After the Battle of the Little Bighorn in 1876, Sitting Bull and his people were hounded and hunted for years. They found refuge in Canada, finally returning to the Great Plains five years later when the buffalo began to vanish in Canada as they already had in the United States. There was also another problem: Sitting Bull’s renegade Hunkpapa band of Lakota Sioux had lost the protection of the Canadian government, which had succumbed to pressure from American officials, sending the Indians south, across what Indians called the Medicine Line, into their homeland, where they became prisoners of war.
“Sitting Bull Surrenders!” announced newspapers across the land, trumpeting the news that Public Enemy Number One had been captured and America should no longer fear the man who single-handedly killed Lieutenant Colonel George Armstrong Custer on the Little Bighorn battlefield. It was of no consequence that Sitting Bull did not participate in the final siege; Crazy Horse, the other leader of the assault on the Seventh Cavalry, had already been killed, and it mattered only that Sitting Bull, the remaining figurehead, had been rendered powerless.
Yet there was a weapon in his arsenal that his captors could never take: his fame. While in Canada as a fugitive, his fame only increased. He had many admirers there and few detractors. In the States, he had a lot of both, and the numbers would only increase exponentially over the years. Sitting Bull was well aware of how he was perceived, both inside and outside his tribe. At the time of his return he knew that the American government had dedicated much time and effort to his capture; he knew that he and his band of Hunkpapas were the last holdouts—or “hostiles”—on the plains, and that therefore his homecoming would be of significant note. Yet like anyone giving up his freedom, especially a wanted and presumed killer, his fear was that he would be locked up or assassinated—or at best, promised things that the government would never deliver, lied to as the wasichu (white man) had done to his people over and over again since the first treaties had been signed and broken. He was right on all three counts. But he could not have known that his stature would soon lead to a starring role in a traveling road show, of all things, making his name instantly recognizable around the world for many years to come, long after the Lakota and all other North American tribes had been subdued and confined to reservations.
Fort Buford was the most important military outpost on the northern plains during the Indian wars of the nineteenth century. Located at the confluence of the Missouri and Yellowstone Rivers, it was the major supply depot for military field operations. Much pomp and circumstance had been organized for all manner of visitors at this fort. Yet oddly, for a man who was so notorious among white people, and so revered within his own tribe, Sitting Bull’s arrival there was not marked by fanfare or tribute, as would have befitted an officially arranged moment involving a high-ranking figure giving up his freedom. In fact, it was as if a beggar or some sort of wastrel had wandered in with his compadres, looking for food and shelter. If you hadn’t heard that Sitting Bull and his people were coming in, the sight at Fort Buford on July 19, 1881, might have made you avert your eyes in shame or gaze in wonderment and horror at the wreckage. The weather seemed to match the dismal truth of the occasion. It was dull and windy, according to reports, and the sky was overcast. Six guards waited at a corner of the parade ground, and groups of soldiers and civilians gathered outside the post store. Major David H. Brotherton, the commanding officer of the Seventh Infantry, stood outside the entrance to his office. From the north, past the parade ground, columns of mounted Lakota and soldiers approached. The Lakota ponies were gaunt, reports said, and they contrasted with the well-fed cavalry horses next to them. The columns were followed by six wagons carrying women and children, and a number of carts carrying baggage from their camp. The carts, wrote Dennis C. Pope in Sitting Bull: Prisoner of War, “made a screeching noise that could be heard from afar, with the wheels running on ungreased axles that sounded like fingernails being scratched across a pane of glass.” The high-pitched and unnatural chord was a haunting accompaniment to the moment.
All together, there were 188 Lakota men, women, and children coming in that day. Their clothing was rotten and falling apart, and some were covered only in dirty blankets. As a pair of men at the head of the procession approached, the gathered watchers were transfixed. Next to the Indian trader Jean-Louis Légaré rode Sitting Bull, the formidable man who was said to have killed Custer, the cavalry star, now in tatters and starving; a man who drew power from his namesake, the buffalo, but also from wolf and horse and eagle, and rock and cave and wind, now beaten down and ill. He was wearing a threadbare calico shirt, plain black leggings, and wrapped around his waist was an old woolen blanket. A calico bandanna was wrapped around his head, pulled low over his eyes to protect them from the light, as he was suffering from an eye infection. Reports noted that his attire was among the shabbiest in the entire procession, and it added to the pity and disbelief that some onlookers felt as he passed by. But they did not know that for Sitting Bull, his dress that day was something of a choice; it would not have befitted a Lakota leader to look better than his people, and while he could have donned feathers or perhaps even a war bonnet, he did not, and the fact that his appearance was misunderstood by his captors was just the umpteenth item in a never-ending list of things that the wasichu did not know and would never know about the Indian. Still, Sitting Bull was clearly a man who needed food, clothing, and shelter, along with the others in his band, and that was why they were there.
