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WOLF EAR THE INDIAN

A STORY OF THE GREAT
UPRISING OF 1890-91

BY

EDWARD S. ELLIS

Author of "Captured by Indians," "A Hunt on Snow Shoes,"
"The Mountain Star," etc. etc.

WITH FOUR FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS BY
ALFRED PEARSE

SEVENTEENTH THOUSAND

CASSELL AND COMPANY, LIMITED
London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I.
"The bullet had passed startlingly near him"

CHAPTER II.
"He's up to some mischief, I'll warrant"

CHAPTER III.
"There are fifty hostiles"

CHAPTER IV.
"We are enemies"

CHAPTER V.
"What will be their next step?"

CHAPTER VI.
"Ay, where were they?"

CHAPTER VII.
"It came like one of them Kansan cyclones"

CHAPTER VIII.
"The bucks were coming up alarmingly fast"

CHAPTER IX.
"He has made his last scout"

CHAPTER X.
"Oh, there is Wolf Ear?"

CHAPTER XI.
"I'm off! Good-bye!"

CHAPTER XII.
What happened to Wolf Ear

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

"I'm off! Good-bye!" ... Frontispiece

"The figure of a Sioux Buck"

"Hurrah!"

"Oh, there is Wolf Ear!"

[Transcriber's note: the first three illustrations were missing from the source book.]

WOLF EAR THE INDIAN

CHAPTER I.

"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.

CHAPTER II.

"HE'S UP TO SOME MISCHIEF, I'LL WARRANT."

The instant Brinton Kingsland looked around and saw the Indian on his pony, a short distance away, with his rifle at his shoulder and about to fire a second time, he brought his own Winchester to a level and aimed at the one who had attempted thus treacherously to shoot him in the back.

The Indian was no older than himself, sitting firmly on the bare back of his horse, with his blanket wrapped about his shoulders, and several stained eagle feathers protruding from his hair, as black and coarse as that of his pony's tail. His dark eyes glittered as they glanced along the barrel of his rifle, and he aimed straight at the breast of the youth, who instead of flinging himself over the side of his horse in the attempt to dodge the deadly missile, sat bolt upright and aimed in turn at the miscreant, who, as if stirred by the same scorn of personal danger, remained firmly in his seat.

It all depended on who should fire first, and that which we have related took place, as may be said, in the twinkling of an eye.

But with the weapons poised, the eyes of the two glancing along the barrels and the fingers on the triggers, neither gun was discharged. Brinton was on the point of firing, when the Indian abruptly lowered his Winchester, with the exclamation—

"Hoof! Brinton!"

The white youth had recognised the other at the same instant when another moment would have been too late. He, too, dropped the stock of his gun from his shoulder and called out with a surprised expression—

"Wolf Ear!"

The Indian touched his pony with his heel, and the animal moved forward briskly, until the riders faced each other within arm's length.

"How do you do?" asked the Ogalalla, extending his hand, which Brinton took with a smile, and the reproving remark—

"I did not expect such a welcome from you, Wolf Ear."

"I did not know it was you, good friend Brinton."

"And suppose you did not; are you the sort of warrior that shoots another in the back?"

The broad face, with its high cheek bones, coppery skin, low forehead and Roman nose, changed from the pleasant smile which gave a glimpse of the even white teeth, to a scowl, that told the ugly feelings that had been stirred by the questioning remark of the white youth.

"Your people have become my enemies: they have killed Sitting Bull, Black Bird, Catch-the-Bear, Little Assiniboine, Spotted Horse Bull, Brave Thunder, and my friend, Crow Foot, who was the favourite son of Sitting Bull. He was as a brother to me."

"And your people have killed Bull Head, Shave Head, Little Eagle, Afraid-of-Soldiers, Hawk Man, and others of their own race, who were wise enough to remain friends of our people. I know of that fight when they set out to arrest Sitting Bull."

"They had no right to arrest him," said Wolf Ear, with a flash of his black eyes; "he was in his own tepee (or tent), and harming no one."

"He was doing more harm to his own people as well as ours, than all the other malcontents together. He was the plotter of mischief; he encouraged this nonsense about the ghost dances and the coming Messiah, and was doing all he could to bring about a great war between my people and yours. His death is the best fortune that could come to the Indians."

"It was murder," said Wolf Ear sullenly, and then, before the other could frame a reply, his swarthy face lightened up.

"But you and I, Brinton, are friends; I shot at you because I thought you were someone else; it would have grieved my heart had I done you harm; I am glad I did not; I offer you my hand."

Young Kingsland could not refuse the proffer, though he was far from feeling comfortable, despite his narrow escape a moment before.

"I thought you were a civilised Indian, Wolf Ear," he added, as he relinquished the grasp, and the two once more looked in each other's countenances; "you told me so when I last saw you."

