Creek, and started directly toward Lone Wolf’s camp. As they were
nearing the bend in the river where Lone Wolf was camped, a couple
of young warriors came riding leisurely up from the south. They were
very cordial in their greeting, and after shaking hands all around
pleasantly inquired:
“What are you doing here?”
“Running a line to mark out the land which the cattlemen have leased
of the Cheyennes.”
“We will go along and see where you are going,” they replied.
A couple of hours later, while they were still with the camp, two
others came riding quietly in from the east. They said, “We are
looking for horses,” and after shaking hands and asking Seger what
the white men were doing, rode forward to join their companions, who
seemed deeply interested in the surveyors and their instruments.
Turning to Pierce, Jack said,
“You noticed that these four men were armed, I reckon?”
“Oh, yes, but they are all right. Didn’t you see how they shook hands
all round? They’re just out hunting up ponies.”
“Yes, I saw that; but I noticed they had plenty of ammunition and
that their guns were bright. Indians don’t hunt horses in squads, Mr.
Pierce.”
Pierce smiled, giving Seger a sidewise glance. “Are you getting
nervous? If you are, you can drop to the rear.”
Now Seger had lived for the larger part of his life among the red
people, and knew their ways. He answered, quietly:
“There are only four of them now; you’ll see more of them soon,” and
he pointed away to the north, where the heads of three mounted men
were rising into sight over a ridge. These also proved to be young
Kiowas, thoroughly armed, who asked the same question of the manager,
and in conclusion pleasantly said,
“We’ll just go along and see how you do it.”
As they rode forward Seger uttered a more pointed warning.
“Mr. Pierce, I reckon you’d better make some better disposition of
your men. They are all strung out here, with their guns on their
backs, in no kind of shape to make a defense.”
Pierce was a little impressed by the scout’s earnestness, and took
trouble to point out the discrepancy between “a bunch of seven
cowardly Indians” and his own band of twenty brave and experienced
men.
“That’s all right,” replied Seger; “but these seven men are only
spies, sent out to see what we are going to do. We’ll have to buckle
up with Lone Wolf’s whole band very soon.”
A few minutes later the seven young men rode quietly by and took a
stand on a ridge a little in front of the surveyors. As he approached
them, Seger perceived a very great change in their demeanor. They
no longer smiled; they seemed grim, resolute, and much older.
From a careless, laughing group of young men they had become
soldiers—determined, disciplined, and dignified. Their leader, riding
forth, held up his hand, and said,
“Stop; you must wait here till Lone Wolf comes.”
Meanwhile, in the little city of tents, a brave drama was being
enacted. Lone Wolf, a powerful man of middle age, was sitting in
council with his people. The long-expected had happened—the cattlemen
had begun to mark off the red man’s land as their own, and the time
had come either to submit or to repel the invaders. To submit was
hard, to fight hopeless. Their world was still narrow, but they had
a benumbing conception of the power and the remorseless greed of the
white man.
[Illustration: A Modern Comanche Indian
_In the ’nineties the Comanche of the Fort Sill region was
considered a good type of the Indian of that day. Not only was
he the most expert horse-stealer on the plains—a title of honor
rather than reproach among Indians—but he was particularly
noteworthy for knowing more about a horse and horse-breeding than
any other Indian._
_Illustration from_
SOME INDIAN RIDERS
_by_ Colonel Theodore Ayrault Dodge, U.S.A.
_Originally published in_
HARPER’S MAGAZINE, _May, 1891_]
[Illustration: A Band of Piegan Indians in the Mountains
_Having made out the camp of the Crow Indians in the plain many
miles below, the Piegans are making their way slowly through the
mountains on foot, their object being to raid the Crow camp and
steal their war ponies._
_Illustration from_
SUN-DOWN’S HIGHER SELF
_by_ Frederic Remington
_Originally published in_
HARPER’S MAGAZINE, _November, 1898_]
“We can kill those who come,” said Lone Wolf. “They are few, but
behind them are the soldiers and men who plough.”
At last old White Buffalo rose—he had been a great leader in his
day, and was still much respected, though he had laid aside his
chieftainship. He was bent and gray and wrinkled, but his voice was
still strong, and his eyes keen.
