lodge where the feast was held and sit down to eat. The snake, however,
did not eat of the food that Snake Head-Ornament ate. The snake’s food
was scrapings of buffalo hides that the women of the lodge fed him.
When Snake Head-Ornament came home, he would say to the bull snake,
“Father, get off.” And the snake would crawl down the man’s body and
into his den again.
Snake Head-Ornament fasted and had a vision. In the vision his gods, he
thought, bade him go to war. He made up a war party and led it against
enemies on the Yellowstone river. The party not only killed no enemies,
but lost three of their own men; and they thought Snake Head-Ornament
was to blame for it. “You said your prayers were strong,” they said;
“and we have lost three men! Your gods have not helped us.”
Snake Head-Ornament thought his gods were angry with him; and when he
came home he went about crying and mourning and calling upon his gods
to give him another vision. “Pity me, gods,” he cried, “make me strong
that I may bring home scalps and horses.” He was a brave man, and his
bad fortune made his heart sore.
[Illustration]
In those days, when a man mourned he cut off his hair, painted his body
with white clay, and threw away his moccasins. He also cut his flesh
with a knife or some sharp weapon. Now when a man sought a vision from
the gods, he wept and mourned, that the gods might have pity on him;
and for this he went away from the village, alone, into the hills. So
it happened, that Snake Head-Ornament, on his way to the hills, went
mourning and crying past a field where sat a woman, his clan cousin, on
her watch-stage. Seeing him, she began a song to tease him:
He said, “I am a young bird!”
If a young bird, he should be in his nest;
But he comes here looking gray,
And wanders about outside the village!
He said, “I am a young snake!”
If a young snake, he should be in the hills among the red buttes;
But he comes here looking gray and crying,
And wanders aimlessly about!
When the woman sang, “He comes here looking gray,” she meant that the
man was gray from the white-clay paint on his body.
Snake Head-Ornament heard her song; but, knowing she was his clan
sister, he cried out to her: “Sing louder, cousin! You are right; let
my ‘fathers’ hear what you say. I do not know if they will feel shame
or not, but the bull snake and the bald eagle both called me ‘son’!”
What he meant was that the bull snake and the bald eagle were his dream
gods. That is, they had appeared to him in a dream, and promised to
help him as they would a son, when he went to war. In her song, the
woman taunted him with this. If she had not been his clan cousin, he
would have been beside himself with anger. As it was, he but laughed
and did not hurt her.
But the woman had cause for singing her song. Years before, when Snake
Head-Ornament was a very young man, he went out with a war party and
killed a Sioux woman. When he came home the people called him brave,
and made much of him; and he grew quite puffed up now that all looked
up to him.
Not long after, he was made a member of the Black Mouth society.
It happened one day, that the women were building a fence of logs,
set upright around the village, to defend it from enemies. Snake
Head-Ornament, as a member of the Black Mouths, was one of the men
overseeing the work. This woman, his clan cousin, was slow at her task;
and, to make her move more briskly, Snake Head-Ornament came close to
her and fired off his gun just past her knees. She screamed, but seeing
it was Snake Head-Ornament who had shot, and knowing he was her clan
cousin, she did not get angry. Nevertheless, she did not forget! And,
years after, she had revenge in her taunting song.
• • • • •
Young men going out with a war party had to take much chaffing from
older warriors who were clan cousins. My brother was once out with a
party of fifty, many of them young men. They were fleeing from a big
camp of Sioux and had ridden for two days. The second night one of the
younger men, a mere lad, fell asleep as he rode his pony. An older
warrior, his clan cousin, fired a gun past the lad’s ear. “Young man,”
he cried, “you sleep so soundly that only thunder can waken you!” The
rest of the party thought the warrior’s words a huge joke.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
EIGHTH CHAPTER
INDIAN DOGS
In old times we Indian people had no horses, and not many families of
my tribe owned them when I was a little girl. But I do not think there
ever was a time when we Hidatsas did not own dogs. We trained them to
draw our tent poles and our loaded travois. We never used dogs to chase
deer, as white men do.
Our Hidatsa dogs—the breed we owned when I was a little girl—had broad
faces, with gentle, knowing eyes; erect, pointed ears; and tails
curling, never trailing like a wolf’s tail. They had soft silky hair,
gray, black, or spotted red or white. All had stout, heavy legs. I
think this sturdiness was because we saved only dogs of stout build to
drag our travois.
