THE SUN-DANCE
The pale moon shone down upon a strange scene.
Four great fires marked the limits of a wide clearing. And these were set
with consummate accuracy at the cardinal points. Superstition demanded
this setting.
The ruddy glow threw into uncertain relief the faces and unkempt figures
of a vast concourse of men and women gathered, in one great circle, within
the boundary limits of the fires. On the faces of all was an expression of
fierce revelry. A dark setting completed the picture. Beyond the fires all
was shadow, profound, ghostly. The woods in all directions closed in that
weird concourse of beings, and even the devilish light of the fires could
not relieve the savagery of the scene.
Like the hub of a gigantic wheel, in the midst of the circle stood a
cluster of leafless trees, mighty patriarchs, gnarled and twisted, with
great overhanging limbs as stout and rugged as only hoary age can make
them.
The clearing inside the human circle was empty for a time, but the crowd
without was momentarily increasing, augmented by an incessant stream of
dusky, silent figures pouring from the adjacent forest depths. As the
minutes wore on the human tide slackened; it became broken, finally it
ceased altogether. Men, women and children, all the able-bodied
inhabitants of the Rosebud Reservation had foregathered, and the
significance of the gathering could not be mistaken.
Now a distant murmur comes from out of the blackness of the woods. At
first it is low, faint, and without character. But it grows, it gains in
power till its raucous din breaks upon the waiting multitude, and
immediately a responsive murmur rises from ten thousand voices. Those who
hear know the meaning of the discordant noise. The "med'cine" men of the
tribe are approaching, chanting airs which accord with their "med'cine,"
and serve at the same time to herald the coming of the great Sioux chief,
Little Black Fox.
Nearer and nearer, louder and louder. All eyes are upon the black fringe
of the forest where the trees no longer have power to obstruct the
moonlight. And of a sudden a number of writhing, twisting figures come
dancing into view.
They draw nearer to the expectant throng. Necks are craned, eyes are
straining to watch the antics so significant to these creatures of
superstition. For have not these strange beings power to invoke the
spirits, to drive away evil influence from the path of him whose approach
they herald?
They reach the clearing; they leap within the human circle. Their painted
faces are distorted with the effort of their wild exertions; their
befeathered heads are rendered still more hideous by the lurid blending of
conflicting lights. Thirty creatures, hardly recognizable as human beings,
dance to the accompaniment of a strange crooning of the women onlookers;
to the beating of sad-toned drums, and the harsh scraping of stringed
instruments. But the dance is marked by a distinct time. It has
unmistakable features and figures, and it proceeds to its natural finish
which leaves the dancers prostrate upon the ground, with their faces
pressed hard into the dusty earth. It is a wild scene.
But the Sun-dance has only begun. There is much to follow.
Now a single figure moves out of the crowd, and takes its position in the
arena. It is the young chief. His attitude is one of sublime dignity. His
erect figure and haughty carriage bear the indelible stamp of his
illustrious forbears. Silently he raises one hand, and a deathly hush
falls upon his people.
And Little Black Fox speaks.
Tall, handsome, lithe, a frame of great bone and smooth sinewy muscle, he
is an imposing figure. He wears no blanket, just the buckskin, beaded as
becomes his high rank.
He harangues mightily, now working himself into an almost uncontrolled
fury, again letting his voice die down to that plaintive, musical note
which alone belongs to the Sioux tongue. And his speech is of war--wild,
fierce, unreasonable war, such as his people love. He is thrilling with
the untamed spirit of his ancestors, and every word he utters carries a
ready conviction to the untutored souls to whom it is addressed.
He sweeps on in a torrential flow of passion, and those who listen are
roused at once to a savage enthusiasm. There are no interruptions. The
oration is received in complete silence. These are Indians taken into
their sovereign's council; they are there to hear while the young brave
pronounces, with all the fire of his ardent, aboriginal nature, the doom
of their white masters.