“My friends, listen to me! During seventy years of my life I lived
without touching the hand of a white man. I have always opposed
warfare, except when it was necessary; but now the time has come to
fight. Let me tell you what to do. I see here some thirty old men,
who, like me, are nearing the grave. This thing we will do—we old
men—we will go out to war against these cattlemen. We will go forth
and die in defense of our lands. Big Wolf, come—and you, my brother,
Standing Bear.”
As he called the roll of the gray old defenders, the old women broke
into heart-piercing wailing, intermingled with exultant cries as some
brave wife or sister caught the force of the heroic responses, which
leaped from the lips of their fathers and husbands. A feeling of awe
fell over the young men as they watched the fires flame once more in
the dim eyes of their grandsires, and when all had spoken, Lone Wolf
rose and stepped forth, and said,
“Very well; then I will lead you.”
“Whosoever leads us goes to certain death,” said White Buffalo. “It
is the custom of the white men to kill the leader. You will fall at
the first fire. I will lead.”
Lone Wolf’s face grew stern. “Am I not your war chief? Whose place
is it to lead? If I die, I fall in combat for my land, and you, my
children, will preserve my name in song. We do not know how this will
end, but it is better to end in battle than to have our lands cut in
half beneath our feet.”
The bustle and preparation began at once. When all was ready the
thirty gray and withered old men, beginning a low humming song, swept
through the camp and started on their desperate charge, Lone Wolf
leading them. “Some of those who go will return, but if the white men
fight, I will not return,” he sang, as they began to climb the hill
on whose top the white man could be seen awaiting their coming.
Halfway up the hill they met some of the young warriors. “Go bring
all the white men to the council,” said Lone Wolf.
As the white men watched the band leaving the village and beginning
to ascend the hill, Speed turned and said: “Well, Jack, what do you
think of it? Here comes a war party—painted and armed.”
“I think it’s about an even chance whether we ever cross the Washita
again or not. Now, you are a married man with children, and I
wouldn’t blame you if you pulled out right this minute.”
“I feel meaner about this than anything I ever did,” replied Speed,
“but I am going to stay with the expedition.”
As Lone Wolf and his heroic old guard drew near, Seger thrilled
with the significance of this strange and solemn company of old men
in full war-paint, armed with all kinds of old-fashioned guns, and
bows and arrows. As he looked into their wrinkled faces, the scout
perceived that these grandsires had come resolved to die. He divined
what had taken place in camp. Their exalted heroism was written
in the somber droop of their lips. “We can die, but we will not
retreat!” In such wise our grandsires fought.
Lone Wolf led his Spartan host steadily on till near enough to be
heard without effort. He then halted, took off his war-bonnet and
hung it on the pommel of his saddle. Lifting both palms to the sky,
he spoke, and his voice had a solemn boom in it: “The Great Father
is looking down on us. He sees us. He knows I speak the truth. He
gave us this land. We are the first to inhabit it. No one else has
any claim to it. It is ours, and I will go under the sod before any
cattlemen shall divide it and take it away from us. I have said it.”
When this was interpreted to him, Pierce with a look of inquiry
turned to Speed. “Tell the old fool this line is going to be run, and
no old scarecrows like these can stop us.”
Seger, lifting his hand, signed: “Lone Wolf, you know me. I am your
friend. I do not come to do you harm. I come to tell you you are
wrong. All the land on my left hand the Great Father says is Cheyenne
land. All on my right is Kiowa land. The Cheyennes have sold the
right to their land to the white man, and we are here to mark out the
line. We take only Cheyenne land.”
“I do not believe it,” replied the chief. “My agent knows nothing
of it. Washington has not written anything to me about it. This is
the work of robbers. Cattlemen will do anything for money. They are
wolves. They shall not go on.”
“What does he say?” asked Pierce.
“He says we must not go on.”
“You tell him that he can’t run any such bluff on me with his old
scarecrow warriors. This lines goes through.”
Lone Wolf, tense and eager, asked, “What says the white chief?”
“He says we must run the line.”
Lone Wolf turned to his guard. “You may as well get ready,” he said,
quietly.
The old men drew closer together with a mutter of low words, and each
pair of dim eyes selected their man. The clicking of their guns was
ominous, and Pierce turned white.
Speed drew his revolver-holster round to the front. “They’re going to
fight,” he said. “Every man get ready!”
