"THE BULLET HAD PASSED STARTLINGLY NEAR HIM."
Before relating to my young friends the incidents which follow, I think a few words of explanation will help them.
Perhaps some of you share the general mistake that the American Indians are dying out. This is not the fact. There are to-day more red men in the United States than ever before. In number, they exceed a quarter of a million, and though they do not increase as fast as the whites, still they are increasing.
It is true that a great many tribes have disappeared, while others that were once numerous and powerful have dwindled to a few hundreds; but on the other hand, tribes that were hardly known a century ago now include thousands.
The many wars between the United States and the Indians have been caused, almost without exception, by gross injustice towards the red men. They have been wronged in every way, until in their rage they turned against their oppressors. The sad fact at such times is that the ones who have used them so ill generally escape harm, while the innocent suffer. The Indian reasons that it is the white race that has wronged him, so he does them all the injury he can, without caring whether the one whom he slays has had a hand in his own persecution.
The Indian, like all savages, is very superstitious. He loves to think over the time, hundreds of years ago, when the red men roamed over the whole continent from ocean to ocean. He dreams of those days, and believes they will again return—that the pale faces will be driven into the sea, and the vast land become the hunting ground of the Indians.
Some years ago this strange faith took a wonderfully strong hold upon those people. The belief spread that a Messiah was coming in the spring of 1891, who would destroy the pale faces and give all the country back to the red men. They began holding wild dances, at which the dancers took hold of hands and leaped and shouted and circled round and round until they dropped to the ground, senseless and almost dead. These "ghost dances," as they were called, were carried on to please the new Messiah. When the dancers recovered, they told strange stories of having visited the other world. All who listened believed them.
The craze spread like wildfire, and before the Government understood what was going on, the Indians were making ready for war. They were well armed, eager to attack the whites. The principal tribe was the Dakota or Sioux, the most powerful on the American continent.
The leading chief or medicine man was Sitting Bull. He was a bad man who had made trouble for more than twenty years. He could not endure the white men, and, when not actively engaged against them, was thinking out some scheme of evil.
As soon as the new Messiah craze broke out, he turned it to account. He sent his friends among the tribes and urged them to unite in a general war against the whites. The officers and soldiers were very patient, and did their best to soothe the red men, but matters grew worse and worse. Trouble was sure to come if Sitting Bull were allowed to keep up his mischievous work.
So it was decided to arrest him. In the attempt several people were killed, among them Sitting Bull himself. Danger still threatened, and many believed that it would require a great battle to subdue the Indians.
Now, if you will look at your map of the United States, you will notice that the Missouri River runs across the middle of the new State of South Dakota. On the southern boundary of the State, a large tract of land, reaching one-third of the way westward to Wyoming, and with the White River forming in a general way the northern boundary, makes what is known as an Indian reservation.
There are many of these in the West. They belong to the Indians, and the Government has an agency at each, to see that no white people intrude. The Indians are forbidden to leave these reservations without obtaining permission, and at the agencies they receive the annuities or supplies paid to them by the United States Government for the lands elsewhere which they have given up.
Half of the reservation directly west of the Missouri is the Rosebud Agency, and the other half the Pine Ridge Agency. It was at the latter that the grave trouble threatened.
When the discontent was so general, the danger extended hundreds of miles north and west. That section is thinly settled, and the pioneers were in great peril. Most of them hurried to the nearest forts for safety, while others waited, hoping the cloud would soon pass by.
If your map of South Dakota is a complete one, it will show you a small stream to the westward of Pine Ridge, named Raccoon Creek, a tributary of Cherry Creek, itself a branch of the Big Cheyenne River.
At the time of the troubles, the Kingsland family, consisting of Hugh, a man in middle life, his wife Molly, his daughter Edith, eight years old, and his son Brinton, a little more than double her age, were living on Raccoon Creek.
The family had emigrated thither three years before from Kansas, and all would have gone well in their new home, but for the illness of Mr. Kingsland.
Something in the climate disagreed with him, though the rest of the family throve. He was first brought low with chills and fever, which after several months' obstinate fight finally left him weak and dispirited. Then, when he was fairly recovered, the slipping of an axe in his hands so wounded his foot that he was laid up for fully two months more.
It looked as if ill-fortune was to follow him so long at least as he stayed in South Dakota, for sickness, accident, and misfortune succeeded each other, until he would have despaired but for those around him.
His wife was well fitted to be the helpmate of a pioneer, for she was hopeful, industrious, strong, and brave. She carefully nursed him, making light of their afflictions, and declaring that all would soon come right, and that prosperity would prove the sweeter from having been deferred so long.
Edith, bright-eyed, pretty, affectionate and loving, was the comfort of those hours which otherwise would have been intolerably dismal, when confined in his small humble home. He read to and taught her, told her delightful fairy stories, listened to her innocent prattle and exchanged the sweetest of confidences.
Sometimes Hugh Kingsland wondered after all whether he was not the most fortunate individual in the world in being thus blessed in his family relations.
