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INDIAN IMPRESSIONS OF THE LAST GREAT COUNCIL

To the student of Indian affairs it might at first seem that the gathering of the great chiefs from all the Indian tribes, wearing war-shirt and war-bonnet, carrying their coup sticks, tomahawks, spears, bows and arrows, guns and tom-toms, would necessarily reemphasize to the Indian the glory of his former prestige, and this impression would gather such momentum that deleterious results would follow; but an alert and studious effort was always manifest to inculcate in the Indian mind that this last great council of the chiefs had for its dominant idea the welfare of the Indian, that he should live at peace with his fellows and all men, and the making of a lasting historic record of the fast-fading manners and customs of the North American Indian. This paramount idea gained such fast hold of the Indian mind that the council became not only a place of historic record but a school for the inculcation of the highest ideals of peace. That the lesson was well taught and well learned becomes strikingly evident in the peace sentiments of the chiefs expressed in their speeches at the council, and their impressions of the council now to follow:

CHIEF PLENTY COUPS: I have a very glad heart to-day because it has been my privilege to welcome the chiefs from all the great tribes, all over the United States, here on these beautiful plains of Montana. I am rejoiced that on this day of beauty and bright sunshine we could meet together. I am glad to welcome as my guests Indian chiefs whom I have never seen, and that I could give them a welcome with my heart open, eat with them bread and meat, and smoke the pipe of peace, and greet all the chiefs as brothers. As the bright sun has opened upon us, Doctor Dixon has met us all in peace and friendliness and we all feel toward him with a kind heart. His coming has brought about the coming of the chiefs whom I have never seen before and will never see again, and as the chief of the Crow Nation I am rejoiced to give him and all these chiefs a great heart of welcome, and send them away in peace, and I feel that they are all like my own brothers. During my life from my early days I have fought the other nations before the white man ever stepped into this country, then the Great Father ordered that we should stop fighting and live in peace. Before this we conquered each other's horses and killed on all sides. And now to-day we have met in this great council as chiefs and friends. The Great Father is good to us again in permitting us to have this meeting, and I look upon all these chiefs and all the tribes as my friends. And as the bright sunshine falls, I pray that our Heavenly Father may let His blessing come down upon all the chiefs and all the tribes, and that we may go forth from this great day happy and in peace. In former days we were in ceaseless conflict; then Uncle Sam came to us and said we must live in peace. And since that time we have had allotments of land, schools have been built for the education of our children, and as an illustration of the feelings of my heart to-day – the tribes have all met here and we have met in peace, and have met as one man. We are all as brothers – the tobacco of all the tribes is as the tobacco of one man, and we have all smoked the pipe of peace together. Out of the struggle of these old days we have come into the calm and serene light of such a day as this. This I consider to be the greatest event of my life, and my country I shall live for, and my country shall remain in peace, as I feel peaceful toward my country.

CURLY: Since my boyhood days I have never seen anything so great. We have seen here the chiefs from all over the United States. It was wonderful. You are the first man that ever brought such a thing to pass. I enjoyed it very much more than I can tell. The thought of this thing was a great thought, one of the greatest thoughts of our time. Many of our Indians have gone to Washington, and have seen the Great White Father, and have seen great things. These Indian chiefs have all been brought here so that we could see them and talk with them by the sign language, and I think it is most wonderful.

CHIEF RED WHIP: I think this is a great idea. I am glad to meet the chiefs of all the tribes. I have never seen them before. It will not be long until all these big chiefs are dead, and the younger generation will read the history of these chiefs and see these pictures, and I am glad the record is being made.

CHIEF KOON-KAH-ZA-CHY: I never before have seen so many chiefs meet together. I have met a great many chiefs here whom I have never seen before. When I was asked to come here I heard it was for the purpose of making a record, and to me the thought was good. I am sorry in my heart that I must say farewell to all these chiefs.