It was a strange turnabout for the Hunkpapa chief. Beyond the fact that coming in marked the end of nomadic life for his people, Sitting Bull was bringing it to a halt at a place he had nearly dismantled. As a warrior he had often laid siege to Fort Buford, leading his men in a series of attacks during the 1860s, years before the battle at the Little Bighorn. The assaults often kept soldiers pinned inside, and during one particular siege, on December 23, 1866, the Hunkpapas almost took over the fort, commandeering the sawmill and the icehouse. On the following morning, Sitting Bull taunted the soldiers, singing to them while beating time on a large saw.
What he thought about having to give himself up at Fort Buford we do not know; most likely, he would have had the same thoughts about the turn of events no matter where it had transpired. Yet the closing of the circle would not have been lost on Sitting Bull, and perhaps it steeled his resolve against what was about to happen; later some of his surrendering remarks caused concern among authorities, who took them as statements of defiance rather than capitulation or simply a desire for his old life.
As his band entered the grounds of the fort, he rode in front of the column, along with other leaders such as Four Horns, White Dog, Spotted Eagle, High as the Clouds, Bone Tomahawk, and Red Thunder. They stopped in front of Major Brotherton, and Sitting Bull shook hands with the commanding officer. “Today I am home,” he said. “The land under my feet is mine again. I never sold it; I never gave it to anyone.” He explained that he had left the Black Hills in 1876 because he had wanted to raise his family in peace. He was returning, he said, because he knew that one of his daughters was being held at a nearby fort. “And now I want to make a bargain with the Grandfather,” he continued, using the Indian term for the president. “I want to have witnesses on both sides.” So a council was arranged for the following morning—the act of official surrender with all of the ritual required.
For now, his men laid down their guns before the soldiers. Sitting Bull held on to his Winchester, planning to relinquish it during the ceremony on the next day. Then they gave up their horses. “My boy,” he said, turning to his son Crow Foot, “if you live, you will never be a man in this world, because you can never have a gun or pony.” And then he began to sing: A warrior I have been. Now it is all over. A hard time I have. The spontaneous keening may have startled the soldiers, and any reader of these pages who has heard such anguished chanting at Indian powwows or elsewhere has felt its power. It would have been clear that Sitting Bull was wracked with feeling, even thou
gh the wasichu did not understand the particular words. Of course the Lakota did, and the outpouring was not unusual. Such songs were traditional among the Lakota, utterances of the emotion that underscored significant events or acts. To the Indians, it might have been strange if Sitting Bull did not utter an elegy at this time. He was known for his ability in this regard, and this chant may explain why some would turn to him for help when composing their own fugues and celebrations.
Later that day, the Hunkpapas set up their camp. It was declared off limits to outsiders, as curious soldiers and their family members tried to have a moment with Sitting Bull, besieging him with requests for a handshake, an autograph, or just an acknowledgment. The admiration was a sign of things to come, and it grew over time, fraught with motives, and it would give him leverage in certain negotiations and it would also aggravate old rivalries. Now, as night fell, the Indians retreated to their tipis. Their years of flight were over, yet they probably did not rest easy, for there were no plans for their future—or at least any that had been made known to them. The next day broke gray again. Shortly before eleven in the morning, an army official entered the camp and told Sitting Bull that the time had come. Sitting Bull and Crow Foot led the way across the parade ground toward Major Brotherton’s quarters. They were flanked by the other chiefs and headmen and they were all followed by thirty-two Lakota warriors. Sitting Bull was still wearing the attire in which he had returned, and the old kerchief was still wrapped around his head, nearly covering his eyes. The Indians were escorted into Major Brotherton’s parlor, where they were greeted by a small group of soldiers and civilians, including the major, other army officials, a representative of the Northwest Mounted Police from Canada who had ridden in the night before, the trader Légaré, who had taken care of Sitting Bull north of the Medicine Line and then convinced him to return, an interpreter, and a reporter from the St. Paul Pioneer Press. Sitting Bull shook hands with all of them except Major Guido Ilges, a Prussian Civil War hero who had made a name for himself hunting down Apaches and who had also imprisoned Sitting Bull’s father long ago.
The pivotal moment approached. Still carrying his rifle, Sitting Bull took a seat next to Major Brotherton. Then he lay down the Winchester, placing it on the floor between his feet. A few seconds of silence passed. The major broke it, as a translator relayed his remarks in Lakota. He explained existing policy toward those natives who had already surrendered and he told the new arrivals that they would soon be sent down the river to Fort Yates. This was a bit of good news; there they would be reunited with family members and friends, some of whom they had not seen since the days after the Battle of the Little Bighorn, when many surrendered shortly after, knowing that even though the Indians had been victorious, it was the beginning of the end, and others, sensing the same thing but thinking and hoping they could outrun it, became fugitives.
Major Brotherton continued to explain how things would work now that Sitting Bull and his people were wards of the U.S. government. It was simple, generic, and stifling. They were advised to behave in such a manner that no harm would come their way, and if they did as they were told, they would be treated well. The Hunkpapas indicated their approval, except for Sitting Bull, who made no such acknowledging sound or gesture.
