dance. A man named Turtle-no-head was suspended from a post in a
booth, and dancing around it. Turtle-no-head’s hands were behind
him, and he strained at the rope as he danced. Women were crying,
“_A-la-la-la-la-la!_” Old men were calling out, “Good; Turtle-no-head
is a man. One should be willing to suffer to find his god; then he will
strike many enemies and win honors!”
I was much stirred by what I saw, and by the old men’s words.
“Father,” I said, “when I get big, I am going to suffer and seek a
vision, like Turtle-no-head!”
“Good!” said my father, laughing.
At Independence, I thought of this vow made years before. One day, I said
to my father, “I want you to suspend me from the high bank, over the
Missouri.”
When evening came, my father stripped me to my clout and moccasins, and
helped me paint my body with white clay. He called a man named Crow, and
they took me to the bank, over the Missouri. My father fastened me to the
rope, and I swung myself over the bank, hanging with my weight upon the
rope. “Suffer as long as you can!” called my father, and left me.
I did not feel much pain, but I became greatly wearied from the strain
upon my back and thighs. Toward morning I could stand it no longer. I
drew myself up on the bank, and went home and to bed; and I slept so
soundly that no dream came from the spirits.
A year later, I again sought a vision. This time my father took me to a
high hill, a mile or two from the river. He drove a post into the ground,
fastened me to it, as before, and left me, just at nightfall.
I threw myself back upon the rope and danced around the post, hoping to
fall into a swoon and see a vision.
It was autumn, and a light snow was falling; the cold flakes on my bare
shoulders made me shiver till my teeth chattered. The night was black as
pitch. A coyote howled. I was so lonely that I wished a ghost would sit
on the post and talk with me, though I was dreadfully afraid of ghosts,
especially at night. I grew so cold that my knees knocked together.
About two o’clock in the morning, I untied the rope and went home. For an
hour I felt sick, but I soon fell into a sleep, again dreamless.
I was eating my breakfast when my father came in. “I have seen no vision,
father,” I told him; he said nothing.
The next year the government forbade the Indians to torture themselves
when they fasted. My father was quite vexed. “The government does wrong
to forbid us to suffer for our gods!” he said. But I was rather glad.
“The Indian’s way is hard,” I thought. “The white man’s road is easier!”
And I thought again of the mission school.
Other things drew my thoughts to civilized ways. Our agent issued to
every Indian family having an allotment, a plow, and wheat, flax, and
oats, for seeding. My father and I broke land near our cabin, and in the
spring seeded it down.
We had a fair harvest in the fall. Threshing was done on the agency
machine, and, having sacked our grain, my father and I hauled it, in four
trips, to Hebron, eighty miles away. Our flax we sold for seventy-five
cents, our wheat for sixty cents, and our oats for twenty-five cents a
bushel. Our four loads brought us about eighty dollars.
I became greatly interested in farming. There was good soil on our
allotment along the river, although our fields sometimes suffered from
drought; away from the river, much of our land was stony, fit only for
grazing.
My parents had been at Independence eight years, when one day the agent
sent for me. I went to his office.
“I hear you have become a good farmer,” he said, as I came in. “I want to
appoint you assistant to our agency farmer. Your district will include
all allotments west of the Missouri between the little Missouri and
Independence. I will pay you three hundred dollars a year. Will you
accept?“
“I will try what I can do,” I answered.
“Good,” said the Major. “Now for your orders! You are to measure off for
every able-bodied Indian, ten acres of ground to be plowed and seeded.
If an Indian is lazy and will not attend to his plowing, report him to
me and I will send a policeman. In the fall, you are to see that every
family puts up two tons of hay for each horse or steer owned by it.”
I did not know what an acre was. “It is a piece of ground,” the agent
explained, “ten rods wide and sixteen rods long.” From this I was able to
compute pretty well how much ten acres should be; but I am not sure that
all the plots I measured were of the same size.
I began my new duties at once, and at every cabin in my district, I
measured off a ten-acre plot and explained the agent’s orders. Not a few
of the Indians had done some plowing at Like-a-fish-hook village, and
all were willing to learn. Once a month, I took a blacksmith around to
inspect the Indians’ plows.