CHIEF RUNNING BIRD: I am sixty years old, and when I came to this ground it was ground I had never seen before in my life. I met the chiefs whom I had never seen before. I had heard of them but had not seen them. I was very glad to come here and see the old-time tepees, the kind of tepees our fathers used to live in. I grew up to manhood myself in this kind of a tepee, and I had good health. Now When they give us a house to live in I am not healthy at all. I am getting old now, and am getting up in years, and all I wish now at the present time is that my children shall grow up industrious and work, because they cannot get honour in the war as I used to get it – they can only get honour now by working hard. I can only teach my children that the way to get honour is to go to work, and be good men and women. These impressions have been strengthened by this council. I shall go home and tell the other Indians and our agent about the council, for the meeting of the chiefs will always live in my memory.

CHIEF BRAVE BEAR: The meeting of all the chiefs, my friends and those who are strangers to me, makes my heart feel high. I think of this and when I get back I shall still think of it, and it will be just as though I was here. I will never forget these men sitting here as my friends, as long as I live. We have been treated kindly and this I shall never forget. I would like a nice little story of this meeting so that I can show it to my friends.

CHIEF UMAPINE: I have come from the far distant mountains of Oregon to meet the chiefs in council. I cannot understand their language; I can only talk to them in signs, but I have great respect for them. We each have two hands, two feet, two eyes, two ears, but one nose, one mouth, one head, and one heart. We all breathe the same air; we are all, therefore, brothers. On my journey to this land, where in former years I have chased the buffalo and fought the hostile Sioux who came to steal our horses and women, I saw the old buffalo trails where these great beasts used to march in single file, each walking in the footsteps of the other until they had worn deep their trail. The snows of many winters have cut the trail deep like an irrigating ditch, and when I thought of the buffalo I cried in my heart. I have taken these great chiefs by the hand, I have been glad to meet them; I must now say farewell forever, and my heart is more lonely than when I think of the buffalo.

CHIEF TIN-TIN-MEET-SA: My idea of this meeting is that we are doing a great thing. I am of old age and I feel strange to these people whom I have met here at this place for the first time. I know that after this meeting is over we will all of us go back to our own country, probably never to see one another again, or talk any more to each other. The man who was sent here to do this work has been very kind to the Indians and is a fit man to do this kind of work. The work he is doing is one of the greatest works that has ever been done. The record here made will not perish. We will soon all be gone, but the record will last. I have no hard feelings toward any one in this camp, and I am only worrying about my hay at home.

CHIEF PRETTY VOICE EAGLE: The meeting of the chiefs is to me a great thing in many ways. First: I was glad to come here and meet the chiefs from all over the country, and see many whom I had never seen before, and talk to them by sign language. It is a great sign to me that we have all met here, met in peace. We had this feeling before we came, but now that we are here and can see each other face to face, the feeling has grown. Second: it is a great idea that has been thought of to send a man here to take our speeches and make our pictures, and think over and talk over the old times, and make a record of them. To me this is a great accomplishment. It is a great accomplishment in this way: we cannot go to Washington; we cannot present ourselves there, but the pictures and the record will be preserved there and in great cities, to speak for us. I want to draw a little illustration. You speak a language that we know nothing about. With the help of your people you have educated the younger element and through them we can speak to you, and the different interpreters can speak for the different tribes to you, and thus we can all talk with you and tell our story. I want to point out in this way the difference between the old people and the young people. The illustration I have given seems to me like a dream. I can see the advancement our race has made thus far. Our race is constantly changing, and this meeting will be a great memory to all the Indians represented here. This meeting means a great deal to my tribe. One great feeling of gratefulness I have about this meeting is that I hope that my grandchildren and their grandchildren will read the speeches I have made here, and will see my pictures.

CHIEF RUNNING FISHER: I think there is a great idea back of calling the chiefs together, because there will be something left of us when we are all gone. This record and pictures will live when we are all dead. I am glad to have had this privilege of meeting all these chiefs from all the tribes. I feel sad at the thought of not meeting these chiefs again, for I would like to meet them all once more, but I feel pretty sure we will never meet again.

Chief Running Fisher died within two weeks after reaching home from the council.