Wolf Ear, the Ogalalla, was sent to Carlisle, when only eight years old. Unusually bright, he had made good progress, and won the golden opinions of his teachers by his gentle, studious deportment, and affection for those that had been kind to him.

He spoke English as well as the whites, and was a fine scholar. He went back to his people, when sixteen years old, and did what he could to win them from their savagery and barbarism.

He and Brinton Kingsland met while hunting at the base of the Black Hills, and became great friends. The young Ogalalla visited the white youth at his home on Raccoon Creek, where he was kindly treated by the Kingslands, and formed a deep affection for little Edith.

But nothing had been seen of Wolf Ear for several months. The home of his people was some distance away, but that should not have prevented him from visiting his white friends, who often wondered why he did not show himself among them.

Rather curiously, Brinton was thinking of his dusky comrade at the moment he was roused by the shot which nipped his coat sleeve. It was natural that he should be disappointed, and impatient to find that this bright Indian youth, who had lived for several years among civilised people, was carried away by the wave of excitement that was sweeping across the country. He knew that his twin brother and his father were still savages, and it was easy to find excuse for them, but not for Wolf Ear.

"You believe in the coming of One to save your people—why should not we place faith in the coming of our Messiah?" was the pertinent question of Wolf Ear.

"What is this revelation?" asked Brinton, who had heard many conflicting accounts of the strange craze, and felt a natural desire for an authoritative statement.

"The Messiah once descended to save the white race, but they rejected and put him to death. In turn he rejects them, and will come in the spring, when the grass is about two inches high, and save his red children and destroy his white ones. He has enjoined upon all of us who believe in him to wear a certain dress and to practise the ghost dance, as often and as long as we possibly can, as a proof of our faith. If any of us die from exhaustion, while performing this ceremony, we will be taken direct to the Messiah, where we shall meet those who have died, and whence we will come back to tell the living what we have seen and heard. When the Messiah comes in the spring, a new earth will be created, covering the present world, burying all the whites and those red men that have not joined in the dance. The Messiah will again bring with him the departed of our own people, and the earth shall once more be as our forefathers knew it, except there shall be no more death."

Brinton Kingsland listened, amazed as this expression fell from the lips of one who had often lamented the superstition of his own race. That he believed the words he uttered was proven by his earnestness of manner and the glow of his countenance. The white youth restrained his impulse to ridicule the strange faith, for that assuredly would have given offence to the fanatic, who had the right to believe whatever he chose.

"Well, Wolf Ear, I can only say I am sorry that you should have been carried away by this error——"

"By what right do you call it error?" interrupted the other with a flash of his eyes.

"We will not discuss it. It will do no good, and is likely to do harm. I need not be told that you belong to the hostiles, and, if trouble comes, will fight against the whites."

"Yes, you are right," calmly replied the Ogalalla, compressing his thin lips and nodding his head a single time.

"Your father and brother, whom I have never seen, would shoot me and my folk if they had the chance."

"Yes, and so would my mother: she is a warrior too."

"But suppose you and I or my father meet, or you have the chance to harm my mother and little sister, Edith?"

"Wolf Ear can never raise his hand against them, no matter what harm they may seek to do him. I do not have to tell you that you and I will always be friends, whatever may come."

This assurance would have had more weight with young Kingsland could he have felt certain that Wolf Ear was truthful in declaring that he did not suspect his identity at the moment of firing at him.

"I believe he meant to take my life," was his thought, "and still meant to do so, when he raised his Winchester a second time, but as we looked into each other's face, he weakened. His people are treacherous, and this pretence of goodwill will not last, or, if it be genuine for the present, it will soon change."

Brinton said—

"You know where we live, Wolf Ear; I have set out to ride to the reservation to learn whether it is safe to stay where we are: what is your judgment in the matter?"

An indefinable expression passed over the broad face before him. The Ogalalla sat gracefully on his horse, even though he had no saddle. A bit was in the pony's mouth, the single rein looping around the neck and resting at the base of the mane, just in front of the rider, who allowed it to lie there, while the two hands idly held the rifle across the back of the animal and his own thighs.

"You stayed too long," said he; "you should have left two weeks ago; it is too late now."

"But you know my father is not well, Wolf Ear," replied Brinton, with a sickening dread in his heart.

"What has that to do with this?"

"We did not wish to expose him to the severe weather, as we must in the ride to the agency."

"Is he better and stronger now?"

"There is little improvement in his condition. He has been ailing a long time, as you know."

"Then you have gained nothing and will lose all by your delay."

Brinton had no further wish to discuss the ghost dance and the coming of the new Messiah with the young Ogalalla. All his thoughts were of those dear ones, miles away, whose dreadful peril he now fully comprehended for the first time. He saw the mistake that had been made by the delay, and a faintness came over him at the declaration of Wolf Ear that this delay was fatal.

His horse was facing the north-west, the direction of his home. There was no call for longer tarrying.

