End of Pawnee Starlight

By Shawn J. Farritor

The Battle of Massacre Canyon occurred in an indistinguishable valley in southwestern Nebraska on August 5, 1873. Fought between a Pawnee hunting expedition and a Sioux war party, the destruction of the Pawnee shocked the nation as a whole and inspired fear and speculation within the young state of a bloody plains war. As the last great confrontation between American Indian tribes on the North American continent the battle was a harbinger of the removal of both tribes from their beloved Nebraska homelands by the end of the decade.

In Shawn J Farritors first novel, End of Pawnee Starlight, memorable characters are drawn from the chapters of Nebraska history to create a stirring account of the final years of the Pawnee Nation within the state. The well-meaning but inexperienced trail agent, John Williamson, finds himself engulfed by the deadly responsibility of escorting the Pawnee on their doomed final hunt as he attempts to charm a proud Pawnee girl. The dignified Great Pawnee Chief, Petalasharo, struggles to keep his people on the lands of their ancestors. The formidable warrior Sky Chief leads his people into disaster on their summer buffalo hunt. The hardened arm scout, Frank North, and his more reflective younger brother, Luther North, assist the Pawnee in their terrible warfare with the powerful Sioux.

In the end, neither tribe won the Battle of Massacre Canyon. The Pawnee and Sioux were fighting over access to hunting grounds that the American government had recently, and unilaterally, determined were not theirs to claim.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 5, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462831180

Shawn J. Farritor

SHAWN J FARRITOR is a native Nebraskan having been raised in the small town of Ravenna. He received his undergraduate degree in history from the University of Nebraska and attended law school where the idea for this book was born. He practices law in central Nebraska and lives with his wife and stepson in Hastings. End of Pawnee Starlight is his first novel.

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Copyright © 2009 by Shawn J. Farritor.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2009904027

ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-4415-3119-3

Softcover 978-1-4415-3118-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Geographic Context

Acknowledgments

Historical Prologue

List of Characters

Epilogue

Bibliography

Geographic Context

Eastern Portion of Pawnee Agency,

Nebraska 1870

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Nebraska 1870

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The Battle of Massacre Canyon

August 5, 1873

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Acknowledgments

I wish to extend my thanks to my brother Shane for his help in formatting the document, and to my sister Sharon for her constant and gracious inspiration while this book was being drafted. My Uncle Chuck and Uncle John made the story seem truly real to me as they pointed out the overwhelming sense of home and what the land represents.

This story is of our home during a different era. It is about the Pawnee home, the Sioux home, the home of the Union Pacific. The story is about Nebraska.

I am grateful to my editor, Catherine Steele.

The greatest debt is owed to my wife and stepson. Their patience allowed me to pursue my dream.

For my parents

Historical Prologue

The Battle of Massacre Canyon occurred in an indistinguishable valley in southwestern Nebraska on August 5, 1873. The battle was the last great confrontation between American Indian tribes on the North American continent and hastened the departure of the Pawnee to Indian Territory in the future state of Oklahoma. The number of killed and wounded in the battle varies widely, but the figures that are quoted in this book come from the estimate of John H. Williamson during an interview for The Trenton Leader, a local Nebraska newspaper, in 1909. Nearly two thousand Native Americans participated in this confrontation. It was the single most terrible bloodletting to take place on Nebraska’s soil.

While Williamson became a controversial figure with some Pawnee leaders who accused him of deserting them during the fight, it is telling that these remarks occurred after many years had passed. I found no accounts that spoke ill of him among his contemporaries, either from whites or Pawnee. He admitted that he had left the field of battle fearful for his scalp but returned at no slight risk to himself. In this writer’s opinion, his actions, as depicted in these pages, are consistent with a fair measure of the man. The facts that he spent years with the Pawnee, learned their language, and spent time in a local jailhouse on their behalf speak to his respect and love for the tribe.

Petalasharo II has rightfully become a hero to the modern Pawnee people. His compassion, tolerance, and determination to secure peace with his ancient enemies, despite numerous provocations, seem to make him a man ahead of his time. His efforts to maintain the Pawnee in Nebraska have been tremendously underestimated by historians primarily because his efforts were ultimately unsuccessful.

