from their war-bags and put it on. Iron Horn said: “Brothers--when it is
dark I will put a medicine-arrow Into the ground where my feet are now,
and if in the morning it has not moved we will go back to the lodges;
but if it has moved, we will go in the direction in which it points.
When we start toward the enemy no man must eat, drink or sit down by
day, no matter how long or fatiguing the march; if he halts for a moment
he must turn his face toward his own country so that the Gods may see
that it is his wish to return there. We must sleep with our own faces
toward our village. No two men must lie covered by the same robe. He
must not ride or walk in a beaten path lest the spirit of the path go
running on ahead of us to warn the enemy, and if by chance we do, we
must come to the big medicine and rub it on the horses’ legs to ward
off the danger.” This said, Iron Horn said much more to his young
braves--all the demon fears which the savage mind conjures up in its
contact with the supernatural, together with stated forms of decorations
to be painted on the ponies, and then he dismissed them, saying: “Come
to the circle before the moon rises while it is yet dark, but meanwhile
sit each man alone and in silence and we will see what the Good Gods do
with the arrows.”
The warriors led their ponies off to various points in the savage gorge
and sat motionless the live-long day while the river rushed ceaselessly
over the wild rocks and the ravens soared in the blue heavens.
By night they came gliding back--picking their way among the rocks and
stood by the bared earth of the mystery place. The chief struck a light
and bending over saw the arrow lying out in the middle of the space many
feet away from where he had placed it. The smooth earth was dotted by
the tracks of coyotes but the arrow pointed nearly southwest, and it was
the way they must take. Rising, he pointed, saying: “The Good Gods say
we must go this way--where they point. The medicine is strong--the Gods
sent their little medicine-wolves to show us.
“We will make the sacrifices and then we will go. We shall strike the
enemy.”
They struck a pole in the center of the circle, and when the moon rose
each warrior approached it and either hung some piece of rag or buckskin
on it or put various implements at its foot, muttering meanwhile prayers
for protection and success and rubbing the pole with his weapons to
vitalize them spiritually.
By the full light of the moon the mounted men, each leading a horse,
rode slowly off one after the other, into the hills, and they did not
halt until nearly morning when they again sat in a magic circle and took
heed of the medicine-arrows before lying down to sleep in a long row,
facing toward the village.
The day following found the small war-party advancing cautiously,
preceded far in advance on its flanks by watchful scouts. They were
all eyes for any hunting bands of Utes or Shoshones and might see the
Yellow-Eyes trooping along in a line as the ducks fly.
For days marched the band, winding through the hills or splashing
through the flat river until early one morning they observed one of the
scouts far in advance flashing a looking-glass from a hilltop. Lashing
their horses they bore on toward him, dashing down the cut banks at
reckless speed or clambering up them helter-skelter. No inequalities of
ground opposed their desperate speed.
Arriving at the place they rode boldly up to the mounted scout and far
down on the plains saw three Yellow-Eyes driving twelve pack-animals
heavily loaded. They paused to repaint their faces and put the sacred
war-marks on the ponies, not forgetting to tie up their tails before
continuing the mad charge. The poor beaver-hunters saw the on-coming,
knew their danger and instantly huddled their horses and began dropping
their packs. They had selected a slight knoll of the prairie and before
many minutes had a rude barricade constructed with their packages.
Dropping behind this they awaited the Indians with freshly primed rifles
and pistols.
The Chis-chis-chash rode in a perfect line and when within a hundred
yards gave shrill ki-yi’s, lashed their whips and the ponies clattered
through the dust. It would be all over with the three luckless trappers
in an instant. When nearly half the distance had been consumed three
rifles cracked. Iron Horn and another warrior reeled on their mounts but
clung desperately, stopping in no way the rush. In an instant when it
seemed as if the Indians were about to trample the Yellow-Eyes, a thin
trail of fire ran along the grass from the barricade and with a blinding
flash a keg of powder exploded with terrific force right under the front
feet of the rushing ponies. Pistols cracked from behind the pile of
roped goods. Four ponies lay kicking on the grass together with six
writhing men, all blackened, bleeding and scorched. The other ponies
reeled away from the shock--running hopelessly from the scene with
their unresting and half-stunned riders. All but one, for the Bat pulled
desperately at his hair-lariat which was tied to the under jaw of the
horse, striking his pony across the head with his elk-horn whip, and,
lashing fiercely, he rushed the pony right to the barricade. Firing his
rifle into it swerving, he struck the bunch of trapper-horses which had
already begun to trot away from the turbulent scene, and drove them off
in triumph. He alone had risen superior to the shock of the white man’s
fire trap.
