Every noted place of resort has an Indian legend, and the first thing I
did after getting my dinner was to look up the legendist. I wanted to hear
how it was that the Indian had ceased to frequent this spot. So in looking
for the boss legendist I struck Judge Lamoreaux, of Dodge county, who had
been herewith a party of friends, Mr. Hayes, and Mr. Van Brunt, with all
their wives. They had been searching for ferns and legends and they had a
car load. The Judge had heard of the legend, and he took me one side, and
with tears in his eyes related to me the horrible story just as he had
received it from an Indian named O'Flanegan, who sells relics in the shape
of rye. If I can control my emotion long enough to write it, it will be a
big thing for history.
[Illustration: HIAWASAMANTHA, THE DUSKY DAUGHTER OF THE GOLDEN WEST.]
Years ago an Indian chief who lived in a dog tent and caught
rattlesnakes for a side show, had a daughter, a beautiful maiden, about
the color and odor of smoked bacon, and she wore a red blanket cut biased,
and a tilter, under a polonaise made over from her last year's striped
silk. She was the belliest squaw in the hills, and took the premium at all
the county fairs, and she could shoot a deer equal to any buck Indian. Her
name was Hiawasamantha, and she had two lovers, a Frenchman and a young
Indian. In figuring up the returns there was some doubt as to who was
elected, so the father of the girl decided to go behind the returns, and
settle it by a commission. There was an eagle's nest half way up the
rocks, with young eagles in it, and the old chief said that the one that
got there first and brought him a young eagle, should have the squaw. The
Frenchman climbed up the back stairs and got there ahead of the Indian,
when the young Indian drew from his trousers leg a bar of railroad iron
and drove it to the hilt in the breast of the Frenchman, not, however,
till the Frenchman had drawn from his pistol pocket a 300 ton Krupp gun
and sent a solid shot weighing 280 pounds crashing into the skull of the
Indian, and both rolled to the bottom of the bluff, dead. Dr. Hall, of
Baraboo, was called, and he probed for the ball, but could not find it,
and neither could he get the bar of railroad iron out of the Frenchman,
and so they were buried on the spot where now stands the Cliff House. The
squaw looked around for another fellow, but they all had other
engagements, the excursion train having arrived from La Crosse, and so she
went up on a crag and said, "Big Injun me," and jumped off and was dashed
into 1,347 pieces, and the wedding was broke up. Pieces of the squaw can
now be found among the rocks, petrified, but retaining the odor of the
ancient tribe. I got a piece of her, evidently a piece broken off her ear,
which retains its shade perfectly, and will long be a reminder of
my visit to Devil's Lake. (P.S.--Disreputable parties are selling pieces
of stuff purporting to be genuine remains of this beauteous maiden, but
they are base imitations. None genuine unless the trade mark is stamped on
them.)