The Little Bighorn. Welby Thomas Cox, Jr.

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      Preface

      A Sequel to Portrait of Mass Murder

      These eight stories are made from our Western Frontier as it was in a past as near as yesterday and almost as by-gone as the Revolution; so swiftly do we proceed. They belong to each other in a kinship of life and manners, and a little through the nearer tie of having here and there a character in common. Thus they resemble faintly the separate parts of a whole, and gain, perhaps, something of the invaluable weight of length; and they have been received by my closest friends with suspicion.

      Many sorts of Americans live in America; and the Atlantic American, is to be feared, often has a cautious and conventional imagination. In his routine he has lived unaware of the violent and romantic era in eruption upon his soil. Only the elk-hunter has at times returned with tales at which the other Atlantic Americans have deported themselves politely; and similarly, but for the assurances of Western readers, I should have come to doubt the truth of my own impressions. All this is most natural.

      If you will look upon the term "United States" as describing what we are, you must put upon it a strict and Federal construction. We undoubtedly use the city of Washington for our general business office, and in the event of a foreign enemy upon our coasts we should stand bound together more stoutly than we have shown ourselves since 1776. But as we are now, seldom has a great commonwealth been seen less united in its stages of progress, more uneven in its degrees of enlightenment. Never, indeed, it would seem, have such various centuries been jostled together as they are to-day upon this continent, and within the boundaries of our nation. We have taken the ages out of their processional arrangement and set them marching disorderly abreast in our wide territory, a harlequin platoon. We citizens of the United States date our letters 18--, and speak of ourselves as living in the present era; but the accuracy of that custom depends upon where we happen to be writing. While portions of New York, Chicago, and San Francisco are of this nineteenth century, we have many ancient periods surviving among us. What do you say, for example, to the Kentucky and Tennessee mountaineers? With their vendettas of blood descending from father to son? That was once the prevailing fashion of revenge. Yet even before the day when Columbus sailed, had certain communities matured beyond it.

      This sprout of the Middle Ages flourishes fresh and green some five hundred miles and five hundred years from New York. In the single State of Texas you will find a contrast more violent still. There, not long ago, an African was led upon a platform in a public place for people to see, and tortured slowly to death with knives and fire. To witness this scene young men and women came in crowds. It is said that the railroad ran a special train for spectators from a distance. How might that audience of Paris, Texas, appropriately date its letters? Not Anno Domini, but many years B.C. The African deserves no pity. His hideous crime was enough to drive a father to any madness, and too many such monsters have by their acts made Texas justly desperate. But for American citizens to crowd to the retribution, and look on as at a holiday show, reveals the Inquisition, the Pagans, the Stone Age, unclaimed in our republic. On the other hand, the young men and women who will watch side by side the burning of a negro, shrink from using such words as bull or stallion in polite society; many in Texas will say, instead, a bull and Caviard horse (a term spelled as they pronounce it), and consider that delicacy is thus achieved. Yet in this lump Texas holds leaven as sterling as in any State; but it has far to spread.

      If it were easy to proceed from Maine to California instancing the remote centuries that are daily colliding within our domain, but this is enough to show how little we cohere in opinions. How many States and Territories is it that we count united under our Stars and Stripes? I know that there are some forty or more, and that, though I belong among the original thirteen, it has been my happiness to journey in all the others, in most of them, indeed, many times, for the sake of making my country's acquaintance. With no spread-eagle brag do I gather conviction each year that we Americans, judged not hastily, are sound at heart, kind, courageous, often of the truest delicacy, and always ultimately of excellent good-sense. With such belief, or, rather, knowledge, it is sorrowful to see our fatal complacence, our as yet undisciplined folly, in sending to our State Legislatures and to that general business office of ours at Washington a herd of mismanagers that seems each year to grow more inefficient and contemptible, whether branded Republican or Democrat. But I take heart, because often and more often I hear upon my journey the citizens high and low muttering, "There's too much politics in this country"; and we shake hands.

      But all this is growing too serious for a book of short stories. They are about Indians and soldiers and events west of the Missouri. They are the last great story of the history of the Native American. They belong to the past in the history of our gathered development, but you will find some of those ancient surviving centuries in them if you take my view. In certain ones the incidents, and even some of the names, are left unchanged from their original reality. The visit of Young-man-afraid-of-his-horses to the Little Big Horn and the rise and fall of the young Crow impostor, General Crook's surprise, and many other occurrences, noble and ignoble, are told as they were told to me by those who saw them in journals fastidiously kept and shared here. When our national life, our own soil, is so rich in adventures to record, what need is there for one to call upon his invention… save to draw, if he can, characters who shall fit these strange and dramatic scenes? One cannot improve upon such realities. If this nonfiction is at all faithful to the truth from which it springs, let the thanks be given to the patience and boundless hospitality of the Army friends and other friends across the Missouri who have housed my body and instructed my mind. And if the stories entertain the ignorant without grieving the judicious I am content.

      The Author

      Red Man & White

      Little Big Horn Medicine

      Something new was happening among the Crow Indians. A young pretender had appeared in the tribe. What this might lead to was unknown alike to white man and to red; but the old Crow chiefs discussed it in their councils, and the soldiers at Fort Custer, and the civilians at the agency twelve miles up the river, and all the white settlers in the valley discussed it also. Lieutenant’s Sterling and Haines, of the First Cavalry, were speculating upon it as they rode one afternoon.

      "Can't tell about Indians," said Sterling. "But I think the Crows are too reasonable to go on the war-path."

      "Reasonable!" said Haines. He was young, and new to Indians.

      "Just so. Until you come to his superstitions, the Indian can reason as straight as you or I. He's perfectly logical."

      "Logical!" echoed Haines again. He held the regulation Eastern view that Indian knows nothing but the three blind appetites.

      "You'd know better," remarked Sterling, "if you'd been fighting 'em for fifteen years. They're as shrewd as Aesop’s fables."

      Just then two Indians appeared round a bluff--one old and shabby, the other young and very gaudy--riding side by side.

      "That's Cheschapah," said Sterling. "That's the agitator in all his feathers. His father, you see, dresses more conservatively."

      The feathered dandy now did a singular thing. He galloped towards the two officers almost as if to bear them down, and, steering much too close, flashed by yelling, amid a clatter of gravel.

      "Nice manners," commented Haines. "Seems to have a chip on his shoulder."

      But Sterling looked thoughtful. "Yes," he muttered, "he has a chip."

      Meanwhile the shabby father was approaching. His face was mild and sad, and he might be seventy. He made a gesture of greeting. "How!" he said pleasantly, and ambled on his way.

      "Now there you have an object-lesson," СКАЧАТЬ