Rains were abundant that summer, and the Indians had a good crop. Some
families harvested a hundred bushels of wheat from a ten-acre field;
others, seventy-five bushels; and some had also planted oats.
The government began to issue cattle in payment of lands sold for us. The
first issue was one cow to each family, and the agent ordered me to see
that every family built a barn.
These barns were put up without planks or nails. A description of my own
will show what they were like; it rested on a frame of four forked posts,
with stringers laid in the forks; puncheons, or split logs, were leaned
against the stringers for walls; rough-cut rafters supported a roofing of
willows and dry grass, earthed over with sods.
More cattle were issued to us until we had a considerable herd at
Independence. The cattle were let run at large, but each steer or cow was
branded by its owner. Calves ran with their mothers until fall; the herd
was then corralled and each calf was branded with its mother’s brand. My
own brand was the letters SU on the right shoulder.
Herders guarded our cattle during the calving season; we paid them ten
cents for every head of stock herded through the summer months.
I had been assistant farmer six years and our herd had grown to about
four hundred head, when Bird Bear and Skunk, our two herders, reported
that some of our cattle had strayed. ”We have searched the coulees and
thickets, but cannot find them,” they said. Branding time came; we
corralled the herd and found about fifty head missing.
We now suspected that our cattle had been stolen. Cattle thieves, we
knew, were in the country; they had broken into a corral one night, on a
ranch not far from Independence and killed a cowboy named Long John.
Winter had passed, when the agent called me one day into his office.
“Goodbird,” he said, “I want you to take out a party of our agency police
and find those thieves who stole your cattle. Start at once!”
I got my party together, eight in all; Hollis Montclair, my boyhood chum;
Frank White Calf, Crow Bull, Sam Jones, White Owl, Little Wolf, No Bear,
and myself. Only Hollis and I spoke English.
We started toward the Little Missouri, where we suspected the thieves
might be found. I drove a wagon with our provisions and tent; my men were
mounted. We reached the Little Missouri before nightfall, and camped.
[Illustration: Prairie Dogs.]
The next morning, we turned westward; before noon, we crossed a prairie
dog village, and shot three or four prairie dogs for dinner. The hair was
singed off the carcasses, and they were drawn, and spitted on sticks over
the fire. Prairie dogs are not bad eating, especially in the open air,
by a good wood fire; I have never become so civilized that I would not
rather eat out of doors.
Toward evening we met a cowboy. “How!” I called, as I drew in my team.
“Have you seen any stray cattle, with Indian brands, ID, 7 bar, 7, or the
like?“ And I told him of our missing cattle.
“I know where they are,” said the cowboy. “You will find them on a ranch
near Stroud’s post-office; but don’t tell who told you!”
“Have no fear,” I answered.
Stroud’s post-office was farther west, near the Montana border; we
reached it the third or fourth day out.
We made camp, and after supper, I went in and told Mr. Stroud our errand.
“Yes,” he said, “your cattle are three miles from here, on a ranch owned
by Frank Powers; he hired two cowboys to steal them for him.”
The next morning my men and I mounted, and leaving our wagon at Stroud’s,
started for Powers’ ranch. I was unarmed; the others of my party had
their rifles.
We stopped at the cabin of a man named Crockin, to inquire our way. A
white man came in; after he had gone out again, I asked Crockin, “Who is
that man?”
“He is Frank Powers,” said Crockin.
I turned to my men and said in their own language, “That is the man who
stole our cattle.”
Little Wolf drew his cleaning rod. “I am going to give that bad white man
a beating,” he cried angrily.
“You will not,” I answered. “We will go into Powers’ pasture and round
up his cattle; and I will cut out all that I think are ours. If that bad
white man comes out and says evil words against me, do nothing. If he
shoots at me, kill him quick; but do not you shoot first!“
My men loaded their rifles, and about two o’clock I led them into the
pasture. Powers’ cattle were all bunched in a big herd; we drove them to
a grassy flat, and I began cutting out those that were ours.
Powers saw us and came out, revolver in hand, and two or three white men
joined him. He was so angry that he acted like a mad man; he grew red in
the face, talked loud, and swore big oaths; but he did not shoot, for he
knew my men would kill him.
