again with the Cheyennes who had separated from us on the Little
Bighorn. After a few days of feasting in the great combined camp,
there began to be departures in bands, bands, bands, for return to
the agency south of the Black Hills. My small remaining group went
to Otter creek, a tributary of the lower Tongue river. Good hunting,
lots of game, on this creek. We followed it to its head and moved
on eastward to Powder river. We went up that stream and diverted to
the Little Powder river. Here other Cheyennes came to us. Then more
arrived, and yet more. Again a great band of us were roaming together.
An early autumn snowstorm in the upper Powder river region put a
check upon our great summer movements. Separations came again.
Indians went back again to the agency for the winter. My band moved
over to the upper Tongue river. Here, only a short distance down that
stream from the present white man town of Sheridan, Wyoming, buffalo
in great throngs were feeding. We had but to kill and eat. As I now
think back upon those days, it seems that no people in the world ever
were any richer than we were. That is all anybody actually needs--a
good shelter, plenty of food, plenty of fuel, plenty of good water.
We stayed all winter in this vicinity. My father and his family never
cared to live at the agency.
In every herd of buffaloes the adult males were about equal in size
and of the same dark brown color. All buffalo cows likewise were
about equal in size, smaller than the bulls. The sucking calves were
of yellow color. At the age of one year they began to change to the
darker yellow and then to brown and dark brown or black.
A white buffalo was killed by the Cheyennes on a branch of the upper
Powder river. That was when I was a boy, about the time the soldier
fort was there. Many Cheyennes were after the animal, but Left Handed
Shooter killed it. Such animal was regarded as a spirit being or a
“medicine” animal. The assembled Cheyennes stood back from this one
in respectful awe. Left Handed Shooter could not persuade anyone to
help him in skinning it. He alone took the hide from the whole body,
separating off the head and horns.
Four medicine women were called to Left Handed Shooter’s lodge. They
pegged down the sacred skin, dried it, scraped it with their elkhorn
scrapers, did all of the work of tanning it as a robe with the hair
left on it. An old medicine man then took it to his lodge. There he
painted it. He put upon the smooth inside many black suns, many black
moons, many stripes, all in groups of four, the Indian sacred number.
The painted skin then was hung upon a tall pole. The horned head was
put upon another pole near by. All of the spirit men or medicine men
came, all of the people assembled. There were many long prayers, to
the Great Medicine above and to the spirits below. Finally an old man
announced:
“We give this tanned white robe to the Great Medicine above. We give
the head and horns to the spirits below.”
The robe was taken down from the pole and was carefully folded.
Medicine men and women then respectfully carried it with the head and
horns to the top of a hill. There these revered objects were left
as gifts to the unseen rulers of the Indian world. The meat of the
animal was not considered as sacred. It was eaten, the same as if it
were any other buffalo flesh.
After that time another white buffalo was seen and chased by
Cheyennes on Tongue river below the present town of Sheridan,
Wyoming. It was a fleet-footed and long-winded animal. All of the
Cheyenne horses were exhausted in the chase. The coveted buffalo
escaped us, and I never heard of anyone having seen it afterward.
I killed a buffalo cow having white hair covering the upper and inner
thighs, the back part of the belly, the udder, and having white
teats. My mother took great care in tanning it and made of it a fine
robe for me. It either was taken or was burned by the soldiers who
drove us from our camp on the Powder river a few months before the
Custer soldiers came.
A black buffalo calf was killed by Exhausted Elk far up the Tongue
river. It being black instead of the usual yellow color of the
calves caused it to be treated as a spirit animal. Four medicine
women tanned its skin, assembled medicine men held ceremonies, the
congregated people looked upon it with veneration. The skin was
painted and placed upon a hill as a sacrifice gift to the Great
Medicine, the same as was done with the skin of the white buffalo.
Also, its flesh was eaten as if it were only an ordinary buffalo calf.
A half-bull-half-cow buffalo was killed one time by the Cheyennes. My
father helped in the killing of it. This animal was of enormous size.
It was big, fat, had a tall back, long horns, and its hump was almost
double the size of the average buffalo bull. My father called friends
to his lodge for a feast upon this meat. It was not regarded as a
medicine animal. The heart and the liver were cut into big slices
to be eaten raw, as Indians usually ate these parts. Only the old
medicine men ate of these slices at my father’s feast.
