CAMP OF BRINGS-DOWN-THE-SUN
The chief was waiting inside his lodge. He directed Onesta to a place
on his right, Little Creek and myself to a couch on his left. It was
covered with robes and blankets and had comfortable back-rests, which
were made of small willow sticks bound on both ends with rawhide. The
tepee was scrupulously neat and clean; a small wood fire burned in the
center, surrounded by a circle of smooth round stones; cooking utensils
were near the door; provisions and clothing stored in painted rawhide
cases. At the head of the chief’s couch hung a sacred medicine case
with long fringe hanging down; and from the lodge-poles articles of
clothing decorated with needlework, beads, and colored quills.
For a while we smoked in silence. I listened to the last songs of the
birds and the evening wind in the tree tops. Then Bird, the wife of the
chief, entered the lodge. She was small and slender. From the smile she
gave me and her kindly expression, I knew she had a good heart. She
straightway began to work, and soon set before us a meal of service
berries, dried meat, and hot tea. After we had eaten, we smoked again.
Then Onesta said to Brings-Down-the-Sun:
“We have come a long distance with this white man to see you. Mad Wolf
adopted him as his son and gave him the name of White Weasel; and he is
now a member of our tribe. On our journey we told every one we were
taking White Weasel to visit you. Now I want you to tell him Indian
legends, and our ancient customs and religion. This white man is our
friend; and you are my kinsman; I ask you to do this.”
But the aged chief was strangely cold and silent. For a while he sat
calmly smoking, gazing into the fire. Finally he turned toward me, and,
looking intently into my face, said with spirit:
“This man comes from a race that has always cheated and told us lies.
This spring I made a vow to have nothing more to do with white men.
They have taken away our freedom, our country, and our means of
support. Now they try to take away our religion. They have forbidden us
to give our ceremony that is sacred to the Sun; and for this they give
no reason. The white men have no right to take away our religion. It
was given to us by the Sun and Moon, and as long as the Sun and Moon
are in the sky, I shall continue to worship them. We struggle to keep
up our religion, that our people may lead good lives and be happy; as
they were in the days of the past before the white men came into our
country.
“This spring the white men shut off my rations. They refused to let me
have food for my children, because I was making ready to give the Sun
Dance. I had to give the ceremony to save the life of a child that was
dying; its mother had already made her vow to the Sun. Now my heart is
bitter against all white men; I do not want to make known any of my
knowledge to a white man. But Onesta, you are my relative, and have
made a long journey. This white man can remain in my camp for a few
days to rest; and during that time we may get to know each other
better.”
Then a slender, pretty girl, dressed in soft-tanned deerskin, came into
the lodge. She was the youngest daughter of the chief and was named
“Whistling-All-Night,” because she was born in the moon, “when the jack
rabbit whistles at night in calling its mate.”
Said Brings-Down-the-Sun to Onesta and Little Creek: “My family comes
every summer to gather wild berries in this valley; and we are glad to
have you come too. Berries are plentiful this summer; you had better
gather a supply and dry them for winter, as we are accustomed to do.
But I ask you to be careful of our berry bushes. Do not break the
branches, or injure any of our big trees. I am looking ahead for the
good of my people. I want to preserve the trees and berry bushes for
future generations. I am accustomed to warn my fellow tribesmen not to
be shortsighted like the Blood Indians. They once had big trees like
ours, but they cut them all down for firewood. Now their country is
bare and they have few berry bushes. I told my people to haul their
firewood from the forests on the mountains. They have followed my
advice, and we still have our big-leaf-trees (cottonwoods). The trees
with long leaves we call spear-leaf-trees (balsam poplar); we have also
round-leaf-trees (quaking aspen), and thickets of brush-sticks
(willows). We call the big trees ‘the-old-time-trees,’ and the small
ones ‘young-people-trees.’”
So they talked until darkness settled over valley and Indian camp. I
saw the pale light of the rising moon shining on the tepee walls. And,
while I sat watching this venerable medicine man, I thought: “How
strange that he, of a savage race, an untaught son of the wilderness,
should have the wisdom and foresight of a statesman in trying to
husband their natural resources of big trees and berry bushes; and,
although he had just cause for hating the white race, yet he treated me
with kindness and generosity.”
As I was leaving the tepee, I made presents to all his family—a silk
handkerchief of bright colors to Brings-Down-the-Sun, a blanket to his
wife, and a bracelet of shining white shells to his daughter,
Whistling-All-Night.
That night came the first heavy thunder of the season for the North
Piegans. So, next day, it was necessary for owners of Medicine Pipes to
give a ceremony and distribute tobacco. A messenger came inviting us to
a ceremony at the lodge of Running Antelope. I went with Onesta and
Nitana and some of the members of Brings-Down-the-Sun’s family.
When we arrived, the tepee was already crowded with Indians. But they
made room for us because we were strangers. As soon as I entered, I
recognized the leader of the ceremony. He was Bull Plume, a medicine
man who had visited the camp of my Indian father. When I took my seat
in front of him, he gazed at me in astonishment. He stopped in the
middle of a song and announced to the assembled Indians, that I was the
adopted son of Chief Mad Wolf and my name was Á-pe-ech-e-ken. He asked
me to sit beside him and help him in the songs. He said my voice would
add power to their prayers. So the singers made room for me and I
joined in their chants.
After a number of songs and prayers, Bull Plume took up the Medicine
Pipe, which lay before him, and carried it out-of-doors. He held it up
towards the Sun and prayed for all the people who were present; that
none of them might be killed that year by the Thunder.