I cut about twenty-five head out of the herd, all that I found with
altered brands on the right shoulder or thigh. Maybe I took some of
Powers’ cattle by mistake, but I did not care much.
Powers left us after a while. My men rounded up our cattle, and we drove
them back to Stroud’s and camped.
After supper, I asked Mr. Stroud to write a letter to our agent, telling
him what I had done. “To-morrow,” I told my men, “we will set out for
home. You drive our cattle back to the reservation in short stages,
so that they will not sicken with the heat. I will go ahead with Mr.
Stroud’s letter.”
I set out before sunrise; at four o’clock I reached Independence, eighty
miles away; and at sunset, I was at Elbowoods.
It was Decoration day, and the Indians were having a dance. The agent was
sitting in his office with the inspector, from Washington.
“I have found our cattle,” I said; and I gave him Mr. Stroud’s letter.
He read it and handed it to the inspector.
“Report this matter to the United States marshal,” the inspector said to
him. “Tell him to have Powers arrested.“
[Illustration: The Chapel at Independence.]
VIII
THE WHITE MAN’S WAY
My thirty-fifth winter—as we Indians count years—found me still assistant
farmer; but time had brought many changes to our reservation. Antelope
and blacktailed deer had gone the way of the buffalo. A few earth lodges
yet stood, dwellings of stern old warriors who lived in the past; but the
Indian police saw that every child was in school learning the white man’s
way. A good dinner at the noon hour made most of the children rather
willing scholars.
The white man’s peace had stopped our wars with the Sioux; and the
young folks of either tribe visited, and made presents to one another.
I had visited the Standing Rock Sioux and had learned to rather like
them. Indeed, I liked one Sioux girl so well that I married her. We had
a comfortable cabin; my wife was a good cook, and my children were in
school.
Living so far from the mission, it was not possible for me to attend
church services at the mission house; but Mr. Hall came to Independence
and preached to us. Until a school house was built, he often held his
meetings in my cabin.
I usually interpreted for him. He would speak in English and I would
translate into Hidatsa, which the Mandans also understand. Indians are
good linguists; not a few young men of my tribe speak as many as four or
five languages.
I drew no salary as interpreter; but I felt myself well repaid by what I
learned of the Bible. Interpreting Mr. Hall’s sermons made them sink into
my heart, so that I would think of them as I went about my work.
As time went on, there grew up quite a company of Christians at
Independence. One of their active leaders was Frank White Calf; and he
and Sitting Crow called a kind of praying council at Two Chiefs’ cabin.
All the Independence Christians came; and I was invited to meet them.
Some of the Indians prayed; and Frank White Calf asked me, “Goodbird, why
do you not join us in this Christian way? Tell us your mind!”
I arose and spoke: “My friends, I learned of this Christian way at the
mission school. It is a good way. You ask me my thoughts. I answer, I
have tried to live like a Christian and I love to read my Bible, but I
have not received baptism; I am now ready to be baptized.”
A few days after this, Frank White Calf said to me, “Mr. Hall wants you
to come to the mission house and be baptized.”
I went the next Sunday with my family, and was received into the church.
My sons Charles and Alfred were baptized at the same time.
In part, I was influenced to become a church member by the thought that
it was the white man’s way. Our Indian beliefs, I felt sure, were doomed;
for white men’s customs were becoming stronger with us each year. “I am
traveling the new way, now!” I thought, when I was baptized. “I can never
go back to Indian ways again.”
But for some years, even after I became a church member, I was not a very
firm Christian; and I did not keep God’s commandments very well, because
I did not believe all that the missionaries taught me. I was unwilling to
trust any white man’s words, until I had proved that they were true. I
did not want to take anything on faith.
Mr. Hall made Independence a preaching station, and put an assistant in
charge; I interpreted for her. Sometimes Mr. Hall, or his son, preached
to us.
The missionary teacher let me know each week what was to be the next
Sunday’s lesson, and she gave me books to read. Knowing something of her
subject, I was better able to interpret for her. In this way, also, I
learned more of Christ’s teachings; and I learned how to study my Bible.
This study of the Bible influenced me a great deal; and my having to
interpret made me fall into the habit of going to church regularly. My
interest in church work grew.
