feast. We women ate apart, for men and women do not sit together at an
Indian feast. I heard my father talking with his friend, Lean Wolf:
“Every spring, when I was young, we fired the prairie grass around the
Five Villages. Green grass then sprang up; buffaloes came to graze on
it, and we killed many.”
“Those were good days,” said Lean Wolf. “There were many buffaloes
then.”
“It is so,” said my father. “It is now seven years since a herd was
seen near our village. White men’s guns have driven them away. And each
year we kill fewer deer.”
“I have heard that some Sioux families starved last winter,” said Lean
Wolf.
“They starved, because they are hunters and raise no corn,” said my
father. “We Hidatsas must plant more corn, or we shall starve; and we
must learn to raise white men’s wheat and potatoes.” Small Ankle was a
progressive old man.
One morning, not long after our feast, Red Blossom came in from the
woods with news that the wild gooseberry vines were in leaf. This was a
sign that corn planting time was come, and we women began to make ready
our corn seed and sharpen our hoes.
I had been thinking of my father’s words to Lean Wolf. “They are wise
words,” I told my mothers. “We should widen our fields, and plant more
corn.” While they busied themselves with planting, I worked with my
hoe around the edges of our two fields, breaking new ground.
Having thus more ground to work over, my mothers planted for more than
a month, or well into June. The last week of our planting, Red Blossom
soaked her corn seed in tepid water. “It will make the seed sprout
earlier,” she said, “so that the ears will ripen before frost comes.”
Our fall harvest was good. My two mothers and I were more than a week
threshing and winnowing our corn; but some families, less wise than
ours, had not increased their planting, and had none too much grain to
lay by for winter. This troubled our chief men. “The summer’s hunt has
been poor,” they said. “If our winter’s hunting is not better, we shall
be hungry before harvest comes again.”
They had twice called a council to talk of the matter, when scouts
brought word that buffaloes had been seen. “Big herds have come down
into the Yellowstone country,” they said. The Black Mouths thought
we should make our winter camp there, in tepees; and they went about
choosing a winter chief.
But no one wanted to be winter chief. Camping in the Yellowstone
country in skin tents, was not like our wintering in earth lodges in
the woods near our village. The people expected their chief’s prayers
to keep enemies away and bring them good hunting. If ill luck came to
any in the camp, they blamed the winter chief.
The Black Mouths offered gifts to one or another of our chief men,
whose prayers we knew were strong; but none would take them. At last,
they gave half the gifts to _Eydeeahkata_,[28] and half to Short Horn.
“You shall take turns at being chief,” they said. “_Eydeeahkata_ shall
lead one day and Short Horn the next.”
[28] E̱y dēē äh´ kä tä
The two leaders chose Red Kettle to be their crier. The evening before
we started he went through the village crying, “We move to-morrow at
sunrise. Get ready.”
Our way led up the Missouri, above the bluffs; and most of the time
we were within sight of the river. Now and then, if the current made
a wide bend, we took a shorter course over the prairie. _Eydeeahkata_
and Short Horn went ahead, each with a sacred medicine bundle bound to
his saddle bow. The camp followed in a long line. Some rode ponies, but
most went afoot. We camped at night in our tepees.
[Illustration]
We made our eleventh camp on the north side of the Missouri, a few
miles below the mouth of the Yellowstone. Here the Missouri is not
very wide, and its sloping banks make a good place for crossing. A low
bank of clean, hard sand lay along the water’s edge. We pitched our
tents about noon on this sand. There were about a hundred tepees. They
stood in rows, like houses, for there was not room on the sand to make
a camping circle.
Small Ankle pitched his tent near the place chosen for the crossing.
The day was windy and chill. With flint-and-steel my father struck
a fire, and we soon had meat boiling. After our dinner he drove his
horses to pasture.
Strikes-Many Woman fetched dry grass for our beds, spreading it thickly
on the floor against the tent wall. On the edges of the beds next the
fireplace she laid small logs, to keep in the grass bedding and to
catch any flying sparks from the fire.
The wind died at evening. Twilight fell, and the coals in the fireplace
cast a soft, red glow on the tent walls. I sat near the tent door. With
robe drawn over my shoulders to keep off the chill, I raised the skin
door and looked out. The new moon, narrow and bent like an Indian bow,
shone white over the river, and the waves of the swift mid-current
sparkled silvery in the moonlight. I could hear the swish of eddies,
the lap-lapping of the waves rolling shoreward. Over all rose the roar,
roar, roar of the great river, sweeping onward we Indians knew not
where.
[Illustration: Plate III.—“With horn spoon she filled her mouth with
water.”]
