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INDIAN STORIES

HISTORICAL STORIES RETOLD FROM ST. NICHOLAS MAGAZINE IN FIVE VOLUMES

INDIAN STORIES

A mirror of Indian ideas, customs, and

adventures.

COLONIAL STORIES

Stirring tales of the rude frontier life of

early times.

REVOLUTIONARY STORIES

Heroic deeds, and especially children's

part in them.

CIVIL WAR STORIES

Thrilling stories of the great struggle,

both on land and sea.

OUR HOLIDAYS

Something of their meaning and spirit.

Each about 200 pages. Full cloth, 12mo.

THE CENTURY CO.

[Illustration: AN INDIAN HORSE-RACE--COMING OVER THE SCRATCH

_Drawing by Frederic Remington_]

INDIAN STORIES

RETOLD FROM ST. NICHOLAS

[Illustration]

PUBLISHED BY THE CENTURY CO.

NEW YORK MCMVII

SCRIBNER & CO.

THE CENTURY CO.

THE DEVINNE PRESS

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

THIS collection of Indian stories is the first in a series of volumes of

historic tales retold from "St. Nicholas."

The books do not pretend to give anything like connected history, but by

means of the story that thrills and interests they impart the real

spirit of the times they depict in a way no youthful reader will be

likely to forget.

Most of the stories in this book a boy of eight or nine can read for

himself, and these are the years of his school life when he is being

taught something of our colonial history and of the myths and legends of

primitive man. Thus these stories, while delighting many children and

tempting them to read "out of hours," will serve a very useful

purpose.

CONTENTS

PAGE

ONATOGA'S SACRIFICE _John Dimitry_ 1

WAUKEWA'S EAGLE _James Buckham_ 10

A FOURTH OF JULY AMONG THE INDIANS _W. P. Hooper_ 22

A BOY'S VISIT TO CHIEF JOSEPH _Erskine Wood_ 43

LITTLE MOCCASIN'S RIDE ON THE THUNDER-HORSE 54

_Colonel Guido Ilges_

THE LITTLE FIRST MAN AND THE LITTLE FIRST WOMAN 74

_William M. Cary_

FUN AMONG THE RED BOYS _Julian Ralph_ 87

THE CHILDREN OF ZUNI _Maria Brace Kimball_ 100

THE INDIAN GIRL AND HER MESSENGER-BIRD _George W. Ranck_ 112

HOW THE STONE-AGE CHILDREN PLAYED _Charles C. Abbott_ 115

GAMES AND SPORTS OF THE INDIAN BOY 123

_Dr. Charles Alexander Eastman_

AN OLD-TIME THANKSGIVING _M. Eloise Talbot_ 136

SOME INDIAN DOLLS _Olive Thorne Miller_ 155

THE WALKING PURCHASE _George Wheeler_ 159

THE FIRST AMERICANS _F. S. Dellenbaugh_ 171

INDIAN STORIES

INDIAN LULLABY

Sleep, sleep, my boy; the Chippewas

Are far away--are far away.

Sleep, sleep, my boy; prepare to meet

The foe by day--the foe by day!

The cowards will not dare to fight

Till morning break--till morning break.

Sleep, sleep, my child, while still 'tis night;

Then bravely wake--then bravely wake!

INDIAN STORIES

ONATOGA'S SACRIFICE

BY JOHN DIMITRY

ONCE, in the long ago, before the white man had heard of the continent

on which we live, red men, who were brave and knew not what fear was in

battle, trembled at the mention of a great man-eating bird that had

lived before the time told of in the traditions known of their oldest

chiefs.

This bird, which, according to the Indian legends, ate men, was known as

the PIASAU.

The favorite haunt of this terrible bird was a bluff on the Mississippi

River, a short distance above the site of the present city of Alton,

Illinois. There it was said to lie in wait, and to keep watch over the

broad, open prairies. Whenever some rash Indian ventured out alone to

hunt upon this fatal ground, he became the monster's prey. The legend

says that the bird, swooping down with the fierce swiftness of a hawk,

seized upon its victim and bore him to a gloomy cave wherein it made its

horrid feasts. The monster must have had an insatiable appetite or a

prolonged existence, for tradition declares that it depopulated whole

villages. Then it was that the wise men began to see visions and to

prophesy the speedy extinction of the tribe. Years of its ravages

followed one upon another, until at length, according to the legend, was

lost all reckoning of the time when first that strange, foul creature

came to scourge their sunny plains. The aged men, whose youth was but a

dim memory, could say only that the bird was as it had always been. None

like it had ever been heard of save in vague traditions.

There was one, Onatoga, who began to ponder.

[Illustration: ONATOGA IN THE FOREST]

Now, Onatoga was the great leader of the Illini; one whose name was

spoken with awe even in the distant wigwams north of the Great Lake.

Long had he grieved and wondered over the will of the Great Spirit; that

he should look upon the men of the Western prairies, not as warriors,

but as deer or bison, only fit to fill the maw of so pestilent a thing

as this monstrous bird! Before the new moon began to grow upon the

face of the sky, Onatoga's resolve was taken. He would go to some spot

deep in the forest where by fasting and prayer his spirit would become

so pure that the Great Master of Life would hear him and once again be

kind and turn His face back, in light, upon the Illini.

Stealing away from his tribe in the night, he plunged far into the

trackless forest. Then, blackening his face, for a whole moon he fasted.