There always was some danger mixed with the pleasures of wild game
hunting. I remember a Cheyenne who was gored terribly by a buffalo
bull. He recovered, though. After that he became known as Buffalo
Not Kill Him. Walking Whirlwind, a young man about my age, had his
shoulder torn by a bear. He also recovered.
A bear attacked three old Cheyenne women as they were picking
berries on Tongue river. One of the women was badly clawed. The
two companions put her upon a horse and took her to camp. She died
just after her arrival there. At that same time one of our men was
out hunting. He saw a bear, shot it and killed it. As he approached
the dead animal he observed dried blood all about its nose and its
cheeks. This strange condition puzzled him. In skinning the bear he
carefully preserved the bloody muzzle. When he arrived in camp with
his meat packed in the skin he learned of the killing of the old
woman. Everybody agreed this must have been the bear that killed her.
Two Cheyenne men, Bear Dung and Sun Road, went buffalo hunting from
a camp of ours on the lower Rosebud. As they were circling about a
milling herd a bull sunk its horns into the belly of Bear Dung’s
horse, ripped it open, lifted and tossed aside the animal. Bear Dung
went sprawling to the ground. The bull immediately plunged at the man
and gored him to death. Sun Road hurried into camp and told of the
sad occurrence. The dead man’s women relatives took out a travois
and brought him to camp. He was a brother of Buffalo Hump, an old
Cheyenne now living on the Rosebud. Sun Road also is still alive, his
home being on the Rosebud side of our reservation.
Competitive sports used to interest us. Horse races, foot races,
wrestling matches, target shooting with guns or with arrows, tossing
the arrows by hand, swimming, jumping and other like contests were
entered upon. In the tribe such competition usually was between
men representing the three warrior societies. These were the Elk
warriors, the Crazy Dog warriors and the Fox warriors. If any
Sioux tribe or big band camped jointly with us the matches were
between representative members of the two tribes. Bets were made on
every kind of contest. The stakes were of guns, ammunition, bows
and arrows, blankets, horses, robes, jewelry, shirts, leggings,
moccasins, everything in the line of personal property. The betting
always was on even terms. Articles were piled upon a blanket, matched
articles in apposition to each other. The winners took all and
shouted over the victory.
The Elk warriors, the society to which I belonged, had the best
runners. Our speediest man on foot was named Apache. He was almost as
tall as I was and he was much heavier. He had remarkably big thighs.
One time at a double camping with the Ogallalas on upper Powder
river a foot race was arranged between the two tribal champions. The
Ogallala fast man was tall and slender. His name was Black Legs. The
distance they were to run was about a mile, I believe, although at
that time we had no measurements for distance. Four friends of each
man accompanied the two racers to the starting point. A revolver shot
told them when to go. Near the finish the Sioux fell exhausted. Our
man Apache was very tired, but he ran on to the end of the route. Of
course, the Cheyennes took all of the stakes, let out a chorus of
cheers and fired their guns into the air. “The Cheyenne medicine
broke his legs,” the Sioux said when their man collapsed.
The old Chief Little Wolf had been a great runner when he was a
young man. The longer the distance the better it suited him. As the
Cheyennes and the Ogallalas were traveling together in moving camp
there was much bantering such as, “I think the Sioux can travel
faster than the Cheyennes can,” or, “It appears the Cheyennes must go
a little more slowly in order not to run away from their friends the
Sioux.” Finally a young Sioux jokingly challenged Little Wolf to a
foot race.
“How,” assented Little Wolf, “I’ll run with you.”
The caravan was stopped and arrangements were made for the race.
Little Wolf then was past fifty years of age, while his Sioux
challenger was just entering young manhood. Nevertheless, the
Cheyennes backed their chief heavily. A great pile of bets were
placed upon the containing blankets. Four Cheyennes and four Sioux
went with the two men to the agreed starting point, which must have
been three or four miles away. At the crack of a revolver shot the
race began. Up to the last mile the young Sioux kept well in the
lead. Then he began to move more slowly. It appeared Little Wolf
never changed his pace. So he closed up toward the leader. In the
last part of the last mile he went ahead, still running at what
appeared to be his same rate while the other man’s speed continued to
lessen. By a broad hundred yards Little Wolf won the contest. Many
of the Sioux, even some who had lost bets, joined the Cheyennes in
cheering for the old man.