Four of the wounded Indians got slowly to their feet, one after the
other, and walked painfully away. The whites had reloaded meanwhile and
fatally shot the last man as he was nearly out of range.
When the defeated party came together, it made a mystic circle in the
turf of open prairie, not over three arrow flights from the Yellow-Eyes,
and there sat down. In the center lay the Indian dead and three
more, sightless, with their hair singed off and their bodies horribly
scorched, while Iron Horn was stretched on a blanket, shot through the
body and singing weakly his death-song.
“Let the Bat take the medicine--he is a strong warrior--the bursting
fire did not stop him. He ate the fire. I am a great warrior--I am a
great medicine-man, but I could not eat the fire. Brothers, the scalps
of the beaver hunters must dry in the Red Lodges.” Then the dying
warrior became incoherent and scarcely mumbled. The Bat took black paint
from his fire bag and rubbed it on the face of the dying man while the
decreased circle of warriors yelped the death-cry dolorously. For an
hour this continued, rising and rising in scales until the sadness
had changed to fury. The Bat held the medicine toward the sun saying
“Mia-yu-ma--nis heva--la ma--nih. Nis tako navero na’ hiko’ no hi (Red
Lodges--he has taken pity on us--he will make you strong--I am strong).”
[Illustration: 10 He rushed the pony right to the barricade]
They took the dead and wounded and deposited them near where the
led-horses were kept. The injured men were attended to, and the dead
buried carefully in robes.
“One warrior lies dead near the feet of Yellow-Eyes; if they get his
scalp he will go to the hungry islands in the middle of the Big Water
and we shall never see him in the spirit-land. We must not let them
touch his hair, brothers. If the Yellow-Eyes come from behind their
packs we must charge--we must eat the flying fire or all be rubbed out.
If they do not come out the ravens will not have to wait long for the
feast.” Thus said the Bat. He had kept his word about going farther
toward the enemy than any other and was now moved to resort to strategy.
He did not martial his warriors in a line but deployed them about the
citadel of the plains. That place, robbed of its horrors, gave no sign
of life except a burned and injured pony which half raised itself and
slowly moved its head from side to side in its agony. But behind it
there was promise of deadly rifles and the bursting fire.
The warriors stood like vultures on the plains, by twos and threes,
smoking and feeding their ponies from their lariats. They spoke of the
chief no longer as the Bat, but called him “Fire Eater,” or “The man who
eats the flying fire.” The ravens hovered about the place and wise gray
wolves sat haunched in a still larger ring without. Slowly the sun moved
across the heavens. The scene was quiet and pitiful.
Night came on, but nothing happened. Before the moon rose out of the
darkness a rifle flashed behind the bales, when again the quiet became
intensified by the explosion. The wolves sang their lullaby of death,
but on the prairie that was as the ceaseless, peaceful surging of the
waves on the ocean sand.
When the warriors returned in small parties to their camp for
refreshment they saw the dead body of Owl Bear--he who had fallen
outside the barricade of the Yellow-Eyes. The “Fire Eater” had brought
it in during the night--having approached and carried it away--drawing
the fire of the rifle but saving the hair and shadow-self of his
brother.
For seven days the Chis-chis-chash stood about the doomed place. Twice
they had approached it and had lost another warrior, shot by the fatal
rifle of the beaver-men. Then they had drawn off and given up in the
face of the deadly shooting--concluding to let nature work for the
victory.
Becoming eager and restless on the last day, the “Fire Eater” wounded
the white war-party. Splendidly painted and with feather hanging from
his tail, he galloped out toward the fort. His brothers, seeing
this rashness, closed in with him, but no sign of life came from the
stronghold.