But Seger, eager to avoid the appalling contest, cried out to Pierce:
“Don’t do that! It’s suicide to go on. These old men have come out
to fight till death.” To Lone Wolf he signed: “Don’t shoot, my
friend!—let us consider this matter. Put up your guns.”
Into the hot mist of Pierce’s wrath came a realization that these old
men were in mighty earnest. He hesitated.
Lone Wolf saw his hesitation, and said: “If you are here by right,
why do you not get the soldier chief to come and tell me? If the
Great Father has ordered this—then I am like a man with his hands
tied. The soldiers do not lie. Bring them!”
Seger grasped eagerly at this declaration. “There is your chance,
Pierce. The chief says he will submit if the soldiers come to make
the survey. Let me tell him that you will bring an officer from the
fort to prove that the government is behind you.”
Pierce, now fully aware of the desperate bravery of the old men, was
looking for a knothole of escape. “All right, fix it up with him,” he
said.
Seger turned to Lone Wolf. “The chief of the surveyors says: ‘Let us
be friends. I will not run the line.’”
“Ho, ho!” cried the old warriors, and their faces, grim and wrinkled,
broke up into smiles. They laughed, they shook hands, while tears of
joy filled their eyes. They were like men delivered from sentence of
death. The desperate courage of their approach was now revealed even
to Pierce. They were joyous as children over their sudden release
from slaughter.
Lone Wolf, approaching Seger, dismounted, and laid his arm over his
friend’s shoulder. “My friend,” he said, with grave tenderness, “I
wondered why you were with these men, and my heart was heavy; but now
I see that you were here to turn aside the guns of the cattlemen. My
heart is big with friendship for you. Once more you have proved my
good counselor.” And tears dimmed the fierceness of his eyes.
A week later, a slim, smooth-cheeked second lieutenant, by virtue
of his cap and the crossed arms which decorated his collar, ran the
line, and Lone Wolf made no resistance. “I have no fight with the
soldiers of the Great Father,” he said: “they do not come to gain my
land. I now see that Washington has decreed that this fence shall be
built.” Nevertheless, his heart was very heavy, and in his camp his
heroic old guard sat waiting, waiting!
BIG MOGGASEN
BIG MOGGASEN
Far in the Navajoe Country there are mountains almost unknown to the
white man. Beginning on the dry penon spotted land they rise to pine
clad hills where many springs are. Deep cañons with wondrous cliffs
of painted stone cut athwart the ranges and in crevices of these
walls, so it is said, are the stone houses of most ancient peoples.
It is not safe for white men to go there—especially with pick and
shovel, for Big Moggasen the Chief is keenly alive to the danger of
permitting miners to peer about the rocks and break them up with
hammers.
Because these mountains are unknown they are alluring and men often
came to the agency for permission to enter the unknown land. To them
the agent said, “No, I don’t want a hellabaloo raised about your
death in the first place, and in the second place this reservation
belongs to the Navajoes—you’d better prospect in some other country.”
Big Moggasen lived far away from the agency and was never seen even
by the native police. He lived quite independent of the white man’s
bounty. He drew no rations and his people paid no taxes. His young
men tended the sheep, the old men worked in silver and his women wove
blankets which they sold to the traders for coffee and flour. In such
wise he lived from the time that his father’s death made him a chief.
In winter his people retreated to the valleys where they were
sheltered from the wind—where warm hogans of logs and dirt protected
them from the cold, and in the spring when the snow began to melt
they drove their flocks of black and white sheep, mixed with goats,
higher in the hills. In midsummer when the valleys were baking hot,
the young herders urged their herd far up among the pines where good
grass grew and springs of water gushed from every cañon.
Their joys equaled their sorrows. True the old were always perishing
and birth was a pain, and the sheep sometimes starved because the
snow covered the grass, and the children died of throat sickness,
but of such is human life in all lands. For the most part they had
plenty of meat to roast, and berries and pinon nuts to make it
savory, and the young men always had hearts for dancing and the young
girls pulled at their robes and every one laughed in the light of the
dance-fire.
But at last the people began to complain. Women chattered their
discontentment as they wove their blankets under the cedars and
the old men gossiped in twos and threes before their camp fires.
