WHITE BUFFALO BRINGS NEWS
When Dave entered the cabin homestead he found his Aunt Lucy and his
cousin Rodney, the cripple, hard at work making tallow candles, the
only kind of light used about the place after sundown. Over a fire in
the dooryard hung a kettle full of soft tallow and on the kitchen floor
rested the metal moulds for forming the candles after the wicks had
been placed in from end to end. The best of the candles were made in
this manner, but Rodney was making a commoner sort by simply dipping
wicks into the fat and hanging them up to harden, repeating this
process until the prospective lights were of the desired thickness.
“Why, Dave, what brings you back so soon?” cried Mrs. Morris, somewhat
startled at his unexpected appearance. “I didn’t blow the horn for
supper.”
“White Buffalo is coming, and Uncle Joe told me to tell you that he
would probably be hungry, and for you to get those new dress goods out
of the way before the redskin saw ’em. If you don’t he’ll most likely
tell you he dreamed you gave them to him for his squaw, or something
like that.”
“Mercy on us, White Buffalo! Yes, I will get them out of sight, every
one! He is a good-enough Indian, but, oh, every one of ’em is such a
beggar! What did he say of your father, Dave?”
“I didn’t see him to talk to, Aunt Lucy--I came away before he came up.
But Uncle Joe said he would bring him right up to the cabin. Shall I
help clear the kitchen floor?”
“Yes, we are about done for to-day, and Rodney is more than tired, I
can see that plainly. Rodney, you just go and rest yourself on the bed,
Dave and I can get this mess out of the way in a jiffy.”
“I’m willing enough,” answered Rodney, with a deep drawn sigh, and
rising from his rush-seated chair he hobbled out of the kitchen to the
next room.
“Do you want me to kill anything for supper--a couple of chickens or
ducks?” queried Dave, as he began gathering up the still warm candle
moulds.
“No; Henry shot a deer right after dinner--down by the old salt
lick--dropped him, so he said, without the least bit of trouble. He’s
down at the shed now dressing it. We can have that,--and I’ll make
some corn cakes--the kind those Indians like. You had better bring me
in some more wood. I’ll take care of the rest of the candles. And tell
Henry to fetch along a nice piece of that deer meat, and a jug of that
yellow apple cider.” And so speaking Mrs. Morris bustled around at a
lively rate, that she might have the kitchen in order when her husband
appeared with their Indian guest.
At the cattle shed, a rude affair of rough logs and tree branches, Dave
found his cousin Henry tacking up the deer-skin to dry and tan in the
sun. Henry was a short, stout youth and a good deal of the same turn of
mind as his mother.
“I’ll bring up a good-enough piece of meat for any redskin,” he said,
after listening to Dave. “I’m glad White Buffalo has come, although I
didn’t expect to see him for a fortnight, or until the next new moon.
Everything must have gone along swimmingly with your father.”
“I hope so, Henry.”
In a few minutes Henry brought up the venison, and Dave followed with
the extra wood, and soon Mrs. Morris had a roaring fire with which to
prepare the evening repast. There was, of course, no stove, only a rude
brick oven, and the meat was placed on a spit to broil, the oven being
used for the corn cakes and for other things the lady of the cabin
wished to bake. From chains overhead hung a pot and an iron kettle with
water, and also a smaller kettle in which Mrs. Morris brewed herself
some tea. As the cooking progressed most of the smoke went up the
broad chimney but some came into the kitchen, and the ceiling, where
hung numerous things to dry, was covered with soot in consequence.
The table was bare of linen or oilcloth, but scrubbed to a snowy
whiteness. Plates were laid for all, but at the place to be occupied by
White Buffalo a short bench was drawn up, that the Indian chief might
eat from the level of his lap should he prefer to do so. The knives
and forks, the latter quite new, were of iron, and Joseph Morris, like
many other old pioneers, preferred to use his pocket-knife when cutting
food. Napkins there were none, but a bucket of water stood in a corner
and above it was a towel hung on a cow-horn, for the use of anyone
who wished to keep his fingers or mouth clean. And yet this cabin was
furnished as well as those of thousands of other pioneers.
The supper was well under way when Joseph Morris appeared at the
edge of the homestead clearing side by side with White Buffalo, who
slackened his pace to a dignified walk when approaching the cabin.
The Indian was of the tribe of Delawares, tall, thin, and as straight
as an arrow. His eyes were black and bright, and his mouth showed a
set of teeth as clean and polished as those of a wolf. His headgear
consisted principally of white feathers, tipped with yellow to imitate
gold, and over his shoulder he carried a small blanket of buffalo hide,
dyed white with yellow spots, the spots being somewhat in the shape
of wolves’ heads. This signified, in the Indian language, that he was
White Buffalo, son of Yellow Wolf, a former powerful chief of the
Delawares.
As the Indian came up Dave ran out to meet him and shake his hand. “I
am very glad to see White Buffalo,” he said. “I hope you bring good
news of my father,” and he pressed the red man’s hand warmly.
“How-how!” answered the Indian in return, meaning, “how do you do?”
Then he looked at Dave steadily for a few seconds. “The white boy’s
father was well when I left him, eight sleeps ago. He must still be
well,” he went on.
“I am glad to hear that, White Buffalo. Did he find the spot he visited
before?”
At this question a proud look came into the Indian’s face. “Yes, he
found the spot, but not alone. White Buffalo was told how the place
looked, and he hunted it up for the white boy’s father.”
“White Buffalo has brought a long letter from your father,” put in
Joseph Morris. “I know you are impatient to read it, so you may do so
before we have supper,” and he handed the communication to his nephew.