CHIEF BULL-DON'T-FALL-DOWN: This meeting of the great chiefs in council I consider one of the great events of my life. Chiefs from all over the United States have come here, chiefs whom I have never seen before and whom I will never see again. We have had an opportunity to see their faces, shake hands with them, and talk with them in the sign language. Since the great council of the chiefs on the Platte River in 1867, we have not seen any of their faces until this day. Then we were on the warpath – at this council we meet in peace. I was one of the first Crow Indians to make peace with the Sioux after we had been on the warpath, and now I can say farewell to all the chiefs with peace in my heart for all men.

CHIEF TWO MOONS: I feel that I am engaging in a great work in helping to make this historic picture of a great Indian council. I have led the Cheyennes in so many battles, and my life has been so full, that I felt when I came here that I was an old man, but since meeting the chiefs and having a share in the great council and recalling my old life for this record, I feel like a young man again. It is a great day for all of us, because there are no more wars between us, and we meet in peace and hold this great council of the chiefs and smoke the pipe of peace. I am glad at heart that this great picture is to be made of us, as we are assembled here, because our old chiefs are fast dying away, and our old Indian customs soon will pass out of sight. This record will survive for our children, and their children will reap the benefit. I am glad we are here, but my heart is sorry to say farewell.

CHIEF RED CLOUD: I think this a great and good thing. Good things have come to us from the white man. When the white man came across the ocean we heard he was coming because there was land over here, and he brought us food to eat. The coming of this man to make these pictures, to be preserved in Washington and to be shown in great cities, means good to us, because the generations to come will know of our manners and customs. It is good, besides, to meet all these chiefs who are as brothers to one another. We have never met them before; we shall never see their faces again, and it is, therefore, I think, a great and good thing to have this last council of the chiefs.

MOUNTAIN CHIEF: I think it was one of the greatest things that ever happened when we had this great council. It will be remembered forever. As for myself, it will not be very long until I go to the happy hunting grounds, but I have left this record for the coming generations. While I was sitting in the council I was thinking of the past when we used not to see each other's faces, except with the firing of guns, and now we have met the different tribes in council to talk with one another in the sign language. It shows that the Government is greater than the Indian. I think it was a great thing to bring these chiefs together, and so long as I live I am going to tell this story to my children and my grandchildren. I think that Chief Two Moons and Chief Plenty Coups were the two greatest men in the council. They impressed me more than any others by their appearance. Two Moons was not dressed up, but he showed that he was a man. I feel as I sit talking here with you that we are brothers together. And I say farewell to all the chiefs with a sad heart.

CHIEF WHITE HORSE: This council of all the chiefs seems to me to be a wonderful idea. I have met a good many whom I have never seen before, and it was a great surprise to me, and my heart felt glad. These different tribes of Indians have been enemies to each other for generations back, but we have now been at peace with each other for many years. But now we all meet here and see each other. I think your idea of taking notes and making a record of our lives and taking pictures of us, of our Indian costumes and our manners, is a great thing. I am old enough now and do not expect to live very long, but I am very glad that this record is to be made, and put on file in the Great Father's house at Washington. Another thing I would like to say: we all speak different languages, and we are all as helpless as a child, and we want you to help us in our needs during our last days. My trip here was the first time I have ever been on an iron horse, and there are a great many lessons that I learned from my ride here. When I came here and saw all the Indians speaking different languages and looking different, and I saw all that was going on and heard their speeches by sign language, I thought it was one of the most important events in my life. The first lesson I got while riding on the iron horse was to see the coaches filled with white people, and when I went in they all looked at me and looked as though I was a great curiosity to them. When I first saw the white people I felt backward – they looked at me so hard. I felt backward, but I finally felt more at ease, for I thought, I am going to die anyway. I looked over the white people and their dress, and I looked over the ceiling of the coach, and I thought these are all wonderful things. I looked out of the window and the train was going so fast that it seemed to me I was on the wings of a great bird. We travelled so fast I could not see the things very near the coach. When we used to travel on our ponies it took us many days to come over to this place. But on the train it took us one half day to come to Miles City, and that was one of the things that made me fear. It seems impossible how the trains go so fast, and this thought came to my mind: This is of the white people, who are so educated they can make the iron horse draw things across the country so fast. My wish is that the Indians will come to be like the white people, and be able to invent things, but the thought comes to me that this will be impossible. As we came along, flying as a bird, I looked out of the window, saw a country over which I had once hunted, and the thought of the buffalo came back to me, and I cried in my heart. When I get home I expect to stay there, and never leave my country again. I shall never see this land any more. I expect to die at home. When I get home I shall tell my people of the journey I had on the train, and what I saw, and of my visit to this great country, of the speeches that we made, of the pictures that were taken, and I know when I tell them they will be glad.

