More Than Cowboys

by Tim Slessor

  On arriving back at the Sioux Reservations, those eleven apostles spread the word, and the dance. The theory was that, if performed often enough and with sufficient verve, it would bring about a resurrection of the Old Life. Salvation was coming: probably in the spring, with “the greening of the grass”. So, through the fall of 1890, the dance became an obsession performed by hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Sioux on all their Reservations. Because it invoked the spirits of dead ancestors, worried white observers called it the Ghost Dance. For many dancers, the seemingly endless repetitiveness of chanting and stamping could, if they did not first fall to exhaustion, induce a wondrous level of hallucinatory visions - a phenomenon that would, after all, be repeated in the white man’s marathon dance competitions only 40 years later during the Depression.

  One of the few photos of a Ghost Dance, taken at Pine Ridge on 25 December 1890, a few days before the massacre at Wounded Knee

  At some point an addition was made to Wovoka’s gospel: the Ghost shirt. Its “medicine” lay in the mystical patterns painted onto the garment; they made it impenetrable to the white man’s bullets. Not surprisingly, this talk of bullets, along with a marked rekindling of Sioux morale, alarmed the whites both within and beyond the Reservations. So word went out that the more truculent among the Sioux leaders were to be brought in to the Agencies, where they could be guarded and watched. The Army was mobilized to do the policing.

  Sitting Bull was high on the official “wanted” list. Some years earlier, he had been released to live on the Standing Rock Reservation. Since then he had been recruited to tour, for an enormous $50 a week, in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Circus. He was a target of curiosity wherever he went, a national celebrity. In 1887 he was even asked to travel with the circus to England and to perform at a command performance (in the Earl’s Court arena of the day) to celebrate the Golden Jubilee of his one-time guardian, Queen Victoria. If indeed he was asked, he declined: either because he thought that he was too old for such a long trip, or else he just wanted to stay at home. (But one can’t help thinking of the photograph that could have been: the old Queen and the old Chief.) Anyway, at home on the Reservation (though deliberately living some distance from the relevant Agency), he was now suspected of being a focus of potential trouble. Indeed, a nervous Agency boss, Major Laughlin (a former Army officer), had already had several run-ins with the old rebel. Now, taking no chances, the Major gave the order for his arrest. Buffalo Bill, who was one of the very few whites that the old chief trusted, volunteered to journey from Chicago and, in peace, to persuade Sitting Bull to come to the Agency. But the offer was turned down; the Major wanted no help from a mere showman. A party of Indian police was sent out instead. As with the arrest of Crazy Horse 13 years earlier, things quickly went awry. A protective crowd had gathered round Sitting Bull and, in the ensuing mêlée, he was shot dead. So were six policemen.

  Tension, already high, now became even higher as news of the old chief’s death spread. Among the whites, both within and beyond the Reservations, there was near panic at the thought that the Indians, in their anger, might well be arming for the warpath. Indeed, the settlers of the newly created states of North and South Dakota wired Washington requesting the urgent dispatch of enough rifles to arm every able-bodied male. One congressman, more perceptive than most, suggested that it might be better to send a full complement of promised rations to the semi-starving Sioux. For their part, the Sioux soon became even more alarmed when they heard that the Army, in strength, had been ordered to intervene. In their fear, many surrendered. Others, perhaps as many as 3,000, headed for the protection of the Badlands: an easily defended tangle of eroded cliffs and gullies well away from the Agencies. It became known to the whites as the Stronghold.

  Now, there were nervous trigger fingers on all sides. A detachment of the 7th Cavalry was dispatched to bring in another allegedly troublesome chief, Big Foot. It was rumored that he and his people were heading to join forces with those other malcontents already in the Stronghold. However, when the soldiers caught up with him, an obviously ailing Big Foot (it turned out that he had pneumonia) professed peace, though less than boundless goodwill, towards the soldiers. In the face of an obviously superior force, he agreed that he and his followers (about 120 men, and 230 women and children) should be escorted to the Agency settlement of Pine Ridge, a trek of about a day to the south. That, he said, was where he was heading anyway. Although accounts vary, it seems that during the journey the Indians, none of whom had been disarmed, gave no trouble; one narrative even has some of them joking with the cavalrymen and smoking their cigarettes. By evening, with about 15 miles to go, they stopped and made camp at a place called Wounded Knee. The cavalry commander, not convinced by the Indians’ apparent calm, and quietly planning to disarm them next morning, positioned the two Hotchkiss rapid-fire artillery pieces that he had with him, plus two troops (about 80 men), on a low hill overlooking the area where the Indians, in the freezing twilight, were now erecting their tepees. The rest of his men (about 180 cavalrymen and 50 scouts) were stationed in a series of strong points encircling the Indian camp. This, of course, alarmed the Sioux. They became even more alarmed when, soon after dark, the soldiers were joined by four more companies of the 7th Cavalry; they had ridden out from the Pine Ridge Agency. The Colonel of the regiment, George Forsyth, now assumed overall command. He added his two Hotchkiss guns (with shrapnel ammunition) to the two guns already on the hill.