Then he led the Indian into the cabin, where Mrs. Morris and the others
greeted him as warmly as had Dave, for all but little Nell knew the old
chief well and liked him.
The letter from James Morris was straight to the point and
characteristic of the man, and ran, in part, as follows:
“The journey to this spot was a hard one. We had great difficulty in
crossing the rivers, and at one of the fords Bess, a good black mare,
lost her footing and was drowned before we could catch her and take
off her packs.
“Two days before we reached the Kinotah we came upon a band of very
dirty Indians under the leadership of Fox Head, a Miami. They begged
for many things and we had at last to drive them off. I got two of
White Buffalo’s braves to trail them for several miles, and they
brought back word that Fox Head was very bitter against me. Fearing
an attack that night I moved our camp to the south of the regular
trail, but the Miamis have not appeared since.
“In consequence of moving from the trail I lost the lay of the land
for twenty-four hours, and had to call on White Buffalo to aid me in
locating the Kinotah. This he did with great ease, and by high noon
the day following we reached the point I have named Ella Dell, and
before night were hard at work establishing our trading camp.
“At present our post consists of a strong log cabin built in the
shape of a cross, and is located in the angle formed by the Kinotah
and a creek I have called Indian Brook, for the Indians use it
greatly when in quest of fish. Game is plentiful and I have arranged
it so that Tony and Putty can go out and shoot. The Indians are
already bringing in their hides and furs, but a good deal of what
they have is old and I have given them to understand that I want only
that which is new and of the best. I believe that by next year the
trade will be a well paying one.
“I am sorely in need of a number of things, and on another sheet have
made out a list. If you will buy them at Winchester or Annapolis and
pack them well on two horses, White Buffalo has agreed to bring them
to me without delay. To the list you can add anything new which you
may see and which you think would be attractive for trading purposes.
“Give my best wish and love to all, and tell Dave that I think of
him constantly and that I trust all goes well until we meet. Perhaps
when White Buffalo makes another trip I will write him personally,
but just now my hands are too full, and I am writing this while the
others are sleeping.
“Before closing, I must mention that the French are pushing into this
territory fast, and that I heard from two of the Indians that they
consider this land as belonging to them. I always considered that it
belonged to our colonies. As yet I have not met any of the French
traders, but have been told that a number of them are located further
west, on the Ohio River. Unless this question of whose land it really
is, is settled soon, it may bring serious difficulties in the future.”
Dave read the letter with deep interest, not once but several times.
Communications of this sort were not common in those days, and each
letter received was treasured for a long while afterward. He wished his
father had written to him personally, but understanding the situation,
did not complain.
When he entered the kitchen he found the family and White Buffalo
assembled around the table. Placing the letter on a shelf he slipped
into his own seat. A moment of silence followed, and then Joseph
Morris offered a humble prayer and gave thanks to God for the food of
which they were about to partake. During this White Buffalo sat as
motionless as a statue, nor did he speak a word while the food was
handed around. He ate from the bench, and if he wanted a thing took it,
otherwise he simply motioned it away.
The meal over, Joseph Morris brought forth some of his best tobacco
and filled a new clay pipe, one of the red variety with a long stem.
He took a few puffs, then handed the pipe to White Buffalo who did the
same. Then the Indian produced his own pipe and went through the same
performance. After this both smoked freely, and the tongue of White
Buffalo loosened readily.
“I have seen many places which were fair to look upon, but none more
fair than Ella Dell,” said he. “In days to come the spot will bring
many doubloons to the pockets of the Morrises. The game love the spot,
the deer and the fish cannot stay away from it, and the river makes
sweet music as it passes it by.”
“Yes, my brother told us of it before,” answered Joseph Morris. “It was
continually in his mind. I sincerely trust we can make our title good
to it. But what do you know of the French around there?”
At this the brow of White Buffalo clouded. “The French are not my
friends, nor are they the friends of the English who have gone toward
the setting sun. The French would keep that fair land for themselves,
and send away both the English and the Indians. Sooner or later there
will be war because of this.”
“War!” cried Dave.
The Indian nodded gravely. “The French and the English are at peace,
but when they buried the hatchet many moons ago none of the great
warriors spoke of the lands between here and the Father of Waters,” he
went on, meaning by Father of Waters the Mississippi River. “I have
heard the story from White Thunder, and also from Tanacharisson, the
Half-king. The French have sailed upon the Father of Waters and claim
all the lands which drain therein; the English claim this land because
of a treaty made many winters ago with the Iroquois. And the Indian who
lives upon the land, what of him, with his squaw and his pappoose? If
the French or the English take the land he will have nothing, and he
and his squaw and his pappoose can starve. Yes, the hatchet will be dug
up again.”
“It sounds reasonable, White Buffalo,” answered Joseph Morris, after a
thoughtful pause. “But if war should come because of this, I think the
Indians ought to stand in with the English.”
“White Buffalo will stand with his white friends. But he cannot speak
for those of other tribes. Many will fight with those who promise the
most, for we are but children when it comes to dealing with the white
man. I have lived with you long and I know you better than do most of
my people. The Indian is wise, but his wisdom is of the woods and not
of books. The white man can cheat him if he will, and the Indian will
be none the wiser.”
Here the conversation changed and Joseph Morris went over the list his
brother had sent him. Before retiring that night it was decided that he
should depart for Winchester and Annapolis the next day, leaving White
Buffalo to remain at the cabin until his return.
“Can’t I go with you and help buy those things?” asked Dave of his
uncle.
“Would you like to go very much, Dave?”
“I would.”
“Then you shall go. And now let us off to bed, for it is growing late.”
A few minutes later the occupants of the cabin retired, leaving White
Buffalo to make himself comfortable, as suited him, on the kitchen
floor in front of the dying fire.