The moon waxed full and then waned; but no vision came to assure him

that the Great Spirit had heard his prayers. Only one more night

remained. Wearied and sorrow-worn, he closed his eyes. But, through the

deep sleep that fell upon him, came the voice of the Great Spirit. And

this is the message that came to Onatoga, as he lay sleeping in body

but, in his soul, awake:

"Arise, Chief of the Illini! Thou shalt save thy race. Choose thou

twenty of thy warriors; noble-hearted, strong-armed, eagle-eyed. Put in

each warrior's hand a bow. Give to each an arrow dipped in the venom of

the snake. Seek then the man whose heart loveth the Great Spirit. Let

him not fear to look the Piasau in the face; but see that the warriors,

with ready bows, stand near in the shadow of the trees."

Onatoga awoke; strong, though he had fasted a month; happy, though he

knew he was soon to die! Who, but he, the Great Chief of the Illini,

should die for his people--for was it not death to look on the face of

the Piasau?

Binding his moccasins firmly upon his feet, he washed the marks of grief

from his face, and painted it with the brightest vermilion and blue.

Thus, in the splendid colors of a triumphant warrior, he returned

homeward. All was silent in the village when, in the gray light of early

day, he entered his lodge. Soon the joyful news was known. From lodge to

lodge it spread until the last wigwam was reached. Onatoga's quest was

successful!

Then the warriors began to gather. Furtively, even in their gladness,

they sought his lodge, for the fear of the Piasau was over all. A solemn

awe fell upon them as they gathered around the chief, who, it was

whispered, had heard the voice of the Great Spirit. Without, on that

high bluff, they knew that the fiend-bird crouched, waiting for the

morning light to reveal its prey. Within, in sorrowing silence, they

heard how the people could be saved; but the hearts of the warriors were

heavy. All knew the sacrifice demanded--their bravest and their best!

[Illustration: "ONATOGA, NEVER CEASING HIS CHANT, FACED THE PIASAU

FEARLESSLY"]

Onatoga chose his twenty warriors and appointed them their place, where

the rolling prairie was broken by the edge of the forest. Then, when the

sun shot its first long shafts of light across the level grasses, the

chief walked slowly forth and stood alone upon the prairie. The world in

the morning light was beautiful to Onatoga's eyes. The flowers beneath

his feet seemed to smile, and poured forth richest perfumes; the sun was

glorious in its golden breast-plate, to do him honor; while the lark and

the mock-bird sang his praise in joyous songs.

He had not long to wait. Soon, afar off, the dreaded Piasau was seen

moving heavily through the clear morning air. Onatoga, drawing himself

to the full measure of his lofty height, raised his death-song. The dull

flutter of huge wings came nearer, and a great shadow came rushing over

the sunlit fields. Onatoga, never ceasing his chant, faced the Piasau

fearlessly. A sudden fierce swoop downward! In that very moment, twenty

poisoned arrows, loosed by twenty faithful hands, sped true to their

aim. With a scream that the bluffs sent rolling back in sharp and

deafening echoes, the foul monster dropped dead! The Great Spirit loved

the man who had been willing to sacrifice his life for his people. In

the very instant when death seemed sure, he covered the heart of Onatoga

with a shield; and he suffered not the wind to blow aside a single arrow

from its mark,--the body of the fated Piasau.

[Illustration: "CUNNING CARVERS CUT DEEP INTO THE ROCK THE FORM OF THE

PIASAU"]

Great were the rejoicings that followed and rich were the feasts that

were held in honor of Onatoga. The Illini resolved that the story of the

great deliverance and of the courageous love of Onatoga should not die,

though they themselves should pass away. The cunning carvers of the

tribe cut deep into the living rock of the bluff the terrible form of

the Piasau. And, in later years, when young children asked the meaning

of this great figure, so unlike any of the birds that they knew upon

their rivers and their prairies, then the fathers would tell them the

story of the Piasau, and how the Great Spirit had found, in Onatoga, a

warrior who loved his fellow-men better than he loved his own life.

WAUKEWA'S EAGLE

BY JAMES BUCKHAM

ONE day, when the Indian boy Waukewa was hunting along the

mountain-side, he found a young eagle with a broken wing, lying at the

base of a cliff. The bird had fallen from an aery on a ledge high above,

and being too young to fly, had fluttered down the cliff and injured

itself so severely that it was likely to die. When Waukewa saw it he was

about to drive one of his sharp arrows through its body, for the passion

of the hunter was strong in him, and the eagle plunders many a fine fish

from the Indian's drying-frame. But a gentler impulse came to him as he

saw the young bird quivering with pain and fright at his feet, and he

slowly unbent his bow, put the arrow in his quiver, and stooped over the

panting eaglet. For fully a minute the wild eyes of the wounded bird and

the eyes of the Indian boy, growing gentler and softer as he gazed,

looked into one another. Then the struggling and panting of the young

eagle ceased; the wild, frightened look passed out of its eyes, and it

suffered Waukewa to pass his hand gently over its ruffled and draggled

feathers. The fierce instinct to fight, to defend its threatened life,

yielded to the charm of the tenderness and pity expressed in the boy's

eyes; and from that moment Waukewa and the eagle were friends.

Waukewa went slowly home to his father's lodge, bearing the wounded

eaglet in his arms. He carried it so gently that the broken wing gave no

twinge of pain, and the bird lay perfectly still, never offering to

strike with its sharp beak the hands that clasped it.

