hands and took our separate trails. The Blackfeet went north, the
People-that-click-with-their-tongues went west, and the Magpies, the
Cut Throats, and the Snakes started together to the east. The Burnt
Thighs kept on, while the Magpies and the Cut Throats turned to the
northeast.
“At last we reached home, and I called a big dance, and at the dance
I told the people what I had seen, and they were very glad. ‘Teach us
the dance,’ they cried to me.
“‘Be patient,’ I said. ‘Wait till all the other people get home. When
the grass is green and the moon is round, then we will dance, and all
the red people will dance at the same time; then will the white man
surely fade away, and the buffalo come up out of the earth where he
is hid and roam the sod once more.’
“Then they did as I bid, and when the moon was round as a shield, we
beat the drum and called the people to dance.
“Then the white man became much excited. He called for more soldiers
everywhere to stop the dance, so I heard afterward. But the people
paid no attention, for was not the white man poor and weak by the
magic of the dance?
“Then we built five fires, one to each world direction and one in the
center. We put on our best dress. We painted our faces and bodies in
memory of our forefathers, who were mighty warriors and hunters. We
carried bows and arrows and tomahawk and war clubs in memory of the
days before the white man’s weapons. Our best singers knelt around
the drum, and the women sat near to help them sing. When the drum
began to beat, our hearts were very glad. There were Magpies and Cut
Throats among us, but we were all friends. We danced between the
fires, and as we danced the drummers sang the mystic song:
“Father, have pity on us.
We are crying for thirst—
All is gone!
We have nothing to eat,
Our Father, we are poor—
We are very poor.
The buffalo are gone,
They are all gone.
Take pity on us, O Father!
We are dancing as you wish,
Because you commanded us.
We dance hard—
We dance long.
Have pity!
“The agent came to see us dance, but we did not care. He was a good
man, and we felt sorry for him, for he must also vanish with the
other white people. He listened to our crying, and looked long, and
his interpreter told him we prayed to the Great Spirits to destroy
the white man and bring back the buffalo. Then he called me with his
hand, and because he was a good man I went to him. He asked me what
the dance meant, and I told him, and he said, ‘It must stop.’ ‘I
cannot stop it,’ I said. ‘The Great Spirits have said it. It must go
on.’
“He smiled, and went away, and we danced. He came again on the third
day, and always he laughed. He said: ‘Go on. You are big fools. You
will see the buffalo will never come back, and the white man is too
strong to be swept away. Dance till the fourth day, dance hard, but I
shall watch you.’
“On the fourth night, while we danced, soldiers came riding down the
hills, and their chiefs, in shining white hats, came to watch us. All
night we prayed and danced. We prayed in our songs.
“Great Spirit, help us.
You are close by in the dark.
Hear us and help us.
Take away the white man.
Send back the buffalo.
We are poor and weak.
We can do nothing alone.
Help us to be as we once were,
Happy hunters of buffalo.
“But the agent smiled, and the soldiers of the white chiefs sat not
far off, their guns in their hands, and the moon passed by, and the
east grew light, and we were very weary, and my heart was heavy. I
looked to see the red come in the east. ‘When the sun looks over the
hills, then it will be,’ I said to my friends. ‘The white man will
become as smoke. The wind will sweep him away.’
“As the sun came near we all danced hard. My voice was almost gone.
My feet were numb, my legs were weak, but my heart was big.
“‘Oh, help us, Great Spirits,’ we cried in despair.
“‘Father, the morning star,
Father, the morning star,
Look on us!
Look on us, for we have danced till dawn;
Look on us, for we have danced until daylight.
Take pity on us,
O Father, the morning star!
Show us the road—
Our eyes are dark.
Show us our dead ones.
We cry and hold fast to you,
O morning star.
We hold out our hands to you and cry.
Help us, O Father!
We have sung till morning
The resounding song.’
“But the sun came up, the soldiers fired a big gun, and the soldier
chiefs laughed. Then the agent called to me,
“‘Your Great Spirit can do nothing. Your Messiah lied.’
“Then I covered my head with my blanket and ran far away, and I fell
down on the top of the high hill. I lay there a long time, thinking
of the white man’s laugh. The wind whistled a sad song in the grass.
My heart burned, and my breath came hard.
“‘Maybe he was right. Maybe the messenger was two-tongued and
deceived us that the white man might laugh at us.’
“All day I lay there with my head covered. I did not want to see the
light of the sun. I heard the drum stop and the singing die away.