THE FAREWELL OF THE CHIEFS

We are standing at the centre of a mighty circumference. An Indian world revolves for the last time upon its axis. All the constellations which gave it light have burned out. The Indian cosmos sweeps a dead thing amid the growing lustre of the unfading stars of civilization and history. The solemn hour passes, unmarked by any cataclysm of nature – volcano and earthquake utter no speech – darkness and tempest rend no veil of this crumbling life temple. In the deepening twilight all is silent – all speech is vulgar. To utter a word here would be profanation. The remnant of a race have gathered for shelter within the sacred walls of their council lodge. The ashes of the council pipe have been scattered upon the ground. In silence, deep, profound, awe-inspiring, the old Indian guard – the Last of the Great Chiefs – break not the silence. Who can ask death to retreat? And who put in shackles the decrees of destiny? The world annals contain no heroism and no bravery more lofty and enduring than that furnished by the record of the red man. But the summital requirement is at hand. These old heroes, few in number, must with their own moccasined feet measure the distance in yards and inches from that council lodge to the grave – the grave of their race. It were almost sacrilege to invade their thoughts. The old question of the carven Sphinx sat on each bronze face. The far cry of the hills and plains – the memories of other days – forged new lines until the brow of each solemn warrior seemed like a page in the book of fate. They saw again the slowly rising smoke column, as in the sunrise and from the far off hilltop it lifted its call for the chiefs to assemble. The memory of the old days stirred their hearts. Again they saw the flaming council fires, and heard once more the burning speech of their brothers as they counselled for war or the welfare of the tribe. The blood of youth again chased in their veins as they felt once more that they might sit in council as in the old time and then die in peace. The old war-bonnets and war-shirts were brought out; the coup stick with its trembling eagle feathers, the ancient bows and arrows. The favourite horse was blanketed, and the journey begun. Old scenes and landmarks were made new. Here they crossed a river through whose rushing waters they had, in other days, pursued a foe. Over there was a coulee where in exciting patience they had sought to ambush the enemy. Yonder was a plain that had been a battlefield. Winding over the pine-girt hilltop they traced an old buffalo trail. And now they had reached the council lodge. They had partaken of the bread and meat. They had exchanged greetings, and pledged themselves to brotherhood and peace. How familiar it all seemed! For one splendid moment they were once again really Indians. The same historic river wound its way among the purple hills and through the lacework of alder and aspen trees that like a green ribbon festooned the valley. How peaceful seemed even this place – once also a place of battle. And now the far stretch of the years loomed up: boys again, trapping foxes, learning to shoot the arrow which finally found its mark in the buffalo calf; capturing and taming the wild horse; the first war party; the first scalp, and its consequent honour among the tribe; the first coup counted; the eagle that was shot to get the coveted feather that to all men should be a pledge of victory; then the love for an Indian maiden, the ponies and furs and beadwork willingly given in exchange for this new love; the making of a new home. Thoughts of war parties, and war's bitter struggles; other coups counted, other scalps taken, were thoughts that lighted new altar fires. In imagination vast herds of ponderous buffalo once again thundered across the plains, and the exhilaration of the chase quickened the pulse beat, only to give place to the tireless lament that the buffalo were all gone. Memories of tribal tragedies, of old camping places, of the coming of the white man, of broken treaties, of the advent of the soldiers – all thronged for recognition; the wigwam around which happy children and the merry round of life sped on, the old men, their counsellors and friends, who had gone into the spirit land, and now this was to be the last, the very last council. The heart grows tense with emotion as they break the silence, and in Indian fashion chief looks into the face of chief, and, without an uttered word, they pass one by one through the doorway that leads to a land without a horizon.

