may be but the spirit’s body. It is not wise to mock the gods.’
“‘_Hwee_[26]—come on! Who is afraid?’ cried the Mocker. He ran to the
top of the knoll, and three of the party followed him laughing. They
leaped and danced and called to the others, ‘What do you fear?’
[26] Hwēē
“Suddenly the knoll began to shake. It put out legs. It began to move
toward the lake. It was a huge turtle.
“‘Help, help!’ cried the Mocker. He and his friends tried to escape.
They could not. Some power held their feet fast to the turtle’s back,
so that they could not move.
“The great turtle plunged in the lake. The men were never seen again.”
[Illustration]
There was silence when Scar ended. Then Crow-Flies-High spoke: “Those
men were foolish. One should never make mock of the spirits.” He
paused, puffing at his pipe and blowing great clouds from his nostrils.
“I know a story of another Dakota who came to grief at a lake,” he
continued, as he passed the burning pipe for my husband to smoke.
“What is the story?” said Scar, smiling.
“We Hidatsas,” said Crow-Flies-High, “believe that all babies born in
our tribe have lived in another life. Some have lived in hills we call
Babes’ Lodges. Others have lived as birds or beasts or even plants.
“Down near the Dakota country is a lake. It is magic; and in old times
young men went there to see what they had been in a former life. If one
got up early in the morning while the lake was smooth, and looked in
the water, he saw in his shadow the shadow also of what he had been.
Some found this to be a bird, others a plant, as a flower or a squash.
“A Dakota Indian had married a Hidatsa woman, and dwelt with our tribe.
He was a good man, but he had a sharp tongue. He often got angry and
said bitter words to his wife. When his anger had gone, he felt sorry
for his words. ‘I do not know why I have such a sharp tongue,’ he would
say.
[Illustration]
“One day, when hunting with some Hidatsas, he came near the magic lake.
‘I am going to see what I was before I became a babe,’ he told the
others. In the morning he went to the lake, leaned over and looked. In
his shadow he saw what he had been. It was a thorn bush.
“With heavy heart, he came back to camp. ‘Now I know why I have a sharp
tongue,’ he cried. ‘It is because I was a thorn bush. All my life I
shall speak sharp words, like thorns.’”
All laughed at Crow-Flies-High’s story, none more than Scar himself. “I
am sure _I_ was never a thorn bush,” he said, “for I speak sweet words
to my wife, even when she scolds me.”
“Hey, listen to the man!” cried his wife.
“But stop talking, you men,” she continued, as she reached for a piece
of bark to use as a shovel. “It is time to sleep, for we must be up
early in the morning.” And she began to cover the fire with ashes.
[Illustration]
FIFTEENTH CHAPTER
THE HUNTING CAMP
We were up the next morning before the sun, and, after a hasty
breakfast, the men went out to look for buffaloes. “The one we killed
yesterday may have strayed from a herd,” Son-of-a-Star said. He was
hopeful that they might find the herd near.
We women were getting dinner when the men returned, having seen no
buffaloes. I had cut a green stick with prongs, on which I spread
slices of fresh buffalo steak, and held them over the fire to broil. I
had three juicy steaks, steaming hot, lying on a little pile of clean
grass, when my husband came in. “_Sukkeets_—good!” he cried; and he had
eaten all three steaks before I had the fourth well warmed through.
After dinner we broke camp and went on about five miles to Shell Creek
Lake. In the afternoon of the following day we reached Deep Creek. We
pitched our tent on a bit of rising ground from which we scraped the
wet snow with a hoe. The weather was getting warmer. Ice had broken on
the Missouri the day we killed the stray buffalo.
While we women busied ourselves with things in camp, the men went to
hunt, and five miles farther on they discovered a herd of buffaloes
crossing the Missouri from the south side. Our hunters, creeping close
on the down-wind side, shot five fat cows as they landed. Buffaloes are
rather stupid animals, but have keen scent. Had our hunters tried to
come at them from the windward side, the herd would have winded them a
half mile away. As it was, no more buffaloes crossed after the shots
were fired, and some that were in the water swam back to the other
side. A rifle shot at the Missouri’s edge will echo between the bluffs
like a crash of thunder.
The hunters found an elm tree with low hanging branches, and under it
they built a rude stage. Meat and skins of the slain buffaloes they
laid on the floor of the stage, out of reach of wolves. Some of the
meat they hung on the branches of the elm.