In 1903, the government abolished the position of assistant farmer. In
October of the following year, Mr. Hall’s son said to me, “We need an
assistant missionary at Independence, and my father and I want to appoint
you. Come and talk with my father about it.”
I went to Elbowoods and saw Mr. Hall. “Edward,” he asked, “are you
willing to be our assistant missionary?”
“Yes,” I answered.
I knew some one must preach to the Independence Indians; and I thought
I could do this, because I could speak their language as well as read
English. I felt also that I was closer to God than I had been when I was
baptized.
So I became Mr. Hall’s assistant, and have been in charge of the
Independence station ever since. Every Sunday I preach to the Indians in
the Hidatsa language. My text is the Sunday-school lesson of the week,
for we Indians do not care for sermons, such as white men hear. Our older
men cannot read English, and we do not have the Bible in our own tongue;
we like best to hear the Sunday-school lesson because it explains the
stories of the Bible, which my people cannot read for themselves.
Things do not always go smoothly in an Indian congregation. Frictions and
misunderstandings arise, as I have heard they do in white churches; and
Indians sometimes seek to become church members from unworthy motives.
Our former life makes us Indians clannish; members of the same clan feel
bound to help one another, and many Indians seem to look upon the church
as a kind of clan. Sometimes a young man will say, “I will be baptized
and join your church. Then all the Christians will work to make me
agency policeman!”
Others, again, will say, “I want to join the church because I am sick;
perhaps God will make me well!”
Some, with clearer faith, say, ”I want to become a Christian because I
believe Jesus will save me to be a spirit with Him.” They mean that they
hope Jesus will take them to live with Him when they die.
My uncle, Wolf Chief, says of the Christian way: “I traveled faithfully
the way of the Indian gods, but they never helped me. When I was sick, I
prayed to them, but they did not make me well. I prayed to them when my
children died; but they did not answer me. I have but two children left,
and I am going to trust God to keep these that they do not die like the
others. I talk to God every day, as I would talk to my father; and I ask
Him for everything I want. I try to do all that He bids me do. I hope
that He will take my spirit to travel in that new heaven about which I
have learned. I cannot change now. I can never go back to the old gods!”
Wolf Chief has been a strong Christian for more than eight years. He
has given much to our mission work; and he is never absent from Sunday
services.
Six years ago, we Christians at Independence became dissatisfied with
our log meeting house, and began to talk of building a chapel, or
church-house, as we call it. A council was called in Wolf Chief’s cabin.
It was an evening in December; all the leading Christians of Independence
came with their wives—Wolf Chief, Tom Smith, Frank White Calf, Mike
Basset, Hollis Montclair, Sam Jones, Louis Baker, and myself. Each woman
brought something for a feast, and we ate together. We had fried bread,
tea, pie, tomato soup, and other good things.
When our feasting was over, Wolf Chief made a speech. “We Christian
Indians,” he said, “should have a chapel. We should raise the money to
build a house to God, where we can go and worship!“
Tom Smith and others spoke, and we called for subscriptions. Frank White
Calf’s wife gave five dollars. Wolf Chief’s brother, Charging Enemy,
although not a Christian, gave a pony. Others promised, some ten, some
fifteen, and some twenty-five dollars.
I was appointed treasurer to make collections, and get more
subscriptions. I wrote a letter to Water Chief’s dancing society and
asked them to give something. The dancing Indians are pagans; but they
gave us a subscription.
Mr. Hall gave us fifty dollars; Mr. Shultis, our school-teacher, gave us
ten dollars; and other white friends gave us subscriptions; but most of
the money was given by the Indians.
When we had collected three hundred and fifty dollars, we began buying
lumber.
Wolf Chief wanted to give us the land for our chapel; but the Indian
commissioner wrote, “No, you may sell your land, but you must not give it
away.” So we bought the land for a dollar an acre; but Wolf Chief gave
the money back to us, outwitting the commissioner after all!
We bought ten acres. “When white men build a house,” said Wolf Chief,
“they leave land around it for a yard. We should be ashamed not to have
some land around God’s house!“ Our ten-acre plot makes a fine big church
yard; at one end is our Indian cemetery.
Wolf Chief also gave us a colt, and much money, and bought paint and
nails.
We Indians think Wolf Chief wealthy. He owns five hundred acres of land,
thirty head of cattle, eight horses, and pigs and chickens; he has a
potato field and a corn field, and owns a trading store.