Boldly he rode up to the edge of the bales of goods, and glancing over
saw the swelled and blackened bodies of the three beaver men and knew
by the skinned lips and staring eyes that thirst had done its work. The
braves gathered, but no man dismounted and one by one they turned and
rode away. “The bad spirits of the dead may get into our bodies--come
away--come away--the sun shines now, but we must be far away when the
night sets in. Our medicine-arrows will keep them off after that,” said
the Fire Eater.
Much cast down the Red Lodge warriors gathered up their dead and rode
slowly back toward the village.
On the morning of the second day the Cheyennes awoke to find the Fire
Eater gone, but he had left his horses on their hands. “The young
chief’s heart is bad. He has gone away by himself. He will not want us
to follow him. He cannot go into the village with our dead and wear the
mourning paint,” whispered they, one to another.
This was true--for the fierce spirit of the young man could not brook
defeat. The Chis-chis-chash should never see blackened ashes on a cheek
which was only fitted for the red paint. The shield of the Fire Eater
should never face to the lance--the little brown bat flapped fiercely in
the wind and screamed for blood and scalp braids. The warrior traveled
lazily on his journey--light-hearted and fiercely resolved.
After many days of wolfish travel he saw signs of the vicinage of
the Shoshone Indians. They were a hungry band who had come out of the
mountains and were hunting the buffalo. He followed the pony tracks
where they were not lost in the buffalo’s trails, finding picked bones,
bits of castaway clothing and other signs until he saw the scouts of the
enemy riding about the hills. Approaching carefully in the early night
and morning he found the camp and lay watching for depressions in the
fall of some bluffs. But the young men were ceaselessly active, and he
did not see an opportunity to approach. During the night he withdrew to
a pine-clad rocky fortress which promised better concealment, and his
surprise was great in the morning to see the Sho-shones preparing to
make a buffalo-surround in the valley immediately in front of him. From
all directions they came and encompassed the buffalo below.
The Fire Eater carefully pressed down the tuft of loose hair which sat
upright on the crown of his head after the manner of his people, and
leaving his rifles he walked down toward the seething dust-blown jumble
where the hunters were shearing their bewildered game. No one noticed
him, and the dust blew over him from the milling herd. Presently a
riderless pony came by, and seizing its lariat he sprang on its back.
He rode through the whirling dust into the surround and approaching an
excited and preoccupied Shoshone stabbed him repeatedly in the back. The
Indian yelled, but no one paid any attention in the turmoil. The Fire
Eater slung his victim across his pony, taking his scalp. He seized his
lance and pony and rode slowly away toward the bluffs. After securing
his rifle he gained the timber and galloped away.
On his road he met a belated scout of the enemy coming slowly on a jaded
horse. This man suspected nothing until the Fire Eater raised his rifle,
when he turned away to fly. It was too late and a second scalp soon
dangled at the victor’s belt. He did not take the tired horse for it was
useless.
Swiftly he rode now for he knew that pursuit was sure, but if one was
instituted it never came up and before many days the Cheyennes rode
along his own tepees, waving the emblem of his daring, and the camp grew
noisy with exultation. The mourning paint was washed from each face
and the old pipe-men said: “The Bat will be a great leader in war--his
medicine is very strong and he eats fire.” The chiefs and council
withheld their discipline, and the Fire Eater grew to be a great man
in the little world of the Chis-chis-chash, though his affairs
proportionately were as the “Battles of the Kites and Crows.”
[Illustration: 11 The Fire Eater slung his victim across his pony, taking his scalp]
VI. The Fire Eater’s Bad Medicine
The Chis-chis-chash had remembered through many “green grasses” that the
Fire Eater had proven himself superior to the wrath of the Bad Gods who
haunt the way of the men who go out for what the Good Gods offer--the
ponies, the women and the scalps. He had become a sub-chief in the Red
Lodge military clan. He had brought many painted war-bands into the big
camp with the scalps of their tribal enemies dangling from their lance
heads. The village had danced often over the results of his victories.
Four wives now dressed and decorated his buffalo robes. The seams of his
clothes were black with the hair of his enemies, as he often boasted,
and it required four boys to herd his ponies. His gun was reddened, and
there were twenty-four painted pipes on his shield indicative of
the numbers who had gone down before him in war. In the time of the
ceremonies, his chief’s war-bonnet dragged on the ground and was bright
with the painted feathers which belonged to a victor. He hated the
Yellow-Eyes, not going often to their posts for trade, and like a true
Indian warrior he despised a beaver trap. It was conceded by old men
that time would take the Fire Eater near to the head chieftainship,
while at all times the young men were ready to follow him to the camp of
the foe.
