THE month of September recalls to every Indian’s mind the season of the
fall hunt. I remember one such expedition which is typical of many. Our
party appeared on the northwestern side of Turtle mountain; for we had
been hunting buffaloes all summer, in the region of the Mouse river,
between that mountain and the upper Missouri.
As our cone-shaped teepees rose in clusters along the outskirts of the
heavy forest that clothes the sloping side of the mountain, the scene
below was gratifying to a savage eye. The rolling yellow plains were
checkered with herds of buffaloes. Along the banks of the streams that
ran down from the mountains were also many elk, which usually appear
at morning and evening, and disappear into the forest during the warmer
part of the day. Deer, too, were plenty, and the brooks were alive with
trout. Here and there the streams were dammed by the industrious beaver.
In the interior of the forest there were lakes with many islands, where
moose, elk, deer and bears were abundant. The water-fowl were wont to
gather here in great numbers, among them the crane, the swan, the loon,
and many of the smaller kinds. The forest also was filled with a great
variety of birds. Here the partridge drummed his loudest, while the
whippoorwill sang with spirit, and the hooting owl reigned in the night.
To me, as a boy, this wilderness was a paradise. It was a land of
plenty. To be sure, we did not have any of the luxuries of civilization,
but we had every convenience and opportunity and luxury of Nature. We
had also the gift of enjoying our good fortune, whatever dangers might
lurk about us; and the truth is that we lived in blessed ignorance of
any life that was better than our own.
As soon as hunting in the woods began, the customs regulating it were
established. The council teepee no longer existed. A hunting bonfire was
kindled every morning at day-break, at which each brave must appear and
report. The man who failed to do this before the party set out on the
day’s hunt was harassed by ridicule. As a rule, the hunters started
before sunrise, and the brave who was announced throughout the camp as
the first one to return with a deer on his back, was a man to be envied.
The legend-teller, old Smoky Day, was chosen herald of the camp, and it
was he who made the announcements. After supper was ended, we heard his
powerful voice resound among the teepees in the forest. He would then
name a man to kindle the bonfire the next morning. His suit of fringed
buckskin set off his splendid physique to advantage.
Scarcely had the men disappeared in the woods each morning than all the
boys sallied forth, apparently engrossed in their games and sports,
but in reality competing actively with one another in quickness of
observation. As the day advanced, they all kept the sharpest possible
lookout. Suddenly there would come the shrill “Woo-coohoo!” at the top
of a boy’s voice, announcing the bringing in of a deer. Immediately all
the other boys took up the cry, each one bent on getting ahead of the
rest. Now we all saw the brave Wacoota fairly bent over by his burden, a
large deer which he carried on his shoulders. His fringed buckskin shirt
was besprinkled with blood. He threw down the deer at the door of his
wife’s mother’s home, according to custom, and then walked proudly
to his own. At the door of his father’s teepee he stood for a moment
straight as a pine-tree, and then entered.
When a bear was brought in, a hundred or more of these urchins were wont
to make the woods resound with their voices: “Wah! wah! wah! Wah! wah!
wah! The brave White Rabbit brings a bear! Wah! wah! wah!”
All day these sing-song cheers were kept up, as the game was brought
in. At last, toward the close of the afternoon, all the hunters had
returned, and happiness and contentment reigned absolute, in a fashion
which I have never observed among the white people, even in the best
of circumstances. The men were lounging and smoking; the women actively
engaged in the preparation of the evening meal, and the care of the
meat. The choicest of the game was cooked and offered to the Great
Mystery, with all the accompanying ceremonies. This we called the
“medicine feast.” Even the women, as they lowered the boiling pot,
or the fragrant roast of venison ready to serve, would first whisper:
“Great Mystery, do thou partake of this venison, and still be gracious!”
This was the commonly said “grace.”
Everything went smoothly with us, on this occasion, when we first
entered the woods. Nothing was wanting to our old way of living. The
killing of deer and elk and moose had to be stopped for a time, since
meat was so abundant that we had no use for them any longer. Only the
hunting for pelts, such as those of the bear, beaver, marten, and otter
was continued. But whenever we lived in blessed abundance, our braves
were wont to turn their thoughts to other occupations--especially the
hot-blooded youths whose ambition it was to do something noteworthy.
