Perhaps no other people enjoy good stories better, and are more apt at
telling them, than are the Indians. This art, most highly prized in a
race without books, serves as a necessary outlet to their imaginations,
and wonderfully enlivens their social and family life. The time for
telling Indian stories is in the evening--best of all, around a glowing
wood fire, on the long nights of winter. Here, every accent, every
gesture, has its meaning, no faintest shade of which is lost upon the
circle of attentive listeners.
True stories of warfare and the chase are related many times over by
actors and eye-witnesses, that no detail may be forgotten. Handed down
from generation to generation, these tales gradually take on the
proportions of heroic myth and legend. They blossom into poetry and
chivalry, and are alive with mystery and magic. The pictures are vivid,
and drawn with few but masterly strokes. Often animals as well as men
are the villains and heroes, and in this way a grotesque humor is
artfully yet naturally developed.
In the old days, it was customary among us for each clan to have its
official story-teller, whose skill in making the most of his material
had built up a reputation which might extend even to neighboring
villages. He was not only an entertainer in demand at all social
gatherings, but an honored schoolmaster to the village children. The
great secret of his success was his ability to portray a character or a
situation truthfully, yet with just a touch of humorous or dramatic
exaggeration. The scene is clearly visualized; the action moves quickly,
with successive events leading up to the climax, which must be handled
with much dignity and seriousness, or pathos and gravity may be turned
upside down in the unexpectedness of the catastrophe.
Here is a short example of Indian story-telling:
Far out in the middle of the "Bad Lands" upon the Little Missouri, there
stands a pillar-like butte some four or five hundred paces in height.
Here and there upon its sheer walls cling a few stunted pines and
cedars, some hanging by one foot, others by their great toe only. Not
one of the many gulches that furrow its sides affords a safe path, or
even a tolerable ladder to the top. There is generally a pair of eagles
who breed there, and an occasional Rocky Mountain sheep may be seen
springing along its terraces. We Indians have long regarded this butte
as a sacred temple, the very spot for solitary prayer and fasting; but
tradition states that only two men have ever set foot upon its summit
for this purpose.
Feared-by-the-Bear was a warrior of unquestioned bravery. One day he
announced that he would fast upon Cloud Butte. Thereupon other
well-known braves decided to fast there also. Their leader managed the
ascent with much labor and difficulty. When, just at sunset, he reached
the summit, he was happy; the world seemed revealed to him in all its
beauty and majesty. "Where can such another shrine be found?" he
thought.
He took his position upon a narrow projection of rock extending over the
abyss, where it is said no human being has stood before or since. The
full moon had risen, and the brave stood above that silvered gulf of air
with uplifted filled pipe and extended arm, praying without words, as is
our custom.
Suddenly his ears rang with the cry: "Haya hay! A grizzly! A grizzly!"
He was compelled to suspend his devotions for an instant, and to throw a
glance in the direction of the call. He perceived that his example had
been followed, and that what seemed an avenging spirit was pursuing his
fellow worshipper.
"Dodge behind a tree! Run your best; he is almost upon you!" he shouted.
But the nearest tree hung upon the verge of the precipice. If the man
missed his footing, he must go down to death.
There was no time to consider. Around the tree he flew and disappeared
like a passing shadow. At his heels the desperate grizzly, who had
prolonged his unwilling fast upon the butte for days, not daring to
attempt the descent, lunged heavily against the swaying cedar to save
himself from falling headlong. He was half a second too late!
Feared-by-the-Bear had not yet been discovered. He clutched his long
pipe and still pointed it toward the starry sky in silent supplication.
Indeed, he had now more immediate cause for prayer. "Waugh!" uttered the
hungry bear, and approached him with wide-open mouth.
The dizzy shelf on which the brave stood had been an eagle's nest for
ages, but was just now unoccupied. Old Mato, the bear, seemed reluctant
to advance, for on either side the sheer rock descended to a great
distance. The warrior merely turned toward him the filled pipe which he
had been offering to the "Great Mystery."
"To your spirit, O Bear! I offer this peace pipe, the same I have just
offered to the Maker of us both. Will you partake of it, and commission
me to be as brave and strong as yourself?" Thus speaking, and without
showing any nervousness, he pointed the long stem of the pipe directly
at the bear, upon which Mato growled ungraciously, but did not offer to
come nearer. On the other hand, he showed no intention of leaving, and
the way to escape was blocked.
Feared-by-the-Bear lighted his pipe with the "fire maker," and smoked
deliberately. Then he kindled a little fire in the dry twigs of the old
eagle's nest. This seemed to disturb the bear, whereupon he boldly threw
a firebrand at him. The dry leaves caught and blazed fiercely. Mato ran
for his life, and with this new fright behind him, found no serious
difficulty in getting down the trail.
In due time, the faster left his position with all dignity, and
approached the leaning cedar tree behind which his friend, as he
supposed, had leaped to death. His first shuddering look over the brink
showed him that the young man still hung suspended by his hands from a
large branch. With much difficulty he was dragged up to solid rock, and
his involuntary ordeal brought to a close. This event established the
names and reputations of "Overcliff" and "Feared-by-the-Bear."