Major Brotherton now turned to the chief and asked him to speak. Sitting Bull remained characteristically silent for several minutes and then began. First he made a short speech to the Lakotas. It was not translated and there is no record of it. Did he give them a prelude of what he was about to say? Tell them not to worry—about tomorrow and the next day and the next? When the time seemed right, he turned to Crow Foot, telling him to pick up the gun and give it to the major. “I surrender this rifle to you through my young son,” he said, addressing all of the officers, “whom I now desire to teach in this manner that he has become a friend of the Americans. I wish him to learn the habits of the whites and to be educated as their sons are educated. I wish it to be remembered that I was the last man of my tribe to surrender my rifle.”
It was a statement that had to hang in the air, perhaps satisfying some of the soldiers, or giving pause to others. “The last man of my tribe to surrender my rifle”—what must they have thought when Sitting Bull said this? Did anyone hold back a sigh, a tear? Were some proud of their part in this play? And what of Sitting Bull himself? Which powers did he call on to get through this moment? Was it all of the animal tribes, all four directions, was it his ancestors, or was it buffalo only, the disappearing creature of endurance and strength? Somehow, on he declaimed, stripped of firepower and method of escape, asserting rights, asking for things, and trying to help certain friends. “This is my country,” he said, “and I don’t wish to be compelled to give it up. My heart is very sad at having to leave the Grandmother’s country. She has been a friend to me, but I want our children to grow up in our native country.” He then inquired about the possibility of continuing to trade with Légaré, and expressed his desire to visit two of his friends on the other side of the line—Major James Morrow Walsh and Captain Alexander MacDonnell—whenever he wished. He added that he hoped to have all of his people live together on one reservation on the Little Missouri River south of the line in their home territory. This meant that the people who were left behind during this final trek as well as those who were already confined on the Standing Rock Reservation—one of several government zones for the Lakota, each with its own army fort—would all be permitted to reconvene in one place. “You own this ground with me,” he said, “and we must try and help each other.”
In the end, regardless of the relinquishment of his weapon and ponies, and the simple fact that he was inside the gates of Fort Buford, it was as if Sitting Bull had not really surrendered, the reporter from the Pioneer Press wrote on the following day, and among many there was puzzlement, confusion, and fear. For the man who was thought to have killed Custer did not seem contrite, and some thought he might be indicted and tried for murder. In the newspapers, there was no discussion of the fact that Major Brotherton had denied most of Sitting Bull’s requests, but he did agree to send scouts to escort the Hunkpapas who were still on the trail back to Fort Buford without incident.
After the meeting, the warriors stopped at the quartermaster’s station and were each given a blanket. Later that day, there was another gesture of benevolence from the army: blankets were issued to the women and children and the men who had not attended the council. But the blankets were hardly enough for the destitute natives, as even officials at the fort recognized. The major sent a telegraph to headquarters, asking for three dollars per person to purchase clothing for the band. The request was sent up through channels to the Bureau of Indian Affairs, which declined it; due to the moneys already given to the hostiles who had surrendered months earlier, there were no funds left in the coffers. Clothing was then purchased for the Hunkpapas from the post traders on credit, and the War Department picked up the tab of $825.91. In their new garments, the Indians had some measure of protection against the elements, and the mood among the band seemed to lighten.
Over the next nine days, a parade of visitors made its way to the native encampment. Some simply wanted to be friends with the vanquished men and women. Others wanted souvenirs and to hobnob with Sitting Bull. A cottage industry in moccasins and saddles erupted and the Indians purchased more supplies from the trading post. It was good business for all concerned, another sign of the strange new path that natives and wasichus were now following, and further indication of Sitting Bull’s budding star power.
On July 29, a week and a half after their arrival at Fort Buford, Sitting Bull and his band of Hunkpapas were transferred to Fort Yates, south of Buford, down the Missouri River, near the present-day border with South Dakota. Fort Yates presided over the Standing Rock Agency, and there the Indians would be reunited with their relatives. That morning after breakfast, the women packed up the encampment and took down the tipis. Then the men, women, and children boarded the General Sherman,
a stern-wheeler that regularly plied the waterways of the frontier, carrying soldiers and civilians.
It’s hard to imagine now, but steamboats—those stately and seemingly harmless vessels associated mainly with Mark Twain—were a common sight in the region, deepening the siege that horses had permitted the cavalry to make, allowing the wasichu to put the squeeze on Native Americans on land and water at the same time.
Most likely, Sitting Bull and many of his followers had seen steamers like this before, but none had traveled on any, and once on board they would have trouble navigating such things as stairs. As the Sherman headed downriver, Major Brotherton dashed off a telegram to General Alfred Howe Terry, a revered Civil War general and military commander of the Dakota Territory. “Steamer Sherman left here for Standing Rock at six forty-five a.m.,” it said, “with Sitting Bull and 187 of his people. Sent an escort of seventy under command of Captain Clifford, seventh Infantry. No trouble.”
About 150 miles into the journey, the Sherman docked near Fort Stevenson for the evening. The women found wood and prepared dinner. Later, some of the Indians sang traditional songs until it was time to retire. As guards watched over them, the band slept under the stars, each covered in his or her army-issued blanket. The next morning, the women made breakfast, and then everyone reboarded the Sherman.
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