A good wrestler and general strong man was Little Hawk. He and
Buffalo Hump and Brave Wolf made up a playful raiding group in the
camp one time after a great hunting party had brought in lots of
buffalo beef. All about the camp circle there were drying poles
loaded with meat. The three young men had not been fortunate in the
chase, so they decided to borrow from their friends. They went to a
certain tepee.
“We need meat,” they announced. “Your drying poles are too full, and
we think our wants can be supplied there. But Little Hawk wants to
wrestle for it. If anybody here can throw him we shall not take any
food from this lodge.”
Nobody there wanted to accept this challenge. The young men took some
meat and went on to another tepee. There they made the same kind of
announcement and proposition. There likewise all of the men present
feared to grapple with Little Hawk, and there also the three joking
robbers helped themselves from the bountiful store. At the next
tepee the transaction was more complex. After some exchange of talk
the spokesman of the lodge said:
“Big Thigh is here. He says he will wrestle you.”
The conditions of the match were agreed upon. The two men stripped to
their breechcloths. A group of onlookers assembled. The group soon
became a great crowd. Big Thigh and Little Hawk appeared equally
confident. Both of them rushed into the grapple. They tugged and
shoved and tripped. The advantage seemed to shift back and forth.
The throng of spectators whooped and danced. There was some partisan
cheering, but most of it was merely the expression of delight at
witnessing this tribal championship battle. After several minutes
of fierce and continuous struggling Little Hawk began to weaken and
wilt. Big Thigh pinioned the arms of his antagonist and bore him
face downward to the ground. The victor sat astride the back of the
vanquished and sprinkled handfuls of dirt upon him. He also picked
up a folded blanket lying near by and used this as a soft club in
pretense at beating into complete submission the defeated Little
Hawk. Shouts of congratulation greeted the conqueror while jeers
were heaped upon the under dog and his two confederates. Brave Wolf
and Buffalo Hump, ridiculed to complete embarrassment and compelled
to replace their looted buffalo meat, quickly took themselves into
hiding.
Our target shooting was with rifles, revolvers and arrows. For the
arrow contests an erect wooden figure of a man was the customary
mark. Sometimes the arrows were shot from the bow, sometimes they
were tossed by hand. Both accuracy and extent of penetration counted
in either form of this archery. Shooting arrows for long distance was
another test of capability. Here a strong bow and a powerful arm and
hand were important elements for success. In all of these games the
regular rule allowed four successive shots for each contestant. Fine
points in the manipulation of arrows were brought out in the sidewise
tossing of them at short distances, each toss being made in attempt
at the exact crossing of another arrow thrown out by an opponent.
Most of our few rifles were muzzle loaders and our revolvers usually
were of the kind using caps and moulded bullets. The target for
practice with them ordinarily was a black ring as broad as a large
hand marked upon an animal’s dried shoulderblade or upon a barked
tree. Teams of three or more men on each side often were arrayed
against each other for either the arrow or gun contests. Usually
the teams represented their respective warrior societies. On many
occasions, though, there were personal engagements. In these there
might be sought only an honorable distinction or there might be
betting added as an incentive to achievement. An incident of this
character that was much talked about among the Cheyennes came up at a
time when we were camped on the Powder river.
Jules Seminole brought a keg of whisky to the camp. He got it at
some white man trading post. He was a southern half-breed married to
one of our Northern Cheyenne women and accounted as belonging to our
tribe. One of our young men solicited him:
“Give me a drink of your whisky.”
“No, but I’ll bet a drink that I can beat you at shooting,” Seminole
proposed. “What have you to bet?”
The young man feared defeat. But he went canvassing here and there in
an effort to find someone who would take up Seminole’s challenge. One
after another declined to contest. Finally, in jest rather than in
earnest, he put the case before an old medicine man who was totally
blind in one eye and partly blind in the other.
“I’ll bet a good buffalo robe against the whole keg of whisky that I
can beat you at shooting,” the old man declared to Seminole.
