WINTER WITH THE POTAWATOMIS
The Potawatomis rode hard for several days against a biting northwest
wind. Finally they stopped on the banks of the _Au Sable_ River, in a
wide valley protected by rolling hills. It was an ideal camp site
because the hills protected the Indians from bitter winter winds.
Several families had already arrived. Wahbunou told Jim that these
people were members of another clan in his tribe. His clan, the Golden
Carp, always tried to return to this camp to hear news of their
relatives and to share in the tribe’s winter sports.
The women began immediately setting up wigwams. These they made with
poles fastened to the ground in a circle, and the tops drawn together in
a cone. They covered this framework with their _aquapois_, or reed mats
made of cattail flags, to shut out snows and winter winds.
The men rested a few days, then decided to go on a short hunting trip to
get fresh meat. Early in the morning of the hunt, the men painted their
faces with the vermilion, which Jim had first seen on Wahbunou’s face.
“Wahbunou,” Jim said, “why are the men painting their faces?”
Wahbunou turned from watching his father prepare for the trip. “They
always wear it, Jim, when they go hunting or riding for a war raid. The
day you found me in your country, I was on a hunting trip with my father
and the other men. But I became separated from the rest. I was trying to
catch up with them when I was brushed off my horse and broke my
shoulder.”
“Do you usually hunt near our farm?”
“Oh, no. That was the farthest south and east we had ever ridden. But
hunting wasn’t good in the places we knew. If you had not found me I
would have died, because my people did not miss me until they returned
to camp.”
Jim looked puzzled. “But didn’t they hunt for you?”
“Oh, yes, for several days. My father said they finally gave me up for
lost, thinking I had been killed by a bear.”
“Then it wasn’t a trick that you happened near our clearing?”
“Trick?” It was Wahbunou’s turn to look puzzled. “What do you mean,
Jim?”
Jim hesitated. “My father wondered if you had been placed near our farm
to spy on us, and see if we could be easily captured.”
“Jim! My people would not do that. We have not raided any cabins this
year. The prisoner we traded to the Shawnees had fired on Chief
Minnemung. We had to capture him. And anyway, Chief Minnemung wanted his
knife and gun.”
While the boys talked the men finished their preparations and were ready
to go. Suddenly Chief Minnemung swung down from his horse and walked
toward Jim. “You ride with me today,” he said, putting his hand on Jim’s
shoulder.
Wahbunou gasped in surprise because none of the Indian boys had been
asked to go on this hunting trip. Jim looked up at the tall, haughty
chief, magnificent in his painted buffalo robe; he started to say he
didn’t care to go. But the expression on Minnemung’s face told him this
was not an invitation but a command.
“Yes—yes, sir,” he managed, wishing with all his heart he did not have
to accompany the chief. “What shall I do to get ready?”
Chief Minnemung looked at him for a moment. “All right as you are.
Come.” Then he turned and stalked back to his horse.
“It is a great privilege, Jim,” Wahbunou whispered, still amazed by the
chief’s order.
Jim got on the horse behind the chief and the party of eighteen set out
for the hunt. After they had ridden a little way into the forest, they
separated into groups of two or three going in different directions.
But Chief Minnemung and Jim went alone. As they rode along Jim noticed
that the chief was carrying a rifle like his father’s, and wearing a
long knife also like his father’s in a wampum belt which girded his
beautiful robe.
Jim pointed to the rifle. “You have a gun like my father’s.”
Chief Minnemung grinned a hideous grin through his streaked vermilion
paint. “_Shemolsea_,” he grunted. Then he patted the big knife and again
said, “_Shemolsea_.”
Suddenly Chief Minnemung reined in his horse. Then he tried to sight his
rifle, but could not do it on the horse, so slid quietly to the ground.
Once again he tried to sight the rifle. Jim looked to see what the
chief’s quarry was. In the distance he saw a black bear, but it was too
far away to shoot.
The Indian kept fumbling with the rifle and suddenly the sound of a shot
broke the stillness of the forest. Chief Minnemung shouted in triumph
and dropped the gun. He had fired the rifle. But his triumph was
short-lived, for his shout was answered by an unearthly moan. He had
wounded the bear which was now charging toward him. The old chief stood
frozen in his tracks when he realized the rifle shot had not killed the
bear.
Jim slid off the horse, grabbed the rifle from the ground, reloaded it
and waited. The bear was coming nearer and Jim knew he must not miss his
aim. The wounded animal would kill them, if he did not kill it first.