The Teton Sioux, who lived south of us, owned dogs like ours, but of
slenderer build and legs. They liked these dogs, I think, because they
were speedier; for the Sioux were hunters, always moving from place to
place.
Almost every family in Like-a-Fishhook village owned two or more dogs;
and, as there were about seventy lodges in the village, our dogs made
a large pack. The dogs knew every man and child in the village, and
being, besides, well trained, seldom bit anyone. But they were quick to
wind a stranger. A visitor from another tribe was sure to be beset by a
troop of dogs, growling and barking at his heels.
The dogs had one habit I liked. Every evening about bedtime—and bedtime
for a little Indian girl was early—some dog was sure to start up,
_wu-wu-wu!_ And all the others would join in, even the little puppies.
I used to lie in my bed and listen to them.
About midnight, the barking would start up again, especially if there
was a moon, and again a little before daylight; but I was usually
asleep at these hours.
[Illustration]
In daytime lookouts were always on the roofs of some of the lodges
watching if enemies or buffaloes were about. If they saw our hunters,
with meat, coming home over the prairie, these lookouts would cry out,
“_Hey-da-ey!_”[12] And the dogs, knowing what the cry meant, would
join in with “_wu-u-u-u_.”[13] They liked fresh buffalo meat no less
than the Indians.
[12] He̱y dä e̱y´
[13] Wṳ-ṳ-ṳ
But the greatest excitement was when enemies were seen. The lookouts
then cried, “_Ahahuts[14]—they come against us!_” Warriors, on hearing
the cry, seized weapons and ran out of their lodges, yelling shrilly.
The chiefs sprang for their ponies, twisting lariats into the ponies’
mouths for bridles. Medicine men chanted holy songs, and women ran
about calling to their children. But above all rose the barking of the
dogs, every beast joining in the hubbub.
[14] A hä hṳts´
One day, after the midday meal—I think I was then eight years old—old
Turtle went down to the river and fetched an armful of dry willows.
They were about four feet long and as thick as a child’s wrist; some
were forked at the top. She set them in a circle, with tops together
like a tepee, at one side of the lodge entrance near the place where
the dogs slept.
“What are you doing, grandmother?” I asked.
Turtle did not answer my question. “I want to get some dry grass,” she
said. “Come and help me.”
We went out to a place in the hills where was some long, dead grass.
Turtle pulled a big armful, piling it on her robe which she spread on
the ground. She drew the corners of the robe together, slung the bundle
over her shoulder and we came back to the village.
She laid the grass thickly over the sides of the little tepee, leaning
chunks of wood against it to keep the grass in place. She left a door,
or opening, in front; and she even bound a stick over the door, like
the pole over the door of a hunting lodge. Last, she put grass inside,
as if for a bed.
[Illustration]
“Grandmother, what _are_ you doing?” I begged; but she led me into the
lodge, telling me nothing.
I was awakened early the next morning by dogs barking on the roof. As I
lay listening, I thought I heard a faint whining outside. It seemed to
come from the place where the little grass tepee stood.
I fell asleep, and awoke a second time to see Red Blossom fanning the
fire with a goose wing. Breakfast was soon ready, of fresh boiled
buffalo meat. The hunters had come in only the night before, and they
had brought a fresh side-and-ribs for a present to my father.
After the meal I saw Turtle gather up the scraps of meat into a wooden
bowl. “Come,” she said, leading me out of the lodge.
She stopped before the tepee, and thrust the bowl of scraps within.
Again I heard the faint whining. I dropped to my knees and looked in.
There I saw our best dog, the pet of us all; and beside her lay four
little puppies.
“_Eh, sukkeets!_”[15] I cried, “Oh, good!” And I drew the puppies out
one by one, to cuddle them. The mother dog whined, and raised her eyes
to me. She was a gentle dog and did not snap at my hand.
[15] sŭk´ kēēts
[Illustration]
I do not know whether I or the puppies’ mother cuddled them more, the
next few days. One puppy I came to love dearly. He was a wriggling
little thing, with a bob tail for all the world like a rabbit’s,
except that it hung down. There were ten or more bobtailed dogs in
the village all of them born so. My puppy was black, so I named him
_Sheepeesha_,[16] or Blackie.
[16] Shēē´ pēē shä
It must have been a funny sight to see me take my puppy out for a walk.
Stooping, I would lay the puppy between my shoulders and draw my tiny
robe up over his back; and I would walk off proud as any Indian mother
of her new babe. The old mother dog would creep half out of her kennel,
following me with her gentle eyes. I was careful not to go out of her
sight.