Seminole evidently suspected some kind of trick. He hesitated, but
the urgings of the gathered crowd carried him into acceptance of this
counter proposition.
A tree was barked and a black circle target drawn upon this clean
surface. Seminole shot first. He had a cartridge rifle. The bullet
imbedded itself an inch or so below the black circle.
“Get me a pin,” the old medicine man requested of his young helper.
The pin was brought. The aged Cheyenne placed it point forward upon
his right palm. He held this palm upward in front of his eyes. His
squint wrinkles deepened and his lips formed themselves into a
pucker. A sudden puff of his breath caused the pin to vanish. Nobody
knew what had become of it.
“Examine the target,” the performer told them.
There it was, buried to its head just inside the circle. The people
all wondered. The keg of whisky was conceded to its new owner.
“I’ll bet a horse against the whisky that you can’t do anything like
that again,” Seminole dared him.
“How,” came instantly a responsive agreement.
The target was placed more distant, this at the request of Seminole
and by assent of his competitor. Onlookers became involved in the
betting. The medicine man found many backers of his mysterious
powers. The half-breed adjusted his sights. He took an unusually
long and careful and steady aim. “Bang!” His bullet struck within an
inch of the circle’s center. His betting supporters were gleeful, the
opposition were in doubt. They awaited anxiously the next move of
their champion.
“Bring me a claw of a redbird,” he calmly ordered.
A dozen young men put themselves into his service. They wanted to
help him in drinking the whisky. Within a minute he had the required
object.
The redbird claw was placed upon the same upturned palm where had
been the pin. “The target is too far,” came a complaint. Then: “Yes,
I can see it now.” Puff! The claw was gone. Where? Right into the
central black spot of the black circle target!
All comers had a drink of the whisky. A tin cup was brought and the
old medicine man dipped in and passed out hot liquid mouthfuls to
hundreds of Cheyennes. Nobody got enough to make him drunk. I spat
out my mouthful. It did not taste good.
Red Haired Bear and his wife were traveling with their lone lodge
one time in the Black Hills. At their noon camp he saw deer tracks
and set off to follow them. They led him up a dry coulee and into
the timber. There a strong and disagreeable odor was wafted to him.
He grasped his gun more firmly and went on. Just then a big snake
stood up and flashed its tongue at him. Its head was above his
head and its body resembled a tree. It struck him--one, two, three,
four times. It backed off and poised as if to strike again. He was
sickened, but he aimed his gun.
“Great Medicine, help me,” he prayed.
“Yes, be brave and I will help you,” a reply came from above.
He bethought himself not to shoot at its head, since the bullet might
glance off harmless. He shot it through the neck. The immense serpent
threshed about in terrible fashion, crushing bushes and tearing up
the earth. But it gradually quieted down, and finally it lay dead.
The faint and terrified man took the back trail for his camp. He
had four gullies to cross. He got over the first one without much
difficulty. The second one troubled him. Just before he started
across the third one he almost fainted. But he braced up and went
over it. He was dizzy and wobbling as he approached the fourth gully.
“Be brave now,” the Great Medicine said to him. He had dropped his
gun, but the encouraging words led him to pick it up and go on. He
staggered into and out of this fourth obstacle. At the camp he told
his wife of what had occurred. She gave him a big dose of gunpowder
in water. Then he vomited, the vomit having the same odor as had come
from the snake. A second dose of gunpowder brought up more of the
poison. A third treatment had the same effect, but the odor now was
almost gone. The fourth time he took the mixture it stayed down in
his stomach. Then he felt all right. Red Haired Bear himself told me
of this experience. But he was not a reliable man, so I never was
sure whether it was true or not.
White Frog and Red Hat told a story of them having an adventure of
this same kind. They had been to the trading post, where they had
taken their pack horses loaded with skins of beaver, buffalo and
antelope. While returning they arrived at Tongue river just above the
mouth of Crow creek. The water was high. They dismounted, waded and
led their horses to an island. For crossing the next channel they
drove the horses ahead of them. The men were naked and were holding
their clothing over their heads as they waded.