And there was another from whom the meed of praise must not be withheld. That was Brinton, now close upon seventeen years of age. The ill-fortune to which we have alluded made him in one sense the virtual head of the family. He was strong, cheerful, and resembled his mother in his hopeful disposition. The difficulties in which his father was continually involved brought out the real manhood of his nature. He looked after the cattle and live stock, galloped across the plains to Hermosa, Fairburn, Rapid City, and other points for supplies or on other business, or, fording the Big Cheyenne, White, and smaller streams, crossed the reservation to Pine Ridge.
The youth was indispensable, and did his work so well, that the father, in his occasional moments of rallying, remarked that he thought of continuing to play the sick man, since it was proved that he was of no account.
"I hope you will soon become well," said the red-cheeked lad one evening, as the group gathered around the fire; "but stay here in the house as long as you wish, for mother and Edith and I can get along without your help."
"Yes, husband; don't fret over that. Only become well, and until you do so, be assured that everything is going along as it should."
"I have never had a doubt of that; but, ah me," he added with a sigh, "this is tiresome after all, especially when it begins to look as though I shall never be well again."
"For my part," said Edith very earnestly, "I don't want you to get well, and I am praying that you will not."
"Why, Edith!" exclaimed the mother reproachfully, while her brother did not know whether to laugh or be shocked at the odd expression. As for the father, he laughed more heartily than he had done for weeks.
Edith looked wonderingly in their faces, and felt that some explanation was due to them.
"I mean to say—that is I don't mean anything bad, but if papa gets well enough to ride out to look after the cattle, and is working all day, why, I won't have anyone to tell me stories and read to me and do so many funny things."
"Your explanation is satisfactory," said her father, smiling. "I shall have to stay in the house for some weeks—that is certain, and perhaps longer."
"Oh, I am so glad!"
But with the first clapping of the chubby hands, Edith realised that she was doing wrong again, and she added in a gentler voice—
"If papa feels bad when he is ill then I am sorry for him, and will pray every night and morning that he may get well."
It was winter time, and the Kingslands in their humble home could not be ignorant of the alarming state of affairs around them. They had been urged to come into the agency while it was safe to do so, for the revolt among the Indians was spreading, and there was no saying when escape would be cut off. The family had considered the question with the seriousness due to so important a matter.
Naturally, they were reluctant to abandon their home now, for it would be virtually throwing away everything they owned in the world; but when it became a question of life and death, there could be no hesitation.
On the very night, however, that the decision to remove to the agency was made, Sergeant Victor Parkhurst, who was out on a scout, with a squad of men from Pine Ridge, called at their home and stated his belief that no trouble would occur. He said it would be better if the family were at Pine Ridge, and he offered to escort them thither. But, he added, that in Mr. Kingsland's feeble condition it would be as well for him to stay where he was, since he must run great risk by exposure in the depth of winter.
The next caller at the cabin was Nicholas Jackson, who had been a scout under General Crook, and was now serving General Miles in the same capacity at Pine Ridge. He brought news of Sitting Bull's death, and assured the pioneer that every day spent by him and his family away from the agency increased their peril.
"You shouldn't delay your start a single hour," was his remark, as he vaulted upon his pony and skurried away.
Before deciding the all-important question, it was agreed that Brinton should gallop down to the reservation and learn the real situation. It was a long ride to Pine Ridge, and involved the crossing of the Cheyenne, White, and several smaller streams, but the youth was confident he could penetrate far enough to ascertain the truth and get back by sunset. If it were necessary to go all the way to the agency, this was impossible, for the days were at their shortest, but he must penetrate that far to find out what he wished to know.
When Brinton flung himself into the saddle of Jack, his tough and intelligent pony, just as it was beginning to grow light in the east, after his hasty breakfast and "good-bye," he was sure he would be caught in a snow-storm before his return. The dull heavy sky, and the peculiar penetrating chilliness, left no doubt on that point.
But with his usual pluck, he chirruped to his pony, lightly jerked his bridle rein, and the gallant animal was off at a swinging pace, which he was able to maintain for hours without fatigue. He was heading south-east, over the faintly marked trail, with which the youth was familiar and which was so well known to the animal himself that he needed no guidance.
Two hours later, the young horseman reached the border line of Custer and Washington counties, that is between the county of his own home and the reservation. This was made by the Big Cheyenne River, which had to be crossed before Pine Ridge was reached. Brinton reined up his horse and sat for some minutes, looking down on the stream, in which huge pieces of ice were floating, though it was not frozen over.
"That isn't very inviting, Jack," he said, "but the ford is shallow and it's no use waiting."
He was in the act of starting his pony down the bank, when on the heavy chilly air sounded a dull explosive crack. A nipping of his coat sleeve showed that the bullet had passed startlingly near him. He turned his head like a flash, and saw, not more than a hundred feet distant, the figure of a Sioux buck or young warrior bareback on his horse, which was standing motionless, while his rider made ready to let fly with another shot from his Winchester rifle.