When the puppies were ten days old my grandmother brought in some fresh
sage, the kind we Indians use in a sweat lodge. She laid the sage by
the fireplace and fetched in the puppies, barring the door so that
the mother dog could not come in. I could hear the poor dog whining
pitifully.
“What are you going to do, grandmother?” I asked.
“I am going to smoke the puppies.”
“Why, grandmother?” I cried.
“Because the puppies are old enough to eat cooked meat, for their
teeth have come through. The sage is a sacred plant. Its smoke will
make the puppies hungry, so that they will eat.”
While she was speaking, she opened my little pet’s jaws. Sure enough,
four white teeth were coming through the gums.
Turtle raked some coals from the ashes, and laid on them a handful of
the sage. A column of thick white smoke arose upward to the smoke hole.
My grandmother took my puppy in her hands and held his head in the
smoke. The poor puppy struggled and choked. Thick spittle, like suds,
came out of his mouth. I was frightened, and thought he was going to
die.
“The smoke will make the puppy healthy,” said Turtle. “Now let us see
if he will grow up strong, to carry my little granddaughter’s tent.”
She lifted the puppy, still choking, from the floor, and let him fall
so that he landed on his feet. The puppy was still young and weak, and
he was strangling; but his little legs stiffened, and he stood without
falling.
“Hey, hey,” laughed my grandmother. “This is a strong dog! He will grow
up to carry your tent.” For in old times, when traveling, we Hidatsas
made our dogs drag our tents on poles, like travois.
Turtle tried the other three puppies. One, not as strong as the
rest, fell on his side. “This dog will not grow up strong,” said my
grandmother. “I will give him to my neighbor, who asks for one.”
She now lifted a clay pot out of the ashes, and from it poured
something into a flat bowl; corn mush, I think it was, boiled with
buffalo fats. She set the bowl before the puppies. They quickly lapped
up the mush, with funny red tongues. My little black puppy even gulped
down a lump of fat.
[Illustration]
Turtle laughed. “I told you your puppy is strong,” she cried. “He will
soon grow up to carry your tent. But to grow, our puppies must be fed.
It will be your work to feed them. See they do not starve.”
But, if I had to feed the puppies, my grandmother also helped. Indeed,
the whole family watched to see that they had enough. If fresh meat
was brought in, we always boiled some and gave to the puppies. We did
not give them raw meat. “It is not good for puppies. It will make them
sick,” said Turtle.
But, as the puppies grew up, we began to feed them raw meat. My
grandmother sometimes boiled corn for them, into a coarse mush. They
were fond of this. As they grew older, any food that turned sour or was
unfit for the family to eat was given me for my doggies. They ate it
greedily. It did not seem to harm them.
Sometimes a deer or elk was killed, that was poor in flesh. Such a
carcass was cut up and given to the dogs of the village, and of course
mine got their share.
When several buffaloes were killed, the hunters often could not carry
all the meat home, and took only the best cuts. The next day any one
who wanted, could go out and take the cast-away pieces for her dogs.
Then, there were parts that we always threw away or gave to the dogs.
The tough, outside meat of a buffalo’s hams we cut off and saved for
the dogs. The inside meat, next the bone, we thought our very best.
Hunters were fond of roasting it before the fire, on two stones.
Even in famine times we did not forget our dogs; but we sometimes had
only soft bones to give them that had been broken for boiling. The dogs
gnawed these, and so got a little food.
We Hidatsas loved our good dogs, and were kind to them.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
NINTH CHAPTER
TRAINING A DOG
Autumn twice came around, and my puppy had grown into a romping dog.
In the moon of Yellow Leaves, my tribe went again into winter camp. We
returned to Like-a-Fishhook village rather early in the spring. Patches
of snow lay on the ground, and the ice was still firm on the Missouri
when we crossed. We reached the village in midafternoon.
My father had two pack horses loaded with our stuff and our dogs
dragged well-laden travois. While my mothers were unpacking, my father
made a fire. He drew his flint and steel, and with a bit of soft,
rotten wood for tinder struck a spark. In olden times the Hidatsas made
fire with two sticks. “I saw very old men make fire thus, when I was a
lad,” my grandfather once told me. I never saw it done myself.
Small Ankle wrapped the spark, caught in the tinder, in a little bunch
of dry grass, and waved it in the air until the grass was ablaze. He
had raked together some bits of charcoal in the fireplace and on them
laid a few dry-wood splinters. To these he held the burning grass and
soon had a fire.