One day in the time of the Yellow-grass the Fire Eater had sat for
hours, without moving, beside his tepee, looking vacantly out across the
hills and speaking to no human being. His good squaws and even his much
cherished children went about the camping-space quietly, not caring to
disturb the master. He was tired of the lazy sunshine of home; the small
cackle of his women, one to another, annoyed him; he was strong with the
gluttony of the kettle which was ever boiling; the longing for fierce
action and the blood-thirst had taken possession of him. Many times he
reached up with his hand to the crown of his head and patted the skin of
the little brown bat, which was his medicine. This constantly talked to
him in his brown study, saying: “Look--look at the war-ponies--the big
dogs are fat and kick at each other as they stand on the lariats. They
are saying you are too old for them; they are saying that the Fire Eater
will ride on a travvis. They think that the red hands will no more be
painted on their flanks.”
But the warrior, still with his sleepy dog-stare fixed on the vacant
distance, answered the bat-skin: “We will seek the help of the Good Gods
to-night; we will see if the path is clear before us. My shadow is very
black beside me here--I am strong.” Thus the Indian and his medicine
easily agreed with each other in these spiritual conversations--which
thing gave the Fire Eater added respect for the keeper of his body and
his shadow-self.
Far into the night the preoccupied Indian leaned against his resting-mat
watching the little flames leaping from the split sticks as his youngest
squaw laid them on the fire. The flickering yellows sang to him:
“The fire does not sit still,
The fire does not sit still--
Come, brother, take up the pony-whip,
Come, brother, take up the pony-whip,”
and much more that was soothing to his mood.
After a time he sprang to his feet and drove the woman out of the lodge.
Untying his war-bags he produced a white buffalo-robe and arranged it
to sit on. This was next to the bat-skin his strongest protector. When
seated on it he lost contact with the earth--he was elevated above all
its influences. Having arranged his gun, shield and war-bonnet over
certain medicine-arrows the sacred bat-skin was placed on top. This
last had in the lapse of years been worn to a mere shred and was now
contained in a neat buckskin bag highly ornamented with work done by
squaws. Lighting his medicine-pipe, after having filled it in the formal
manner due on such occasions, he blew the sacrificial whiffs to the four
corners of the world, to the upper realms and to the lower places
and then addressed the Good Gods. All the mundane influences had
departed--even his body had been left behind. He was in communion with
the spirit world--lost in the expectancy of revelation. He sang in
monotonous lines, repeating his extemporizations after the Indian
manner, and was addressing the Thunder Being--the great bird so much
sought by warriors. He sat long before his prayers were heeded, but at
last could hear the rain patter on the dry sides of the tepee and he
knew that the Thunder Bird had broken through the air to let the
rain fall. A great wind moaned through the encampment and in crushing
reverberations the Thunder Bird spoke to the Fire Eater: “Go--go to the
Absaroke--take up your pony-whip--your gun wants to talk to them--your
ponies squeal on the ropes--your bat says no arrow or bullet can find
him--you will find me over your head in time of danger. When you hear me
roar across the sky and see my eyes flash fire--sit down and be still--I
am driving your enemies back. When you come again back to the village
you must sacrifice many robes and ponies to me.” Lower and lower spoke
the great bird as he passed onward--the rain ceased to beat--the split
sticks no longer burned--the Fire Eater put up the sacred things and was
alone in the darkness.
In the early morning the devotee stalked over to the great
war-prophet--a mystery man of the tribe who could see especially far
on contemplated war-paths. The sun was bright when they were done with
their conversation, but the signs were favorable to the spirit of war.
The Thunder Bird had on the preceding night also told the war-prophet
that the Chis-chis-chash had sat too long in their lodges, which was the
reason why he had come to urge activity.
