How the Son of Big Ox Died A true story written by my great great... grandmother. I have been wanting for a long time, to write a correct account of the killing of the son of Big Ox, the Indian Chief, on the Crow Reservation in the winter of 1887, and it was on the last day of January that this tragic incident took place. I was living at the time on the Reservation with my husband and two small sons. One sixteen months old and the other six weeks of age. It was a bitter cold winter, at that locality, Juction City on the Yellowstone River. (since that time entirely washed away by the changing current of the river.) We experienced the greatest extremeties of heat and cold of any place in the United States, it often being 44 degrees below zero for days at a time, and during the summer often 120 degrees. The river was the dividing line between the Reservation and Montana. The little town of Juction was on the Montana side and we lived on the Reservation. The last day of January was the coldest of the year, and a few days before the river commenced to freeze. I was all alone in the house on the bank of the river, both babies taking their afternoon nap, when a young Squaw came to visit us, and I was showing her my twenty-two rifle, of which I was the proud posseser, when I heard a cackling and squawking amongest the fowl in the chicken yard and knowing it was Indian dogs, which where part coyote, I ran out into the yard, firing at the dog as he ran past the log chicken house. I did not take time to aim at the dog and of course missed it, but looking in the direction that I had fired I was Horrified to see a young Indian Buck crumple up and fall to the ground. Of course reason told me I must have shot him, but as the gun was only a twenty-two rifle and a short BB cartridge in it, and the man was at least 100 yards away, I thought it was impossible I could have killed him. Going in the house I passed the Indian I seen fall, for I was alone on that side of the river with seven hundred Indians camped around. Once in the house I hung the gun in the usual place and tried to think of what I should do. It was several moments before I could turn and face the young Squaw by my side. To my great relief her smiling face told me she was unaware of anything except that I missed the dog. Feeling I must have comfort of some kind, I took the baby out of the cradle and held him in my arms and rocked him, waking, he fretted and I gave him the breast, not knowing that the mental state I was in would cause my milk to become poison to the baby, and a few hours after, he was taken ill, and for over a week his life was despaired of. In a short time I heard the telltale Indian death cry, it was indescribably weird echoing for miles along the bluffs. In the town across the river were men who knew the cry meant death, and they made up a party to cross over on the new made ice. My husband being in town saw them crossing and joined them. When they reached the Indians crowded around the one who was dead, they looked the brave over, and thought he had been struck on the temple with a club of some kind, as there was only a small blue mark, but the old fellow, wiser that the rest, said, "let me see, I saw a mark just like that, made by a bullet one time." And kneeling down he took his knife and pressed down on the wound and pried out the bullet I had shot from my gun. My husband was bending over him, and knew at once that it had come from my gun, as there was not another one like it in the country. He came hurriedly over to the house and asked me if I had fired the gun that day, and I told him about shooting at the Indian dog. But I could not bring myself to tell him that I had seen the Indian fall, and the Indian girl, who was really his sister, did not see him fall, so no one asked me that question and it was eight years before I could tell anyone about seeing him crumble up and fall, just like a rag and letting it go, it would fall, fold upon fold. The gun had carried a hundred yards and striking a seam in his skull hit the temple and killed him instantly, yet it had only just buried itself. The Indians were restless at this time and hard to deal with as a member of them had been arrested for killing cattle and taken to Billings, and this caused bitter feelings amongst the rest toward the whites, and the accident was like touching a match to timber. Of course there was a great pow-wow among the Indians, as their idea of mourning is to inflict punishment upon themselves, so they can suffer pain as well as grief, they hold a knife between the fingers so that a certain amount of the blade protrudes, they stab themselves over the head and shoulders, and the close relatives, reaching a certain frenzy, cut off joints of their fingers. In the evening my husband thought he would go over to the camp where they had taken the brave's body, to show his sympathy and friendship. The Old Chief Big Ox sat in the teepee with his dead son in his arms rocking back and forth, and crying aloud, by his side was a tin basin on a block and laying beside it a sharp knife. The basing was half