My dogs were sleeping without, snugged against the tent for warmth.
At midnight one of them stirred, pointed his nose at the moon and
broke into a howl. The howl soon grew to a chorus, for every dog
in the camp joined in. Far out on the prairie rose the wailing
_yip-yip-yip-yip-ya-a-ah!_[29] of a coyote. The dogs grew silent again,
and curled up, nose-in-tail, to sleep.
[29] yĭp yĭp yĭp yĭp yä´ ä äh
And my little son came into the world.
The morning sky was growing light when Son-of-a-Star came into the
tent. His eyes were smiling as he stepped to the fireplace, for they
saw a pretty sight. Red Blossom was giving my baby a bath.
She had laid him on a piece of soft skin, before the fire. With horn
spoon she filled her mouth with water, held it in her cheeks until it
was warm, and blew it over my baby’s body. I do not think he liked his
bath, for he squalled loudly.
My husband laughed. “It is a lusty cry,” he said. “I am sure my son
will be a warrior.”
Having bathed my baby, Red Blossom bound him in his wrapping skins. She
had a square piece of tent cover, folded and sewed along the edges of
one end into a kind of sack. Into this she slipped my baby, with his
feet against the sewed end. About his little body she packed cattail
down.
On a piece of rawhide, she put some clean sand, which she heated by
rolling over it a red-hot stone. She packed this sand under my baby’s
feet; and, lest it prove too hot, she slipped a piece of soft buckskin
under them.
Over all she bound a wildcat skin, drawing the upper edge over the
baby’s head, like a hood.
The hot sand was to keep my baby warm. This and the cattail down we
placed in a baby’s wrappings only in winter, when on a journey.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER
THE VOYAGE HOME
Meanwhile Small Ankle and other members of the family were making ready
to cross. “We must hasten,” my father said. “Ice chunks are running on
the current this morning. This shows that up in the mountains the river
is freezing over and cold weather is setting in.”
My mothers began packing soon after breakfast and Son-of-a-Star came
in to say that he would take me across in our bull boat; for we had
brought one with us from the village. Old Turtle began unpinning the
tent cover while I was still inside. She made the tent poles into a
bundle and bound them at the tail of the boat. I stepped in with my
baby in my arms and my husband paddled the boat across.
Son-of-a-Star helped me up the bank on the other side and gave me a
place to sit where I could watch the crossing. I folded a robe to sit
upon, and, with another robe drawn snugly over my shoulders and my baby
in my arms, I felt comfortable and warm.
My husband even made a small fire in a hollow place in the ground
near-by. One of my women friends boiled some meat and gave me the hot
broth to drink; for I was weary with the work of crossing and caring
for my babe.
There were not enough boats in the camp for all the people. Most of the
old people and little children were brought over in boats, and some
of the camp goods; but many families floated their stuff over in tent
covers, and, cold as was the water, many of the men swam.
I had left my two mothers and old Turtle loading their tent cover.
Turtle had made a big noose in the end of a lariat and laid it on the
sand. Over this she spread the skin cover, a large one. She bent a
green willow into a hoop, laid it on the tent cover, and within the
hoop piled most of our camp goods. She now gathered the edges of the
cover together over the pile, drew tight the noose, and tied it firm.
This tent-cover bundle my mothers and old Turtle pushed out into the
water as a kind of raft. The willow hoop gave the raft a flat bottom so
that it did not turn over in the water.
The lariat that bound the mouth of the raft was fastened to the tail of
a pony we had named Shaggy, and the end was carried into and about the
pony’s mouth like a halter. Shaggy was driven into the stream and swam
across, towing the raft. The lariat was fastened to his tail so that,
if the raft was swept down stream by the current, it would not drag the
pony’s head, and turn him from his course.
[Illustration]
As I have said, many families floated their goods over in these
tent-cover rafts; and not a few women, in haste to cross, swam clinging
to their rafts. One woman put her little four-year-old son on the top
of her raft, while she swam behind, pushing and guiding it. Another old
woman, named Owl Ear, mounted her raft and rode astraddle. Her pony
landed in a place where the shore was soft with oozy mud, so that he
could not climb out. Owl Ear had to wade in the mud up to her middle to
get her raft ashore; and when she was climbing out she slipped and sat
down backwards again in the ooze. She came up sputtering mud from her
mouth and much vexed with herself. “I think there must be bad spirits
in that mud, and they are trying to pull me back,” she called to me, as
she came waddling up the steep bank.
