The camera, the brush, and the chisel have made us familiar with his
plumed and hairy crests, but what of the deep fountains of his inner life?
What did he think? How did he feel? What riotous impulses, or communion
with the Great Mystery, carved his face of bronze? These no scientist, no
discoverer, no leader of expeditions have ever borne into the light. No
footprints along the trail can spell out for us his majestic mien, his
stolid dignity, his triumphant courage, his inscrutable self-poise, and
all of these dyed with a blood-red struggle for survival such as crowns no
other page of American history.
To gain this close measure of the Indian mind, his friendship and
confidence must not suffer eclipse. It is a superlative task, for the
inner Indian shrine is crossed by only a favoured few. The Indian is
averse to being photographed, for he feels that every picture made of
himself by so much shortens his life. He looks at his portrait, then
feels of his person; he realizes that he has not lost a hand or a foot,
but feels most profoundly that his soul will be that much smaller in the
future world. His medicine is sacred, and you may not interrupt the daily
tenure of his life without destroying some ceremonial purpose. It is
meaningful, therefore, that these red men allowed us daily communion.
This story is then simply instinct with the Indian’s inner self: how we
sat with him in his wigwam, and amid his native haunts, surrounded by
every element of the wild life we were to commemorate; how his confidence
was gained, and he was led to put aside his war-shirt and eagle feathers,
and pull in twain the veil of his superstitious and unexplained reserve
and give to the world what the world so much craves to know—what the
Indian thinks and how he feels.
Memorable hours these under clear Montana skies, or at the midnight hour
by the dim campfire light, the rain beating its tattoo on the tepee above
our heads—surrounded by an army of shining tepees, like white ghosts of
the plains, while these pathetic figures told the story of their lives.
The warrior of other days gave himself up to mirthful tale, to boyhood’s
transports, to manhood’s achievements, to the wild chase of the hunter, to
the weaponry and woes of savage warfare, to the hallowed scenes of home
life, to the primitive government of the tribe, and the busy and engaging
activities of the camp; finally, to the royalty of the Great Council, when
the chiefs assembled in solemn conclave to hold communion, to say a long
and last farewell.
[The Lone Tepee]