"Good-bye," he said, giving the Indian a military salute; "I hope we shall meet ha more pleasant circumstances, when you shall see, Wolf Ear, the mistake you are making."

Trained in the ways of the white people, the dusky youth raised his hand to his forehead, and sat motionless on his horse, without speaking, as his friend dashed across the plain, over the trail which he had followed to the banks of the Big Cheyenne.

It was not yet noon, and Brinton was hopeful of reaching home long before the day drew to a close. The chilliness of the air continued, and a few feathery flakes of snow drifted horizontally on the wind or were whirled about the head of the young horseman. He glanced up at the leaden sky and noted that the temperature was falling.

"Like enough we shall have one of those blizzards, when the horses and cattle freeze to death under shelter and we can only huddle and shiver around the fire and wait for the tempest to pass. It will be the death of us all, if we start for the agency and are caught in one of the blizzards, but death awaits us if we stay. Ah me, what will become of father, ill and weak as he is?"

The words of Wolf Ear made the youth more circumspect and alert than when riding away from his home. He continually glanced ahead, on his right and left and to the rear. The first look in the last direction showed him the young Ogalalla sitting like a statue on his pony and gazing after him.

Some minutes later, when Brinton turned his head again, he saw him riding at a rapid pace towards the north, or rather a little west of north, so that the course of the two slightly diverged.

"He's up to some mischief, I'll warrant," was Brinton's conclusion, "and he already recalls his profession of friendship for me. Halloa! I don't like the look of that."

In the precise direction pursued by the Ogalalla, which was toward Rapid Creek, a tributary of the Big Cheyenne, he discerned several Indian horsemen. They were riding close, and were so mingled together that it was impossible to tell their number. They seemed to be about half a dozen, and were advancing as if to meet Wolf Ear, who must have descried them before Brinton.

"They will soon unite, and when they do he will be the fiercest warrior among them. I wonder——"

He held his breath a moment, and then only whisper—

"I wonder if they have not already visited our home?"

CHAPTER III.

"THERE ARE FIFTY HOSTILES."

To the westward the Black Hills thrust their vast rugged summits against the wintry sky; to the south, a spur of the same mountains put out toward the frontier town of Buffalo Gap; to the north-east wound the Big Cheyenne, on its way to the Missouri, and marking through a part of its course the southern boundary of the Cheyenne Reservation, while creek, stream, and river crossed the rolling plain that intervened, and over all stretched the sunless sky, from which the snow-flakes were eddying and whirling to the frozen earth below.

But Brinton Kingsland had no eye for any of these things, upon which he had looked many a time and oft. His thoughts were with those loved ones in the humble cabin, still miles away, toward the towering mountains, while his immediate anxiety was about the hostiles that had appeared in his front and were now circling to the northward as if to meet Wolf Ear, the young Ogalalla, who was galloping in the face of the biting gale and rapidly drawing toward them.

Brinton's expectation that they would lose no time in coming together was not precisely fulfilled, for while the horsemen were yet a long way off, they swerved sharply, as though they identified the youth for the first time.

"They intend to give me some attention," was his thought, "without waiting for Wolf Ear to join them. They know that I belong to the white race, and that is enough."

The youth did not feel any special alarm for himself, for he was confident that Jack was as fleet-footed as any of the animals bestrode by the hostiles, and would leave them behind in a fair race. He noticed that the Ogalalla was mounted on a superior beast, but he did not believe he could outspeed Jack.

But it would never do to meet those half-dozen horsemen that had faced toward him, and were approaching at the same swinging gallop. Brinton diverged more to the left, thus leaving the trail, and they also changed their course, as if to head him off.

"If it is to be a race, I am throwing away my chances by helping to shorten the distance between us."

The fugitive now headed directly away from the horsemen, so that both parties were pursuing the same line. The youth looked back, at the moment that several blue puffs of smoke showed over the backs of the horses. The thudding reports came through the chilly air, and a peculiar whistling sound overhead left no doubt that the hostiles, great as was the separating space, had fired at the fugitive, who turned to take a look at Wolf Ear.

That individual discharged his gun the next moment. Brinton heard nothing of the bullet, but smiled grimly—

"He has changed his mind soon, but they have got to come closer before they hurt me. He is no great marksman anyway, or he would not have missed me a little while ago."

It was singular that it did not occur to young Kingsland that it was possible the Ogalalla had not fired at him at all. Not even when the horsemen checked their pursuit, and reining up their animals awaited the coming of the buck, who was riding like a hurricane, could he bring himself to think of Wolf Ear except as a bitter enemy, who for some subtle purpose of his own had declared a temporary truce.

"I suppose they think I shall be along this way again pretty soon, and they can afford to wait till I run into their trap," was the conclusion of Brinton, who headed his pony once more toward his home, and put him to his best paces.