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A Somber Anniversary

By John Andrews

An estimated 146 of the roughly 300 Lakota men, women and children who were killed during the Wounded Knee Massacre of 1890 lie buried in a mass grave. Survivor Joseph Horn Cloud traveled the country raising funds for a stone marker that was placed at the grave site in 1902.

We were about 30 minutes late getting to Leonard Little Finger’s house because we had gotten lost on the Pine Ridge Reservation. After nearly bottoming out our Chevy Impala on a road that could barely be described as minimum maintenance, we knew we were on the wrong track. We headed back to Oglala, where some friendly youth at a school told us that Leonard was their Lakota language teacher. They kindly gave us directions, and soon we found Little Finger in his home just on the edge of town, patiently waiting for us.

The first things we noticed upon going inside were photographs — dozens of them — hanging on his walls. Grandchildren and great-grandchildren smiled down at us. But there were also black and white images, and they were clearly very old. One was a photo of his paternal grandfather, John Little Finger. Another showed his maternal grandparents, Joseph Horn Cloud and Millie Bald Eagle. Next to that was a photo of Horn Cloud’s brothers, Daniel White Lance and Dewey Beard.

They were all survivors of the Wounded Knee Massacre, which took place on Dec. 29, 1890. We had come to Pine Ridge to find people just like Leonard: descendants of Wounded Knee survivors who could tell us stories that their ancestors passed down about that day. Little Finger was the first person we met and held by far the strongest connection to the massacre.”I had 39 relatives there at the time,” he told us.”Only seven survived.”

In all, roughly 300 Lakota men, women and children died at the hands of the U.S. Army’s Seventh Cavalry. They were members of Chief Big Foot’s band, who fled the Standing Rock Reservation after Sitting Bull’s death on Dec. 15. They were traveling to a peace conference with Chief Red Cloud at Pine Ridge when the cavalry met them near Wounded Knee Creek.

The Little Finger family name stems from an incident that occurred during the massacre. According to family oral history, as soldiers explained their plans to bring the Lakota to Pine Ridge, one cavalryman said he would show them what would happen if they tried to run. He shouted a command and another soldier lowered his weapon, which they claimed was not loaded.”When he pulled the breach back, my grandfather saw a bullet go in there, and it locked,” Little Finger told us.”Then he barked again, and they all came up.” That’s when the 14-year-old John Little Finger swung and knocked the soldier to the ground, breaking his little finger. The boy ran, and soon gunfire erupted.

We also met cousins Ingrid One Feather and Fred Stands. Their great-grandfather, Peter Stands, survived the massacre and lived with several others in a cave for much of the following year. One Feather said she knows that Stands’ wife and two of their children were killed, but he rarely talked about that day because he feared reprisals from the government.

Myron Pourier is the great-grandson of the Lakota holy man Black Elk, who also survived the massacre. Much of Black Elk’s recollections were published in a book, Black Elk Speaks, in 1932, but one story not recorded in those pages tells of Black Elk’s encounter with Red Willow two days after the massacre. A soldier, still pursuing Lakota warriors, shot Red Willow’s horse from under him. Black Elk lifted Red Willow onto his own horse and together they rode to Red Cloud Agency.”We’re still close to the Red Willow family,” Pourier said.

These families, and many more, will forever remain connected by the tragedy. Dealing with it in their daily lives can still be burdensome, even after 129 years.”Let’s say you look at time as a cloth,” Little Finger explained.”Then along comes some violence and tears it. You can stitch it, but you can never tear the threads that consist of that fabric. I come to that every day. I already know the impact that it had, but it can be historical trauma if you don’t understand it and know what it was. There’s a spiritual side to it. There’s no one person who represents this fabric. It just depends on who you talk to. One is going to be very historically traumatized, and the other is going to say, ‘It happened. It’s over, and we have to get on with life.’ And all in between.”

December in South Dakota can a joyous month for families gathered to celebrate the holidays. But it also marks a somber anniversary for the men and women who still live with the effects of our state’s darkest day.

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Christmas at Wounded Knee

By Sidney H. Byrd

My grandparents were sent to the Pine Ridge Reservation as Presbyterian missionaries from their home at a newly established Christian colony located on Wakpaipaksan, the Bend of the River, at what is now known as the town of Flandreau. They left before the turn of the century in a wagon loaded with camping gear, implements, provisions and other necessities.

Grandfather’s ministry on the Pine Ridge continued for four long decades. We lived in Allen and Porcupine during those depressing years of the “Dirty Thirties.” Grandfather was struggling under some of the most adverse conditions. Missionaries were paid woefully inadequate salaries for those times, but their efforts continued faithfully. There began a gradual increase in membership in our churches, because the Christian faith offered hope for people in despair.

One particular winter, he was serving two churches; one was at our home in Porcupine and the other was the historic village of Wounded Knee, located 7 miles to the south. During the winter months, I made many sleigh trips with my grandfather. We used that means of winter transportation out of necessity and not as a luxury.