  Sitting Bull in later life

  The next morning, shortly after reveille, Colonel Forsyth sent a message into the tepees. All the men, more than 100 of them, were to come out unarmed; they were to assemble in front of the main cavalry position. When they were gathered, wrapped in their blankets against the cold, the Colonel brusquely ordered them to go back to their tepees, 20 at a time, to fetch their guns. There was, as one might expect, much muttering at this command. They claimed that they had not been told the previous day that this was a condition of their surrender. Yet now they were surrounded, with no choice. But an Indian’s rifle, especially if it were one of the new lever-action Winchester carbines, was his most valued possession. If they refused to disarm, what would the whites do? More importantly, given that many of them were wearing those bullet-proof shirts, what would they do? Their medicine man, Yellow Bird, was quietly advising them.

  Presently the first group returned from the tepees, carrying just two guns; both had obviously been unused for years. Big Foot was lifted off his sickbed and carried out of the tent which, together with a stove, had been provided by the Cavalry the evening before. When told to advise his people to cooperate, he said that they had already done so: there were no more guns. Colonel Forsyth decided that more direct action was needed. He ordered detachments of his own men to go and search the tepees. The braves, who were already restive, now became even more agitated. But they were under the guns of the soldiers. Perhaps they wondered if their bulletproof shirts would also be impregnable to the shells of those cannons up on the hill.

  Sure enough, the search parties found some of the rifles they were looking for. Many had been hidden by the women, some in bedding, some under their long, full skirts. But the number found, less than 40, was suspiciously low. During the rummage, the soldiers were nervous, rough, and in a hurry. The distress of the women could easily be heard by their menfolk. The Colonel was sure that there were more rifles to be found, so ordered the Indians to come forward in ones and twos and open wide their blankets. A few old men shuffled forward: no weapons. Then suddenly, back in the crowd, one of the younger men shook a Winchester high above his head. Two soldiers moved towards him. He fired a shot in the air. Yellow Bird threw up a handful of dirt.

  There has always been debate as to whether the shot and the dust constituted a pre-arranged signal. Indeed, there are varying interpretations about almost all the events of that morning: their sequence and their significance. In short, like so much throughout the India
n Wars, there can be no single version of what happened. Everything depends on who is telling the story.

  So who fired first? We do not know, but it seems likely that within just a second or two of that “signal”, those warriors who had rifles inside their blankets leveled them and fired. The soldiers could see what was happening, before it even happened. So, almost simultaneously, they too opened fire, nearly 100 of them, at a range of less than 50 yards. The immediate carnage, on both sides, must have been terrible.

  So close was the fighting that, for the first minute or two, the crews of those Hotchkiss guns up on the hill had to hold their fire for fear of hitting their own men. But as the fighting below became more spread out, the gunners began to make their contribution; each of those four guns could fire a round of shrapnel every three seconds. The Sioux now found that their shirts were no more use against the exploding shells than they were against rifle bullets. Within minutes, most of the tepees were in shreds. The women and children, those not already killed or wounded, were running away to find shelter under the eroded banks and coulees along Wounded Knee Creek. Many of the warriors followed them.

  For the next three hours and within a radius of several miles, the soldiers hunted down any Indian they could find. At one point, one of those rapid-fire Hotchkiss guns was moved in order to target its shells onto some of those groups sheltering along the creek. The shrapnel did not discriminate between women and children, or their still-armed menfolk.

  By early afternoon, it was all over. The temperature, already well below freezing, was dropping by the minute; the wind was increasing. All the signs were of an approaching ice storm. So it was imperative to get the wounded back to the military hospital in the Agency village at Pine Ridge as quickly as possible. They were quickly helped into wagons, along with the bodies of their dead companions. Of the soldiers, 39 had been wounded and 25 killed; some had almost certainly been hit by “friendly fire”. Of the Indian dead: their bodies were not counted, but they included Big Foot and Yellow Bird. They were just left behind while the wagons and the column of cavalry moved off. This was late afternoon on 29 December 1890.

  It was New Year’s Day before the blizzard blew itself out. Only then did a detachment of soldiers, together with a group of workmen, a posse of journalists and a photographer, get back to Wounded Knee. After two days of sub-zero temperatures, the scattered bodies were frozen solid. Big Foot’s grotesquely twisted corpse was among them. The workmen dug a large pit into the top of the hill that, only three days before, had been the site of those Hotchkiss guns. It is generally reckoned that more than 150 men, women and children were thrown, one on top of another, into that pit. It is also reckoned that the bodies of another 20 or 30 men and women, lying further afield, were not recovered until days or even weeks later. The photographer took a set of pictures that, even today, are a shocking record of the whole tragic episode.