Warming some water over the fire at the lodge, Waukewa bathed the broken

wing of the eagle and bound it up with soft strips of skin. Then he made

a nest of ferns and grass inside the lodge, and laid the bird in it. The

boy's mother looked on with shining eyes. Her heart was very tender.

From girlhood she had loved all the creatures of the woods, and it

pleased her to see some of her own gentle spirit waking in the boy.

When Waukewa's father returned from hunting, he would have caught up the

young eagle and wrung its neck. But the boy pleaded with him so

eagerly, stooping over the captive and defending it with his small

hands, that the stern warrior laughed and called him his "little

squaw-heart." "Keep it, then," he said, "and nurse it until it is well.

But then you must let it go, for we will not raise up a thief in the

lodges." So Waukewa promised that when the eagle's wing was healed and

grown so that it could fly, he would carry it forth and give it its

freedom.

It was a month--or, as the Indians say, a moon--before the young eagle's

wing had fully mended and the bird was old enough and strong enough to

fly. And in the meantime Waukewa cared for it and fed it daily, and the

friendship between the boy and the bird grew very strong.

[Illustration: "THE YOUNG EAGLE ROSE TOWARD THE SKY"]

But at last the time came when the willing captive must be freed. So

Waukewa carried it far away from the Indian lodges, where none of the

young braves might see it hovering over and be tempted to shoot their

arrows at it, and there he let it go. The young eagle rose toward the

sky in great circles, rejoicing in its freedom and its strange, new

power of flight. But when Waukewa began to move away from the spot, it

came swooping down again; and all day long it followed him through the

woods as he hunted. At dusk, when Waukewa shaped his course for the

Indian lodges, the eagle would have accompanied him. But the boy

suddenly slipped into a hollow tree and hid, and after a long time the

eagle stopped sweeping about in search of him and flew slowly and sadly

away.

Summer passed, and then winter; and spring came again, with its flowers

and birds and swarming fish in the lakes and streams. Then it was that

all the Indians, old and young, braves and squaws, pushed their light

canoes out from shore and with spear and hook waged pleasant war against

the salmon and the red-spotted trout. After winter's long imprisonment,

it was such joy to toss in the sunshine and the warm wind and catch

savory fish to take the place of dried meats and corn!

Above the great falls of the Apahoqui the salmon sported in the cool,

swinging current, darting under the lee of the rocks and leaping full

length in the clear spring air. Nowhere else were such salmon to be

speared as those which lay among the riffles at the head of the Apahoqui

rapids. But only the most daring braves ventured to seek them there, for

the current was strong, and should a light canoe once pass the

danger-point and get caught in the rush of the rapids, nothing could

save it from going over the roaring falls.

Very early in the morning of a clear April day, just as the sun was

rising splendidly over the mountains, Waukewa launched his canoe a

half-mile above the rapids of the Apahoqui, and floated downward, spear

in hand, among the salmon-riffles. He was the only one of the Indian

lads who dared fish above the falls. But he had been there often, and

never yet had his watchful eye and his strong paddle suffered the

current to carry his canoe beyond the danger-point. This morning he was

alone on the river, having risen long before daylight to be first at the

sport.

The riffles were full of salmon, big, lusty fellows, who glided about

the canoe on every side in an endless silver stream. Waukewa plunged his

spear right and left, and tossed one glittering victim after another

into the bark canoe. So absorbed in the sport was he that for once he

did not notice when the head of the rapids was reached and the canoe

began to glide more swiftly among the rocks. But suddenly he looked up,

caught his paddle, and dipped it wildly in the swirling water. The canoe

swung sidewise, shivered, held its own against the torrent, and then

slowly, inch by inch, began to creep upstream toward the shore. But

suddenly there was a loud, cruel snap, and the paddle parted in the

boy's hands, broken just above the blade! Waukewa gave a cry of

despairing agony. Then he bent to the gunwale of his canoe and with the

shattered blade fought desperately against the current. But it was

useless. The racing torrent swept him downward; the hungry falls roared

tauntingly in his ears.

Then the Indian boy knelt calmly upright in the canoe, facing the mist

of the falls, and folded his arms. His young face was stern and lofty.

He had lived like a brave hitherto--now he would die like one.

Faster and faster sped the doomed canoe toward the great cataract. The

black rocks glided away on either side like phantoms. The roar of the

terrible waters became like thunder in the boy's ears. But still he

gazed calmly and sternly ahead, facing his fate as a brave Indian

should. At last he began to chant the death-song, which he had learned

from the older braves. In a few moments all would be over. But he would

come before the Great Spirit with a fearless hymn upon his lips.

Suddenly a shadow fell across the canoe. Waukewa lifted his eyes and

saw a great eagle hovering over, with dangling legs, and a spread of

wings that blotted out the sun. Once more the eyes of the Indian boy and

the eagle met; and now it was the eagle who was master!

[Illustration: "HE AND THE STRUGGLING EAGLE WERE FLOATING OUTWARD AND

DOWNWARD"]

With a glad cry the Indian boy stood up in his canoe, and the eagle

hovered lower. Now the canoe tossed up on that great swelling wave that

climbs to the cataract's edge, and the boy lifted his hands and caught

the legs of the eagle. The next moment he looked down into the awful

gulf of waters from its very verge. The canoe was snatched from beneath

him and plunged down the black wall of the cataract; but he and the

struggling eagle were floating outward and downward through the cloud of

mist. The cataract roared terribly, like a wild beast robbed of its

prey. The spray beat and blinded, the air rushed upward as they fell.