The children cried for coffee and cakes of flour, and at last Big
Moggasen was forced to consider the discontent of his people. His
brow was black as he rose in council to say: “What is the matter that
you all grumble and whine like lame coyotes? Of old it was not so,
you took what that sun spirits sent and were brave, now you have the
hearts of foxes. What is it you want?”
Then Black Bear, a young chief man arose and said: “We will tell you,
father. The Tinné to the south have a better time than we do. They
have better clothing and coffee each day and wagons in which to ride
or carry heavy loads. They have shovels with which to build hogans
and to dig wells for their sheep. They have hats also which keep off
the sun in summer and snow in winter. Why do we not have some of
these good things also? We need wells and have nothing to dig them
with. We go about bareheaded and the sun is hot on our hair. We grow
tired of meat without drink. We think therefore that we should go
down and see the white man and get some of these needed things.”
To this applauded speech old Big Moggasen sharply replied: “I have
heard of these things for a long time, but a bear does not present
me with his ears for love of me. Why does the white man give these
things? I have trapped deer by such sly actions. It is for some
reason that our cousins are fed on sweet things by the white man.
They wish to make captives of us. They will steal our children and
our wives. I have known of the ways of white men for many years. I am
old and my face is wrinkled with thinking about him. I am not to be
instructed of boys in such a matter.”
All the night long the talk raged. Big Moggasen stood like a rock in
the wash of the current. He repeated again and again his arguments.
“The white man does not give his coat to the Tinné without hope of
pay. It is all a trick.”
At last he gave way and consented to go with two of his head men and
see the Little Father and find out for himself the whole truth. He
went reluctantly and with drawn brows for he was not at all sure of
returning again. All the old people shared his feeling but Brown Bear
and Four Fingers who had traveled much laughed openly and said: “See,
they go like sick men. Their heads hang down toward their feet like
sick ponies. They need some of the white man’s hot drink.”
They traveled hard to the south for three days coming into a hot dry
climate, which they did not like. There was little grass and the
sheep were running to and fro searching for food somewhere, even
eating sagebrush. The women were everywhere making blankets, and each
night when they stopped the men of the north had coffee to drink and
the people told many strange things of the whites. The old men had
heard these things before but they had not really believed them.
Some of the women said, “My children are away at the white man’s big
house. They wear the white man’s clothes and eat three times each day
from white dishes. They are learning the ways of the white man.”
“I like it not,” said Big Moggasen, “it is their plan to steal them
and make them work for the white man. Why do they do these things?”
One woman held up a big round silver piece, “You see this? My man
digs for the white man far in the south where the big iron horse runs
and he gets one of these every day. Therefore we have coffee and
flour often—and shoes and warm clothing.”
Big Moggasen shook his head and went on to the south. He came at last
to the place where the soldiers used to be in the olden time and
behold there were some big new red houses and many boys and girls and
ten white people, and all about stood square hogans in which Tinné
also lived. At the door of one of these hogans stood a white-haired
man and he said:
“Friend, I do not know you but you are welcome. Come in and eat.”
The old man entered and in due time Big Moggasen told his name and
his errand and his fears.
To this White-hairs replied: “It is natural for you to feel so. Once
I felt the same but the white man has not harmed me yet. My children
have learned to speak his tongue and to write. They are happier than
they were and that makes me happy. I do not understand the white
people. They are strange. Their thoughts are not our thoughts but
they are wonder-workers. I am in awe of them. They are wiser than
the spirits. They do things which it is impossible for us to do,
therefore I make friends with them. They have done me no harm. My
children are fond of them and so I am content.”
All the evening the old men from the northern mountains sat arguing,
questioning, shaking their heads. At last they said, “Very well, in
the morning we will go to the Little Father and hear what he has to
say. To us it now seems that these strange people have thrown dust in
your eyes and that they are scheming to make pack-ponies of you.”
In the morning they drank again of the white man’s coffee with sweet
in it and ate of the white man’s bread and it was all very seductive
to the tongue. Then old White-hairs led them to the Little Father’s
room.
The Little Father was a small man who wore bits of glass before his
eyes. He was short-spoken and his voice was high and shrill but calm.
“What is it?” he said to White-hairs in the Tinné tongue.
“These are they from the mountains,” replied White-hairs. “This is
Big Moggasen.”
The Little Father rose and held out his hand, “How is your health?”
Big Moggasen took his hand but coldly.
