Sitting Bull (A Short Story)

I wrote this short story for an assignment for my English class this year. It’s supposed to be a character study kind of thing. It’s based on a semi-real event, and a real person (Chief Sitting Bull).

I counted forty-three men in all, including myself. We had been standing in the cold, breathing visible breath for about five minutes when the trucks showed up; their lights beaming over the hills in the distance.

“About damn time! I’m freezing out here,” the soldier in front of me snorted when he raised one leg up, and hoisted himself into the back of the truck. Like everyone else, his rifle was slung over his shoulder and bounced as he hopped into his spot in the corner. I made my way to the left of him and sat down.

“Anyone know why we’re out here?” I asked, looking at all the faces of men sitting among me. Most shook their head and looked down at their feet. The man sitting next to me spit between his boots and slowly nodded. He remained quiet for another moment and again emptied his mouth of spit in the same spot. “Well?” I probed again.

“Well ya’ didn’t ask why we were out here. Just whether anyone knew. If ya’ wanna’ know why, ask another damn question,” and with another spit, he looked me in the eyes. His eyes were slightly closed, as if they’d endured a sandstorm in some foreign desert. His jaw continued nursing the brick of tobacco in his cheek.

“Why’d they send us out here - sir,” I choked out, considering he’s probably seen more action than I ever would and deserved the respect.

“It’s Mason, not sir. And we’re here ‘cause some ol’ in’jun chief up over the hill has been causing Uncle Same some problems. We’re here to deal with him,” and punctuated his sentence with another spit. I kept quiet for the rest of the ride. The engines hummed and the bed of the truck bounced and jostled us around after every bump. That and the occasional spitting were the only sounds that disturbed the peace of the ride. I could see some orange lights up ahead, and an illuminated sign that read: United States Indian Reservation.

A few fires were spread out among some tan teepees. There were men sitting around some of the fires, passing long pipes among one another. None of them looked at us. Similar to the soldiers I rode with, they just smoked their pipe and looked at the ground.

The trucks passed into a clearing. I could make out a much larger teepee, this one illuminated by fire in front of it. Blue and red zig-zags decorated the outside of the hide covering. The trucks stopped, we unloaded ourselves, and gathered around the fire.

“Okay, this is how we’re gonna’ do this. The man inside is to be considered dangerous. He’s to be escorted with us and placed in jail. Use force if necessary!” a commanding officer barked, putting an emphasis on the last order. Along with everyone else, I swung my rifle down from my shoulder and gripped it, pointing it toward the large teepee. My stomach began to ache.

I was with the first group that entered the structure. There were six of us that entered. Barely lit, I could only make out a striped blanket, a spiraled stick of wood with a feather tied at one end, and a man sitting on the blanket with his legs crossed. He was wearing a tanned leather tunic, adorned with beads and blue paints. He had long black hair, with a ponytail that fell across his shoulder on his left side. His face was wrinkled, but looked incredibly stern. His eyes remained closed, and he gave no indication he was aware of our presence.

More soldiers began to shuffle in and spread out in a circle around the sitting man. When there were about twenty or more soldiers encircling him, he opened his eyes. His eyes caught mine. Like an owl, his head tilted a bit and he slowly shook his head.

“Stand up!” a soldier hissed. “You’re coming with us whether you want to or not.” The shouting soldier nudged me from behind. “C’mon, go grab him,” he whispered. I took a step and stopped. My stomach started aching more intensely and my hands were shaking the rifle. Another soldier shoved me from behind with his shoulder and stepped in front of me. It was the man that sat beside me on the truck, Mason. Looking down at the sitting indian, he raised the rifle and struck him in the face with the butt of it. The elder man fell back, but caught himself with his aged hand. Strong, tanned skinned hands that spread out like a tree trunk held him in place. He settled back to his original position and closed his eyes. His lip began to bleed; the blood dripping onto his leather tunic.

“Hit the sum’bitch again!” another soldier cheered out. Instead, Mason motioned for other soldiers to come aid him. Three other soldiers moved in and grabbed the indian chief from under his arms. His eyes opened again. His jaw clenched and he grabbed the soldiers’ arms with his trunk-like arms. Mason struck him again, only harder this time. Another soldier came up and drilled the struggling man in the chest with his boot. Mason pulled his arms back and struck once more; this time giving a grunt of his own. The elderly man relinquished his grip and fell back, blood covering his lower jaw.

“He’s spunky for being over sixty!” Mason joked, and the others around him laughed. I clenched my rifle, but didn’t move. Again, the old Indian settled himself on the blanket, and stared back at Mason like an ancient statue.

“We’re -” I faltered. “We’re supposed to take him into custody,” I squeaked. Mason heard me, but didn’t turn to look at me.

“We’re also supposed to use force if necessary,” he said, and nodded to the soldiers to again restrain the man. This time other soldiers stepped up to help. With more men, they were able to get him to his feet. Again the elder’s jaw clenched. He bent his knees and planted his feet on the ground. Mason butted the rifle into his chest. Another soldier wound up and punched him, setting his jaw loose. Blood, began to pour out of his mouth, and on to his proud chest. His feet were still planted firmly. I bit my bottom lip and wanted to yell, but kept my silence.

Soldiers began to line up to take their swing at this old man. One by one they struck with as much force as they could muster. Soldier after soldier, he took his beating, but his legs and feet stayed planted. Not once did he attempt to break the hold on him, or give up any ground. Fist after fist collided into his face, but I could still see the wisdom and power in his eyes. Like a test of strength attraction at a fair, soldiers queued up and took their shot while I remained where I stood, wanting to shoot every last one of them, gripping the rifle tighter in my clammy palms.

When his legs finally gave out, I was sent to a memory I had as a child, when a giant oak tree in the back yard of my home had to be removed to make way for a field of corn. My father and brothers spent the whole day digging up the tree, exposing enormous roots as they went along. At the end of the day, the tree was uprooted, and down on it’s side in the back yard where it would stay for years. Ripped from the earth, it decomposed and rotted away. The remains of it were still there when I left to enroll in the army.

Like that tree, the elderly man was uprooted and beaten until his roots went limp. He was dragged out of the tent, his entire face unrecognizable from before and caked in blood. His body was placed in the bed of a truck and hauled off. It was only years later that I came to know the name of that man: Sitting Bull.