The prairie grass turned to brown, the trees on the banks of the nearby river turning to crimson and orange, the Syrian blue of the skies, holding here and there a mountainous cloud, the brilliant sunshine of the early autumn day, all served to emphasize and revivify the splendid mosaic of colouring worn by the chieftains, as, without the mockery of speech, they mounted their horses, and faced their final destiny.

The Indian is a superb horseman. Both horse and rider seem to have grown together. It is poetry in motion. The brilliant cavalcade are fast leaving the old council lodge in the distance. The word farewell was baptized with the spirit of peace, and now as they ride forth the banner of peace floats over them. Peace is in the air. Not far hence there is a river to cross, whose waters were born amid the snows of the distant mountains, and the river bathed in sunlight utters its jubilations of peace. Like “an army with banners” they enter the shaded defile of the valley – cross the swiftly flowing stream, and pass out upon the plain. Weird and picturesque is the procession as the long line of horsemen face the loneliness of the far-flung line of desert waste – the flat and sombre serenity of sand and sage and cactus. Clouds of dust are lifted from the immensity of the arid stretches, like smoke signals to the matchless immensity of the sky. The burning haze, the molten heavens, the weird and spearlike cactus, the valiant horsemen, hold the eye. We follow their trail until they are almost lost to view in the drapery that enshrouds sand and sage and riders. There seems now to be a tragic soul roaming these infinite wilds, restless and burning with passion, the companion of storms and the herald of violent deeds.

The chiefs bravely emerge from these echoless silences, dust-covered but intrepid. They must now make the ascent of abrupt and massive bluffs. The summit attained, they pause for rest and retrospect. The trail has been obliterated. Every hoof-print in the sands has been erased. The trackless, yellow expanse now assumes alluring miles of colour; the royal purple of the shadows seems like tinted bands binding all the intervale back yonder to the far distant council lodge. They are familiar with the speech of the granite hills, from whose heights they now view the prospect. In these rocks, so red that it would seem as though the molten fires had not yet cooled, the Indian listens to the tongues of ten million years. Earth's heart fires had here and over there split the land and left jagged monuments of stone and red ash bearing still the tint of flame which had been cooled by the breath of countless winters. Still subject to the inner and absorbing passion of his life, the Indian made an altar in this weird sanctuary, and waited to worship.

But for the Indian the path is forever down – down into the shadowed vale, down into the abysmal canon, balustraded with sombre, cold gray rocks holding in the far recesses secret streams that make their way beneath the mountain to the cloven rock on the sunlit slope. Thither then they rode, solemn but steadfast. Once and again they turned upon their tired steeds to look back upon the far-reaching line of cliffs which to them seemed to float in the rising tide of a crimson sea. Forward and ever on until they had reached the hush of the spacious prairies, rolling like the billows of the ocean. Melancholy broods in the mind when these limitless and unexplored stretches sweep before the eye bounded only by the horizon. The spirit of a great awe stilled the souls of these men, every one, because added to the monotone of the landscape they must heed the demands for endurance, for it was again “a land where no water is.” Memory is at times the birth-hour of prophecy, but here memory clothes the present with pain and loss, and for them prophecy died yesterday and the despair of a to-morrow writes its gloomy headlines upon every advance step of their journey. But the Indian will face it. He always faces death as though it were a plaything of the hour. The winds on these prairies always travel on swift wing – they are never still – they are full of spectral voices. The chiefs have left the council lodge, they have said farewell, their days of triumph are behind them. Thoughts that burn the brain held the weary pilgrims.

