An Indian drama called, “Sitting Bull-Custer,” written by an Episcopal priest, now a judge in Sioux County, told the story of the Redman’s version of the Custer Massacre. It was presented on a Dacotah prairie at sunset, seven years ago. The scene represented an Indian village on the Little Big Horn River. It was dawn, June twenty-fifth, eighteen hundred and seventy six. A thick clump of trees, in which the Indian characters, Echonka, Gall, Rain-in-the-Face, Old-man, Old-woman, and Old-Woman-Diviner were hidden, furnished the background. There, secluded as spies, they anxiously awaited the arrival of Sitting Bull, believing that he would unfold valuable secrets in regard to the coming battle. Fool-mink, an Indian story teller and singer, the comedian of the play, was everywhere present. He sang and he danced. His music irritated Rain-in-the-Face, because it reminded him of the time Tom Custer handcuffed him. In several sharp encounters which ensued between Fool-Mink and Rain-in-the-Face, Gall acted as the peace-maker. Silence reigned. Sitting Bull arrived. He looked at the dawn wistfully, started a fire, and sat down beside it. He spoke with rapid tongue. He told the story of the Redman, the most misunderstood creature on earth. He gave the reason why his race feared the white man—he wanted to be left alone and have food to eat. He foretold the battle. Suddenly his body became as rigid as a statue. Mid pauses, he spoke in a far-away ghostly voice. “Great Custer speaks. I hear him say, Brave action crushes calumny. No lies can crush a glittering fact, If man, ignoring self, will act. I’m not a man without a flaw, What man has not his foibles? Pshaw! Courtmartial me! For what? To blight My name! I swear, by yonder light Of morning, I’ve no serious wrong! The truth will flame abroad ere long. Their teeth shall bite the dust to-day, A soldier’s grave can sing a lay Of praise, while foibles dare not peep, And those who twisted foibles sleep Forgotten. They suppose I shrink From death as they do. As they think They judge me. Open your sweet jaws, Brave death, and swallowing petty flaws, Make Custer’s rightful honor bright And clean, as youthful morning light! To die! To die gives them the shame, And me, I ask no word of fame, Save this,—that ere I slept in dust. He pauses, waves his lifted hand, He’s beckoning toward the spirit land.”