A monstrous snake rose up from the water and threatened them. “It
will eat up both of us,” they exclaimed together. They prayed the
Great Medicine to pity them. At once there came a flood of rain and
a whirling wind. The wind picked up the snake, dragged it along the
water’s surface for a short distance, then lifted it into the air. It
went up, up, up, and soon it was gone from their sight. White Frog
and Red Hat agreed in their stories to us that the snake was so big
it looked like a floating log. One Cheyenne who heard them said it
might have been a floating log that looked like a snake.
When Black Wolf went one time on a deer hunt he saw two women sitting
on the edge of a cliff. Both women were beautiful in face and form.
As they sat there dangling their feet over the cliff they beckoned
to him. He went to them and sat down beside them. Pretty soon his
nostrils perceived a strong odor of deer. At the foot of the cliff,
in a pool of clear water, he saw a reflection of himself with two
deer beside him. “You are only two deer,” he accused the women. At
that they both jumped up. They changed instantly into deer and went
bounding away into the timber.
A Southern Cheyenne out hunting saw a lovely woman by a grove of
trees, braiding her hair. She looked at him and smiled. That was
enough to draw him straight to her. But when he took hold of her he
smelled her flesh.
“Oh, you deceitful deer!” he exclaimed.
She struggled then to free herself from him. But he held firm. He
tied her hands together and tied her feet together. The deer woman
declared:
“If you keep me thus tied you will die. If you let me go loose you
will live to be old and always will be in good luck.”
He decided to let her go free. She ran away as a doe deer. When the
man arrived at his home lodge he was wildly insane. Medicine men were
called. He told them the story of his meeting the deer woman. The
medicine men prayed for him. His right mind soon came back to him.
I had one time a strange adventure with a deer. I shot it with my
rifle, the bullet passing through it from the rump forward. It ran
away, I followed. I shot again, this time the bullet going through
its chest, right to left. It turned around. Another shot made another
hole through its chest, left to right. A fourth and a fifth bullet
likewise was sent into and out of its front body. It ran to a bushy
grove. In this grove I found it lying down. It was facing me. It
was not only alive, but it appeared not to have been hurt at all. I
hesitated and trembled a little as I drew my six-shooter. At close
range I aimed at the middle of its forehead. The bullet brought
blood from the exact point where I had aimed. But the deer appeared
unharmed. I fired again, aiming at the same spot, and a new trickle
of blood flowed out. Still the animal gave no sign of having been
injured. I stood there and thought about the case. I decided to shoot
once more--an eighth effort. That is two times the Indian sacred
number four. I moved up close and put my revolver’s muzzle near the
middle of the ridge above the deer’s right eye. Holding myself
steady, I pulled the trigger. Instantly afterward the animal’s body
became limp. It was dead.
I do not entirely understand that. It may be I was dreaming, but it
does not seem like a dream.[8] The Cheyennes consider all deer as
having strong spirit powers. Medicine men like to get their medicine
strength.
An old Cheyenne man and his wife told me a story, when I was a boy,
about a big stone that stands near Antelope creek west of the Black
Hills. They said that at some time, long ago, some Indian girls were
at play there. They were poking a forked stick into a hole, in search
for beaver. They touched something, twisted, pulled, and brought out
some hair on the end of the stick. They supposed it to be the hair
of a wolf, a coyote or a porcupine. As they talked of it, a bear of
immense size came from the hole. It chased the girls, capturing many
of them and tearing them to pieces. Two sisters escaped. The bear
followed them, going to their home tepee, but it did not harm them.
When night came, the two girls crept out. They met two young men and
told them of the frightful animal. “It can not be killed by any shot
in its head nor its heart nor in other parts of its body,” they told
the two young men, “but a shot through its foot, from the bottom
upward, will kill it.” The young men considered the case. Then they
said to the two girls: “All of us will hide here and wait.”
When the bear awakened in the morning it learned the two girls were
gone. It moved about inside and then outside, smelling of the ground.
Sniff, sniff, sniff, sniff. It set off on the trail of the girls,
following to the base of the great stone. There it sat down upon
its haunches and looked upward toward the stone’s top. Pretty soon
it began climbing up the steep side. A little distance up, its feet
slipped and it slid down. It tried again, this time going higher, but
it slid down again. Trials were made at many places. But always the
effort was a failure.