Before evening my mothers had brought all their camp goods across. They
raised the poles of our tent and drew on the cover. It was wet, but
soon dried in the wind. We built a fire inside. My baby had wakened up
and was crying. I loosened his wrapping and warmed him by the tent
fire, and he soon fell asleep. Red Blossom dug a hole, slipped into it
a kind of sack of raw hide, for a mortar. We had brought a pestle with
us from the village, and with this we pounded parched corn to a meal to
boil with beans. We ate a late supper and went to bed.
We camped on the bank three days, until all had crossed. Our chiefs
would not remain longer, for they wanted to get into winter camp before
snow fell; and, on the morning of the fourth day, we struck tents and
made ready to march.
[Illustration]
There was a mule in our family herd, a slow-going, gentle beast, that
I had bought of a Sioux for a worthless pony and some strings of corn.
Son-of-a-Star harnessed this mule to a travois, and my baby and I
rode. Had our march been in olden days, I should have had to go afoot,
carrying my baby on my back.
My husband had spread a heavy bull-skin robe over the travois basket
and set me on it, with another skin folded under me for a cushion.
Through holes in the edge of the bull skin Son-of-a-Star passed a
lariat; and when I was seated, with my baby in my arms and my robe
belted snugly about us, my husband drew the lariat, drawing the bull
skin about my knees and ankles. The day was windy and cold, and the
bull skin kept the chill air from me and my babe.
Our leaders had chosen for our winter camp a place called Round Bank,
on a small stream named Bark Creek. There were no trees here for
building earth lodges, so we camped in our tepees, pitching them in a
hollow, to shelter them from the wind. The ground was frozen so that we
could not peg our tents to the ground, but laid stones around the edges
of the tent covers. Such was our older-fashioned way. We did not use
wooden tent pegs much until after we got iron axes.
My mothers fetched dry grass into our tent for our beds, and made a
fire under the smoke hole. A tepee was kept warm with a rather small
fire, if it was well sheltered from the wind.
Ours was a big tent, for we had a big family. With my two half
brothers, Bear’s Tail and Wolf Chief, and their wives; and Red Kettle,
Full House, and Flies Low, younger sons of Red Blossom and Strikes-Many
Woman, we numbered fourteen in all. This was a large number for one
tent. Ten were as many as a tepee usually sheltered. Every member of
the family had his own bed, where he slept at night and sat in the
daylight hours.
My little son was ten days old the second day we were in winter camp;
and, though we were hardly well settled, I found time to make ready his
naming feast. Having filled a wooden bowl with venison and boiled dried
green corn—foods I knew well were to his liking—I set it before Small
Ankle.
“I want you to name your grandson,” I said to him.
[Illustration]
Small Ankle ate, thinking the while what name he should give my son.
Then he arose and took my baby tenderly in his arms, saying, “I name
him _Tsakahka Sukkee_,[30] Good Bird.” Small Ankle’s gods were birds,
and the name was a kind of prayer that they remember and help my little
son.
[30] Tsä käh´ kä Sŭk´ kēē
Winter passed without mishap to us. We had found no buffaloes on the
Yellowstone; but our hunters thrice discovered small herds near our
camp and brought in meat; and a good many deer were killed.
Rather early in the spring, the women of the Goose Society danced and
hung up meat for the goose spirits, praying them for good weather for
corn planting. Then we all broke camp.
Most of the tribe returned to the Yellowstone for the spring hunt, but
my father wanted to go up the Missouri. “We have not found the herds
our scouts saw in the fall,” he said. “I am sure they are farther up
the river.” One Buffalo and his family joined us and we went up the
river and made camp. A small herd was sighted and ten buffaloes were
killed.
We were building stages to dry the meat when four more tents caught up
with us, those of Strikes Backbone, Old Bear, Long Wing, and Spotted
Horn, and their families. To each tent owner my father gave a whole
green buffalo hide and a side of meat. The hides were for making bull
boats, for we were planning to return home by water.
Ice broke on the Missouri and flocks of wild ducks began coming north.
My mothers were eager to be home in time for the spring planting. I
made four new boats, giving one of them to my father, and we made ready
to go.
Son-of-a-Star partly loaded one of my boats with dried meat, and put
in his gun and ax. A second boat, also partly loaded, he lashed to the
first; and a third, loaded to the gunwale with meat and hides, he bound
to the tail of the second. In this second boat sat my half brother,
Flies Low, a seventeen-year-old lad, with my baby in his arms. My
husband and I sat in the first boat and paddled.
There were eleven boats in the six families of our party. One or two
families, having no meat to freight, rode in single boats. My father
and two of the men did not come in the boats, but rode along the bank,
driving our horses. They kept back near the foot hills, but in sight of
the river.