Accordingly--without having gone near the boiled meat--the Fire Eater
took the war-pipe around the Red Lodges and twenty young men gladly
smoked it. In council of the secret clan the war-prophet and the
sub-chief voiced for war. The old chiefs and the wise men grown stiff
from riding and conservative toward a useless waste of young warriors,
blinked their beady eyes in protest but they did not imperil their
popularity by advice to the contrary. The young men’s blood-thirst and
desire for distinction could not be curbed. So the war-prophet repaired
to his secret lodge to make the mystery, while the warriors fasted
until it was done. Everything about the expedition had been faithfully
attended to; all the divinities had been duly consulted; the council
had legitimatized it; the Fire Eater had been appointed leader; the
war-prophet had the sacred protection forthcoming, and no band had
lately gone forth from the village with so many assurances of success.
For many days the little streak of ponies wound over the rolling brown
land toward the north. Each man rode a swift horse and led another
alongside. Far ahead ranged the cautious spies; no sailing hawk, no
wailing coyote, no blade of grass did anything which was not reasoned
out by mind or noted by their watchful eyes.
The Absaroke were the friends of the Yellow-Eyes who had a little fort
at the mouth of the Muscleshell, where they gave their guns and gauds
in great quantities. The Chis-chis-chash despised the men who wore hats.
They barely tolerated and half protected their own traders. Nothing
seemed so desirable as to despoil the Absaroke traders. They had often
spied on the fort but always found the protecting Absaroke too numerous.
The scouts of the Fire Eater, however, found immense trace of their
enemy’s main camp as it moved up the valley of the Yellow-stone. They
knew that the Absaroke had finished their yellow-grass trading and
had gone to hunt the buffalo. They hoped to find the little fort
unprotected. Accordingly they sped on toward that point, which upon
arrival they found sitting innocently alone in the grand landscape. Not
a tepee was to be seen.
Having carefully reconnoitered and considered the place, they left their
horses in a dry washout and crawled toward it through the sage brush.
As the sky grew pale toward the early sun there was no sign of discovery
from its silent pickets. When within a hundred yards, in response to
the commanding war-cry of the Fire Eater, they rose like ghosts from
the sage and charged fast on the stockade. The gray logs stood stiffly
unresponsive and gave no answering shots or yells as the Indians swept
upon them. The gate was high, but the attacking force crept up on
each other’s bent backs as they strove for the interior. A tremendous
commotion arose; rifles blazed inside and out. Two or three Indians
sprang over but were shot down. Hatchets hacked at the timbers;
gun-muzzles and drawn arrows sought the crevices in the logs; piercing
yells rose above the hoarse shouts of the besieged for the stockade was
full of white men.
The savages had not noticed a great number of Mackinaw boats drawn up on
the river bank and concealed by low bushes. These belonged to a brigade
of freighters who were temporarily housed in the post. As the surprised
whites and creoles swarmed to the defense the Indians found themselves
outnumbered three to one. The Fire Eater, seeing several braves fall
before the ever-increasing fire from the palisades and knowing he could
not scale the barrier, ordered a withdrawal. The beaten band drew slowly
away carrying the stricken brothers.
The medicine was bad--the war-prophet had not had free communication
with the mystery of the Good Gods. Some one had allowed himself to walk
in a beaten path or had violated the sacred rights of the warpath, and
the spirit of secrecy had left their moccasins. The skin of the little
brown bat did not comfort the Fire Eater in his fallen state. He cast
many burning glances back at the logs, now becoming mellowed by the
morning light. The sun had apparently thrown his protection over them
and the omen struck home to the wondering, savage mind. He remembered
that the old men had always said that the medicine of the Yellow-Eyes
was very strong and that they always fought insensibly like the gray
bears. The flashing rifles which had blown their bodies back from the
fort had astonished these Indians less by their execution than by the
indication they gave that the powers of darkness were not with them.
They looked askance at the Fire Eater for their ill-success. He was
enraged--a sudden madness had overpowered and destroyed his sense of the
situation. One of those moods had come upon the savage child-mind when
the surging blood made his eyes gleam vacantly like the great cats.
Slowly the dismayed band withdrew to the washout--casting backward
glances at the walls which had beaten down their ambitions and would
paint the tribes with ashes and blood-sacrifices for the lost. When
there, they sat about dejectedly, finding no impulse to do more.