More than fifty were present when we dedicated our chapel. A minister
from Minneapolis preached the sermon, and I interpreted for him. A young
white lady sang, and played the organ, and my cousin played a clarionet.
Our school teacher had lent us his phonograph, and it sang “There are
ninety and nine,” just like a choir in a city church. I asked for
subscriptions to clear off our debt, and we raised eighty-three dollars
in money, and Wolf Chief gave us another colt. The minister prayed God to
bless our chapel, and we went home, all very happy.
Older Indians, who came from Like-a-fish-hook village, find their life on
allotments rather lonesome. Cabins are often two or three miles apart and
the old men cannot amuse themselves with books, for they cannot read. In
old times, Indians often met in big dances; but pagan ceremonies are used
in these dances, and Mr. Hall does not like the Christian Indians to go
to them.
That our Christian Indians may meet socially now and then, we now observe
many white men’s holidays; and at such times, we make our chapel the
meeting place. In August, we hold a Young Men’s Christian Convention,
when families come from miles around, to camp in tents around the
chapel. At Christmas, we have feasting and giving of presents; and our
chapel is so crowded that many have to stand without, and look through
the windows. Of late years, we have also observed Decoration Day at
Independence.
Our camp last Decoration Day was ten or more tents, with two or three
families in a tent. We made a booth, after old custom, of leafy branches
and small trees. In this we gathered at about ten o’clock.
Our school teacher began our exercises with a speech telling us what
Decoration Day should mean to us. We sang “America,” and other hymns, and
had speeches by Indians. A committee had been appointed to choose the
speakers.
Rabbit Head spoke, “I do not know anything about your way, but I
encourage you! Go on, do more. I have nothing against your going the
Christian way!” Rabbit Head is a chief in the Grass dance society, and a
pagan.
Wounded Face spoke, “I do not belong to this church, I am a Catholic; but
I thus show that I like white men’s ways!”
After dinner we made ready to decorate our graves. Every family having a
son buried in our graveyard, hired a clan father to clean the grave of
weeds and stones; if a daughter, a clan aunt was asked. An Indian calls
the members of his mother’s clan, his brothers and sisters; members of
his father’s clan, he calls his clan fathers and aunts.
At two o’clock we formed a procession and marched to the cemetery. Two
aged scouts led, High Eagle and Black Chest; High Eagle bore a large
American flag. We marched by two’s in a long line, the men first, then
the women and children. Having marched around the graveyard, we stood and
sang some hymns, and I made a speech:
“All you relatives and friends of these dead, I want to make a speech to
you!
“It seems sad to our hearts to come here, and yet we are glad, because
we come to remember our loved ones at their graves; so both gladness and
sorrow are in our hearts.
“These warrior men, that you see here, fought against our enemies. They
fought to save us, so that to-day we are not captive, but free. Some of
the brave men who fought to save us, died in battle. Also, some of your
loved ones have died and are buried in this graveyard. Many of these
loved ones did not die fighting against enemies, yet they were brave
warriors against evil and temptation. Now they are gone from us. They are
in a new world, the ghost land; they are with God. I am sure they are in
a safe, happy place.
“Now come forward, all who want to put flowers on the graves.”
We had had a cold, dry spring, and the prairie flowers had not come into
bloom, but we had sent to Plaza and bought artificial silk flowers. The
clan fathers and aunts placed these flowers on the graves, while many of
the women wept.
* * * * *
We Hidatsas know that our Indian ways will soon perish; but we feel no
anger. The government has given us a good reservation, and we think the
new way better for our children.
I think God made all peoples to help one another. We Indians have helped
you white people. All over this country are corn fields; we Indians gave
you the seeds for your corn, and we, gave you squashes and beans. On the
lakes in your parks are canoes; Indians taught you to make those canoes.
We Indians think you are but paying us back, when you give us schools and
books, and teach us the new way.
For myself, my family and I own four thousand acres of land; and we have
money coming to us from the government. I own cattle and horses. I can
read English, and my children are in school.
I have good friends among the white people, Mr. Hall and others, and best
of all, I think each year I know God a little better.
I am not afraid.
Printed in the United States of America.