The most memorable Christmas experience for me was when I was invited to accompany grandfather to a celebration at our little church in Wounded Knee. Immediately before Christmas, Indian families residing in the outlying areas came to our Porcupine church to pitch their tents and remain for the duration of the holidays. It was an exciting time, especially for a little boy. There, a great celebration was concluded on Christmas Eve.

At noon on Christmas Day, there had been a great feast at our church at Porcupine where members of the Christmas encampment generously shared their food and enjoyed fellowship. It was a time of great rejoicing. The second celebration was to be held at our little church at Wounded Knee that same evening.

It was Christmas Day as grandfather began loading our sleigh in preparation for our trip to Wounded Knee. Missionary boxes containing gloves, mittens, stocking caps and other useful gifts were carefully packed in the back of our sleigh.

Grandmother had made me a muff to keep my hands warm during the trip. She even heated bricks in the oven and placed them at our feet. She also put a big wool blanket on the seat for additional warmth in case of an emergency. Grandfather pulled a great lap robe to cover our lower extremities. All was in readiness. Grandmother added a basket of food and gave me a reassuring hug. She always gave me special attention. Finally, she made an extra wrap of the big wool scarf around my neck. With a twinkle in her eye and a beaming smile, she waved to us. Her last words to me before our departure were, “Keep warm, takoja.”

It was mid-afternoon when grandfather spoke gently to our little ponies. They eagerly responded to his command and we left as the people cheered. The little ponies seemed to sense there was something festive about this trip. They nodded their heads and quickened their pace in the glistening snow. It was as if they were dancing as the jingle of the chains kept in time with their trotting hooves. I, too, was caught up with the excitement of the moment. The beautiful landscape made me feel like we were soaring in the clouds. Only the slight swishing sound of the sleigh runners told us we were on solid ground.

When we finally arrived at the little church; the glowing red sun was just beginning to touch the western horizon. There was a group of parishioners eagerly awaiting our arrival. The men were dressed in sheepskin coats, which were popular in those days. The women covered themselves with warm woolen shawls. The local committee began unloading the boxes.

A distinguished elder opened the door and cordially bade us to come in. The place was packed with Indian families and all had smiling faces. A grandmother came over and helped me remove my wraps. She invited me to open my hands to the big potbellied stove in the center of the room. Then she had me sit next to her in the front of the church. She knew I was being reared by my grandparents and wanted to make sure I was given proper attention, as is our Lakota tradition. The church bell rang and echoed through the hills to announce the beginning of the evening’s service.

Grandfather taught that in the Lakota way we are always to express gratitude (wopila) for gifts.

There was a pleasant fragrance from a freshly cut cedar Christmas tree and also from some of the boughs, which were made into beautiful wreaths. These decorations were artistically displayed on the interior walls of the sanctuary. There was also the sweet smell of fresh apples, as many boxes of the fruit were stacked near the tree. At regular intervals, one of the local elders would stoke up the stove while another man pumped up the Coleman gas lanterns, which were suspended from the ceiling. In those days, none of our Lakota churches had electricity.

Then there was a visit from a fat man dressed in a red suit. English speaking people call him Santa Claus, but Lakotas call him Waziya or the Northerner. This one needed an interpreter to convey his greeting in the Lakota language. He also had a keen sense of humor and kept the congregation shaking with laughter. Strangely, he wore a long white beard and displayed a pink face, but he had brown hands like a Lakota.

The excitement rose to a momentous crescendo when it was time to distribute the gifts. Names on the tags were read aloud by committee members and the packages were delivered to the designated recipients. Seeing a little girl clutching a doll tightly with her dark eyes shining brightly and wearing a big smile was a joy to behold for a little boy like me. I had already received my gifts at our Porcupine church. I saw a boy wearing a stocking cap that matched his mittens he was putting on. He too had a big smile on his face. There was something like electricity in the air, especially for the little ones. Everyone was happy!

The grandmother who made me sit next to her brought me a box that contained a beautiful hand-knit sweater. She asked me to try it on. It fit perfectly! She smiled and gave me a big hug. Grandfather taught that in the Lakota way we are always to express gratitude (wopila) for gifts. I shyly extended my hand and politely said, “Thank you grandmother. You are a very kind woman.” I forgot to ask if she had knitted the sweater for me. Other grandmothers also brought me gifts.

When this distribution was completed, an elder got up and instructed us to remain in our seats. Women, almost like magic, produced dishes and utensils that had been wrapped in cloths. From the doorway men brought in pots of food that had been kept warm on cooking fires on the church grounds. Grandfather was asked to offer the blessing. Amid the clatter of dishes and the laughter of children a great feast was enjoyed. At the conclusion of the meal, the elder announced there would be a Christmas dinner the following noon.

The grandmother helped with my wraps and instructed grandfather to follow her family in our sleigh. They had a spare bed where we could spend the night. The horses were fed and watered. I brought in our spare bedding in case we needed additional warmth during the long, cold night. A cast iron wood stove provided all the heat we needed and we slept like logs.

We ate a leisurely breakfast over cups of strong, black coffee, which was grandfather’s favorite pleasure. Our horses were properly cared for as they were always given first priority. Grandfather spoke to them affectionately, like people, in the Lakota language. They seemed to understand. After all, they were Indian ponies! I enjoyed those special moments when grandfather spoke to the animals in this fashion.