When the bear was only a few feet away, Jim fired. This time the aim was
deadly accurate, piercing the bear between the eyes. It fell in its
tracks.
Chief Minnemung waited a few moments, then turned to Jim. “White boy,
Jim, you have saved Chief Minnemung’s life. I will not forget this
moment. Minnemung not know how to use _Shemolsea_ gun.”
[Illustration: uncaptioned]
The old chief was quite shaken and nervous, but with Jim’s help, he
managed to truss the bear and get it back to camp. When the women and
children saw Jim and Chief Minnemung returning with the big bear, they
ran out to meet them, yelling in delight.
“Bear meat!” Wahbunou cried. “Now we’ll have a feast. Chief Minnemung
got a bear with _Shemolsea_ gun.”
The chief was grinning in delight, but never a word did he say about
Jim’s shooting the bear. He took all the credit for the kill and did not
so much as glance at Jim. Jim would have liked to tell Wahbunou he had
killed the bear, but he was afraid Chief Minnemung would be angry, so he
said nothing.
Late in the day the other men returned with squirrels and wild turkeys,
but no large game. For several days the camp feasted on bear meat, while
all the Indians praised their chief for bringing home such a prize. The
chief still kept silent about Jim.
Soon winter came to the camp and the ground was covered with snow. Then
the children had lots of fun. Wahbunou showed Jim how to make a sled,
using buffalo ribs for the runners and hides for the seat. Jim found it
was a fine sled and had fun coasting down the hills with the other
children.
One morning when the snow was packed very hard, Wahbunou said, “Come on,
Jim, we’re going to play Snow Snake.”
“Snow Snake? What kind of game is that?”
“We play it by teams with snow-snake poles,” Wahbunou explained. He took
Jim to a long level playground in the valley where the other children
had gathered. They chose sides, having six to a team. Then they drew
lots to see who would throw the first pole. Wahbunou drew the first
throw.
He picked up the hickory pole, the ends of which were carved like the
head of a snake. He held it high and threw it with all his strength. The
pole shot through the air for quite a distance and fell to the ground
far from him. An older boy and girl served as scorekeepers and measured
the length of its flight.
“Now, Jim,” Wahbunou urged, “do your best.”
Jim stepped forward and tried to throw the pole as far as Wahbunou had,
but it fell far short. Jim sighed. “I’m no good at this game.”
“You’ll soon learn, Jim,” comforted Wahbunou.
Jim did learn to throw the snow-snake pole as well as the other boys.
Sometimes Chief Minnemung walked out to watch the children; he always
smiled when Jim threw it farther than the others. Quite often during the
winter the chief called Jim to his Wigwam, to play Pa Hudson’s drum for
him and sometimes for all the Indians.
Jim grew tall during the winter, had plenty of food and was snug and
warm in the wigwam. He would have been happy with the Potawatomis if
only his parents had been with him. But often at night he could not
sleep, because he kept seeing his parents riding sadly away with the
Shawnees.
After a long, cold winter, spring came again to the valley. One fine day
Wahbunou told Jim he had heard the men say they would be moving out of
winter camp the next morning.
“But tonight, Jim,” Wahbunou went on, “we shall watch the dance of the
women. This dance celebrates the beginning of our summer wanderings.
Then we’ll break up into small bands again and we won’t see the rest of
our clan until next winter.”
Jim looked doubtful. “The dance of the women, Wahbunou? What is that?”
“Wait and see, Jim. Wait and see.”
When the women came out of their wigwams in their ceremonial dresses,
Jim scarcely recognized any of them. They had greased their hair until
it shone in the glow of the campfires, painted their faces with
vermilion and put on long white chemises, over which they had strung all
the wampum necklaces they possessed.
At their appearance four or five young men began singing and beating the
dance rhythm on their Indian drums; often they shook the _si si quoi_, a
sort of gourd containing dry seeds. The women danced in graceful rhythm,
not missing a single step.
Jim thought the dancing beautiful, but he didn’t enjoy it as much as the
Indians, because he grew very sleepy long before the dance was over. He
didn’t know it would last well into the night.
The next morning, however, the camp was awake early with everyone
getting ready to move. The women packed wigwam poles, cattail mats,
kettles, winter buffalo robes and the rest of the camping equipment.
Wahbunou’s mother packed Jim’s drum carefully among her belongings, so
that he wouldn’t have to carry it on the horse.
All the Indians put on their summer clothes, one-piece garments of red
or blue cloth. Wahbunou gave Jim one of his blue cloth shirts, just like
the one he had been wearing when the Hudsons found him. Then everyone
mounted their horses. Once again Jim rode with Wahbunou.