The wise men of the council are grouped together and sit aloof. They sit
like mummies, smoking, and with every appearance of indifference. But
their ears are wide open. One alone displays interest, and it is
noticeable that he is different from all the rest of the aged group. He is
younger. He has blue eyes and fair hair, and his skin is pale. Yet he,
too, is blanketed like his companions. He listens acutely to the end of
the speech. Then he silently moves away, and, unheeded, becomes lost in
the adjacent woods.
As the chieftain's last words die away the men of "med'cine" rise from
their groveling attitude and a fresh dance begins. But this time it is not
confined to the clearing. It is one which launches them into the midst of
the audience. Hither and thither they caper, and from their tracks emerge
a number of very young men. It might be that this is the "Dance of
Selection," for it undoubtedly has the result of bringing forth a number
of striplings from the ranks of the onlookers.
The dancers have made the complete circuit, and about one hundred young
men, little more than boys, join in the great Sun-dance.
Now ensues one of the most terrible scenes of human barbarity conceivable.
In the course of the dance the "med'cine" men seize upon each of the
willing victims in turn. On the breast of each boy incisions are made with
long, keen knives; two parallel incisions on each side of the chest. The
flesh between each two of these is then literally torn from the underlying
tissues, and a rough stick is thrust through the gaping wounds. So the
would-be brave is spitted.
Now a rawhide rope is attached to the centre of the stick, the end of it
is thrown over the gnarled limb of one of the trees in the centre of the
clearing, and the youth is lifted from the ground and remains suspended,
the whole weight of his body borne by the two straps of bloody flesh cut
from his chest.
The dance proceeds until each youth is spitted and suspended from the
central cluster of trees, then, with one accord, the men of the audience
break from their places and join in the war-dance. They dance about the
victims with a fierce glee like hundreds of fiends; they beat them, they
slash them with knives, they thrust lighted brands upon the fresh young
flesh till it blisters and throws out nauseous odors. Their acts are acts
of diabolical torture, inconceivably savage. But the worst agony is
endured in desperate silence by each victim. That is, by all but one.
Out of all the number hanging like dead men upon the trees only one youth
finds the torture unendurable.
He cries aloud for mercy, and his shrieks rise high above the pandemonium
going on about him.
Instantly he is cut down, the stick is removed from his body, and he is
driven from the ceremony by the waiting squaws, amidst a storm of feminine
vituperation. He is the only one whose heart is faint. He will never be
permitted to fight. He must live with the squaws all his days. He is
considered a squaw-man, the greatest indignity that can be put upon him.
Thus are the braves made.
While the Sun-dance was still at its height two men who had taken no part
in it, except that of secret spectators, moved quickly and silently away
through the forest. Their gait was almost a flight, but not of fear.
Ten minutes of half running and half walking brought them to a spot where
two horses were tethered under the guardianship of the fierce General.
Here they mounted, and, without a word, proceeded with all speed in the
direction of the Agency.
At the door they halted, and Seth spoke for the first time since leaving
the Sun-dance. Parker had already dismounted, but the other remained in
his saddle.
"Say, you'll move right off," he said quickly, "an' git Hargreaves an' his
wimminfolk clear, too. Guess you'll make the farm 'fore me, sure. Take the
bridge for it. Rosebud 'll let you in. Guess you'll find plenty o' company
'fore daylight. Rosie 'll see to the signals."
"Yes," Parker nodded. "They're moving to-night. This is a carefully
planned surprise."
Seth glanced at the eastern sky.
"Four hours to daylight," he mused. Then: "Yes, guess there's more'n Black
Fox's hand in this. So long."
He rode off with his faithful dog at his heels, making for the ford, and
watchful of every shadow as he went. His night's work was yet only half
done.
Crossing the river he climbed the opposite bank and rode out upon the
prairie. Making a wide detour he came to within a hundred yards of the
front of Nevil Steyne's hut. Here he halted and dismounted. Crouching upon
the ground he scanned the sky-line carefully in every direction. At last
he seemed satisfied, and, flinging his bridle reins to the dog, who
promptly took them in his powerful jaws and quietly sat down in front of
the horse's head, moved cautiously forward.
