Suddenly there was another yell and there came Buffalo Bill and a posse of whooping, shooting cowboys, converging with their guns. “A fierce fight ensued,” Warren wrote. “Indians and cowboys dropped from saddles, their bodies thudding into the dust. Finally, the last of the Indians rode out of sight. As the settler family emerged from the cabin to thank the scout and his cowboy militia, another sound rolled over the home.” It was almost literally a roar, a voracious cacophony coming from the audience, everyone now standing, clapping wildly, and stamping their feet. Cody had saved the day and all was well on the frontier; the moment of not backing down and standing your ground and defiance entered into, the birthplace and address of America.
Fittingly, it was in Boston that the Wild West presented one of its most memorable shows. The July engagement of 1885 occurred just a few weeks after the nation celebrated its 109th birthday, no doubt a singular event in the city that was the cradle of the American Revolution. The fever of that celebration was quite possibly heightened by advance knowledge that Cody was coming, and stirred again by the actual arrival of the Wild West. The show’s publicists concocted a publicity bonanza that was one for the annals.
On July 20, 1885, the Boston Post previewed the appearance in a special report, announcing that “arrangements [have] been made to illuminate the grounds by electric lights”—a feature that was indeed unusual for that era, but the language about “arrangements having been made” was kind of inspired, suggesting complicated, behind-the-scenes maneuvering that rendered the makings of the show almost as big as the show itself. The paper also noted that “excellent music will be furnished by the famous Wild West cowboy band, who perform some very pretty solos.” The unnamed reporter may or may not have known for himself that the music was excellent, but of course who doesn’t love a cowboy band, especially one that is highly recommended?
One week later, on July 27, the Wild West opened, and the Post continued its glowing notices, reporting that [“Mr. Cody’s] ponies, horses, jackasses and elk are finely trained. The marvelous feats performed by this company have surprised those who have considered themselves adepts; and all who have witnessed their performances have been delighted.”
Sometime during the week, Sitting Bull had an unexpected reunion with a veteran of the Little Bighorn. This was Sergeant John Ryan, who had served under General Reno, and lived in nearby Newton. He was introduced to Sitting Bull, according to a report in the Arkansas City Republican on August 15, 1885, probably picking up syndicated accounts from papers in Boston. At first, Sitting Bull was reluctant to converse. But Ryan produced a blood-spattered cavalry guidon and asked if Sitting Bull had ever seen a flag like it. “Yes,” the chief said, his interest now piqued. “When?” Ryan asked. “When we had the fight and killed Custer’s men,” said Sitting Bull through the interpreter, “we got a number of them. Where did you get it?”
Ryan explained that he had seen an Indian riding up and down in front of cavalry lines during the last battle on the second day, and he was carrying this flag. Along with another soldier, they repeatedly fired at him with their long range rifles, finally dropping him off his horse. “When night came,” Ryan said, “I went out and brought the flag in."
But what made the Boston engagement truly memorable was a barbecue in which local scribes could dine with the Indians, eating grilled beef—with their hands!—just like Sitting Bull. It was an event concocted by Arizona John, not only Cody’s partner but his publicist extraordinaire. He had laid the groundwork for coverage weeks in advance as the show toured, meeting privately with reporters and editors, courting them and telling them stories about the show’s stars.
“A pleasant feature of the afternoon was the wild west dinner served in one of the tents,” said the Post. Reporters and other guests sat cross-legged around a tent, “sampling delicious roasts cooked to a turn on a spit over the open fire.” Each man made his own utensil, whittling a fork from a stick “a la cowboy,” allowing for the enjoyment of “a pleasant repast.” Through his interpreter, Sitting Bull regaled visitors with campfire stories, speaking of the pleasure derived from his travels and “his intercourse with so many white men who he was constrained to believe were his friends.” Use of the word “constrained” may have been a translator’s call—or not; it may have had a slightly different connotation in the nineteenth century than it does today. In any case, the reporters’ experience made news, as planned—and like “cowboy church,” may well be the forerunner of modern-era wilderness experiences in which tourists pay well to camp with cowboys and go to their cookouts, with ranch hands singing under the stars.