But the eagle struggled on with his burden. He fought his way out of the

mist and the flying spray. His great wings threshed the air with a

whistling sound. Down, down they sank, the boy and the eagle, but ever

farther from the precipice of water and the boiling whirlpool below. At

length, with a fluttering plunge, the eagle dropped on a sand-bar below

the whirlpool, and he and the Indian boy lay there a minute,

breathless and exhausted. Then the eagle slowly lifted himself, took the

air under his free wings, and soared away, while the Indian boy knelt on

the sand, with shining eyes following the great bird till he faded into

the gray of the cliffs.

A FOURTH OF JULY AMONG THE INDIANS

BY W. P. HOOPER

INDIANS--real Indians--real, live Indians--were what we, like all boys,

wanted to see; and this was why, after leaving the railroad on which we

had been traveling for several days and nights, we found ourselves at

last in a big canvas-covered wagon lumbering across the monotonous

prairie.

[Illustration]

We were on our way to see a celebration of the Fourth of July at a

Dakota Indian agency.

It was late in the afternoon of a hot summer's day. We had been riding

since early morning, and had not met a living creature--not even a bird

or a snake. Only those who have experienced it know how wearying to the

eyes it is to gaze all day long, and see nothing but the sky and the

grass.

However, an hour before sunset we _did_ see something. At first, it

looked like a mere speck against the sky; then it seemed like a bush or

a shrub; but it rapidly increased in size as we approached. Then, with

the aid of our field-glass, we saw it was a man on horseback. No, not

exactly that, either; it was an Indian chief riding an Indian pony. Now,

I have seen Indians in the East--"Dime Museum Indians." I have seen the

Indians who travel with the circus--yes, and I have seen the untutored

savages who sell bead-work at Niagara Falls; but this one was

different--he was quite different. I felt sure that he was a genuine

Indian. He was unlike the Indians I had seen in the East. The most

striking difference was that this one presented a grand unwashed effect.

It must have required years of patient industry in avoiding the

wash-bowl, and great good luck in dodging the passing showers, for him

to acquire the rich effect of color which he displayed. Though it was

one of July's hottest days, he had on his head an arrangement made of

fur, with head trimmings and four black-tipped feathers; a long braid of

his hair, wound with strips of fur, hung down in front of each ear, and

strings of beads ornamented his neck. He wore a calico shirt, with tin

bands on his arms above the elbow; a blanket was wrapped around his

waist; his leggings had strips of beautiful bright bead-work, and his

moccasins were ornamented in the same style. But in his right hand he

was holding a most murderous-looking instrument. It was a long wooden

club, into one end of which three sharp, shining steel knife-blades were

set. Though I had been complaining of the heat, still I now felt chilly

as I looked at the weapon, and saw how well it matched the expression of

his cruel mouth and piercing eyes.

He passed on while we were trying to make a sketch of him. However, the

next day, an interpreter brought him around, and, for a small piece of

tobacco, he was glad to pose while the sketch was being finished. We

learned his name was "Can-h-des-ka-wan-ji-dan" (One Hoop).

[Illustration: "ONE HOOP" IN HIS SUMMER COSTUME]

A few moments later, we passed an iron post set firmly into the ground.

It marked one of the boundaries of the Indian Reservation. We were now

on a tract of land set aside by the United States Government as the

living-ground of sixteen hundred "Santee" Sioux Indians. We soon saw

more Indians, who, like us, seemed to be moving toward the little

village at the Indian agency. Each group had put their belongings into a

big bundle, and strapped it upon long poles, which were fastened at one

end to the back of a pony. In this bundle the little papooses rode in

great comfort, looking like blackbirds peering from a nest. In some

cases, an older child would be riding in great glee on the pony's back

among the poles. The family baggage seemed about equally distributed

between the pony and the squaw who led him. She was preceded by her lord

and master, the noble red Indian, who carried no load except his long

pipe.

The next thing of interest was what is called a Red River wagon. It was

simply a cart with two large wheels, the whole vehicle made of wood. As

the axles are never oiled, the Red River carry-all keeps up a most

terrible squeaking. This charming music-box was drawn by one ox, and

contained an Indian, who was driving with a whip. His wife and children

were seated on the bottom of this jolting and shrieking cart.

[Illustration: AN INDIAN ENCAMPMENT FOR THE NIGHT]

As we neared the agency buildings, we passed many Indians who had

settled for the night. They chose the wooded ravines, near streams, by

which to put up their tents, or "tepees," which consisted of long poles

covered with patched and smoke-stained canvas, with two openings, one

at the top for a "smoke-hole" and the other for a door, through which

any one must crawl in order to enter the domestic circle of the gentle

savage. We entered several tepees, making ourselves welcome by gifts of

tobacco to every member of the family. That night, after reaching the

agency and retiring to our beds, we dreamed of smoking great big pipes,

with stems a mile long, which were passed to us by horrible-looking

black witches. But morning came at last,--and _such_ a morning!

That Fourth of July morning I shall never forget. We were awakened by

the most blood-curdling yells that ever pierced the ears of three white

boys. It was the Indian war-whoop. I found myself instinctively feeling

for my back hair, and regretting the distance to the railroad. We

lingered indoors in a rather terrified condition, until we found out

that this was simply the beginning of the day's celebration. It was the

"sham-fight," but it looked real enough when the Indians came tearing

by, their ponies seeming to enter into the excitement as thoroughly as

their riders. There were some five hundred, in full frills and

war-paint, and all giving those terrible yells.

