the great crescent gathered just outside Captain Pollock’s tiny quarters at Reno Cantonment.
When all had fallen quiet, the general told the Indians, “A new day has come to this land. You, as well as ourselves, are servants of the Great Father in Washington, and we all ought to dress in the uniform of the soldier, and for the time being we all ought to be brothers.”
He waited while the first translations were begun, then continued. “I am here to tell you that your peoples must put aside differences from the past and remain friends with the other bands. We have a job to do, and I hired you to do it. It is most important that when an army goes into battle, we are all in that battle side by side, united in action. So—if you want to fight among yourselves—then you have no place with me. Decide now if you are here to be part of this army.”
He let the many translations finish, the babble of at least eight different tongues rumbling around the crescent where the leaders sat and smoked in their blankets, considering the words of Three Stars. Then Crook continued.
“If, however, it is more important for you to complain and to attack your neighbor, I will take your guns and send you home on foot. You will not have a weapon, you will not have a pony. And you will be every bit as poor as I am going to make the followers of Crazy Horse.”
Firelit copper faces set hard when those words went round that council, words so harsh that Crook wanted to be certain there was no misunderstanding. “I will ask it again—is there any among you who want to complain about the others? Any among you who want to give up your weapons and ponies right now and turn back for your homes?”
This time many of the scout leaders were quicker to speak, rising to their feet to address Crook and the assembly. All turned to the general to announce that they understood the reason for his remarks, promising that they would put aside their petty differences and remain friends with the others for the sake of the war that was to come. It was particularly moving when Three Bears arose, signaled one of his young warriors to follow him, bringing along a prized pony. The two Lakota walked directly to stand before the Pawnee delegation.
He held his hand out to
White stood, unbuckling his prized revolver from his waist and handed it to the Sioux war chief. “I too wish to bury the past. We are friends now. We are both warriors, with a job to do. I will fight by your side. Your enemies will be my enemies, and my lodge will be your lodge.”
As much as John Bourke had been around Indians in Crook’s Arizona campaigns against Cochise, wherein the general had enticed one band of Apache to track down another band of Apache, the young lieutenant had never in his wildest dreams believed he would truly see these ancient enemies forging a lasting partnership to fight the last of the hostiles. Although the council took on a dreamlike air of friendly festivity, Crook was clearly pleased with how things had turned out.
After more speeches professing friendship were traded among the Pawnee, Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapaho, as well as that scattering of Nez Perce, Bannock, and Ute warriors who had come over from the Wind River with Cosgrove’s Shoshone, the general continued, waxing in a most uncustomary eloquence.
“All these vast plains, all these mountains and valleys will soon be filled with a pushing, hardworking population. The game will soon be exterminated. Domestic cattle will take its place. The Indian must make up his mind, and make it up now, to live like the white man and be at peace with him—or be wiped off the face of the earth. Peace is what the white man wants. But war is what the white man is prepared for.”
Every few words, Crook halted briefly while the translators caught up in their many tongues.
“I want to impress upon you that rule by law is not tyranny. You will come to learn that people who obey the laws of their land are those who in turn have the greatest liberty. It is not the white man, but the Indian, who is afraid when he goes to sleep at night, afraid that he and his family might be murdered before morning by some prowling enemy.”
John Bourke watched the way so many of the dark eyes furtively glanced at the other bands.
“You are receiving good pay as soldiers,” Crook reminded them, “and so long as you behave yourselves, and so long as I can find work for you to do, you shall be my soldiers. But you must never spend your pay foolishly. Save every cent of it that you can to buy cows and broodmares. While you are sleeping, the calves and the colts will be growing—and someday you’ll awake and find yourself a rich man. Then you’ll be ashamed to call upon the Great Father for help. When you capture the enemy’s herds in the coming fight, they will be divided among your peoples. They will be yours to keep. Use those captured horses wisely—not for war, but to make a living for your families.”
Around that crescent many of the Indians grunted their approval.
Then Sharp Nose, leader of the Arapaho scouts, stood to speak. “I have waited a long time to meet all these people and make peace. We have been living a long time with the white man and have followed the white man’s road and do what he says. I hope these other bands will do the same. We have all met here today to make peace, and I hope we’ll remain at peace. And I hope that General Crook will take pity on us and help us…. I hold my hand up to the Great Spirit and swear I’ll stick with General Crook as long as I’m with him. When this war is over and I get home, I want to live like a white man and have implements to work with. We have made peace with these people here today, and we’d like to have a letter sent home to let our people know about it.”
More of the war chiefs and their leaders grunted in agreement or raised their voices to signal they were one with the soldier chief.
Frank White stood proudly in his dark-blue uniform, his face and shaved head savagely painted, large brass rings hung from the edges of his ears, feathers tied to his small, circular scalp lock tossing on the cold wind. Gesturing to Crook, the Pawnee scout said, “This is our head chief talking to us and asking us to be brothers. I hope the Great Spirit will smile on us.…The Pawnee have lived with the white men a long time and know how strong they are. Brothers, I don’t think there is one of you can come out here today and say you have ever heard of the Pawnee killing a white man … I suppose you know the Pawnee are civilized. We plow, farm, and work the ground like white people.”
He then turned to Crook, saying, “Father, it is so what the Arapaho said. We have all gone on this expedition to help you and hope it may be a successful one…. This is all I have to say. I am glad you have told us what you want done about the captured stock. The horses taken will help us to work our land.”
At last Crook stood before them, bringing the assembly to silence as he collected his thoughts, scratching at a cheek, and finally said, “To bring this council to an end, I want you all to hear my words clearly. When we come upon a village of hostiles, you must make sure your men do not kill women and children. Any man of you who kills a woman or a child will be punished severely by my hand.”
Bourke knew the general was laying down his order not so much out of some Anglo-American cultural trait as out of a carefully considered military strategy.
“When we do not kill the women and children—instead we capture them—we can use those women and children as hostages to lure in the men. The fighters. The warriors. It is not the Great Father’s desire to kill the Indians if they will obey the laws of this land. On the other hand, we want to find the villages of our enemies, to force them to give up their ponies and guns so that in the future they will behave themselves.”
After supper late that evening, Bourke sat with others at the fire outside Crook’s headquarters tent. He said, “The war’s over already.”
“What makes you say so?” Donegan asked.
“Because the Indians we’ve been fighting are now our friends, and they’re even friends with the Indians who have always been our friends.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” the Irishman replied as he stared into the flames of that welcome fire as the temperature dropped like lead shot in a bucket of water. “What Crook accomplished today without firing a shot, what he did last month in capturing the ponies and the weapons—was more than we accomplished on the Powder River last March. Or on the Rosebud in June.* Or beneath the Slim Buttes last September.”
Then Donegan held up his coffee tin. “More than a toast, I make this my prayer: that this goddamned war is as you say it is, Johnny. May our bloody little war truly be all but over.”
*