At just such moments as this there are always a number of priests in
readiness, whose vocation it is to see into the future, and each of whom
consults his particular interpreter of the Great Mystery. (This ceremony
is called by the white people “making medicine.”) To the priests the
youthful braves hint their impatience for the war-path. Soon comes the
desired dream or prophecy or vision to favor their departure.
Our young men presently received their sign, and for a few days all was
hurry and excitement. On the appointed morning we heard the songs of the
warriors and the wailing of the women, by which they bade adieu to
each other, and the eligible braves, headed by an experienced man--old
Hotanka or Loud-Voiced Raven--set out for the Gros Ventre country.
Our older heads, to be sure, had expressed some disapproval of the
undertaking, for the country in which we were roaming was not our own,
and we were likely at any time to be taken to task by its rightful
owners. The plain truth of the matter was that we were intruders. Hence
the more thoughtful among us preferred to be at home, and to achieve
what renown they could get by defending their homes and families. The
young men, however, were so eager for action and excitement that they
must needs go off in search of it.
From the early morning when these braves left us, led by the old
war-priest, Loud-Voiced Raven, the anxious mothers, sisters and
sweethearts counted the days. Old Smoky Day would occasionally get up
early in the morning, and sing a “strong-heart” song for his absent
grandson. I still seem to hear the hoarse, cracked voice of the ancient
singer as it resounded among the woods. For a long time our roving
community enjoyed unbroken peace, and we were spared any trouble or
disturbance. Our hunters often brought in a deer or elk or bear for
fresh meat. The beautiful lakes furnished us with fish and wild-fowl
for variety. Their placid waters, as the autumn advanced, reflected the
variegated colors of the changing foliage.
It is my recollection that we were at this time encamped in the vicinity
of the “Turtle Mountain’s Heart.” It is to the highest cone-shaped peak
that the Indians aptly give this appellation. Our camping-ground for two
months was within a short distance of the peak, and the men made it a
point to often send one of their number to the top. It was understood
between them and the war party that we were to remain near this spot;
and on their return trip the latter were to give the “smoke sign,” which
we would answer from the top of the hill.
One day, as we were camping on the shore of a large lake with several
islands, signs of moose were discovered, and the men went off to them on
rafts, carrying their flint-lock guns in anticipation of finding two or
three of the animals. We little fellows, as usual, were playing down by
the sandy shore, when we spied what seemed like the root of a great tree
floating toward us. But on a closer scrutiny we discovered our error.
It was the head of a huge moose, swimming for his life! Fortunately for
him, none of the men had remained at home.
According to our habit, we little urchins disappeared in an instant,
like young prairie chickens, in the long grass. I was not more than
eight years old, yet I tested the strength of my bowstring and adjusted
my sharpest and best arrow for immediate service. My heart leaped
violently as the homely but imposing animal neared the shore. I was
undecided for a moment whether I would not leave my hiding-place and
give a war-whoop as soon as he touched the sand. Then I thought I would
keep still and let him have my boy weapon; and the only regret that
I had was that he would, in all probability, take it with him, and I
should be minus one good arrow.
“Still,” I thought, “I shall claim to be the smallest boy whose arrow
was ever carried away by a moose.” That was enough. I gathered myself
into a bunch, all ready to spring. As the long-legged beast pulled
himself dripping out of the water, and shook off the drops from his long
hair, I sprang to my feet. I felt some of the water in my face! I gave
him my sharpest arrow with all the force I could master, right among the
floating ribs. Then I uttered my warwhoop.
The moose did not seem to mind the miniature weapon, but he was very
much frightened by our shrill yelling. He took to his long legs, and in
a minute was out of sight.
The leaves had now begun to fall, and the heavy frosts made the nights
very cold. We were forced to realize that the short summer of that
region had said adieu! Still we were gay and lighthearted, for we had
plenty of provisions, and no misfortune had yet overtaken us in our
wanderings over the country for nearly three months.