Son-of-a-Star brought back two hams and a tongue. I sliced the tough
outer meat from the hams, to feed to my dogs. The bones, with the
tender, inner meat, I laid on stones, around the fireplace, to roast,
turning them now and then to keep the meat from scorching. The roasted
meat we stripped off, and cracked the hot bones for the rich, yellow
marrow.
The next morning Crow-Flies-High called a council, and we decided to
cross over to the other side of the river. “The main herd is there,”
said Crow-Flies-High. “We should hunt the buffaloes before they move to
other pasture.” We thought he spoke wisely, and men and women seized
axes to cut a road through the willows for our travois.
These we now loaded. The dogs dragged them to the water’s edge and
we made ready to cross. There were two other bull boats in the party
besides my own.
My husband helped me load my boat, and we pushed off, our three dogs
swimming after us. We had bound our travois to the tail of the boat,
one upon the other. The long runners dragged in the water, but the
travois baskets, raised to the boat’s edge, were hardly wetted.
We landed, and I lent my boat to Scar to bring over his wife and her
camp stuff. Our whole party crossed and brought over their goods in two
trips.
We packed our goods up the bank and made camp. While we women were
cutting poles for our tent, we heard the men disputing. They were
seated in a circle near our pile of goods. High Backbone had lighted a
pipe.
“I say we should go across the river and get the meat we staged
yesterday,” said Crow-Flies-High. Others said, “No, there is better
hunting on this side. Let us go at once and find the herd.” And all
took their guns and hastened off but High Backbone, who stayed to
guard the camp. We were afraid enemies might also be following the
herd.
But the hunters returned at evening without having seen buffalo sign,
and hungry—so hungry that they ate up half our store of meat. After
supper, Crow-Flies-High called them to another council. “I told you we
should get the meat we staged,” he said. “The gods gave us that meat.
We should not waste it.”
We recrossed the river the next morning and fetched back most of the
staged meat and skins, reaching camp again in the early part of the
afternoon. Too busy to stop and eat, we spent the rest of the day
building stages and staking out the green hides to dry.
[Illustration]
The next day we found to our joy that the wind had shifted to the west.
Our stages were now hung with slices of drying meat, and we had built
slow fires beneath. An east wind would have carried the smoke toward
the herd and stampeded it.
[Illustration]
It was evening and getting dusk when Son-of-a-Star came into the tent,
saying, “Buffaloes are on a bluff a quarter of a mile up the river. I
can see them moving against the sky line.” We listened and heard the
bulls roaring; so we knew a herd was coming in.
We were careful to chop no wood that evening, nor do anything to make
a noise. We smothered our fires, and we fed our dogs; for, with gorged
stomachs, they would be sleepy and not bark. If a dog stirred in the
night, one of us went out and quieted him.
We made another crossing the next morning to fetch over the last of the
meat we had staged. We returned about noon. The first woman to climb
the bank under our camp was Scar’s wife, Blossom. She dropped her pack
and came running back, her hands at each side of her head with two
fingers crooked, like horns, the sign for buffaloes.
We hastened into camp and saw the buffaloes a quarter of a mile away,
swarming over a bluff. There was a bit of bad-land formation below,
round-topped buttes with grassy stretches between. In these lower
levels the sun had started the grass, and I think the buffaloes were
coming down into them to seek pasture.
Our hunters had come up from the boats, guns in hand, and set off at
once, creeping up the coulees from the lee side, that the buffaloes
might not wind them. Presently I saw a flash and a puff of smoke; then
another, and another; and the reports came echoing down the river
basin, _poh—poh—poh—poh, poh, poh!_ like thunder, away off. The herd
took to their heels. Buffaloes, when alarmed, usually run up-wind; but,
as the wind had shifted again to the east, this would have taken the
herd into the river; so they swerved off and went tearing away toward
the north.
The hunters returned before evening. Son-of-a-Star was the first to
come in. “I shot two fat cows,” he cried. “I have cut up the meat and
put it in a pile, covered with the skins.” He had brought back the
choice cuts, however, the tongues, kidneys and hams. We ate the kidneys
raw.
In the morning we harnessed our dogs and went out to the butchering
place. As we neared my husband’s meat pile, I saw that he had driven
a stick into the ground and tied his headcloth to it, like a flag.
This was to keep away the wolves. There were many of them in the
Missouri-river country then.
While the flag fluttered and they winded the human smell, wolves would
not touch the meat pile.