Where names of historical persons are open to interpretation, this writer has chosen to be consistent and simple rather than accurate. When a name is more commonly spelled in one form rather than another, the writer has tended to utilize the more widely used proper name. Thus, Petalasharo was used rather than Piterasaru or his English name Man Chief. Sky Chief is referred to in the history books under that name rather than Tirawahut Resaru, so he is referred to utilizing his English name. The term Great Chief is capitalized, as it is an actual title, for the foremost chief of the confederate Pawnee bands.

The Pawnee Nation was divided into four bands. Of these, the Skidi or Wolf band was the largest and most powerful. The three southern bands were the Chaui, Kitakahaki, and Pitahawirata. The names translate into English as Grand, Republican, and Noisy. The divisions are important to keep in mind when the tribal council meets to decide whether to remove the tribe from Nebraska. While the Skidi Pawnee was a politically important band, their villages often sat on the least productive and exposed terrain. As individuals backed by their subchiefs, the Skidi Pawnee were more likely to want to sell their land to the highest bidders. In the southern bands, this debate, particularly within their chiefs, was far more heated.

The Sioux Nation is divided into the Dakota, the Lakota, and the Nakota, roughly running from west to east geographically. All tribes within the Sioux Nation are referred to in this book as Sioux and distinctions such as Santee, Brule, Ogalala, etc., are included and referred to specifically when appropriate. Many individual Sioux saw that term itself to be an insult as it is derived from an Algonquin term referring to enemies or snakes. They prefer the term Lakota. Likewise the word Ogalala is spelled in the Lakota fashion rather than the English Ogallala. Tribes and Indian terms referred to in their Indian names are italicized while tribes and terms referred to in their English name are not. Thus, Lakota is italicized while Sioux is not.

While the distinctions among the Sioux bands are important, it is well to remember that the individuals, families, and bands interacted with one another continuously. Crazy Horse was an Ogalala, yet he spent the greater part of his final years with the Minneconjou and Brule Sioux and was present with those bands at the Battle of the Little Bighorn. All bands of the Sioux Nation speak the Lakota language though dialects differ widely with each band.

Each tribe was adjusting to the recently imposed Indian agency system. This system was the initial attempt of the Department of Indian Affairs and the U. S. Congress to integrate the Native American tribes into the rapid development of the west. The involvement of religious organizations, such as the pacifist Quakers, was meant to decrease the financial corruption that plagued the relationship between whites and natives since 1492. While this religious involvement had limited success in cutting down on political kickbacks and economic graft, the agencies were not capable of significantly improving the lives of the Native Americans. The agencies did increase the oversight and interaction of the federal government in internal tribal politics and this increased connection was the precursor for the modern Indian Reservation.

As they say, victors write the history. The phrase seems to be truly profound when it is observed neither tribe ultimately won the Battle of Massacre Canyon. They were fighting over access to hunting grounds that the American government had recently determined were not theirs to determine. The Pawnee and Sioux were removed from the state before the end of the decade. It is worth noting that the Battle of Massacre Canyon is virtually unknown to Americans despite the fascinating history it entails. The battle was a horrific slaughter of a proud-spirited people: a profound and utterly pointless tragedy.

Throughout the writing of this book, I found the excellent tribal history by Martha Royce Blaine, Pawnee Passage: 1870-1875, constantly by my side as a reference.