In a few moments he came upon two horses standing asleep, tethered by long
ropes to picket-pins. One of these he released and led back to his own.
Then he remounted and rode on. Again he circled wide of his destination,
and this time struck into the woods that lined the river. His way now lay
down the black aisles of tree trunks which he pursued until he came to a
spot he was evidently in search of. Then he again dismounted, and,
entrusting the two horses to the dog's care, moved forward on foot.
With unerring judgment he broke cover directly in rear of Nevil's log hut.
There was neither window nor door on this side, a fact which he was
evidently aware of, for, without hesitation, but with movements as silent
as any Indian, he crept round to the front, and sidled to the window. Here
there was a light shining dully, but no means of obtaining a view of the
interior. He moved on, and, crouching at the doorway, listened intently. A
few seconds satisfied him. Wanaha was inside; she was awake, for he heard
her moving about. He knew at once that Nevil was out.
With a satisfied sigh he moved away. This time he walked eastward toward
the bridge, keeping close in the shadow of the woods. A couple of hundred
yards from the hut he stopped and took up a position just within the
shelter of the undergrowth, whence he had a perfect view of the open plain
in front, and yet was sufficiently sheltered by the echoing woods to hear
the least movement of any one passing that way. And so he waited.
Nor did he wait long. Eyes and ears trained to this sort of work were
kept ever on the alert. But it was his ears which told him at last of some
one approaching. Some one was moving through the woods. The sound was
faint and distant, but he heard it. There was no mistake. And he knew it
was Nevil Steyne returning home.
Clearing the brush he made his way into the midst of the aisles of
leafless tree-trunks. Pausing in the shadow of one of the forest giants he
waited. The footsteps came nearer. He shifted his position again; for his
ears told him that he was not yet on the track which Nevil would take.
At last, however, he came to a stand, and did not move again. Guided by a
wonderful hearing, he knew that he was in a direct line between the man
approaching and his home.
He leant against a tree, his eyes and ears straining. Some few yards away
there was a shaft of moonlight stretching right across the path which
Nevil must take, and on this path Seth kept his eyes.
The man came on all unconscious of who and what was awaiting him. He had
no thought of his presence at the Sun-dance having been detected. His
thoughts were on what the morrow was to bring forth; on what it would mean
to him when Rosebud was removed from his path. She alone stood between him
and that which he had schemed for ever since the arrival of the memorable
letter from his brother. He was in a mood of intense satisfaction. He knew
that at last he was to realize his desires, that at last he was to pay
off a long score which he owed Seth of White River Farm.
He stepped into the moonlit patch. The sudden flash of light made him
pause. It startled him. He looked beyond apprehensively, then he looked
up, and the great moon above reassured him. He moved on. The next moment
he stopped dead. He could proceed no further. A ring of metal was pressing
against his forehead, and Seth was behind it, and his smooth, even voice,
coldly compelling, held him.
"Say, I've been lookin' fer you," it said. "You're comin' right up to the
farm. The Injuns are out. Savee? Jest fer once you're goin' to work on our
side. Say, you're goin' to fight 'em--with us."
There was a deathly silence. Neither moved. The gun was pressing the man's
forehead still. Nevil stood like one paralyzed.
"Wal?" questioned the cold voice, proceeding from Seth's shadowy figure.
And Nevil was driven to speech.
"I'm not a fighting man. I----"
But his denial was cut short.
"You've jest got ten seconds to make up your mind. You're goin' to
fight--for us, or----"
Seth had in no way raised his tones from the cold level of his manner at
the beginning. His victim had only a shadowy impression of him. He saw
only a hazy outline in the blackness of the forest; and he needed no
further sight to convince him. There was sufficient in the tone, and in
the pressure of the gun at his head. He knew the rest. Here was a sudden
collapse of all his schemes. There could be no resistance. Seth had the
drop on him.
"I'll go," he said sullenly.