Night came, and then on the hills I heard the wailing of my people.
Their hearts were gone. Their bones were weary.
“When I rose, it was morning. I flung off my blanket, and looked down
on the valley where the tepees of the white soldiers stood. I heard
their drums and their music. I had made up my mind. The white man’s
trail was wide and dusty by reason of many feet passing thereon, but
it was long. The trail of my people was ended.
“I said, ‘I will follow the white man’s trail. I will make him my
friend, but I will not bend my neck to his burdens. I will be cunning
as the coyote. I will ask him to help me to understand his ways, and
then I will prepare the way for my children. Maybe they will outrun
the white man in his own shoes. Anyhow, there are but two ways. One
leads to hunger and death, the other leads where the poor white man
lives. Beyond is the happy hunting ground, where the white man cannot
go.’”
THE RIVER’S WARNING
THE RIVER’S WARNING
We were visiting the camp of Big Elk on the Washeetay and were
lounging in the tepee of the chief himself as the sun went down. All
about us could be heard the laughter of the children and the low hum
of women talking over their work. Dogs and babies struggled together
on the sod, groups of old men were telling stories and the savory
smell of new-baked bread was in the air.
The Indian is a social being and naturally dependent upon his
fellows. He has no newspapers, no posters, no handbills. His news
comes by word of mouth, therefore the “taciturn red man” does not
exist. They are often superb talkers, dramatic, fluent, humorous.
Laughter abounds in a camp. The men joke, tell stories with the point
against themselves, ridicule those who boast and pass easily from the
humorous to the very grave and mysterious in their faith. It is this
loquacity, so necessary to the tribe, which makes it so hard for a
red man to keep a secret.
In short, a camp of Indians is not so very unlike a country village
where nothing but the local paper is read and where gossip is the
surest way of finding out how the world is wagging. There are in both
villages the same group of old men with stories of the past, of the
war time, to whom the young men listen with ill-concealed impatience.
When a stranger comes to town all the story tellers rejoice and gird
up their loins afresh. It is always therefore in the character of the
eager listener that I visit a camp of red people.
Big Elk was not an old man, not yet sixty, but he was a story teller
to whom everybody listened, for he had been an adventurous youth,
impulsive and reckless, yet generous and kindly. He was a handsome
old fellow natively, but he wore his cheap trousers so slouchily and
his hat was so broken that at a distance in the daytime he resembled
a tramp. That night as he sat bareheaded in his tepee with his
blanket drawn around his loins, he was admirable. His head was large,
and not unlike the pictures of Ben Franklin.
“You see, in those days,” he explained, “in the war time with the
game robbers, every boy was brought up to hate the white man who came
into our land to kill off our buffalo. We heard that these men killed
for money like the soldiers who came to fight us, and that made our
fathers despise them. I have heard that the white boys were taught to
hate us in the same way, and so when we met we fought. The white man
considered us a new kind of big game to hunt and we considered him a
wolf paid to rob and kill us. Those were dark days.
“I was about twenty-two, it may be, when the old man agent first came
to the east bank of the Canadian, and there sat down. My father went
to see him, I remember, and came back laughing. He said, ‘He is a
thin old man and can take his teeth out in pieces and put them back,’
and this amused us all very much. To this day, as you know, that is
the sign for an agent among us—to take out the upper teeth.
“We did not care for the agent at that time for we had plenty
of buffalo meat and skins. Some of the camp went over and drew
rations, it is true, but others did not go. I pretended to be very
indifferent, but I was crazy to go, for I had never seen a white
man’s house and had never stood close to any white man. I heard the
others tell of a great many wonderful things over there—and they said
there were white women and children also.
“I was ambitious to do a great deed in those days and had made myself
the leader of some fourteen reckless young warriors like myself. I
sat around and smoked in tepee, and one night I said, ‘Brothers, let
us go to the agency and steal the horses.’
“This made each one of them spring to his feet. ‘Good! Good!’ they
said. ‘Lead us. We will follow. That is worth doing.’
“‘The white men are few and cowardly,’ I said. ‘We can dash in and
run off the horses, and then I think the old men will no longer call
us boys. They will sing of us in their songs. We shall be counted in
the council thereafter.’
“They were all eager to go and that night we slipped out of camp and
saddled and rode away across the prairie, which was fetlock deep in
grass. Just the time for a raid. I felt like a big chief as I led my
band in silence through the night. My bosom swelled with pride like a
turkey cock and my heart was fierce.