List of Characters

Entirely fictional characters in parenthesis

Whites

John Williamson a.k.a. Chaikstaka Laket Employed Farmer of the

Pawnee Agency

(Daniel Williamson) John Williamson’s older brother

(Cynthia Williamson/ Bailey) John Williamson’s younger sister

Major Frank North Army Scout and Founder of the

Pawnee Battalion, brother of Luther

Captain Luther North Army Scout and leader of the

Pawnee Battalion, brother of Frank

William Burgess Head Quaker Agent of the Pawnee Agency

Governor Robert W. Furnas Governor of the State of Nebraska

J. B. Omohundro a.k.a Texas Jack Army Scout

Lester Platt Jr. Emissary of the Governor

(Willard) Army Cook with the Pawnee Battalion

Antoine Janis Brule Trail Agent

Captain Charles Meinhold Army Officer

(James Kildare) Buffalo Hunter

(Nathan Hewitt) Agency Farmer

Lieutenant Cole Sweitzer Federal Commander of Fort Hartsuff

Sheriff R. F. James Sheriff of Plum Creek

Sheriff A. J. Arnold Sheriff of Platte County

Sioux

Spotted Tail Brule Sioux Head Chief

(Blue Storm) Sub Chief of the Brule Sioux

Two Spears Sub Chief of the Brule Sioux

Crow Dog Sub Chief of the Ogalala Sioux

Red Cloud Ogalala Sioux Head Chief, Titled Chief of the

Sioux Nation

American Horse Sub Chief of the Ogalala Sioux

Pawnee

Petalasharo II a.k.a Man Chief Great Chief of the Pawnee Nation

Petalasharo I Late and legendary Great Chief of the Pawnee Nation

Corax Petalasharo I’s father

Sky Chief a.k.a Tirawahut Resaru Sub Chief of the Skidi Pawnee

Lechelesharo Adopted Omahaw Indian—Old Knife Chief—Tribal Elder

Tahirussawichi Pawnee Medicine Man

(Little Bird) Younger half brother of Sky Chief and half brother of

Singing Sparrow

(Singing Sparrow) Younger sister of Sky Chief

(Pressed No Corn) Sky Chief’s and Singing Sparrow’s mother

Lone Chief Skidi Head Chief

(Jugavah) Sub Chief of the Skidi Pawnee

Fighting Bear Sub Chief of the Chaui Pawnee

Eagle Chief Sub Chief of the Skidi Pawnee

(Baptized Ray) Pawnee/Lakota Translator

Indian Ola Pawnee Girl

Big Spotted Horse Chaui Head Chief-Temporary head of the

Nasharo Council

(Mad Grizzly) Pawnee Brave

Ponca

(Beaver Leg) Friend of Little Bird

JOHN WILLIAMSON

(1850-1927)

Chapter 1

August 8, 1873

She staggered in from the prairie. The young Pawnee was thirsty, emaciated, and in shock. The settlers showed her due Christian charity and began tending to her wounds. The settlers tried to speak with her, but the language barrier and her shattered emotional state did not allow for clear understanding. All she could do was point toward the west with wide and wild eyes. The girl seemed to be afraid of her own shadow. Her inexplicable fear of the unknown caused the settler’s children to suspect an evil spirit was in their midst. Unquestionably, they knew something horrible had befallen her in the direction of the setting sun. The settlers gave her the name Ola, and she was solemnly baptized. No one knew if she understood the small ritual or its significance, but it gave her caregivers comfort. She was given water and dainty amounts of food. Young Ola lingered for a day, died, and was then given a simple burial. As time passed, it was noticed that not one of Ola’s family came to the settlement looking for her. The settlers became very uneasy. They had not known Indians were in the area.

The afternoon of Ola’s death, a number of well-armed scouts rode into the settlement.1 They carried word of a massacre that occurred about two-and-a-half days’ ride southwest along the Republican River. Captain Charles Meinhold sent the scouts from Company B from Fort McPherson, and it was their task to warn all area homesteads of possible Indian hostility. The scouts reported that their cavalry troop put an end to an awful battle between two Indian tribes. The outfit was able to drive away the marauders, a large Sioux war party. Meinhold’s scouts reported a scene that was appalling to behold. Bodies were scattered about the valley as if they had been tossed by a mighty wind. It was obvious that none was spared as the dead included men, women, and children. No one was sure what ignited the battle or if there were survivors remaining on the prairie. The scouts were unsure if the Sioux lingered in the area, and the settlers were terrified. Where were the marauders? Would they kill whites as well? The scouts reprovisioned with water and deer meat then rode out to carry the frightening news to other settlements.

Late in the evening of Ola’s burial, miles to the north, a young government trail agent looked up at Venus, the evening star. He moved away from the shattered tribe’s encampment. John Williamson knew the remaining warriors formed a cordon around the camp, but he still felt great uncertainty. Where were the Sioux? He climbed a low rise to look out on the prairie and stand watch over his Indian charges. The trail agent needed to spend some moments alone. Despite the considerable distance from the camp, he could still hear the wails of the Pawnee death song. The song was mournful and eerie. It was meant to guide the beloved spirits to the other world. The women had been singing it since the evening of the battle. As he gazed out at the glowing western sky, the shock of what he had seen overwhelmed him and he began to cry. He wept for Sky Chief, whom he knew had been killed in the thick of the fight. He wept for Little Bird, Singing Sparrow, the Rakatiki Soldiers,2 and he wept for the poor girl he had tried to pull up off of the prairie. He cried for the pain, terror, and disbelief he had seen in the eyes of his charges. He knew he had failed them miserably, and he dreaded returning to the camp. He pulled his hat down lower as he was concerned the women might see him and his emotions. His tears streamed, and he let out an audible gasp. The sound shook him back to the moment. He realized he still had much responsibility. With two-thirds of the Pawnee braves dead or missing, the survivors were very vulnerable, and they were still very far from home.