  And, given that it might have been avoided, it was a tragic episode. It is also one that, in terms of the participants’ motives, responsibilities and blame, is still debated. Among some of the soldiery there was almost certainly a wish to avenge old scores. This, after all, was the same regiment that, under Custer, had lost nearly half its men just 14 years before. Indeed, several of the officers and enlisted men still carried memories of that terrible day. For all they knew, some of the Indians in front of them might have been involved in that encounter. And further, from the moment that the shooting started that morning, there certainly would have been anger among the soldiers at what many would have seen as treachery. Why else would the Indians have hidden their weapons, if not suddenly to throw aside their blankets in a pre-planned attack?

  The burial pit at Wounded Knee

  Among the Sioux, there would have been deep resentment that, having peacefully surrendered the day before and then behaved themselves, they should later be surrounded, bullied and told to hand over all their firearms - something that had not, as they understood it, been part of the earlier agreement. They would have wondered what the whites, with this demand for total disarmament, had in mind. Perhaps they had hidden their guns not because they had plotted to use them that day, but because they had long learned not to trust the whites. They had good cause for, although they could not know it, it seems that the true intention of the military was not to take them to Pine Ridge, but to march them to the railhead at the small Nebraskan town of Gordon; from there they were to be shipped by train hundreds of miles south, perhaps to the desolation of what is today’s western Oklahoma.

  One could go on with various conjectures. But what is certain is that nerves on both sides were so taut that it would take very little to detonate a two-way explosion. That single shot from the brave waving his Winchester was enough. From this distance in time, it is easy to say that Colonel Forsyth, with an overwhelming body of 500 troops at his disposal, could have been more sensitive. Maybe he could have ordered a cease-fire when it became apparent that the Sioux were finished, instead of allowing his men to chase after every remaining survivor. Perhaps and maybe...

  The Sioux have long insisted that it was not a battle; to this day, they call it the Massacre at Wounded Knee. Again, they have cause. For its part, the Army was quick to ease its conscience by portraying the engagement as a wholly legitimate police action, triggered by treachery. To justify this version yet further, the authorities quickly distributed 13 Medals of Honor - one of the highest accolades for courage that the nation can bestow. Apparently there have never been so many such awards consequent on any single engagement, before or since. The Sioux have long referred to them as Medals of Dishonor, and in recent years have petitioned Congress to have them rescinded, without success.

  Wounded Knee was the site of the last major “battle” of the Indian Wars. By the end of the 1890s, any mention of Wounded Knee beyond the Sioux would have generated interest in only the most concerned Americans.

  ***

  We were waiting in a departure lounge at Denver airport. There were nine or ten of these characters; they all seemed to know each other. They were heavily built, crew-cut, rather pasty-faced and several of them chewed their gum too nervously. They were not Westerners - you could tell that by their dark and rather baggy suits and their black lace-up shoes. As we filed through the departure gate I tried to eavesdrop on their sporadic conversation. Evidently they were Federal Marshals; they had left Boston that morning and now, having just jetted 2,000 miles to Denver, they were boarding this small Frontier Airlines flight on the penultimate leg of a journey to South Dakota. They were on their way to the Sioux Reservation at Pine Ridge, “to wrap things up good”. I doubt that any of them had ever been on the plains before. Certainly, they had some strange ideas about what they were going to find.

  “Told my wife I was going to get myself a real short haircut - nobody’s gonna take my scalp.”

  “They do say that these guys are mostly weirdoes or commies.”

  “Well, I hear that it’s a real nothing place. Anyways, they’ve got us all booked back home next week, and no replacements. Must mean something.”

  I got off the plane an hour and a half later at Chadron, and was met by old friends. The marshals also got off; they drove away into the evening in a government bus.

  In fact, it was another nine weeks before the 60 or so Indians (mostly Sioux) who had taken over and dug themselves in around the “nothing place” called Wounded Knee were finally persuaded to give in or melt away. But not before there had been several killings. The so-called “rebellion” was an ironic echo of the only other time that Wounded Knee made the nation’s headlines.

  ***

  For the eight decades after 1890, few people would have known where to find Wounded Knee on a map. Indeed, on most maps it was not even marked.

  What started to put the place back on the map, quite literally, was a growing militancy known as the Race Relations movement, or the struggle for Civil Rig
hts. Looking back, one remembers places like Selma, Little Rock, Montgomery, Birmingham and more than a dozen others. In our minds they are indelibly associated with the campaign by Black people for equality and justice. But at the time another, rather smaller minority was looking on with more than a passing interest. Black Power? So why not Red Power?

  In November 1969 a small group of Indians invaded Alcatraz, the disused but highly visible island-prison in the middle of San Francisco Bay. They held the place for 18 months and, with an ironic sense of history, generated some sharp publicity. For instance, taking a cue from the Dutch who, more than 300 years earlier, had bought the island of Manhattan (New Amsterdam) from the local tribe for a scatter of bright baubles, the Indians on Alcatraz now offered (via their Radio Free Alcatraz) to sell “their” island to the whites for a similar handful or two of glass beads; they even offered to set up a paternalistic Bureau for Caucasian Affairs to look after interests of the three white caretakers of the island. For a month or two the media lapped it up. Maybe it stirred a few white consciences; it certainly got people talking about some of the most ignored people on the continent.