Dinner with Sitting Bull was not the only orchestrated publicity event presented by the Wild West in Boston. Thousands of spectators had just seen what may have been the best performance of the week, according to the newspaper; it was just as the ad had said: “all promises fulfilled!” The production featured the trademark program content, but this time the cowboys put on a new and especially noteworthy presentation, with the famous horseman Tom Clayton leaping aboard the celebrated horse Dynamite, and Mustang Jack closing out the cowboy act with a standing jump over a horse that was sixteen hands high.
Yet there was one more surprise to be had. After the show, reporters received another invitation. They were asked to follow Buffalo Bill and his associate Nate Salsbury into “the tent of the chiefs,” where they saluted Sitting Bull and his colleagues and sat cross-legged on the ground. Sitting Bull filled the peace pipe, lit it, took a few vigorous puffs to make sure that the tobacco was flowing, and stood up, passing the pipe to each reporter. Each took several puffs, pronouncing the experience “good.” Yes, it was a ritualized and oft-repeated proclamation that was clearly occurring for the benefit of reporters. But unbeknownst to them, a pipe ceremony was one of the underpinnings of Lakota tradition. In the old days when such ceremonies were not hidden or outlawed, medicine men would talk to the pipe, like a relative, “encouraging it as it gave itself to us to smoke,” in the words of latter-day Lakota healer Joseph Eagle Elk. They would explain that the tobacco was alive, and one must speak to its spirits. So yes, of course, there was a publicity-generating ritual under way, but it carried great import, which perhaps some of the reporters could feel (though they may have made light of it later, reporters being reporters, but no matter).
And so Sitting Bull sat down and passed the pipe to the other chiefs, and as they smoked he made an unexpected announcement. Nate Salsbury was about to become a member of his tribe, and Sitting Bull was giving him the name of “Little White Chief.” What the reporters made of this, we do not know, but we can surmise that Salsbury knew the honor was coming, for it was planned and yet had its own kind of potency, reverberating somehow, in some way, at that moment and perhaps for a long time elsewhere in ways that remain unknown. Salsbury then addressed the other chiefs, “expressing his satisfaction at being adopted and pledging eternal friendship to the tribe.” Sitting Bull said he’d give Salsbury a pony if he were at home, but all he could offer was the pipe—vessel of peace and other mysteries that he passed out to many during his travels across the land, quite possibly even with silent humor, for recipients often thought they were the only person who had been so honored, but Sitting Bull—as we have seen—could deliver a joke and knew otherwise.
Now, in the tent of the chiefs, there was handshaking all around, and by way of saying “congratulations” the word “How” was uttered by Indians and white men alike. Nate Salsbury was a member of the tribe, perhaps the first white man adopted by it, fulfilling his new name, or at least a part of it, the part that referred to his skin color. Later that evening, the grounds at Beacon Park were illuminated by “a large number of calcium lights,” just as the ads had promised, “used in the manner that footlights are utilized in a theatre.” Yes, it was show biz all right, but we can imagine that a man who had long been a kind of solo operator now had formidable allies, an extended family even!, for the Indians, as Cody would sometimes tell reporters, were me
n of their word, unlike white men, who signed treaties and made promises and then broke them. Quite possibly, Nate Salsbury, a cynic who put much effort into contriving things, may have found himself content, if only for a moment. As for the matter at hand, there followed a lot of publicity; coverage of the barbecue and adoption of Nate Salsbury was reprinted in many newspapers, and reporters in other venues clamored for an audience with Sitting Bull. And what red-blooded American didn’t want to eat grilled meat with his hands?