Their costumes were simple, but gay in color--paint, feathers, and more

paint, with an occasional shirt.

For weapons they carried guns, rifles, and long spears. Bows and arrows

seemed to be out of style. A few had round shields on their left arms.

Most of the tepees had been collected together and pitched so as to form

a large circle, and their wagons were placed outside this circle so as

to make a sort of protection for the defending party. The attacking

party, brandishing their weapons in the air with increased yells, rushed

their excited and panting ponies up the slope toward the tepees, where

they were met by a rapid discharge of blank cartridges and powder. Some

of the ponies became frightened and unmanageable, several riders were

unhorsed, and general confusion prevailed. The intrenched party, in the

meantime, rushed out from behind their defenses, climbing on top of

their wagons, yelling and dancing around like demons. Added to this, the

sight of several riderless ponies flying wildly from the tumult made the

sham-fight have a terribly realistic look.

After the excitement was over, the regular games which had been arranged

for the day began.

[Illustration: THE SHAM-FIGHT]

In the foot-races, the costumes were so slight that there was nothing to

describe--simply paint in fancy patterns, moccasins, and a girdle of red

flannel. But how they could run! I did not suppose anything on two legs

could go so fast. The lacrosse costumes were bright and attractive. The

leader of one side wore a shirt of soft, tanned buck-skin, bead-work and

embroidery on the front, long fringe on the shoulders, bands around the

arms, and deep fringe on the bottom of the skirt. The legs were bare to

the knee, and from there down to the toes was one mass of fine

glittering bead-work. In the game, there were a hundred Indians engaged

on each side. The game was long, but exciting, being skilfully played.

The grounds extended about a mile in length. The ball was the size of a

common baseball, and felt almost as solid as a rock, the center being of

lead. The shape of the Indian lacrosse stick is shown in the sketch.

Then came games on horseback. But the most interesting performance of

the whole day, and one in which they all manifested an absorbing

interest, was the dinner.

At 3 A.M. several oxen had been butchered, and from that time till the

dinner was served all the old squaws had their hands full. Fires were

made in long lines, poles placed over them, and high black pots,

kettles, and zinc pails filled with a combination of things, including

beef and water, were suspended there and carefully tended by ancient

Indian ladies in picturesque, witch-like costumes, who gently stirred

the boiling bouillion with pieces of wood, while other seemingly more

ancient and worn-out-looking squaws brought great bundles of wood from

the ravines, tied up in blankets and swung over their shoulders. Think

of a dinner for sixteen hundred noble chiefs and braves, stalwart

head-men, young bucks, old squaws, girls, and children! And such

queer-looking children--some dressed in full war costume, some in the

most approved dancing dresses.

[Illustration: SHA-KE-TO-PA, A YOUNG BRAVE]

[Illustration: "TAKING A SPOONFUL OF THE SOUP, HE POURED IT UPON THE

GROUND."]

One little boy, whose name was Sha-ke-to-pa (Four Nails), had five

feathers--big ones, too--in his hair. His face was painted; he wore

great round ear-rings, and rows of beads and claws around his neck;

bands of beads on his little bare brown arms; embroidered leggings and

beautiful moccasins, and a long piece of red cloth hanging from his

waist. In fact, he was as gaily dressed as a grown-up Indian man, and he

had a cunning little war-club, all ornamented and painted. When the

dinner was nearly ready, the men began to seat themselves in a long

curved line. Behind them, the women and children were gathered. When

everything was ready, a chief wearing a long arrangement of feathers

hanging from his back hair and several bead pouches across his

shoulders, with a long staff in his left hand, walked into the center of

the circle. Taking a spoonful of the soup, he held it high in the air,

and then, turning slowly around, chanting a song, he poured the contents

of the spoon upon the ground. This, an interpreter explained to us, was

done to appease the spirits of the air. After this, the old squaws

limped nimbly around with the pails of soup and other food, serving the

men. After they were all bountifully and repeatedly helped, the women

and children, who had been patiently waiting, were allowed to gather

about the fragments and half-empty pots and finish the repast, which

they did with neatness and despatch.

[Illustration: A WAITRESS]

Then the warriors lay around and smoked their long-stem pipes, while the

young men prepared for the pony races.

The first of the races was "open to all," and more than a hundred ponies

and their riders were arranged in a row. Some of the ponies were very

spirited, and seemed fully to realize what was going to take place, and

they would persist in pushing ahead of the line. Then the other riders

would start their ponies; then the whole line would have to be reformed.

But finally they were all started, and such shouting, and such waving of

whips in the air!--and how the little ponies did jump! When the race was

over, how we all crowded around the winner, and how proud the pony as

well as the rider seemed to feel! Now we had a better chance to examine

the ponies than ever before, and some were very handsome. And such

prices! Think of buying a beautiful three-year-old cream-colored pony

for twenty dollars!

But as the hour of sunset approached, the interest in the races

vanished, and so did most of the braves. They sought the seclusion of

their bowers, to adorn themselves for the grand "grass dance," which was

to begin at sunset.