One refreshing thought is now flung at them: their days of journeying have brought them within sight of water – water without which there is no life. That long green fringe winding under the brow of the distant hills means tree growth. The Indian loves the brotherhood of trees. Trees grow in that desolate landscape only on the borders of streams. Toward the water and welcome shade they hasten. Tired beast and tired man lave in the lifegiving flood. The horses wade in it as though the snows had melted and run thither to caress and refresh them. Oh, the exhilaration of water! On the margin of the far banks the camp is made for the night. There is witchery in a Western night. Myriads upon myriads of low-hung stars, brilliant, large and lustrous, bend to warm the soul and light the trail. Under these night lamps, amid the speech of leaves and the rush of the river, they bivouac for their last night, bending under the weight of thoughts too deep for tears. In the haze of a broken sleep they wrought out again the sorrows of their troubled record. When the morning broke through the dull gray of the eastern sky rim, he would be a heartless surgeon of emotions who attempted to probe the pathos of their thoughts, and a dull and vulgar rhetorician who should attempt to parse the fathomless sorrow of their speech.

In the hush of the new morning they mounted, and set forth upon their journey over the Great Divide. All Nature seemed conscious of the burden weighing to the earth every Indian thought, and trailing in the dust every hope of the race. The birds remembered not to sing – the prairie dogs ceased their almost continual and rasping chatter. The very horses seemed to loiter and fear the weary miles of their final day of travel. The hills, the sky, the very light of the noonday sun gathered to themselves a new atmosphere and spread it like a mantle over this travelling host. Tired feet now press the highest dome of the hills. It had been a westward climb. Full in their faces, as though to canonize the moment, the god of day had wrought cloud and sky into a miracle of sunset, transmuting by living fire the brown grasses into burnished gold – the fading sage into a silver glow, and the gleam of the distant river into the red of wine. The scene transfixed them. Gladiators of other days became helpless children. During the solemn suspense of this tragic moment, waiting in confused and wondering silence, their faces lighted with the ominous sunset sheen, one great chief uttered speech for all: “Brothers, the West, the West! We alone have the key to the West, and we must bravely unlock the portals; we can buy no lamp that will banish the night. We have always kept our time by the sun. When we pass through the gates of this dying day, we shall pass into a sunless land, and for us there shall be no more time, a forever-land of annihilating darkness.”

For one wistful moment they looked and waited, then the hill upbore them no longer. They filed down the narrow, barren ridge, lined on either hand by sullen and impassable gulfs. Their eagle feathers fluttered from war-bonnet and coup stick, encarnadined by the sun's red rays. Steeper and more rugged became the path until they were confronted by the sharp edge of the bluff. There was danger in the untrodden descent. It was a pathway of struggle.

Once in the valley

 
They said farewell forever.
Thus departed the Great Chieftains,
In the purple mists of evening.
 

The Indian composes music for every emotion of his soul. He has a song for the Great Mystery; for the animals of the chase; for the maiden he woos; for the rippling river. His prayers are breathed in song. His whole life is an expression in music. These songs are treasured down through the ages, and old age teaches youth the import of the melody so that nothing is lost, nothing forgotten. Haydn wrote his “Creation,” Beethoven his “Symphonies,” Mendelssohn his “Songs Without Words,” Handel gave the world his “Dead March in Saul,” Mozart was commissioned by Count Walsegg to pour his great soul into a requiem; during its composition he felt that he was writing the dead march of his soul. For generations it has been sung in the little church at St. Mark's, where the great composer lies in an unknown grave. Had the Indian the combined soul of these masters in music, could he cull from symphony and oratorio and requiem and dirge the master notes that have thrilled and inspired the ages, he then would falter at the edge of his task in an attempt to register the burden of his lament, and utter for the generations of men the requiem wrought out during these moments of passion – a passion of sorrow so sad that the voice of it must ride through the width of the sky, and conquer the thunder of the fiercest tempest. The orchestral grandeur of the world's great composers is the child of genius. They reached the far heights of inspiration in a few isolated instances and for the delight of men. The Indian composing his own requiem must encompass the eternal pathos of a whole race of mankind riding forth beyond the challenge of death. It is well that the Indian does not compose this death march, for the sorrow of it would hush all lullabies, and banish the laughter of children.