Short of a meal, a moment or two with Sitting Bull would suffice. On September 12, 1885, the Wild West played in Grand Rapids, Michigan, and there followed an article entitled “Sitting Bull,” with the subtitle “A Half Hour in the Tent of the Great Sioux Chief—He Talks About the Campaign Against His People.” Once again, the show’s publicists had escorted a number of reporters into Sitting Bull’s tipi, where he was lounging with friends. According to the Grand Rapids Leader, “an intelligent half-breed” was acting as interpreter. “Sago, tatanka—I—yotanda, ne kata-kush—stom a-che a-che Sioux wee-chasta ya tape,” a reporter said, launching the conversation. That meant: “Good day, Sitting Bull, I welcome the celebrated chieftain of the Sioux.” It was a curious greeting, coming from a man who was a guest in another man’s tent, but perhaps it was a welcome to his city. “Sago! How! Niche ha po taw!” came the reply, which translated as, “Good day. How are you? Come in.”
And in they filed, as Sitting Bull appeared to register happiness at hearing words in his native language, “his countenance lighting up with a smile of welcome and gratification.” From then on, the reporter pored over every detail of his clothing and face; he was, after all, a man who had seemingly just stepped off the warpath.
As the reporter regarded him closely, Sitting Bull may have wondered if the questions about Custer were coming, behind the friendly gesture of speaking in his native tongue, for that was one thing that most representatives of wasichu publications wanted to know. How strange it must have been to oversee a great victory, then witness the conquest of his people and be honored as one of the last—and feared for a killing he did not commit. Yet here he was, one more time, a celebrated and vanquished figure about to be asked for his account of the battle that wiped out a national hero and rendered him a fugitive, a prisoner, and finally, a performer. Now part of the engine of fame, he rode the wave.
You could see his smile through the thick red ocher covering his features, the Leader recounted, and, after the initial exchange of greetings, the reporters reclined on Indian blankets next to him, while he sat on a reclining camp chair. His feet were curled under it, “encased in beaded moccasins of a pretty design.” He wore dark wool trousers, a vest with a fancy pattern, a “boiled” shirt with flamboyant sleeve buttons at the wristbands, and around his neck there was a tawny silk scarf, pinned with a gold pin that “could have been improved with a little soap and water.” On the middle finger of his right hand, he wore a “large, cheap prize package cameo ring” and around his neck, a brass chain with a crucifix—some said that this was a gift from the black robe he met after his return to the United States, Father de Smet; others with darker motives said it had come into his hands in a nefarious fashion. His features were massive, the reporter said, and his skin was “of a copper hue.” The reporter noted his braided hair, as had others who met him on the road. There were accoutrements such as his bonnet of eagle feathers and owl plumes, hanging above Sitting Bull’s head; a medicine bag—always of interest to scribes—“said to be the most complete thing of the kind in existence,” and several bows and arrows. Sitting Bull’s “first lieutenant and man Friday,” Crow Eagle, reclined next to him on a blanket. His “countenance indicated more of the savage and less intelligence than the Bull, and it was also hidden by a coat of red paint.” He smoked a cigarette with apparent dedication. A third Indian sat nearby, and he expressed thanks when a reporter passed him a cigarette case with “several rolls.” For at least half an hour, the inquisitors spoke via the translator with Sitting Bull alone, and he responded in “a deep, down-cellar, cyclone pit voice, guttural in the extreme, and freely interspersed with significant gestures.” At one point, an elderly woman among the visitors pushed forward, and “gazed long and earnestly at the Indian king, with an expression as if she would like to ask after the condition of his immortal soul.”
After a while, Sitting Bull finished his cigarette and began smoking a cigar. But he was not satisfied. Crow Eagle then reached for the pipe and filled it with a “strong, peculiar-smelling tobacco.” He lit it and took a couple of whiffs, passed it to Sitting Bull, who did the same. The pipe made the rounds. Soon it was time for the official interview to begin; pleasantries had been exchanged, and now the reporter wanted to get to know him.