One day old Smoky Day returned from the daily hunt with an alarm. He had
seen a sign-a “smoke sign.” This had not appeared in the quarter that
they were anxiously watching--it came from the east. After a long
consultation among the men, it was concluded from the nature and
duration of the smoke that it proceeded from an accidental fire. It was
further surmised that the fire was not made by Sioux, since it was out
of their country, but by a war-party of Ojibways, who were accustomed
to use matches when lighting their pipes, and to throw them carelessly
away. It was thought that a little time had been spent in an attempt to
put it out.
The council decreed that a strict look-out should be established in
behalf of our party. Every day a scout was appointed to reconnoitre in
the direction of the smoke. It was agreed that no gun should be fired
for twelve days. All our signals were freshly rehearsed among the men.
The women and old men went so far as to dig little convenient holes
around their lodges, for defense in case of a sudden attack. And yet an
Ojibway scout would not have suspected, from the ordinary appearance of
the camp, that the Sioux had become aware of their neighborhood! Scouts
were stationed just outside of the village at night. They had been so
trained as to rival an owl or a cat in their ability to see in the dark.
The twelve days passed by, however, without bringing any evidence of
the nearness of the supposed Ojibway war-party, and the “lookout”
established for purposes of protection was abandoned. Soon after this,
one morning at dawn, we were aroused by the sound of the unwelcome
warwhoop. Although only a child, I sprang up and was about to rush out,
as I had been taught to do; but my good grandmother pulled me down, and
gave me a sign to lay flat on the ground. I sharpened my ears and lay
still.
All was quiet in camp, but at some little distance from us there was a
lively encounter. I could distinctly hear the old herald, shouting and
yelling in exasperation. “Whoo! whoo!” was the signal of distress, and I
could almost hear the pulse of my own blood-vessels.
Closer and closer the struggle came, and still the women appeared to
grow more and more calm. At last a tremendous charge by the Sioux put
the enemy to flight; there was a burst of yelling; alas! my friend and
teacher, old Smoky Day, was silent. He had been pierced to the heart by
an arrow from the Ojibways.
Although successful, we had lost two of our men, Smoky Day and White
Crane, and this incident, although hardly unexpected, darkened our
peaceful sky. The camp was filled with songs of victory, mingled with
the wailing of the relatives of the slain. The mothers of the youths who
were absent on the war-path could no longer conceal their anxiety.
One frosty morning--for it was then near the end of October--the weird
song of a solitary brave was heard. In an instant the camp was thrown
into indescribable confusion. The meaning of this was clear as day to
everybody--all of our war-party were killed, save the one whose mournful
song announced the fate of his companions. The lonely warrior was Bald
Eagle.
The village was convulsed with grief; for in sorrow, as in joy, every
Indian shares with all the others. The old women stood still, wherever
they might be, and wailed dismally, at intervals chanting the praises
of the departed warriors. The wives went a little way from their teepees
and there audibly mourned; but the young maidens wandered further away
from the camp, where no one could witness their grief. The old men
joined in the crying and singing. To all appearances the most unmoved of
all were the warriors, whose tears must be poured forth in the country
of the enemy to embitter their vengeance. These sat silently within
their lodges, and strove to conceal their feelings behind a stoical
countenance; but they would probably have failed had not the soothing
weed come to their relief.
The first sad shock over, then came the change of habiliments. In
savage usage, the outward expression of mourning surpasses that of
civilization. The Indian mourner gives up all his good clothing, and
contents himself with scanty and miserable garments. Blankets are cut in
two, and the hair is cropped short. Often a devoted mother would
scarify her arms or legs; a sister or a young wife would cut off all her
beautiful hair and disfigure herself by undergoing hardships. Fathers
and brothers blackened their faces, and wore only the shabbiest
garments. Such was the spectacle that our people presented when the
bright autumn was gone and the cold shadow of winter and misfortune
had fallen upon us. “We must suffer,” said they--“the Great Mystery is
offended.”