What a contrast between their every-day dress and their dancing

costumes! The former consists of a blanket more or less tattered and

torn, while the gorgeousness of the latter discourages a description in

words; so I refer you to the pictures. Of course, we were eager to

purchase some of the Indian finery, but it was a bad time to trade

successfully with the Indians. They were too much taken up with the

pleasures of the day to care to turn an honest penny by parting with any

of their ornaments. However, we succeeded in buying a big war-club set

with knives, some pipes with carved stems a yard long, a few

knife-sheaths and pouches, glittering with beads, and several pairs of

beautiful moccasins,--most of which now adorn a New York studio.

[Illustration: HOLIDAY CLOTHES AND EVERY-DAY CLOTHES]

Soon the highly decorated red men silently assembled inside a large

space inclosed by bushes stuck into the ground. This was their

dance-hall. The squaws were again shut out, as, according to Santee

Sioux custom, they are not allowed to join in the dances with the men.

The Indians, as they came in, sat quietly down around the sides of the

inclosure. The musicians were gathered around a big drum, on which they

pounded with short sticks, while they sang a sort of wild, weird chant.

The effect, to an uneducated white man's ear, was rather depressing, but

it seemed very pleasing to the Indians.

The ball was opened by an old chief, who, rising slowly, beckoned the

others to follow him. In his right hand the leader carried a wooden gun,

ornamented with eagles' feathers; in the left he held a short stick,

with bells attached to it. He wore a cap of otter skin, from which hung

a long train. His face was carefully painted in stripes of blue and

yellow.

[Illustration: THE DANCE]

At first, they all moved slowly, jumping twice on each foot; then, as

the musicians struck up a more lively pounding and a more inspiring

song, the dancers moved with more rapidity, giving an occasional shout

and waving their arms in the air. As they grew warmer and more excited,

the musicians redoubled their exertions on the drum and changed their

singing into prolonged howls; then one of them, dropping his drumsticks,

sprang to his feet, and, waving his hands over his head, he yelled till

he was breathless, urging on the dancers. This seemed to be the

finishing touch. The orchestra and dancers seemed to vie with each other

as to who should make the greater noise. Their yells were deafening,

and, brandishing their knives and tomahawks, they sprang around with

wonderful agility. Of course, this intense excitement could last but a

short time; the voices of the musicians began to fail, and, finally,

with one last grand effort, they all gave a terrible shout, and then all

was silence. The dancers crawled back to their places around the

inclosure, and sank exhausted on the grass. But soon some supple brave

regained enough strength to rise. The musicians slowly recommenced,

other dancers came forward, and the "mad dance" was again in full blast.

And thus the revels went on, hour after hour, all night, and continued

even through the following day. But there was a curious fascination

about it, and, tired as we were after the long day, we stood there

looking on hour after hour. Finally, after midnight had passed, we

gathered our Indian purchases about us, including two beautiful ponies,

and began our return trip toward the railroad and civilization. But

the monotonous sound of the Indian drum followed us mile after mile over

the prairie; in fact, it followed us much better than my new spotted

pony.

My arm aches now, as I remember how that pony hung back.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: CHIEF JOSEPH]

A BOY'S VISIT TO CHIEF JOSEPH

BY ERSKINE WOOD

[NOTE: The author of the sketch "A Boy's Visit to

Chief Joseph" was Erskine Wood, a boy thirteen

years old. He was then an expert shot with the

rifle, and had brought down not only small game,

but bear, wolves, and deer. A true woodsman, he

was also a skilled archer and angler, having

camped alone in the woods, and lived upon the game

secured by shooting and fishing.

When Chief Joseph, of the Nez Perce Indians, went

to the national capital, he met Erskine, and

invited the young hunter to visit his camp some

summer. So in July, 1892, the boy started alone

from Portland, Oregon, carrying his guns, bows,

rods, and blanket, and made his own way to Chief

Joseph's camp on the Nespilem River.

The Indians received him hospitably, and he took

part in their annual fall hunt. He was even

adopted into the tribe by the chief, and,

according to their custom, received an Indian

name, _Ishem-tux-il-pilp_,--"Red Moon."

Chief Joseph's band was the remnant of the tribe

which, under his leadership, fought the United

States army so gallantly in 1877; they carried on

a running fight of about eleven hundred miles in

one summer.

When Erskine visited him, the chief was in every

way most kind and hospitable to his young guest.

C. E. S. WOOD.]

I LEFT Portland on the third of July, 1892, to visit Chief Joseph, who

was chief of the Nez Perce Indians. They lived on the Colville Agency,

two or three hundred miles north of the city of Spokane, in the State of

Washington.

I arrived at Davenport, Washington, on the fourth of July. There was no

stage, so I had to stay all night. I left for Fort Spokane next day,

arriving at about seven in the evening. As we did not start for Nespilem

until the seventh, I went and visited Colonel Cook, commanding officer

at the fort. I stayed all night, and next morning I helped the soldiers

load cartridges at the magazine. That afternoon I watched the soldiers

shooting volleys at the target range. We started for Nespilem in a wagon

at three o'clock in the morning.

The next day I went fishing in the morning, and in the afternoon I went

up the creek again, fishing with Doctor Latham. He was doctor at the

Indian agency. The next day I went down to Joseph's camp, where I stayed

the rest of the time--about five months--alone with the Indians. The

doctor and the teamster returned to the agency. During my first day in

the camp, I wrote a letter to my mother, and bought a beaded leather

belt from one of the squaws. I stayed about camp most of the first day;

but in the afternoon I went fishing, and caught a nice string of trout.