The questions aren’t included, but judging from Sitting Bull’s answers, we can see that he presented a quick summation of his biography in response to boilerplate queries that are still an industry reporting standard. Where are you from? When did you meet Buffalo Bill? What do you think about the Wild West? Reporters may have seen bits and pieces of Sitting Bull’s personal story in other newspapers, but it certainly was not widely known, and elements of it, if not the whole thing, may have seemed a kind of revelation at the time, filled with facts and milestone recitations that opened a window onto a lost way of life. “I am 50 years of age,” he said, perhaps in that stilted manner because of the translation. “My father’s name was Jumping Bull, and he was chief of the Sioux. When 14 years of age, I went on my first warpath against a neighboring tribe. I distinguished myself for my bravery.”
All in all, the Leader continued, “The general expression of the face indicated good nature, latent fierceness, great firmness of character, considerable savage curiousity, much craftiness and great intelligence. He looked something like the portraits of Daniel Webster and he appeared a statesman every inch.” And then, a strange blow was smuggled in, perhaps because the newspaper was in Michigan, Custer’s home state. “Taken all together,” the reporter said, “he was as mild mannered a man as ever cut a throat or scalped a helpless woman.” The statement went well beyond inquiring about Custer, and we can wonder if Sitting Bull asked for interpreters to read him the reports that followed his interviews. Expecting little from the white man, he would not have been surprised. But the statement was so wrong that it might have taken a toll—and although public, it was delivered in the shadows.
And on the show went. En route there was another adoption ceremony; this time Sitting Bull adopted Annie Oakley as his daughter, after having adopted her as a member of the tribe, like Salsbury, when he had first met her in St. Paul a year earlier. Annie was about the same age as his daughter, he told her, and it was his daughter who had made the moccasins that he wore on the day of the Battle of the Little Bighorn. She had died not long after the battle, he said, and then, giving her the special moccasins, he asked if Annie would take his daughter’s place? What she felt at that moment we do not know, but recalling it later in her autobiography, she wrote that Sitting Bull had fought justly at the Bighorn, “for his people had been driven from their God-given inheritance and were living upon broken promises.” After the ceremony, she began referring to Sitting Bull as her “adopted father.” He often visited her in her tent, where before and after shows he watched as she would sit and crochet and sew as she made her own costumes—and was said to be quite fastidious in this enterprise. Often, she would read from the Bible; such readings Sitting Bull would have heard before from missionaries, and there would be more coming his way. Both figures took much comfort in the company of the other, and later Annie would bear witness for her friend, speaking of his generosity toward the poor young wastrels he would encounter on the road, always giving away coins and always saddened that America was not taking care of its own. In doing so, she presented a side of Sitting Bull that might have been lost to the ages, for his willingness to help these orphans of the street was not much remarked on or recorded by others.
When the
tour got to Washington, D.C., Sitting Bull’s long-held wish to meet the Grandfather was close to realization. On June 24, newspapers reported that he met with Interior Department secretary Lucius Lamar, who formally issued a decree stating that Sitting Bull and those accompanying him could continue to travel across the country with Buffalo Bill, as seeing the country and its vast population and resources would benefit the Indians—a strange statement that overlooked the resources of which Sitting Bull was already quite familiar, in particular the “yellow metal” or gold, that peeked out of the sacred lands in the Great Plains, irresistibly calling the wasichu to come and get it. Now a statesman in a new phase of his life, Sitting Bull expressed gratification for the kindness that white people had extended to him on tour, and he also said that the more he could see of their peaceful intentions, the better. Later, Buffalo Bill, Sitting Bull, and his delegation headed to the War Department for a meeting with General Sherman and Adjutant General Richard C. Drum. The Indians were in full costume, their faces embellished with red and yellow, and eagle feathers in their hair. In General Sherman’s office, they engaged in little conversation, but all, except Sitting Bull, seemed to be quite taken with the paintings of army and Indian life on the walls. In particular, there was a buffalo scene that captured their attention; in the words of the Evening Star, “it caused them much pleasure.” Soon they filed out, past corridors lined with awestruck clerks, after which they checked in with General Drum for a brief introduction. A little while later, they headed to the State Department, where they were shown a copy of the original Declaration of Independence. It would not be until 1924 that Indians became citizens of the United States, protected under all of the rights delineated in the Constitution.
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