Sometimes in the fall, when hunters were cutting up a dead buffalo, I
have seen wolves, coyotes, and foxes, a half hundred maybe, stalking
about or seated just out of bow shot, awaiting the time the hunters
left. All then rushed in to gorge on the offal. The wolves often
snarled and bit at one another as they ate.
All these animals were great thieves; but the kit foxes, I think, were
boldest. I was once with a hunting party, sleeping at night in a tent,
when I awoke, hearing some one scream. A kit fox had stolen into the
tent and walked over the bare face of one of the sleeping women. She
was terribly vexed. “That bad fox stepped his foot in my mouth,” she
cried angrily. In the morning we found the fox had made off with some
of our meat.
Son-of-a-Star uncovered his meat pile, and helped me load our travois,
binding each load to its basket with thongs. By long use I knew how
heavy a load each of my dogs was able to drag. When I thought the
travois held enough, I lifted its poles and tried the weight with my
hands.
My husband and I packed loads on our own backs. Mine, I remember, was a
whole green buffalo cow skin, a side of ribs and a tongue. This was a
heavy load for a woman, and my husband scolded me roundly when we came
in to camp. “That is foolish,” he said. “You will hurt your back.” I
liked to work, however, and I wanted to show the older women how much I
could carry.
[Illustration]
We remained in the camp about ten days. The men would hunt until they
made a kill. Then we harnessed our dogs, and all went out to fetch in
the meat. To do this took us about half a day. At other times, when not
drying meat, we women busied ourselves making bull boats, to freight
our meat down the river.
I have said that I had brought one boat up from the village on one
of my dogs. I now made another. There were some _mahoheesha_ willows
growing near the camp. I made the boat frame of these, covering it with
the green hide of a buffalo cow. _Mahoheesha_ willows are light, tough,
and bend to any shape. They make good boat ribs.
When ready to move camp, I carried my new boat down to the river,
turned over my head like a big hat. At the water’s edge I drove a stout
stake into the mud, and to this I fastened the floating boat with a
short thong.
Skins and dried meat had been made up into small bales. I packed these
to the boat on my back, using a two-banded packing strap. As the river
was not far from our camp and the bank not very steep, I did not think
this task a hard one.
When the boat was filled, I covered the load neatly with a piece of
old tent skin, and to the tail of the boat, I lashed my three travois.
The buffalo skin covering a bull boat was so laid that the tail was
to the rear of the boat. For this reason we often spoke of the boat’s
_head_ and _tail_.
[Illustration]
Meanwhile, Son-of-a-Star fetched the boat I had brought up from the
village, and I bound it to the head of my newer boat. We were now ready
to embark. I waded out, climbed into the empty, or passenger, boat, and
called to my dogs. They leaped in beside me.
Son-of-a-Star took off his moccasins and rolled up his leggings. He
handed me his gun, loosed the thong that bound the boats to the stake,
pushed the boats into deeper water, and climbed in. I handed him his
paddle.
I had hewn this paddle from a cottonwood log, only the day before. My
own, lighter and better made, I had brought with me from the village.
Each paddle had a large hole cut in the center of the blade. Without
this hole, a paddle wobbled in the current.
On the front of my paddle blade, Son-of-a-Star had painted a part of
his war record, hoof prints as of a pony, and moccasin tracks such as
a man makes with his right foot. Hoof and footprints had each a wound
mark, as of flowing blood. Son-of-a-Star had drawn these marks with his
finger, dipped in warm buffalo fat and red ochre.
The marks were for a brave deed of my husband. He once rode against a
party of Sioux, firing his gun, when a bullet went through his right
thigh, and killed his horse. The footprints with the wound marks meant
that Son-of-a-Star had been shot in his right leg.
On his own paddle my husband had marked a cross within bars. These
meant, “I was one of four warriors to count _strike_ on an enemy.”
[Illustration]
It was an Indian custom to mark a warrior’s honors, much as a soldier
wears stripes for the wounds he has had. I was quite proud of the marks
on my paddles. I was a young woman, remember, and I thought, “Not every
woman has a husband as brave as mine.”
Just before I got into my boat I had paused to wash my sweaty face
in the river, and, with a little ochre and buffalo fat, I painted my
cheeks a bright red. I thought this made me look handsome; and, too,
the paint kept my face from being tanned by the sun, for I had a light
skin. In those days everybody painted, and came to feasts with handsome
faces, red or yellow. Now we follow white men’s ways, and we go about
with faces pale, like ghosts from the Dead village. I think that is why
some tribes call white men _pale-faces_; because they do not paint and
are pale like ghosts.