full of finger joints. Shortly after he returned to our cabin, some men, Indian Traders, came and told us we must leave the Reservation as they could control the Indians no longer, so we took our babies, and a few articles of clothing and went across the ice to the town. The crying and howling continued for days and some of the old people near died of the self inflicted wound in such cold weather. The small crowd of white people there tried every way to show the Indians it was all an accident, but they would not be pacified until we complied with their custom of paying for him, which we did, by sending them loads of food and blankets and about $100.00 in money, and we afterwards learned it was all taken away from the family and they were left destiude, so they could really morn. Wishing to show their respect for the dead, the people of the town arranged a whiteman's funeral, nice casket, a suit of clothes and a grave dug the usual six feet. The Indians usually put their dead up on scaffolding on some neighboring hill, and let the wind and the sun be obitave, helped of course by worms. One's nose would always betray the fact of the nearness of one of these spots. Everyone advised us not to try to live on the Reservation, but it meant such a sacrifice for us to move that I was determined to go back, and did, for just one night. My husband, my babies and myself, with only the twenty-two rifle for protection. The Indians were around the house all night, and it was only because the house belonged to two half-breed girls that they didn't set it afire. After hearing their moccasins squeak in the snow around the house all night I was ready to give up everything and move across the river next day. They buried the body on the highest hill there and in the evening a chief stood by the grave, after all the others left, and as the sun was setting he commenced to howl and chant the most unearthly noise, that could be heard for miles around, and did not quit until it was completely dark, and repeated that each month as long as I lived within hearing, whether it was done for my benefit or was the Indian custom I never knew. We continued to live there for three years and although there where times when I knew what fear was, still I knew that the Indians had been warned by their agent if harm came to me or my children, they would be punished by the GREAT WHITE FATHER in WASHINGTON. Many amusing things grew out of the accident as it was printed in all the leading papers, even given the front page in the Police Gazette, where I was pictured in buckskin and a broad brim hat. My husband recieved letters from people he had not heard from in years, and we received numerous letters from people who wanted to come west, and some whom he had crossed the plains in earlier years. He was instrumental in settling things with the government officials, being one of the most influential as well as one of the most honrable men in Montana, also a man much loved by the Indians. One old Indian remarked; "while Paul McCormick was not a Squaw, he was just as good." Later an old friend, Oscar Gruell, serving on the grand jury had the matter brought up and settled there. Years later I heard a man say to his wife, after he had presented her with a gift of a gun; "now be careful and don't shoot an Indian like that woman did down on the Reservation several years ago," not knowing I was that woman. A disturbing incident happened a few months after the accident. The wife of the Indian killed gave birth to a baby, and as soon as she was able she would bring the child and stand where she knew I could not help but see her, and if she saw me she would look at me like she could tare me to pieces, all the hate imaginable showing in her eyes and the expression of her face. One old Squaw remained my friend and after trying a number of times to come and see me, some one always turning her back, she found the oldest boy playing with other children in town, and picking him up, she put him in her blanket on her back and marched up bravely to the house, and as I opened the door to let her in, she sank down on the floor, sobbing and crying and in her way tried to tell me she understood and still was my friend... afterwards she spent many hours helping me with housework and caring for the children. Until this accident happened I had enjoyed perfect safety amongst the Indians. Many nights we had gone to bed with the squaws and papooses lying thick over the floor and porch, that I could hardly step out of bed. They always came to our house when rumors of a Sioux raid were heard, and during the whole time I lived in the Reservation I never had one thing stolen from the house or grounds until after this trouble. I had always liked to them for protection from hoboes and drunken soldiers when alone. But time heals everything they say and years afterwards I visited a friend on the Reservation, a Boss Farmer's wife, without any demonstration whatever amongst the Indians, although I noticed that my friend was rather nervous whenever there was an unusual noise form the Indian camp. EMILY SPEAR DeWITT