“We came in sight of the white man’s village next day about noon, and
veering a little to the north, I led my band into camp some miles
above the agency. Here I made a talk to my band and said: ‘Now you
remain here and I will go alone and spy out the enemy and count his
warriors and make plans for the battle. You can rest and grow strong
while I am gone.’”
Big Elk’s eyes twinkled as he resumed. “I thought I was a brave lad
to do this thing and I rode away trying to look unconcerned. I was
very curious to see the agency. I was like a coyote who comes into
the camp to spy out the meat racks.” This remark caused a ripple of
laughter, which Big Elk ignored. “As I forded the river I glanced
right and left, counting the wooden tepees” (he made a sign of the
roof), “and I found them not so many as I had heard. As I rode up the
bank I passed near a white woman and I looked at her with sharp eyes.
I had heard that all white women looked white and sicklike. This I
found was true. This woman had yellow hair and was thin and pale. She
was not afraid of me—she did not seem to notice me and that surprised
me.
“Then I passed by a big wooden tepee which was very dirty and smoky.
I could see a man, all over black, who was pounding at something. He
made a sound, _clank, clank, clunk-clank_. I stood at the door and
looked in. It was all very wonderful. There were horses in there and
this black man was putting iron moccasins on the horses’ feet.
“An Arapahoe stood there and I said in signs, ‘What do they do that
for?’
“He replied, ‘So that the horses can go over rocks without wearing
off their hoofs.’
“That seemed to me a fine thing to do and I wanted my pony fixed that
way. I asked where the agent was, and he pointed toward a tall pole
on which fluttered a piece of red and white and blue cloth. I rode
that way. There were some Cheyennes at the door, who asked me who
I was and where I came from. I told them any old kind of story and
said, ‘Where is the agent?’
“They showed me a door and I went in. I had never been in a white
man’s tepee before and I noticed that the walls were strong and the
door had iron on it. ‘Ho!’ I said, ‘This looks like a trap. Easy to
go in, hard to get out. I guess I will be very peaceful while I am in
here.’
“The agent was a little old man—I could have broken his back with a
club as he sat with his back toward me. He paid no attention till a
half-breed came up to me and said, ‘What do you want?’
“‘I want to see the agent.’
“‘There he is; look at him,’ and he laughed.
“The agent turned around and held out his hand. ‘How, how!’ he said.
‘What is your name?’
“His face was very kind, and I went to him and took his hand. His
tongue I could not understand, but the half-breed helped me. We
talked. I made up a story. ‘I have heard you give away things to the
Cheyennes,’ I said; ‘therefore I have come for my share.’
“‘We give to good red people,’ he said. Then he talked sweetly to
me. ‘My people are Quakers,’ he said. ‘We have visions like the red
people—but we never go to war. Therefore has the Great Soldier,
the Great Father at Washington, put me here. He does not want his
children to fight. You are all brothers with different ways of life.
I am here to help your people,’ he said, ‘and you must not go to war
any more.’
“All that he said to me was good—it took all the fire and bitterness
out of my heart and I shook hands and went away with my head bowed in
thought. He was as kind as my own father.
“I had never seen such white people before; they were all kind. They
fed me; they talked friendly with me. Not one was making a weapon.
All were preparing to till the soil. They were kind to the beasts,
and all the old Cheyennes I met said, ‘We must do as this good old
man says.’
“I rode home very slowly. I strutted no more. The stuffing was
gone out of my chest. I dreaded to come back into my camp where
my warriors were waiting for me. I spread my blanket and sat down
without speaking, and though they were all curious to hear, they
waited, for I smoked a pipe in sign of thought. At last I struck the
ashes from my pipe and rose and said: ‘Listen, brothers I shall not
go to war against the agency.’
“They were all astonishment at this and some were instantly angry.
‘Why not? What has changed your plan so suddenly?’
“‘I have seen the agent; he is a good old man. Every one was pleasant
to me. I have never seen this kind of white man. No one was thinking
of war. They are all waiting to help the Cheyennes. Therefore my
heart is changed—I will not go out against them.’
“My band was in a turmoil. One by one they cried out: ‘You are a
girl, a coyote with the heart of a sparrow.’ Crow Kill made a long
speech: ‘This is strange business. You talk us into making you chief;
you lead us a long hard ride and now we are without meat, while you,
having your belly full of sweet food and a few presents in your hand,
want to quit and run home crying like a papoose.’”