We were in no haste, and we made a jolly party as we floated down the
broad current. At night we paddled to the shore. The men joined us with
the horses, and we camped under the stars.
The Missouri is a swift stream, and at places we found the waves were
quite choppy. Especially if a bend in the river carried the current
against the wind, the waves rolled and foamed, rocking our boats and
threatening to swamp us. At such times we drew together, catching hold
of one another’s boats. Thus bunched, our fleet rode the choppy current
more safely than a single boat could have done.
The weather had set in rather warm when we left our winter camp and the
grass had already begun to show green on the prairie. But, as we neared
the mouth of the Little Missouri, a furious storm of snow and wind
arose. The storm blew up suddenly, and, as we rounded a bend in the
river, we rode into the very teeth of the wind.
Son-of-a-Star shouted to me to turn in to the shore, though I could
hardly hear his voice above the wind. We plied our paddles with all our
might. Suddenly my husband stopped paddling and leaned over the side of
the boat, nigh upsetting it. “_Eena, eena_”[31] I cried, scared nearly
out of my wits, and I grasped at the boat’s edge to keep from being
tumbled in upon him. Then I saw what was the matter. My husband was
lifting my little son out of the water.
[31] ēē nä´
I have said that Flies Low sat in our second boat, with my little son
in his arms. The baby had grown restless, and Flies Low had loosened
the babe’s wrappings to give freedom of his limbs. A sudden billow
rocked the boat, throwing Flies Low against the side and tumbling my
little son out of his arms into the water.
[Illustration]
His loosened wrappings, by some good luck, made my baby buoyant, so
that he floated. He was crying lustily when my husband drew him out;
but he was not strangling, and under his wraps he was not even wet.
“I could not help it,” said Flies Low afterwards. “The boat seemed to
turn over, and the baby fell out of my arms.” We knew this was true and
said nothing more of it.
Our party reached shore without further mishap. We hastily unpacked two
tents; and, while some busied themselves pitching them, others gathered
wood and made fires.
That night the snow turned to a cold rain, which the next day turned
again into a heavy snow. The summer birds had come north, and after the
storm was over we found many of them frozen to death. It snowed for
four days.
Small Ankle and his brother, Charging Enemy, were driving their horses
along the bank when the storm overtook them. They did not stop to camp
with us, but pushed on through the storm to Like-a-Fishhook village.
They reached the village safely and drove their horses down into the
thick timber out of the cold wind. There was a pond there, and the
horses found it warmer to wade out into the water than to stand on the
bank in the cold rain. But after a while, grown weary with standing,
they came out; and, as the wind was blowing a gale, the horses were
chilled and three of them died. Many others of our village herd died in
the same way.
Our own party, as soon as the storm was over, re-embarked and floated
safely down to Like-a-Fishhook village.
[Illustration]
AFTER FIFTY YEARS
I am an old woman now. The buffaloes and black-tail deer are gone, and
our Indian ways are almost gone. Sometimes I find it hard to believe
that I ever lived them.
My little son grew up in the white man’s school. He can read books, and
he owns cattle and has a farm. He is a leader among our Hidatsa people,
helping teach them to follow the white man’s road.
He is kind to me. We no longer live in an earth lodge, but in a house
with chimneys; and my son’s wife cooks by a stove.
But for me, I cannot forget our old ways.
Often in summer I rise at daybreak and steal out to the cornfields;
and as I hoe the corn I sing to it, as we did when I was young. No one
cares for our corn songs now.
Sometimes at evening I sit, looking out on the big Missouri. The sun
sets, and dusk steals over the water. In the shadows I seem again
to see our Indian village, with smoke curling upward from the earth
lodges; and in the river’s roar I hear the yells of the warriors, the
laughter of little children as of old. It is but an old woman’s dream.
Again I see but shadows and hear only the roar of the river; and tears
come into my eyes. Our Indian life, I know, is gone forever.
[Illustration]
GLOSSARY OF INDIAN WORDS
English equivalents are in italics
Ä hä he̱y´ An exclamation; _Ho there!_
Ä hä hṳts´ _They come against us._
Ä kēē´ kä hēē _Took-from-Him_; name of a dog.
Ä lä lä lä lä´ Cry of triumph by women; made by curling the
tip of the tongue backward and vibrating
it against the roof of the mouth.
Ä mä hēēt´ sēē kṳ mä _Lies-on-Red-Hill_; name of a woman.
Ēē´ kṳ pä _Chum_.
Ēē nä´ An exclamation.
Ēēt sēē pä däh´ pä kēē _Foot moving_; name of a game.
Ēēt sṳ´ tä Name of the large tendon of a buffalo’s neck.
E̱y An exclamation.