Then they had a feast of service-berry soup; and some of the tobacco
from the Pipe Bundle was given to every one. To possess this
consecrated tobacco and to smoke it, was believed to bring a person
into the good will of the Thunder.
After the Medicine Pipe Ceremony, the wife of Running Antelope got Bull
Plume to help her with another ceremony over a sacred headdress. This
was necessary because of a vow she had made in behalf of her son who
was so ill they thought he would die.
That afternoon I went to explore the valley about our camp. I came upon
groups of North Piegan children, like wild sprites of the woods slyly
peeping through the trees, curious to see the feared white man. At
first they fled in terror, but their fear quickly vanished when I gave
them presents of crackers and sweet chocolate, which they took without
thanks and disappeared among the trees and bushes.
I followed a well-worn trail through the woods, leading past the lodge
of Brings-Down-the-Sun to a pool in the river, where he took his
morning bath. It was a lovely spot—a still-water where the deep current
flowed gently; the grassy banks were lined with birch and berry bushes,
fragrant thickets, and leafy arches overhead. Along the trail were
bright yellow flowers of gaillardia, drooping bluebells, Canada
violets, and scarlet Indian paint-brush.
I saw Long Hair, daughter of the chief, come from the river with her
water pails; and Nitana on the shore bathing her small daughter, Yellow
Mink. A young girl was riding on a rude raft of poles, which stuck fast
in midstream. I refrained from going to her assistance, because of the
talk it would cause in the camp. But I took her picture with my camera.
She wore white-shell ear-rings, a long necklace of blue service
berries, and leggings and moccasins decorated with colored beads. Her
deerskin dress was bound at the waist with a girdle of colored beads;
Indian fashion, it had no sleeves, but was cut into a fringed cape
across the shoulders and hung freely over her bare arms.
In the woods many birds were singing, yellow-throat, goldfinch,
catbird, white-crown sparrow and many varieties of warblers. I found
the spring of cold water which the chief had recommended. Around it
were beds of delicious red strawberries, wild cherries, and wonderful
service-berry bushes; they reached high above the ground and were
covered with ripe fruit.
In the soft mud of the river bank were the marks of a family of
beavers—large tracks of old beavers and the tiny footprints of their
children. I saw poplars freshly cut by them, also the stumps of trees
they had felled many years ago. When I told Onesta about them, he said:
“That family of beavers has lived here many years; the Indians have
never disturbed them. Beaver are like people. Some are restless and
keep on the move; they are never satisfied in one place. But this
beaver family is content to stay here, happy in their good home; they
have a sandy beach, mud bottom, and plenty of food.”
I came upon some children of the North Piegans, playing with dolls in
an open glade. They had a miniature camp with little play-tepees, men
and women dolls dressed in skin costumes, with real hair, little belts,
and moccasins and leggings to match the clothes. In the center of the
camp, which was in the form of a circle, was a tepee for the
head-chief; it had diminutive back-rests and painted rawhide cases,
little tanning tools, knife sheaths and squirrel-skins for robes.
The children had a lively game, like our “catcher,” in which all the
players tried to get away from one of their number, at whom they sang
derisively:
A-pi Kái-i só-mitu-yo-Ka-Kè-Kin-ni.
(You are an old skunk with no hair along your mangey backbone)
Boys played a rough game of kicking each other from two opposing sides,
to see which would give way first; and a game called “playing bear,”
that was popular while swimming. They caught one of their number and
tossed him into deep water and scampered away. When he got ashore he
ran after them until he caught another boy, and then they all joined in
tossing him into the water.
The boys also had a curious arrow game, in which they shot at a stake,
trying to hit it, or to come as near as possible. If the second in turn
were doubtful whether he could shoot better than the first, he went to
the stake and danced for power to win, beating time with his arrow on
the stake and singing: “I am the one who can hit the stake arrow
first.”
If the second player made a good shot, the third danced at the stake to
beat him, and so on.
Women had a game of throwing arrows at a target, also a four-stick
gambling game, using marked buffalo bones.
The favorite gambling game with young men was to roll a small wheel
over a smooth stretch of ground. Two players followed it, trying to
throw, so that the wheel would not fall on their arrows. Their comrades
held the stakes and kept score. Whenever a play was finished one side
would shout: “Give us one point”; or the other side: “We get two
points.” If a player gambled away all his possessions, he was said “to
walk the prairie.”
Near sunset I left the valley and climbed Lookout Butte, a high hill
where Brings-Down-the-Sun was accustomed to go to meditate and dream.
Its summit was covered with wiry grass in bunches, and creeping cedar
which grew in great clumps, forming mats with branches growing close to
the ground.
From the top of the butte I had a broad view of the Rocky Mountains,
the pine forests on the Porcupine Hills in the north, and the
surrounding plains for miles. There I waited for the sun to set.
Soon vapors formed along the river valley and shadows extended over the
plains. The air was so clear it was long after sunset before darkness
fell and the stars came out. In the valley at the foot of the butte
were clusters of white Indian tepees, nestled among the trees and
glowing with firelight. The night wind from the mountains, blowing
softly over the valley, brought the faint tinkling of horse-bells and
the rhythmic beating of an Indian drum.
As I sat on that solitary hill and felt the deep peace that comes from
close communion with nature, a doubt came into my mind, whether white
men with all their striving, their wealth, and material success, have
attained as high an average of happiness, contentment, and loyalty to
community interest, as was attained under the simple and natural life
of the average Indian family before the coming of the white man. One
could look in vain among Indian camps near the foot of the Rockies and
by the streams and rivers of the plains for the misery and discontent,
which involve masses of people in our great industrial cities.