The Indian camp is usually in two or more long rows of tepees. Sometimes

two or three families occupy one lodge. When they are hunting and drying

meat for their winter supply, several lodges are put together, making

one big lodge about thirty feet long, in which are two or three fires

instead of one. They say that it dries the meat better.

When game gets scarce, camp is broken and moved to a different place.

The men and boys catch the horses, and then the squaws have to put on

the pack-saddles (made of bone and covered with untanned deer-hide) and

pack them. The men sit around smoking and talking. When all is ready,

the different families set out, driving their spare horses and

pack-horses in front of them. The men generally hunt in the early

morning; they get up at about two o'clock, take a vapor bath, get

breakfast, and start to hunt at about three. Sometimes they hunt on

horseback, and sometimes on foot. They come back at about ten or eleven

o'clock, and if they have been on foot and have been successful they

take a horse and go and bring in the game. The meat is always divided.

If Chief Joseph is there, he divides it; and if he is not there,

somebody is chosen to fill his place. They believe that if the heads or

horns of the slain deer are left on the ground, the other deer feel

insulted and will go away, and that would spoil the hunting in that

neighborhood. So the heads and horns are hung up in trees. They think,

too, that when anybody dies, his spirit hovers around the spot for

several days afterward, and so they always move the lodge. I was sitting

with Joseph in the tepee once, when a lizard crawled in. I discovered

it, and showed it to Joseph. He was very solemn, and I asked him what

was the matter. "A medicine-man sent it here to do me harm. You have

very good eyes to discover the tricks of the medicine-men." I was going

to throw it into the fire, but he stopped me, saying: "If you burn it,

it will make the medicine-men angry. You must kill it some other way."

The Indians' calendars are little square sticks of wood about eight

inches long. Every day they file a little notch, and on Sunday a little

hole is made. When any one dies, the notch is painted red or black. When

they are home at Nespilem, they all meet out on the prairie on certain

days, and have horse-racing. They run for about two miles. When they are

on the home-stretch, about half a mile from the goal, a lot of men get

behind them and fire pistols and whip the horses.

I was out grouse-hunting with Niky Mowitz, my Indian companion, and we

started a deer. We were near the camp, and he proposed to run around in

front of the deer and head it for camp. So we started, and the way he

got over those rocks was a wonder! If we had not had the dogs, we might

have succeeded; but as soon as they caught sight of the deer, they went

after it like mad, and we did not see it again. Niky Mowitz is a nephew

and adopted son of Chief Joseph; his father was killed in the Nez Perce

war of 1877. In the fall hunt the boys are not allowed to go grouse- or

pheasant-hunting without first getting permission of the chief in

command. And it is never granted to them until the boys have driven the

horses to water and counted them to see if any are missing.

The game that the boys play most has to be played out in open country,

where there are no sticks or underbrush. They get a little hoop, or some

of them have a little iron ring, about two inches across. Then they

range themselves in rows, and one rolls the ring on the ground, and the

others try to throw spears through it. The spears are straight sticks

about three feet and a half long, with two or three little branches cut

short at the end, to keep the spear from going clear through the ring.

The Indians take "Turkish," or vapor, baths. They have a little house in

the shape of a half globe, made of willow sticks, covered with sods and

dirt until it is about a foot thick and perfectly tight. A hole is dug

in the house and filled with hot rocks. The Indians (usually about four)

crowd in, and then one pours hot water on the hot rocks, making a lot of

steam. They keep this up until one's back commences to burn, and then he

gives a little yell, and somebody outside tilts up the door (a blanket),

and they all come out and jump at once into the cold mountain-stream.

This bath is taken just before going hunting, as they think that the

deer cannot scent them after it.

Only the boys indulge in wrestling. They fold their hands behind each

other's backs, and try to throw each other by force, or by bending the

back backward. Tripping is unfair, in their opinion.

The country is full of game, and we killed many deer and a cinnamon

bear. In the evening, when they come home, they talk about the day's

hunt, and what they saw and did. The one that killed the bear said that

when he first saw the bear it was about fifteen yards off, and coming

for him with open jaws, and growling and roaring like everything. He

fired and wounded it. It stopped and stood on its hind legs, roaring

worse than ever. While this was going on, the Indian slipped around and

shot it through the heart. I cut off the claws and made a necklace out

of them. The next day they dug a hole nine feet in diameter and built a

big fire in it, and piled rocks all over the fire to heat them. In the

meantime the squaws had cut a lot of fir-boughs and brought the

bear-meat. When the fire had burned down, and the rocks were red hot,

all the coals and things that would smoke were raked out, and sticks

laid across the hole (it was about three feet deep). Then the fir-boughs

were dipped in water and laid over the sticks. And then meat was laid

on, and then more fir-boughs, and then the fat (the fat between the hide

and flesh of a bear is taken off whole) is laid on, and then more

fir-boughs dipped and sprinkled with water. Then come two or three

blankets, and, last of all, the whole thing is covered with earth until

it is perfectly tight. After about two hours everything is removed, and

the water that has been put on the boughs has steamed the meat

thoroughly. Then Chief Joseph comes and cuts it up, and every family

gets a portion. I helped the squaws cook some wild carrots once (they

cook them just as they do the bear, except that they let them cook all

night), and Joseph said that I must not do squaws' work: that a brave

must hunt, fish, fight, and take care of the horses; but a squaw must

put up the tepees, cook, sew, make moccasins and clothes, tan the hides,

and take care of the household goods.