The old story teller was pitilessly dramatic in reciting the flood of
ridicule and abuse poured out upon his head.
“Well, at last I said: ‘Be silent! Perhaps you are right. Perhaps
they deceived me. I will go again to-morrow and I will search closely
into hidden things. Be patient until I have studied the ground once
more.’
“As I thought of it all that night I came to feel again a great
rage—I began to say: ‘You are a fool. You have been blinded.’ I
slept uneasily that night, but I was awake early and rode away to
the agency. I remained all day among them. I talked with all the
Cheyennes and in signs I conversed with the Arapahoe—all said the
same thing—‘The agent does not lie. He is a good man.’ Nevertheless,
I looked the ground all over and at night I rode slowly back to the
camp.
“Again I said, ‘I will not go to war against these people,’ and again
my warriors cried out against me. They were angrier than before. They
called me a coward. ‘We will go on without you. You are fitted only
to carry a papoose and stir the meat in a pot,’ they said.
“This filled me with wrath and I rose and said: ‘You call me a woman!
Who of you can show more skill in the trail? Who of you can draw a
stronger bow or bring down bigger buffalo bulls? It is time for you
to be silent. You know me—you know what I have done. Now listen: I am
chief. To-morrow when the east gets light we will cross the river and
attack the agency! I have spoken!’
“This pleased them very much and they listened and looked eagerly
while I drew on the sand lines to show where the horse corral was and
where the storehouse was. I detailed five men to go to the big fence
and break the chain on the gate, while I led the rest of the band to
break into the storehouse. Then I said: ‘Do not kill any one unless
they come out against you with arms in their hands. Some of them gave
me food; I shall be sorry if they are hurt.’
“That night I could not sleep at all, for my heart was swollen big
in my bosom. I knew I was doing wrong, but I could not stand the
reproach of my followers.
“When morning came, the river was very high, and we looked at it in
astonishment, for no clouds were to be seen. The banks were steep and
the current swift, and there was no use attempting to carry out our
plan that day.
[Illustration: On an Indian Reservation
_At Fort Reno in 1890, in the then Oklahoma Territory, there was
an agency for the Cheyennes and Arapahoes. In those days one
might see the Indians in their fantastic mixture of colors and
beads and red flannel and feathers—so theatrical in appearance
that the visitor expected to see even the army officers look back
over their shoulders when one of these braves rode by._
_Illustration from_
THE WEST FROM A CAR WINDOW
_by_ Richard Harding Davis
_Originally published in_
HARPER’S WEEKLY, _May 14, 1892_]
[Illustration: In a Stiff Current
_Illustration from_
TALKING MUSQUASH
_by_ Julian Ralph
_Originally published in_
HARPER’S MAGAZINE, _March, 1892_]
“‘We must wait,’ I said, and with black looks and aching bellies we
waited all that day. ‘The river will go down to-morrow,’ I said, to
comfort them.
“We had only a little dried beef to eat and the river water to drink,
and my warriors were very hungry.
“That second morning I was awake before dawn, watching to see what
the river had done during the night. Behold, it was an arrow’s length
higher than before! Then I said: ‘Friends, I am no liar. I started on
this plan with a heart to carry it out, but now I am deeply troubled.
I did not sleep last night, for a pain in my breast kept me awake. I
will not deceive you. I am glad the water is deeper this morning. I
believe it is a sign from the Great Spirit that we are to turn back
and leave these white people in peace.’
“But to this Crow Kill and most of the others would not listen. ‘If
we go back now,’ said he, ‘everybody will laugh at us.’
“Quickly I turned upon him and cried out: ‘Are you the boaster who
has prattled of our plans? The camp will know nothing of our designs
if you have not let your long tongue rattle on the outside of your
mouth.’ At this he fell silent and I went on. ‘Now I will wait one
more day. If the river is high to-morrow—the third day—then it will
surely be a sign, and we must all bow to the will of the Great One
who is above us.’
“To this they all agreed, for the sky was still clear and blue and
the river was never known to rise on three successive days. They put
their weapons in order, and I recounted my words of instruction as to
the battle.
“I went aside a little from the camp that night, and took my watch
on a little mound. The moon rose big in the east and made a shining
trail over the water. When a boy I used to think, may be that trail
led to the land of the spirits—and my heart was full of peaceful
thoughts that night. I had no hate of anybody.” The old man’s voice
was now deep and grave and no one laughed. “I prayed to the Great
Spirit to send the water so that I could go back without shame.