Yesterday morning, the first morning after the disaster, they gathered around his tent waiting for his guidance. The men looked worried and the women were full of fear. For some reason, a reason he could not comprehend, they asked him what needed to be done. Where should they go? Who would help them?

He refused to give answers because he had none. The attack had happened too fast, and he was still trying to comprehend all he had witnessed. He had never seen anything like it. He had never seen a war, let alone a conflict with the brutality, the death, and the hate so apparent in the combatants. He had never seen human beings killed before. He had never shot a man like he had at the first skirmish line. Williamson hid his face and continued to lie in his tent. He couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge that they were there and in this predicament. He wondered what Captain North would do. He wanted to speak with Sky Chief, Daniel, or even Little Bird again although he knew they were dead and that was impossible.

Fortunately, the middle-aged warrior, Fighting Bear, asserted his leadership. While looking disdainfully into the tent, he gave a short command. North! he said. We go north! He then repeated his command in Pawnee, and the Indians began to pack their travoises.

It was sensible advice, although not without risk. The Sioux were likely in that direction. The band packed what little they had and fled north. John did little more than follow. At noon, with the heat of the midday sun bearing down on him, the trail agent realized the tribe should head in a more southeasterly direction toward the Republican River. He shouted out the command. Fighting Bear looked at Williamson sideways, as if surprised, but did not question the order. The older chief kept silent. The women did not break their chants as they hurried along. Williamson came to the terrible realization that what he said still mattered.

Now, crying on the hill above the camp, he was haunted by doubts about what to do next. They were still a half a day’s travel from the Republican River. He knew the U.S. Army had a cavalry unit camped somewhere down along its banks. John knew the troops could offer protection. But the Indians were exhausted and scared and they were miles away. Even if they made the river, there was no guarantee of finding the troops. He said a prayer and then took a deep breath, the way his mother had taught him to do when he was afraid. When he completed his meditation, he knew where the tribe needed to go. He took off his hat, rubbed his eyes dry, and ran down the hill to find Fighting Bear.

As he ran, he remembered how this journey began.

April 27, 1869

John H. Williamson left Wisconsin, his parents, and older sister at the age of twenty to find some farmland and start a new life. He wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps and raise crops, perhaps corn or wheat. He knew a young farmer could not do that in Walborth County, Wisconsin. It was a fact. Locals kept tight control of the best land and freed slaves or army veterans had claimed what remained. He simply had to go west.

John was always popular and eager. A bright lad he found it easy to make friends, male or female, with his easygoing manners, blonde curls, and boyish grin. The dairy farm had simply grown too small. With his older brother gone, his parents held on to the youngest Williamson as long as they felt proper; however, the tiny spread located in the meadows of Wisconsin soon lost out to the lure of the frontier. When the Williamsons watched John step onto the train in Madison, they told him to watch his manners and write as many letters as he could. He vowed to do so. His brother had been a great letter writer, and he remembered how his mother had taken comfort from those missives.

At the train station in Chicago, he heard a crier advertising good bottom-ground farmland in Nebraska. He grabbed one of the flyers. There was land located in the Platte River Valley and the flyer read like it was the land of milk and honey! Williamson’s plans grew big as he dreamed of the fertile unbroken ground that was promised. The land could be his with merely a signature.

The trip had been difficult so far. John had been riding in the packed freight cars the railroad designed to take migrants west. The Union Pacific Railroad was pouring money into grandiose claims and advertising with the objective of settling the western prairie towns. The railroad’s first project was to populate the Platte River Valley, in order to protect the company’s investments in the transcontinental railroad. He shared the ride with fifty or sixty other emigrants of both sexes. Children cried and men cursed at one another in foreign tongues. The ride had been filthy, hot, and smoky. At one of the stops he inquired how much it would cost to purchase a ride in one of the passenger Pullman cars. John was shocked at the asking price. After counting the meager amount of currency his father had given him, John decided against the Pullman coaches. He determined to go with the next stagecoach to Omaha. It would be a bit more expensive than the migrant car and much slower, but he was sure that he would be more comfortable.