E̱y dēē äh´ kä tä Name of an Indian.
Hau (how) The Indian salutation.
He̱y dä e̱y´ An exclamation of pleasure.
Hwēē _Hasten_; an exclamation.
Mä hō´ hēē shä A species of willow.
Mä kṳt´ sä tēē _Clan cousin._
Mä pēē´ _Meal made by pounding._
Mä pṳk´ sä ō kï hĕ _Snake Head-Ornament_; a man’s name.
Mēē dä´ hēē kä _Gardeners’ songs._
Mēē dēē päh´ dēē _Rising water_; name of a Hidatsa clan, or
band.
Näh _Go, come._
Nä kä päh´ _Mush._
O kēē mēē´ ä _Head-Ornament Woman_; a woman’s name.
Shēē´ pēē shä _Black._
Sŭk´ kēēts (or Sŭkkēē) _Good._
Tsä käh´ ka Sŭk´ kēē Name of Waheenee’s son; from _tsakahka_,
bird, and _sukkee_, good.
Tsïst´ skä _Prairie chicken._
Ṳ´ ï The Hidatsa war whoop.
Wä hēē´ nēē _Cowbird_, or _Buffalo-bird_; name of the
Indian woman whose story is told in this
book.
Wē´ä _Woman._
Wṳ ṳ ṳ Imitation of a dog’s bark.
Yĭ yĭ yĭ yĭ yäh´ A war cry of triumph, made with hand vibrated
over the mouth or against the throat.
Wē´ äh tēē A woman’s name.
EXPLANATORY NOTES
_Page 9, l. 24_: “We had corn a-plenty” The Hidatsas and Mandans
were the best agriculturists of the north-plains Indians. Varieties
of corn developed by them mature in the semi-arid climate of western
North Dakota where our better known eastern strains will not ripen.
The varieties include flint, flour, and a kind of sweet corn called
_maikadishake_,[32] or gummy, which the Indians use for parching.
Hidatsa seed planted at the United States Agricultural Experiment
Station at Bozeman, Montana, has made surprising yields.
[32] mä´ ï kä dï shä kĕ
_Page 10, l. 29_: “the ghost land.” A Hidatsa Indian believed he had
four ghosts. At death, one ghost went to the Ghost village, to live in
an earth lodge and hunt buffaloes as on earth; a second remained at the
grave until after a time it joined the first in the Ghost village where
they became one again. What became of the other two ghosts does not
seem to be known.
_Page 11, l. 20_: “The march was led by the older chiefs.” A Hidatsa
chief was a man who by his war deeds, hospitality, and wisdom, came
to be recognized as one of the influential men of the tribe. He was
not necessarily an officer. When translating into English, Hidatsas
usually call the officer elected for any executive duty a _leader_,
as war-party leader, winter-camp leader, leader of the buffalo hunt.
It should be remembered that the activities of an Indian tribe are
decided in councils; and in these councils the eloquence and wisdom of
the chiefs had greatest weight. The Hidatsa word for chief, literally
translated, is excellent man, superior man.
_Page 13, l. 8_: “At this hour fires burned before most of the tepees.”
In fall or winter the fire was within the tepee, under the smoke hole.
_Page 15, l. 13_: “for a woman to ... begin building her earth lodge.”
While the work falling to an Indian woman was far from light, she did
not look upon herself as overburdened. Women were more kindly treated
by Hidatsas and Mandans than by some tribes.
_Page 17, l. 28_: “dried prairie turnips.” The prairie turnip,
_psoralea esculenta_, is a starchy, bulbous root, growing rather
plentifully on the plains. Its food value is high. Attempts have been
made unsuccessfully to cultivate it.
_Page 17, l. 30_: “June berries.” The June berry, _amelanchier
alnifolia_, is a small, hardwood tree, bearing sweet, dark-red berries.
Its branches were much used for making arrow shafts.
_Page 21, l. 14_: “young men fasted and cut their flesh.” Such
self-inflicted tortures were not, as is often believed, for the
purpose of proving the warrior’s fortitude, but were made as a kind of
sacrifice to the gods that these might pity the devotee and answer his
prayers. See Bible, I Kings, XVIII; 28.
_Page 24, l. 30_: “It was a long pipe with black stone bowl.” The stone
bowl was carved from a hard kind of grey clay, anointed with grease and
baked in a fire to turn it black. It took a high polish.
_Page 35, l. 11_: “Telling tales ... in ... autumn and winter.” Tribal
myths, told of the gods, were often forbidden in summer when nature was
_alive_. In winter nature was _asleep_ or _dead_. One could talk of
sleeping spirits without fear of offending them.