Altogether there were eleven boats in our fleet, two to each couple
except Scar and his wife, who had but one. At that, their one boat
was enough, for they had small store of meat or skins to take home.
They were a young couple and thought more of having a good time than of
doing any hard work.
We had launched our boats in a tiny bay, and our paddles, dipping into
the quiet backwater, sent the waves rippling against the shore. It was
a crisp spring morning, and the sun, rising almost in our faces, threw
a broad band of gold over the water. In the shadow of the opposite
bank, a pelican was fishing. He paused to gaze at us, his yellow beak
laid against his white plumage; then calmly went to fishing again. Out
in mid-current, an uprooted tree swept by, and our skin boats, as they
swung out of the bay, passed a deadhead that bobbed up and down, up and
down. Then with a roar, the current caught us and bore us swiftly away.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
SIXTEENTH CHAPTER
HOMEWARD BOUND
When using her bull boat to cross over the river, a woman knelt in
the bow and dipped her paddle in front of her; but, with a second and
freighted boat in tow, my husband and I paddled, seated one at each
side of our boat. We had not much need to use our paddles as long as we
rode the current.
Crow-Flies-High led the way. We had gone, I think, an hour or two, and
Crow-Flies-High’s boat was rounding a point, when I saw him rise to his
knees and back water with his paddle. My husband and I speeded up; and,
as we came near, Crow-Flies-High pointed to the bank just below the
point. It was thickly covered with buffaloes.
Scar’s wife put her hand to her mouth for astonishment, but made no
sound. If buffaloes have not good sight, they have keen ears; and she
knew better than to cry out.
A bit of woodland stretched along the shore farther on. Crow-Flies-High
signed for us to follow, and we floated silently down to the end of the
woods, where the trees hid us from the herd. The men sprang out and
held the boats while we women landed.
The bank was high and rather steep, but at its foot was a narrow bench
of sand a foot or more above the water’s level. We hastily unloaded our
boats and dragged them out upon this sand.
Along the Missouri’s edge are always to be found dead-and-dry willow
sticks, left there by the falling current. I gathered an armful of
these, and, having climbed the bank, laid them together in a kind of
floor. Son-of-a-Star now helped me fetch up our bundles, and we piled
them on this willow floor. He also brought up my two boats. These I
turned, bottom up, over my pile of bundles, to keep off frost and rain.
The men now seized their guns and hastened off after the buffaloes. It
was about noon. I think we had spent less than an hour unloading the
boats and packing them and our stuff to the top of the bank.
While our hunters were stalking the herd, we women stayed in camp,
keeping very quiet, and stilling the dogs if they whined or barked.
Before long we heard the _poh-poh-poh!_ of guns, and knew the herd
was started. We now arose and began gathering sticks for a fire. I
think the first man to return struck fire for us, and we got dinner.
[Illustration]
We did not trouble to set up our tent. “The weather is not cold,”
said Crow-Flies-High’s wife. “We can sleep in the open air.” I cut
buck-brush bushes and spread a robe over them for my bed. Dry grass
stuffed under one end of the robe did for a pillow. My covering was a
pair of buffalo skins. We were weary and went to bed early. The night
was clear; and, with the fresh river air blowing in my face, I soon
fell asleep.
We were astir the next morning at an early hour. While Son-of-a-Star
started a fire, I went to fill my copper kettle at the river. My
husband had asked me to boil him some meat, for the broth; for in old
times we Indians drank broth instead of coffee.
The river’s roar, I thought, sounded louder than usual; and, when I
reached the edge of the high bank, I saw that the current was thronged
with masses of ice. This amazed me, for the river had been running free
for a fortnight. The Missouri is never a silent stream, and now to
the roar of its waters was added the groaning and crashing of the ice
cakes, as they grated and pounded one another in the current.
[Illustration]
When the Missouri is running ice, the mid-current will be thronged,
well-nigh choked, with ice masses, but near the banks, where are
shallows, the water will be free, since here the stream is not deep
enough to float the ice chunks. On the side of the river under our camp
was a margin of ice-free water of this kind; and I now saw, out near
the edge of the floating ice, two bull boats bound together, with a
woman in the foremost, paddling with all her might. She was struggling
to keep from being caught in the ice and crushed.