Just before noon we headed back to the church. A crowd of people was gathered there. An elder greeted us and showed us to our seats on the platform where a table was set for special guests, including a shy little boy. After a few speeches by members of the local committee, an announcement was made by a woman about the distribution of the food. There was a brief service of devotion and a prayer. The feasting began. The food was delicious and plentiful. Two lard pails were filled with extra food for grandfather and me to take home. The Lakotas call it wateca. It was a happy time for the humble folk who came together as a people of God to express their gratitude. When the feast was concluded, a final hymn was sung and grandfather gave the closing prayer. Many came to clasp our hands and grandmothers embraced me tenderly.

It was past noon when we finally left in our sleigh. I was cozy and warm wearing my new sweater under my coat. Grandfather carefully tucked me under our lap robe again. I observed our little ponies and there seemed to be just a hint of playfulness in their manner. It was almost as if they too were caught up in the festivities of the previous night. My grandfather chuckled as he spoke to them. They resumed their prancing in the sparkling snow. I called the ponies by name. Then I repeated what the children from the day school said during the evening program at our church. I shouted in English, “Merry Christmas!” Grandfather laughed louder and the ponies danced harder.

Editorís Note: Sidney H. Byrd followed in his grandfather’s footsteps and served the Presbyterian church. He died in 2016 at age 97. This story is revised from the November/December 2000 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call (800) 456-5117.

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Remembering Wounded Knee

By Katie Hunhoff

Arthur Short Bull’s diptych Interpretations of Wounded Knee explored the 1890 massacre and the 1973 occupation. His 1890 scene appears on the cover of the November/December 2015 issue of South Dakota Magazine.

The massacre at Wounded Knee occurred when our state was just one year old, yet the effects of that cold winter day still reverberate throughout our state and our country. Dec. 29 marks the 125th anniversary of Wounded Knee. To remember, we dedicated much of our current issue of South Dakota Magazine to the tragedy.

We began by visiting Pine Ridge to find descendants of Wounded Knee survivors. We met Leonard Little Finger, who lives near Oglala. Both of Little Finger’s grandfathers, along with more extended family were survivors of Wounded Knee. He is a direct descendant of Big Foot, whose band was decimated in the massacre. Little Finger had 39 relatives at Wounded Knee. Only seven survived.

Before the massacre, Big Foot and nearly 400 men, women and children were living on the Cheyenne River Reservation. Some were from Sitting Bull’s band, and had fled to Big Foot’s camp after Sitting Bull was killed farther north on the Standing Rock Reservation. Black Elk, in Black Elk Speaks, recounted that only about 100 of the almost 400 were warriors. The rest were women, children or elderly. But all were starving and cold. Big Foot was ill with pneumonia, but still decided to meet with Oglala Chief Red Cloud on the Pine Ridge Reservation to help work on a peace agreement with the federal government.

Soldiers had heard they were on the move and were on lookout. Big Foot’s band was known to have embraced the Ghost Dance, a new religious movement circulating among tribes. White soldiers saw it as a sign of disobedience and trouble because federal law prohibited any exhibitions of Native religion on reservations. But the weak, cold and hungry people that those soldiers met on Dec. 28 were not rebellious. Big Foot was taken by ambulance to the cavalry’s camp on Wounded Knee Creek, and his band was escorted to a nearby valley and instructed to set up camp.

Soldiers seized guns from the Lakota the following morning. The Lakota complied, but the cavalry believed that there were more guns that were being hidden and a search was ordered. Warriors gathered in the camp’s assembly area, and the soldiers began to individually search them. Although there are various stories on how the massacre began, our managing editor John Andrews writes that it is widely believed that it began when a young, deaf Lakota named Black Coyote held his gun over his head, proclaiming it had cost him money and he wasn’t going to give it up. As a soldier tried to seize the weapon, a bullet discharged. Both sides panicked, and the massacre began. It is generally believed that over 300 Lakota died. About 90 were men; the rest women and children. Most of the men were killed in the assembly area, but soldiers pursued the Lakota relentlessly as they tried to escape camp.

Little Finger believes it is a responsibility of tribal elders to pass on the traditional knowledge of what happened, and that the knowledge of each generation can formulate a response to the tragedy.

“Let’s say you look at time as a cloth,” Little Finger told us. “Then along comes some violence and tears it. You can stitch it, but you can never tear the threads that consist of that fabric. I come to that every day.”

It’s not easy to search for meaning in something like the Wounded Knee massacre, but it was in that spirit that we collected the stories for this issue. Besides seeking stories from descendants of Wounded Knee survivors, we also asked Native American leaders Elsie Meeks and Craig Howe to discuss what Wounded Knee means today. We explore artistic interpretations of Wounded Knee and wrote a travel guide for our readers who might like to visit Pine Ridge. We also pored through photos of the massacre aftermath, debating which we should print and if they were too shocking. John Andrews studied the massacre from many sources and points of view to create the best accounts I have read of what happened on that terrible day.

In the end, I hope we did some justice to the Lakota experience and that we provide perspective on our state’s greatest tragedy.