“This is Tall-man and this Silver Arrow.”
After they had shaken hands the Little Father said: “Sit down and we
will smoke.” He gave them some tobacco and when they had rolled it
into little leaves of paper he said: “Well now, what can I do for
you?”
After a long pause Big Mogassen began abruptly: “We live in the
mountains, three days’ journey from here. We are poor. We have no
wagons or shovels like the people who live here. We are of one blood
with them. We do not see why we should not have these things. We have
come for them. My people want wagons to carry logs in and shovels to
dig wells and harnesses to put on our ponies.”
To this the Little Father replied: “Yes, we have these good things
and I give them to your people. They are for those who are good and
who walk in the white man’s trail. We wish to help you also. Did you
bring any children with you?”
“No.”
“You must do that. We wish to educate your children. If you bring
twenty children to school I will see what I can do for you.”
Big Moggasen harshly replied: “I did not come to talk about school.”
The answer was quick and stern: “But I did. You will get nothing
until you send your children to me to be schooled.”
Big Moggasen’s veins swelled with the rush of his hot blood. He
leaped to his feet tense and rigid. “No. My children shall not come.
I do not believe in the white man or his ways. I do not like the
white man’s ways. I am old and I have seen many things. The white man
makes our young men drunk. He steals away our daughters. He takes
away their hearts with sweet drinks and clothes. He is a wolf.”
The Little Father remained calm. “It is true there are bad white men,
but there are those who are good.”
“Those I do not see,” growled the chief. “All my life I have thrust
the white men away because they came to steal our land. I do not want
my children to learn their ways.”
“Then you can’t have any of the great fellow’s presents.”
“Then I will go home as I came, hungry and cold,” replied the old
man, wrapping his blanket around him.
“To show that I am not angry,” said the Little Father. “I will give
you something to eat on your way home.”
The old man grew stern and set. “I did not come to beg of the white
man. I did not come to ask anything for myself. I came because my
people in council decided to send me. I have come. I am old and I
have not departed from the ways of my fathers. I have lived thus far
without the white man’s help, I will die as I have lived. I have
spoken.”
Turning abruptly he went out, followed by his companions and old
White-hairs, whose face was very sad.
THE STORM-CHILD
THE STORM-CHILD
There was tranquillity in the warm lodge of Waumdisapa, chief of the
Tetons. It was always peaceful there for it is the duty of a head man
to render his people harmonious and happy—but it was doubly tranquil
on this midwinter day, for a mighty tumult had arisen in the tops of
the tall willows, and across the grass of the bleak plain an icy dust
was wildly sliding. Nearly all the men of the band were in camp, so
fierce was the blast.
Waumdisapa listened tranquilly to the streams of snow lashing his
tepee’s cap and felt it on his palm as it occasionally sifted down
through the smoke-vent, and said, “The demons may howl and the white
sands slide—my people are safe here behind the hills. With food and
plenty of blankets we can wait.”
Hour by hour he smoked, or gravely meditated, his mind filled with
the pursuits and dangers of the past. Now and again as an aged
wrinkled warrior lifted the door-flap he was invited to enter to
partake of tobacco and to talk of the gathering spirits of winter.
In a neighboring lodge the chief’s wife was at work beside her kettle
singing a low song as she minded her fire, and through the roaring,
whistling, moaning riot of the air-sprites other women could be heard
cheerfully beating their way from fire to fire. A few hunters were
still abroad, but no one was alarmed about them. The tempest was a
subject of jest and comparison with other days. No one feared its
grim power. Was it not a part of nature, an enemy always to be met!
Suddenly the sound of a moaning cry broke in upon the chief’s
meditation. The tent-door was violently thrown up and with a hoarse
wail, Oma, a young widow, entered the lodge, and threw herself
before the feet of Waumdisapa. “My baby! My little boy is lost in the
snow. O father, pity me—help me!”
Quickly the chief questioned her. “Where?”
“Out there!” she motioned with her hand—a wild gesture toward
the bleak remorseless north. “I was with my brothers hunting the
buffalo—the storm came on—my baby wandered away from the camp. We
could not find him. They came away—taking me, too. They would not let
me stay. Send hunters—find him. Take pity on me, my father!”
The chief turned to her brothers (who had followed her and were
looking on with sad faces) and said, “Is this true?”