There was a little firewood in the lodge, left from the previous
autumn, but not enough to keep the fire going long. As my mothers were
still unpacking, my father offered to go out and get wood for the
night. Getting wood, we thought, was woman’s work; but my father was a
kind man, willing to help his wives.
From the saddle of one of his horses Small Ankle took a rawhide lariat,
and to one end fastened a short stick. There were some cottonwoods
under the river bank, not far from the village. Into one of the largest
trees Small Ankle threw his lariat until the stick caught in some dead
branches overhead. A sharp pull broke off the branches. My father
gathered them up and bore them to the lodge.
There were logs and dead wood lying along the river, but they were wet
with the snows. My father knew the dead branches in the trees would be
dried by the winds. He wanted dry wood to kindle a quick fire.
The next morning after we had eaten, Red Blossom took her ax, and,
dragging a travois from its place against the fire screen, led the way
out of the lodge. Strikes-Many Woman followed her. Our biggest dog,
lying outside, saw them coming. He got up, shaking himself, wagging
his tail, and barking _wu-wu-wu!_ Our dogs were always ready to be
harnessed. They liked to go to the woods, knowing they would be fed
well afterwards.
This, our best dog, was named _Akeekahee_,[17] or Took-from-Him. He
belonged to Red Blossom. A woman owning a dog would ask some brave
man of her family to name him for her; and Red Blossom had asked my
grandfather, Big Cloud, to name her dog. Once an enemy had stolen his
horse, but Big Cloud gave chase and retook his horse from that bad
enemy. For this, he named the dog Took-from-Him.
[17] Ȧ kēē´ kä hēē
[Illustration]
My mothers harnessed their dogs, four in number and started off. They
returned a little after midday; first, Red Blossom, with a great pack
of wood on her back; after her, Strikes-Many Woman; then the four dogs,
marching one behind the other, Took-from-Him in the lead. Each dog
dragged a travois loaded with wood.
My mothers dropped their loads before the lodge entrance. The dogs
were unhitched; and, while old Turtle fed them, Strikes-Many Woman
carried the wood into the lodge and piled it by the corral, where it
was handy to the fire.
I was eager to have my dog broken to harness and begged my grandmother
to make a travois for him. “I will,” she said, “but wait another moon.
Your dog will then be fed fat, after the long winter. A dog should be
two years old, and strong, when he is broken. To work a dog too young
or when he is weak will hurt his back.”
A month after this, my mothers came home one afternoon from
woodgathering, dragging each a cottonwood pole about eight feet long.
They peeled these poles bare of bark, and laid them up on the corn
stage to dry.
“What are the poles for?” I asked.
“They are for your travois,” said my grandmother. “Your dog
_Sheepeesha_ is now old enough to work; and my little granddaughter,
too, must learn to be useful.”
I was ready to cry out and dance, when I heard these words of my
grandmother; and I thought I could never, never wait until those poles
dried. The heavy ladder we used for mounting the stage lay on the
ground when not in use. I was too little to lift it, to climb up to the
poles; but I went every day to stand below and gaze at them longingly.
One afternoon my grandmother fetched the poles into the lodge. “They
are dry now,” she said. “I will make the travois frame.”
With her big knife she hacked the greater ends of the poles flat, so
that they would run smooth on the ground. The small ends she crossed
for the joint, cutting a notch in each to make them fit. She bound the
joint with strips of the big tendon in a buffalo’s neck that we Indians
call the _eetsuta_[18]. These strips drew taut as they dried, making
the joint firm.
[18] ēēt sṳ´ tä
Turtle now drew a saddle, or cushion, over the poles just under the
joint, sewing it down with buckskin thongs. This saddle was to keep the
dog from fretting his shoulders against the poles.
The hoop for the basket was of ash. My father webbed it. He cut a
long, thin thong from the edges of a hide, and soaked it to make it
soft. Taking some wet paint in his palm, he drew the thong through it,
thus painting it a bright red. He laced the thong over the hoop and my
grandmother bound the basket in place.
[Illustration]
The harness was of two pieces: a collar, to go around the dog’s
neck; and a breast thong, that was drawn across his chest and through a
loop in the saddle, was lapped once or twice around one of the travois
poles, and was finally carried under the dog’s body to the other pole,
where it was made fast.
I could hardly wait to eat my breakfast the next morning, for my
mothers had promised to take me with them to gather wood. “And we are
going to begin training your dog to-day,” they told me.