All night I heard the water whisper, whisper in the grass. It grew
broader and broader and the moon passed over my head. I slept a
little, and then I woke, for something cold had touched my heel. I
looked down and in the grass at my feet lay the shining edge of the
river.
“I leaped up and ran and touched the others. ‘See,’ I called out,
‘the water has come to speak to you!’ and I scooped water from the
river’s edge and flung it over them. ‘The Great Spirit has spoken.
All night I heard it whisper in the grass. It said: “_Peace, peace!
You must go to war no more._” Come. We will ride away with clean
hands and glad hearts.’”
As he finished his story Big Elk put away his pipe abstractedly,
as though his mind yet dwelt on the past. His hearers were silent
and very serious. He had touched the deepest chord in the red man’s
soul—the chord which vibrates when the Great Spirit speaks to him in
dreams.
LONE WOLF’S OLD GUARD
LONE WOLF’S OLD GUARD
Now it happened that Lone Wolf’s camp was on the line between the
land of the Cheyennes and the home of his own people, the Kiowas, but
he did not know this. He had lived there long, and the white man’s
maps were as unimportant to him as they had been to the Cheyennes.
When he moved there he considered it to be his—a gift direct from the
Creator—with no prior rights to be overstepped.
But the Consolidated Cattle Company, having secured the right to
enclose a vast pasture, cared nothing for any red man’s claim,
provided they stood in with the government. A surveying party was
sent out to run lines for fences.
Lone Wolf heard of these invaders while they were at work north
of him, and learned in some mysterious way that they were to come
down the Elk and cut through his camp. To his friend John, the
interpreter, he sent these words:
“The white man must not try to build a fence across my land. I will
fight if he does. Washington is not behind this thing. He would not
build a fence through my lines without talking with me. I have sent
to the agent of the Kiowas, he knows nothing about it—it is all a
plan of the cattlemen to steal my lands. Tell them that we have
smoked over this news—we have decided. This fence will not be built.”
When “Johnny Smoker” brought this stern message to the camp of the
surveyors some of them promptly threw up their hands. Jim Bellows,
scout and interpreter, was among these, and his opinion had weight,
for he wore his hair long and posed as an Indian fighter of large
experience.
“Boys,” he began, impressively, “we got to get out o’ here as soon
as darkness covers us. We’re sixty miles from the fort, and only
fifteen all told, and not half-armed. Old Lone Wolf holds over us,
and we might as well quit and get help.”
This verdict carried the camp, and the party precipitately returned
to Darlington to confer with the managers of the company.
Pierce, the chief man, had reasons for not calling on the military
authorities. His lease was as yet merely a semi-private arrangement
between the Secretary of the Interior and himself, and he feared the
consequences of a fight with Lone Wolf—publicity, friction, might
cause the withdrawal of his lease; therefore he called in John Seger,
and said:
“Jack, can you put that line through?”
“I could, but I don’t want to. Lone Wolf is a good friend of mine,
and I don’t want to be mixed up in a mean job.”
“Oh, come now—you mustn’t show the white flag. I need you. I want you
to pick out five or six men of grit and go along and see that this
line is run. I can’t be fooling around here all summer. Here’s my
lease, signed by the Secretary, as you see. It’s all straight, and
this old fool of an Indian must move.”
Jack reluctantly consented, and set to work to hire a half dozen
men of whose courage he had personal knowledge. Among these was a
man by the name of Tom Speed, a border man of great hardihood and
experience. To him he said:
“Tom, I don’t like to go into this thing; but I’m hard up, and Pierce
has given me the contract to build the fence if we run the line, and
it looks like we got to do it. Now I wish you’d saddle up and help me
stave off trouble. How does it strike you?”
“It’s nasty business, Jack; but I reckon we might better do it than
let some tenderfoot go in and start a killin’. I’m busted flat, and
if the pay is good, I jest about feel obliged to take it.”
So it happened that two avowed friends of the red man led this second
expedition against Lone Wolf’s camp. Pierce sent his brother as boss,
and with him went the son of one of the principal owners, a Boston
man, by the name of Ross. Speed always called him “the Dude,” though
he dressed quite simply, as dress goes in Roxbury. He wore a light
suit of gray wool, “low-quartered shoes,” and a “grape box hat.” He
was armed with a pistol, which wouldn’t kill a turtledove at fifteen
feet. Henry Pierce, on the contrary, was a reckless and determined
man.