University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

It is time to return to Sullen Face. He and Forked
Horn, on their return to the village, were informed of what
had occurred during their absence. They offered to fulfil
the engagement of the chief, and accompanied by others of
the band, they started for Fort Snelling. The wife of
Sullen Face had insisted upon accompanying him, and
influenced by a presentiment that he should never return to
his native village, he allowed her to do so. Their little boy
quite forgot his fatigue as he listened to his father's voice,
and held his hand. When they were near the fort, notice
of their approach was sent to the commanding officer.

The entire force of the garrison marched out to receive
the prisoners. A large number of Indians assembled to
witness the scene—their gay dresses and wild appearance
adding to its interest.

Sullen Face and Forked Horn, with the Sioux who had
accompanied them, advanced to meet the battalion. The
little boy dressed as a warrior, his war-eagle plumes waving
proudly over his head, held his father's hand. In a moment

the iron grasp of the soldier was on the prisoner's shoulder;
they entered the gate of the fort; and he, who had felt that
the winds of Heaven were not more free than a Dahcotah
warrior, was now a prisoner in the power of the white man.
But he entered not his cell until he had sung a warrior's
song. Should his enemies think that he feared them? Had
he not yielded himself up?

It was hard to be composed in parting with his wife and
child. “Go my son,” he said, “you will soon be old enough
to kill the buffalo for your mother.” But to his wife he
only said, “I have done no wrong, and fear not the power
of my enemies.” The Sissetons returned to the village,
leaving the prisoners at Fort Snelling, until they should be
sent to Dubuque for trial.

They frequently walked about the fort, accompanied by
a guard. Sullen Face seemed to be indifferent to his fate,
and was impressed with the idea that he never would return
to his home. “Beautiful country!” said he, as he gazed
towards the point where the waters of the Mississippi and
St. Peter's meet. “I shall never look upon you again,
the waters of the rivers unite, but I have parted forever
from country and friends. My spirit tells me so. Then
welcome death! they guard me now with sword and bayonet,
but the soul of the Dahcotah is free.”

After their removal to Dubuque, the two prisoners from
Fort Snelling, with others who had been concerned in the
murder, suffered much from sickness. Sullen Face would
not complain, but the others tried to induce him to make
his escape. He, at first, refused to do so, but finding his
companions determined upon going, he at last consented.

Their plans succeeded, and after leaving the immediate

neighborhood, they broke their shackles with stones. They
were obliged, however, to hide themselves for a time among
the rocks, to elude the sheriff and his party. They were
not taken, and as soon as they deemed it prudent, they resumed
their route.

Two of the prisoners died near Prairie du Chien. Sullen
Face, Forked Horn, and another Sioux, pursued their
journey with difficulty, for they were near perishing from
want of food. They found a place where the Winnebagoes
had encamped, and they parched the corn that lay scattered
on the ground.

Disease had taken a strong hold upon the frame of Sullen
Face; he constantly required the assistance of his companions.
When they were near Prairie le Gros, he became
so ill that he was unable to proceed. He insisted upon his
friends leaving him; this they at first refused to do, but
fearing that they would be found and carried back to prison,
they consented—and the dying warrior found himself alone.

Some Indians who were passing by saw him and gently
carried him to their wigwam. But he heeded not their
kindness. Death had dimned the brightness of his eye, and
his fast-failing strength told of the long journey to the
spirits' land.

“It was not thus,” he said, “that I thought to die!
Where are the warriors of the Sissetons? Do they listen
to my death song? I hoped to have triumphed over the
white man, but his power has prevailed. My spirit drooped
within his hated walls? But hark! there is music in my
ears—'tis the voice of the sister of my youth—“Come
with me my brother, we wait for you in the house of the
spirits! we will sit by the banks of a lake more beautiful

than that by which we wandered in our childhood; you
will roam over the hunting grounds of your forefathers, and
there the white man may never come.”

His eyes are closing fast in death, but his lips murmur—
“Wenona! I come! I come!”