Chief Minnemung started northward with his group. Jim was to learn they
would be constantly on the move during the spring and summer, as the
Potawatomis had no lands of their own to cultivate. Frenchmen and some
neighboring Indian tribes called them squatters because of their habit
of moving in on land claimed by both the French and Indians.
As they moved back and forth across the Illinois country searching for
game, wild berries and edible roots and herbs, spring gave way to
summer. Now the prairie grass was as high as Jim’s head and the woods
dense with foliage.
One morning while Jim was helping Wahbunou’s mother skin some squirrels,
Wahbunou wandered away on some mission of his own. Wahbunou didn’t like
to work; he specially didn’t want to skin squirrels, so he always
managed to get away when his mother needed him. He was gone only a few
minutes, however, then came rushing back. “Jim. Jim, Chief Minnemung
wants to see you at once.”
Jim put down a squirrel and looked up. “Chief Minnemung? Where is he? I
wonder what he wants.”
Wahbunou pointed to a group of men under a tree. “He’s over there. See?
Talking with my father and some of the other men.”
Jim turned to Wahbunou’s mother. “I’ll be back soon. Chief Minnemung
wants to speak to me.” Then he walked over toward the group of men.
At his approach the men nodded and walked away from their chief.
Minnemung smiled at Jim and motioned for him to sit down beside him.
“Jim,” he said, laying his hand on the boy’s arm, “I have been watching
you all winter and spring. Now I have come to a great decision.”
Jim waited, wondering what the old man would say next.
Chief Minnemung leaned toward the boy, his brown eyes stern and serious.
“I have decided to adopt you as my own son.”
“Adopt me!” Jim gasped, a chill of fear passing over him.
The old chief continued as though Jim had not spoken. “I lost my only
son two years ago with a fever. That fever took four of our most
promising young men. I have been lonely, very lonely in my wigwam. But I
have watched you all during the time you have been with us. I remember
also that you saved my life on that hunting trip when I did not know how
to use the rifle of the _Shemolsea_.”
Chief Minnemung did not take his eyes from the trembling boy. “But the
greatest test of all you passed easily. You did not belittle me in front
of my clan by telling them that you killed the black bear.”
Jim was startled. He hadn’t realized that Minnemung would have lost the
esteem of his clan if the Indians discovered Jim had really killed the
bear.
“So you see,” Chief Minnemung continued, “you have proved yourself
worthy of adoption into the Potawatomi tribe as my son.”
“Adoption,” Jim murmured. It was the last gift he wanted, because it
would mean he would be forever cut off from his own people. “But sir—”
he began.
“We shall have the adoption ceremonies when the clans gather early in
the fall,” the chief said. “I just wanted to tell you of this honor
which awaits you.” Chief Minnemung nodded his head in dismissal. “That
is all.”
Jim stumbled back; Wahbunou and his mother were still working with the
squirrel skins.
“What’s the matter, Jim?” Wahbunou asked, when he caught sight of Jim’s
stricken face. “Was Chief Minnemung angry with you? And for what?”
Jim shook his head. “No, he wasn’t angry. He wanted to tell me that he
is going to adopt me as his son in the fall.”
Wahbunou dropped the skin he was cleaning. “Chief Minnemung is going to
adopt you!” Wahbunou clapped Jim on the back. “Why, that means you’ll be
the son of a chief.”
Jim hung his head and said in a low voice, “Wahbunou, I don’t want to be
adopted by Chief Minnemung. And I don’t want to be a member of your
tribe.”
Wahbunou stared at Jim, thinking he had not heard him correctly. “You
don’t want to be Chief Minnemung’s son?”
Now Jim’s blue eyes were misty with tears. “No, Wahbunou. You and your
people have been very kind to me, but I want my own people. I hope to
find my father and mother. Don’t you remember that you didn’t want to
live with us?”
Wahbunou nodded slowly. “But, Jim, you don’t know where your father and
mother are. Nor do I. I only know they were prisoners of the Shawnees.
And they live far to the east. We Potawatomis do not mingle with them.”
Jim’s lips trembled as he said, “If they’re still alive, I’ll find them
some day, Wahbunou. I wouldn’t be happy being a real Potawatomi.”
Wahbunou sighed and was silent for a while. Finally he said, “Jim, I do
understand that you want to be with your own people. Believe me. But
Chief Minnemung has spoken. His word is law with us. There is nothing
that my father or I can do to prevent your adoption.”
[Illustration: uncaptioned]