The boys take care of the horses. They catch them and drive them to and

from their watering-places; and the rest of the time they hunt with bows

and arrows (the boys don't have guns), and fish and play games. The

Indian dogs are fine grouse- and pheasant-hunters, scenting the game

from a long distance, and going and treeing them; and they will stay

there and bark until the men come. The dogs are exactly like coyotes,

except that they are smaller.

[Illustration: ERSKINE WOOD--NAMED BY CHIEF JOSEPH "ISHEM-TUX-IL-PILP"

OR "RED MOON"]

Many people have said that the Indian is lazy. In the summer he takes

care of his horses, hunts enough to keep fresh meat, fishes, and plays

games. But in the fall, when they are getting their winter meat, they

get up regularly every morning at two o'clock and start to hunt. And if

the Indian has been successful, as he usually is, he seldom gets home

before five o'clock. And the next morning it is the same thing, while

hoar-frost is all over the ground. In the Fall Hunt, I was out in the

mountains with them seventy-five miles from Nespilem (where Joseph's

camp was, and about one hundred and fifty miles from the agency), and it

was about the 15th of November; and if I had not gone home then, I would

not have been able to go until spring. So Niky Mowitz brought me in to

Nespilem, and we made the trip (seventy-six miles) in one day. We

started at about eight o'clock in the morning, on our ponies. We had not

been gone more than an hour when the dogs started a deer; we rode very

fast, and tried to get a sight of it, but we couldn't.

Chief Joseph did not go to the mountains with us on this hunt, and we

reached his tent in Nespilem at about ten o'clock. When we got to the

tent, one of Joseph's squaws cooked us some supper; and on the third day

after that, I went to Wilbur, a little town on the railroad, and from

there to Portland, where papa met me at the train.

LITTLE MOCCASIN'S RIDE ON THE THUNDER-HORSE

BY COLONEL GUIDO ILGES

"LITTLE MOCCASIN" was, at the time we speak of, fourteen years old, and

about as mischievous a boy as could be found anywhere in the Big Horn

mountains. Unlike his comrades of the same age, who had already killed

buffaloes and stolen horses from the white men and the Crow Indians,

with whom Moccasin's tribe, the Uncapapas, were at war, he preferred to

lie under a shady tree in the summer, or around the campfire in winter,

listening to the conversation of the old men and women, instead of going

upon expeditions with the warriors and the hunters.

The Uncapapas are a very powerful and numerous tribe of the great Sioux

Nation, and before Uncle Sam's soldiers captured and removed them, and

before the Northern Pacific Railroad entered the territory of Montana,

they occupied the beautiful valleys of the Rosebud, Big and Little Horn,

Powder and Redstone rivers, all of which empty into the grand

Yellowstone Valley. In those days, before the white man had set foot

upon these grounds, there was plenty of game, such as buffalo, elk,

antelope, deer, and bear; and, as the Uncapapas were great hunters and

good shots, the camp of Indians to which Little Moccasin belonged always

had plenty of meat to eat and plenty of robes and hides to sell and

trade for horses and guns, for powder and ball, for sugar and coffee,

and for paint and flour. Little Moccasin showed more appetite than any

other Indian in camp. In fact, he was always hungry, and used to eat at

all hours, day and night. Buffalo meat he liked the best, particularly

the part taken from the hump, which is so tender that it almost melts in

the mouth.

When Indian boys have had a hearty dinner of good meat, they generally

feel very happy and very lively. When hungry, they are sad and dull.

This was probably the reason why Little Moccasin was always so full of

mischief, and always inventing tricks to play upon the other boys. He

was a precocious and observing youngster, full of quaint and original

ideas--never at a loss for expedients.

But he was once made to feel very sorry for having played a trick, and I

must tell my young readers how it happened.

"Running Antelope," one of the great warriors and the most noted orator

of the tribe, had returned from a hunt, and Mrs. Antelope was frying for

him a nice buffalo steak--about as large as two big fists--over the

coals. Little Moccasin, who lived in the next street of tents, smelled

the feast, and concluded that he would have some of it. In the darkness

of the night he slowly and carefully crawled toward the spot where

Mistress Antelope sat holding in one hand a long stick, at the end of

which the steak was frying. Little Moccasin watched her closely, and,

seeing that she frequently placed her other hand upon the ground beside

her and leaned upon it for support, he soon formed a plan for making her

drop the steak.

He had once or twice in his life seen a pin, but he had never owned one,

and he could not have known what use is sometimes made of them by bad

white boys. He had noticed, however, that some of the leaves of the

larger varieties of the prickly-pear cactus-plant are covered with many

thorns, as long and as sharp as an ordinary pin.

So when Mrs. Antelope again sat down and looked at the meat to see if it

was done, he slyly placed half-a-dozen of the cactus leaves upon the

very spot of ground upon which Mrs. Antelope had before rested her left

hand.

Then the young mischief crawled noiselessly into the shade and waited

for his opportunity, which came immediately.

When the unsuspecting Mrs. Antelope again leaned upon the ground, and

felt the sharp points of the cactus leaves, she uttered a scream, and

dropped from her other hand the stick and the steak, thinking only of

relief from the sharp pain.

Then, on the instant, the young rascal seized the stick and tried to run

away with it. But Running Antelope caught him by his long hair, and gave

him a severe whipping, declaring that he was a good-for-nothing boy, and

calling him a "coffee-cooler" and a "squaw."