The stage lines to the new state of Nebraska were filled with travelers who were only slightly more comfortable than their emigrant friends. His endurance was taxed with thirteen bumpy soggy days, as the stage stopped at every post office and roadside depot. He found himself in many run-down boarding houses and lunch lean-tos trying to buy milk, corn bread, or jerky.

As he traveled, John wondered if this adventure was similar to his older brother Daniel’s experience. On Daniel’s sixteenth birthday, he skipped doing chores and found his way into town. He signed up that day with the Grand Army of the Republic to defeat the rebels, preserve the Union, and free the slaves. For the last six months that his brother had been home, Daniel had worried about missing the fighting. Reports had reached their hometown in Wisconsin that General Sherman had taken Charleston and General Grant was about to overrun Petersburg. Despite this news, the army remained desperate, and the recruitment sergeant had not allowed Daniel to inform his family that he was leaving immediately. John had not seen his brother off.

Daniel had always been a spontaneous dreamer. The decision to sign up with the federal army and search for glory had gotten him into a situation he soon regretted. He apologized to his parents for signing up in all of his letters sent from his army tent. His outfit was sent down the Mississippi and disembarked somewhere in eastern Texas. Daniel had been wounded in his first and only battle.

The young soldier had written a particularly long letter about his experience in the weeks following the battle. He stated plainly, The Confederates whipped us and whipped us good. Daniel admitted he had run like a scalded dog, but he did not get away. Fellows who claimed to be Texas Rangers rounded him and a couple of other stragglers up two days later. They found the Yankees hiding in the foliage along a riverbank. He was happy to be caught being tired of trying to hide on the Texas prairie. Daniel had been taken immediately to a Confederate prisoner of war camp.

As Daniel sat with his fellow prisoners, he learned the war was over. His letter read, You could have knocked me down with a feather when I was told General Grant had not only taken Richmond but captured Lee’s rebel army. The war was over. We all would be sent home. Daniel’s letter arrived the same day his parents received a Western Union telegram informing them that their son, Daniel Williamson, had been killed. He was on his way back to Wisconsin when the overloaded steamboat he was being transported upon capsized. Daniel was one of the unfortunate former prisoners of war whose body washed up on a foggy bank of the Mississippi River.3

John wondered if Daniel knew Abraham Lincoln had been assassinated.4 He thought not as he felt Daniel would have mentioned his thoughts on that particular bit of news. John shook his head as he realized that Daniel had died nearly five years ago.

In Sioux City, Iowa, the travelers waited in a poorly ventilated saloon for the ferry to take them across the Missouri. The large smoky saloon next to the stage depot was filled with people like himself. There were farmers, traders, tavern keepers, cowboys, former soldiers, and dance hall girls. They were all crowded into the bar hoping to move on to a better life.

John was sitting alone at a table trying to choke down a watery beer and some dry bread he had purchased from his diminishing funds. He wanted to eat something before he bought the ferry boarding ticket. He just tasted his second beer and biscuit when a hard luck drifter sat down across the table from him. The grizzled old drifter asked Williamson if he could spare some food. The drifter spoke with broken English. Williamson told him he had none to spare. He informed the beggar that he was on a long trip and this was his last bit of food. The drifter then asked for money. Annoyed, John told him he did not have any. The drifter started to say something that was English mixed with a foreign tongue.

John shouted, No! Go somewhere else to beg.

The drifter hollered back, I not beg! I no Indian! I need food!

Those were the last words John heard before an axe handle crashed over his head, leaving him unconscious. The drifter had attacked him.

The next thing he knew, water was being poured over his aching head as he looked up at a star filled sky.

Captain, he seems to be coming to! someone yelled. Easy now, buddy . . . you took quite a blow. You can thank Sky Chief for getting that crazy Swede off of ya.

Where am I? John asked. Who are you?

You are in Nebraska, and I am Captain Luther North. We figured you wanted to get across the river. Willard and I figured you were looking for work and we could use some help.

John looked around him and saw two white men and a half dozen Indians. It was clearly growing dark. His head seemed to be spinning. He must have been unconscious for hours.

Luther North continued, We have a herd of cattle that we’re trying to get back to the Pawnee Indian Agency. Like I said, we could use some help. Have you ever drove cattle?

John touched the large bandage on the top of his head and said with a groan, I am not a cowboy. I’m a farmer.

North said, "If you can ride a horse and can