I ran down the bank to the bench of sand below, just as the boats
came sweeping by. The woman saw me and held out her paddle crying,
“Daughter, save me!” I seized the wet blade, and tugging hard, drew
the boats to shore. The woman was _Amaheetseekuma_,[27] or Lies-on
Red-Hill, a woman older than I, and my friend.
[27] A mä hēēt´ sēē kṳ mä
Lies-on-Red-Hill, though rather fat, scrambled quickly out of the boat
and began tumbling her bundles out upon the sand. The other women of
our party now came down, and we helped my friend carry her bundles up
to the camp.
As we sat by the fire, wringing and drying her moccasins,
Lies-on-Red-Hill told us her story: “My husband, Short Bull, and I were
hunting buffaloes. We dried much meat, which I loaded in my two boats,
to freight down the river. While I paddled, Short Bull was to go along
the shore with our horses. ‘We will meet at Beaver Wood,’ he said, ‘and
camp.’ But I did not find him at Beaver Wood. Then ice came. I was
afraid to camp alone, and tried to paddle down stream, keeping near the
shore, where was no ice. More ice came, and I feared I should be upset
and drown.”
[Illustration]
It was not until afterwards, when we reached our village, that we
learned why Short Bull did not meet his wife. He got to Beaver Wood
ahead of her. Not finding her, and thinking she had passed him, he went
on to the place where they had agreed to make their second camping.
When again she did not come, he became alarmed, and returned up the
river looking for her. In the morning he saw the river was full of ice.
“She is drowned,” he thought. And he went on to Like-a-Fishhook village.
Lies-on-Red-Hill’s father was an old man named Dried Squash. He was
fond of his daughter, and, when he heard she was drowned, he put her
squash basket on his back and went through the village weeping and
crying out, “Lies-on-Red-Hill, dear daughter, I shall never see you
again.” He wanted to leap into the river and die, but his friends held
him.
Lies-on-Red-Hill rested in our camp two days. The third morning the
river was running free again, and she loaded her boats and paddled off
down stream. The rest of us stayed one more day, to finish drying and
packing our meat. Then we, too, loaded our boats and started down the
river.
We floated with the current, and the second day sighted Stands-Alone
Point, or Independence, as white men now call it. Here a party of
Mandans were just quitting camp. They pushed their boats into the
current and caught up with us. “We knew you were coming,” they said.
“Lies-on-Red-Hill told us. She passed us yesterday.”
Our united party floated safely down until we were two miles below what
is now Elbowoods. Here, to our astonishment, we found that the current
was hardly running, and the water was backing up and flooding the
shores. We rounded a point of land, and saw what was the matter. Ice,
brought down on the current, had jammed, bridging the river and partly
damming it.
Fearing to go farther, we were bringing our boats to land, when we
heard the sound of a gun and voices calling to us. On the opposite
shore stood two white men, waving handkerchiefs.
We paddled across and landed. The white men, we found, were traders,
who had married Indian women. They had a flat boat, loaded with buffalo
skins and furs. With them was Lies-on-Red-Hill. One of the traders we
Indians had named Spots, because he had big freckles on his face.
Like-a-Fishhook village was yet about fifteen miles away. While the
rest of our party waited, one of the men went afoot, to notify our
relatives. They came about noon, the next day, with ponies and saddles
to help us bring home our goods. The saddles were pack saddles, made
with horn frames.
It took four ponies to pack the dried meat and skins my husband and I
had brought. I loaded my boats on the travois of two of my dogs.
We reached Like-a-Fishhook village at sunset. Lies-on-Red-Hill came
with us, to the great joy of her father.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
SEVENTEENTH CHAPTER
AN INDIAN PAPOOSE
My father was overjoyed to see me and my husband again, and he was glad
for the store of meat that we brought. We had a real feast the next
day. I boiled green corn, shelled from the cob and dried the summer
before, and packed away in skin bags. We were fond of this corn, and
had little of it left. Strikes-Many Woman parched ripe sweet corn,
pounded it in a mortar with roast buffalo fats, and kneaded the meal
into little balls.
With these corn messes and boiled dried buffalo meat we made a big
feast and called in all our relatives. To each woman guest, as she went
away again, I gave a bundle of dried buffalo meat; and I thus gave away
one of the four pony-loads of meat I had brought home. It was an Indian
custom that, when a hunter brought in meat of a deer or buffalo, it
belonged to his wife; and we should have thought her a bad woman, if
she did not feast her relatives and give to them.