri was the Great Sioux Reserve. Further treaties, including the outcome of the Crook Commission last year have reduced the size of their holdings to a reasonable area in relation to their population. Here—” he indicated two adjoining blocs on the north, sprawling slightly into North Dakota, “—are the Standing Rock Reservation and the Cheyenne River Reservation adjoining it on the south. Below them and to the east, the much smaller Crow Creek and Lower Brulé agencies. And, down here, along the Nebraska line, the two largest reservations side by side: Pine Ridge and Rosebud.”
He went on, like a lecturer. “Here at Pine Ridge, the Oglala Sioux and a band of Northern Cheyennes. At Rosebud, four thousand Upper Brulés, under the effective leadership of old chief Two Strike. Cheyenne River is populated by about three thousand Minniconjou, Blackfeet, Sans Arc and Two Kettle Sioux. At Standing Rock, there are more Blackfeet Sioux and some upper Yanktonais, and—” He paused significantly. “And,” he concluded, “nearly fifteen hundred Hunkpapa Sioux under ...” his voice changed, deepened “... the leadership of Sitting Bull.”
Forsyth, Commander of the Seventh Cavalry, made a sound in his throat, and Sundance knew he was thinking of that day so long ago on the Greasy Grass, the Little Big Horn, when Custer had died in a trap masterminded by Sitting Bull. Looking around the table, he could see that Sitting Bull’s very name awed and impressed the others here, too. And well it might; if there were one single leader all the scattered Indians on the various reservations still honored and would follow, it was the old medicine man of the Hunkpapa.
“It’s been nine years, now,” Miles continued, “since Sitting Bull surrendered after hiding out in Canada. For most of that time, things have been quiet here. We’ve taken advantage of that period of peace to ring in this whole area with forts, as you know: Fort Yates at Standing Rock, Bennett at Cheyenne River; Fort Sully on the Missouri; Robinson just below the Nebraska line on the south, and others. We have excellent roads and railroad connections for the quick movement of troops, a complete telegraph system for instantaneous communication, and—” He hesitated, then smiled ironically. “And everything else,” he finished, “an Army could want except soldiers. Unfortunately, in these years of peace, Congress has cut the military to the bone. Therefore, with one third of the entire strength of the United States Army mustered here in the Dakotas, drawn from all corners of the West, we face approximately twenty-five thousand Indians with two thousand troops. True, we have Gatling guns and cannon; however, our standard infantry and cavalry arm is still the single-shot Springfield rifle or carbine, while it is my understanding that, over the years, most of the tribesmen have armed themselves with Winchester repeaters.”
McLaughlin, the Standing Rock agent, nodded. “Right. Indians will sacrifice almost anything to make sure they’ve got the best weapons money can buy.”
“It would be nice if the Congress of the United States felt the same way,” Forsyth said ironically. “General Miles, when you’re elected President—”
Miles flushed slightly. “I assure you, I have no such ambitions,” he said, but his voice was tinny. “Let me get on. At any rate, you can see that it is desirable, if possible, to avoid outright war with the Indians. While our victory would be certain, casualties would undoubtedly be heavy on both sides, not to mention among the innocent civilians. Now that the territory around the reservations has filled up with ranchers and settlers, their lives, in a sense, are hostage to the Sioux. If there’s an outbreak, those civilians would be the first to die.”
Hoffman snorted. “Any Injun comes on our range, he’s going to wind up with more lead in him than he can tote.”
“I’m sure. But not everybody is in a position to make that statement,” Miles said. “Now … ” He paused again. “Now, we come to the Ghost Dance and its meaning in the present situation. Frankly, I’ve heard a lot of conflicting reports about it. One of the reasons I asked Jim Sundance to come today is to see if he can give us all straight information on it—and its different aspects on the different reservations. No disrespect meant to you various agents, I’m sure you know what’s happening in your own territories. But I happen to know that Sundance has pipelines into all the reservations. It’s true, Jim, isn’t it, that you use nothing but Indians from the various bands as cowhands on your ranch?”
Sundance nodded. “I know the Ghost Dance, and I know what’s going on.”
“Well, then—”
Sundance stood up. “It started last year, in Nevada. A Paiute medicine man named Wovoka ... he claimed to have had a vision. The way he tells it, he’s the new Messiah, come from the Great Spirit, just like the white man’s God sent his son Jesus, and the word he’s brought is that within a year or two, everything’s going to change. Starting from the west, a new earth’s gonna roll across the old one, just like a wave washing over sand. It’ll wipe out everything, force the white men back to where they came from, and then the land will be like it was before, full of buffalo, nobody living in it but the Indians. And every Indian who believes in this new religion will be lifted up to the Shadow Land—Heaven—while all this is happening, and put back down again when it’s over, and then they can pick up the old ways and live like they used to.”
General John Brooke snorted. “Pagan nonsense.”
Sundanc
e shrugged. “Maybe no worse than the Christian Second Coming, Resurrection Day, when the dead rise up out of their graves whole again ... Anyhow, Wovoka’s already passed one miracle—he promised to blot out the sun for a day, and he did. Everything turned dark.” Sundance grinned. “He knows how to use an almanac and he knew when an eclipse was coming.”
“Clever,” Miles said.
“Anyhow, he’s cooked up a whole new religion. It’s part Christian, part Indian. The main thing is the Ghost Dance, that’s the big ceremony. And the Ghost Shirts for the men. Well, Wovoka’s religion caught on among the Paiutes, spread to other tribes. A few months ago, the Sioux sent observers to the Arapahos and picked it up. Now it’s spread throughout the reservations. But the most important thing is the change the Sioux’ve made in it.”
“Which is?” Miles asked.
“Wovoka prohibited any kind of violence. He laid down his own Ten Commandments, and they’re almost like the ones in the Bible. No fighting, no killing. The Sioux have changed that. They believe that when the time is right, they’re to drive out the white men themselves. And they figure it’ll be easy, because they think their Ghost Shirts’ll make ’em bulletproof.”
Again Brooke snorted. “I’ve seen one of those shirts. Nothing but ordinary cloth with a few symbols painted on it.”
“Right. Just like a St. Christopher medal is a piece of iron or silver.” Brooke frowned, and Sundance went on. “Okay, so much for what the Ghost Dance is. Here’s what it boils down to on these reservations.”
Now his voice turned hard, as he looked around the table. “There’s not a man here that doesn’t know the shape the tribes are in. They were promised certain rations when they surrendered and those rations have been cut in half. The Government tried to make farmers out of ’em, but even the best of farmers can’t make a crop on land like this, much less people who’ve grown up on horseback and hate walkin’ behind a plow. They tried raisin’ cattle, and that was better, but the big blizzard of 1886-87 wiped out most of their herd. Now, gentlemen,” he said in a voice like iron, “the Indians are starving. And not only starving, but they’re sick. White men’s diseases against which they’ve got no resistance—measles, flu, chicken pox, whoopin’ cough.”