I knew a dog should be fed before he was harnessed, and I saved half my
breakfast meat to give to mine. Owning a dog, and invited to go with
my mothers to get wood, I felt that in spite of my girlish years I was
almost a woman now.
Breakfast ended, Red Blossom fetched the new travois and laid it on
my dog’s back. He looked up, puzzled, then sank to the ground and lay
wagging his tail from side to side, sweeping a clean place in the dust.
Red Blossom bound the collar about his neck, and drew and fastened the
breast thong. While she was doing this I gently patted my dog’s head.
“_Nah!_” said Red Blossom, “Come!” But my doggie was a bit frightened.
He twisted about, trying to rid himself of the travois, but only hurt
himself. He looked up at me and whined. Red Blossom tied a thong to
his collar and put the end in my hand. “Lead him,” she said. “He will
follow the other dogs.” She led off, Strikes-Many Woman behind her, and
the dogs followed after, in a line.
I tugged at my dog’s thong, pursing my lips and making a whistling
sound, as Indians do. My doggie understood. He rose to his feet, and,
seeing the other dogs moving off, followed after the last one.
We thus came to the woods, about a mile and a half from the village.
The dogs sank in their tracks, to rest. My mothers searched about for
dead-and-dry wood, which they cut into lengths of two feet or more, and
piled them in the path near the dogs.
When they had enough wood cut, my mothers lifted each travois by its
basket, and turned it so that the dog’s nose was pointed toward the
village; and they loaded each travois with a double armful of wood,
bound to the basket with two thongs. My two mothers then lifted each a
load to her own back, and started to the village.
I did not carry any load myself, as my shoulders were not strong enough
for such heavy work; but I led my dog. Not a very big load was put on
him, as it was his first. I called to him, tugging gently at the thong.
Seeing the other dogs ahead, he followed willingly.
Old Turtle awaited us at the door. “Grandmother,” I cried joyfully,
“my dog has brought home a load of wood. He did not try to run away.”
Turtle laughed, and helped me unload.
That evening I was sitting by the fire with my good dog, for Red
Blossom had let me bring him into the lodge. Now and then I slipped him
a bit of meat I had saved from my supper. My father had laid some dry
sticks on the fire, and the blaze flickered and rose, flickered and
rose, making post and rafter yellow with its light. Small Ankle sat on
his couch smoking his pipe. Suddenly I heard the clitter of the hollow
hoofs as the lodge door was raised and let fall again. I looked up.
Coyote Eyes, a Ree Indian, was coming around the screen.
“_Hau!_”[19] cried my father, making a place for him on the couch.
Small Ankle was a polite man. He handed his pipe to the Ree, who took
big pulls, blowing the smoke through his nostrils.
[19] Hau (How)
Coyote Eyes gave the pipe back to my father. “That is a fine dog you
have,” he said to me. “I know a story of my tribe about two dogs.”
Being but a little girl, I did not think it proper for me to talk to a
stranger, but my father answered for me, “What is the story?”
“In the beginning, my tribe came out of a cave in the earth,” said
Coyote Eyes. “They journeyed until they came to the Missouri river.
‘Let us go up this river,’ they said, ‘and find a place to build our
villages.’ They were weary of journeying.
[Illustration]
“They had two dogs in the camp. One was black; his name was Death. The
other was white, and her name was Sickness. These dogs were asleep when
the tribe broke camp the next morning. The people were in such haste to
be off that they forgot to waken the dogs.
“The third day after, they saw two great fires sweeping toward them
over the prairie. The women cried out with fear. All thought that they
should die.
“When the fires came near, the people saw that they were the two dogs,
Death and Sickness.
“‘Do not fear,’ said the dogs. ‘Our hearts are not all evil. True, we
will bite you, because you forgot us; but we will also live with you
and be your friends. We will carry your burdens; and when we die, you
shall eat us.’
“The dogs grew old. The white one died, and her skin became the squash.
Now our squashes are of different colors, white, gray, yellow, spotted,
just as are dogs. These squashes we eat. Also we Rees eat dog meat;
for, before he died, the black dog said, ‘You shall eat my flesh.’
“And to this day, when our Ree people sicken and die, they say, ‘We are
bitten by Sickness and Death.’”
My father smiled. “We Hidatsas do not eat dogs,” he said; and then to
me, “Little daughter, it is bedtime.”
I did not always obey my mothers; for, like all little girls, I was
naughty sometimes, but I dared not disobey my father.
I put my dog out of the lodge, and went to bed.
[Illustration]
TENTH CHAPTER
LEARNING TO WORK