The tempest leaped upon us. All was in confusion. The baby wandered
away—the snow must have covered him quickly. We could not find him
though we searched hard and long. The storm grew. Some of us came on
to bring the women and children to camp. Three of us, my brothers and
I, remained to look for the boy. We could not find him. He is buried
deep in the snow.”
The chief, touched by the woman’s agony, rose in reproof. “Go back!”
he said, sternly. “Take other of the young men. Cover every foot of
ground near your camp.”
“The night is coming.”
“No matter—search!” commanded the chief.
A party of braves was soon made up. As they rode away into the blast
Oma wished to go with them, but the chief prevented her.
All the afternoon she remained in the chief’s lodge crowding close
to his feet—listening, moaning, waiting. She was weak with hunger,
and shivering with cold, but she would not eat, would not go to her
silent and lonely fireplace.
“No, no, father, I will stay with you,” she said.
Swiftly the darkness fell upon the camp. The cold intensified. The
tempest increased in violence, howling above the willows like an
army of flying demons. The snows beat upon the stout skins of the
lodges and fell in heaps which grew ever higher, but the mothers of
the camp came one by one, young and old, to comfort the stricken one,
speaking words of cheer.
“They will bring him.”
“The brave hunters will find your boy.”
“They know no fear.”
“They have sharp eyes.”
“Their hearts are warm.”
“They will rescue him.”
Nevertheless, two by two the hardy trailers returned, cold, weary,
covered with ice, their faces sad, their eyes downcast. “Blackness
is on the plain,” they reported. “Nothing moves but the snow. We
have searched hard. We have called, we have listened close, no voice
replies. Nothing is to be seen, or heard.”
With each returning unsuccessful scout the mother’s grief and despair
deepened. Heartbroken, she lay prone on the ground, her face in the
dust, while the sorrowful songs of the women went on around her.
Truly hers was a piteous plight.
“To lose one’s only child is sad. She has no man. She is alone.”
“The sun-god has forsaken her,” said one old woman. “He is angry. She
has neglected some sacrifice.”
At last Hacone, the bravest, most persistent scout of all, one
who loved Oma, came silently in and dropped exhausted beside the
chieftain’s fire.
“Night, black stranger, has come,” he said, “I can search no longer.
Twice I lost my way, twice my horse fell. Blinding was the wind. My
breath was taken. Long I looked for the camp. The signal fires guided
me. Dead is the child.”
With a whimper of anguish the poor mother fell back upon the floor
and lay as one dead, hearing no sound. All night long her low moans
went on—and the women who lifted and bore her away sang songs of
grief with intent to teach her that sorrow was the lot of all women
and that happiness was but a brief spot of sunlight in a world of
shadow.
II
The morning broke at last, still, cold, clear, and serene. The tall
trees stood motionless to the tips as though congealed into iron,
and the smoke of each fire rose slow as though afraid to leave the
tepee’s mouth. Here and there an old woman scurried about bearing
fuel. The dogs slunk through the camp whining with cold—holding up
their half-frozen feet. The horses uneasily circled, brushing close
against each other for warmth. Indeed it was a morning of merciless
cruelty—the plain was a measureless realm of frost.
In Oma’s tent physical agony was added to grief, or so it seemed, but
in truth the mother knew only sorrow. She was too deeply schooled
by the terrors of the plains not to know how surely the work of the
winter demon had been done. Somewhere out there her sweet little babe
was lying stiff and stark in his icy bed—somewhere on the savage and
relentless upland his small limbs were at the mercy of the cold.
One by one her friends reassembled to help her bear her loss—eager to
offer food, quick to rebuild her fire—but she would not listen, could
not face the cheerful flame. Meat and the glow of embers were of no
avail to revive her frozen, hopeless heart.
The chief himself came at last to see her—to inquire again minutely
of her loss. “We will seek further,” he said. “We will find the boy.
We will bring him to you. Be patient.”
Suddenly a shout arose. “A white man! a white man!” and the warning
cry carried forward from lip to lip announced the news to Waumdisapa.
“A white man comes—riding a pony and bearing something in his arms.
He is within the camp circle!”
[Illustration: Footprints in the Snow
_To an old hunter, footprints in the snow are as an open book,
and it was by these “signs” on the trail that the buffalo hunters
knew the Sioux had crawled in upon the dispatch-bearer as he
rested in a timbered bottom and poured in the bullets that put
an end to his career. To the trooper, the plains white with snow
had seemed lonely indeed, but, as he well knew, one could not, in
those days, trust the plains to be as lonely as they looked, what
with the possibility of Mr. Sitting Bull or Mr. Crazy Horse, with
a band of his braves, popping out of some coulee, intent upon
taking the scalp of any chance wayfarer._
_Illustration from_
WHEN A DOCUMENT IS OFFICIAL
_by_ Frederic Remington
_Originally published in_
HARPER’S MAGAZINE, _September, 1899_]
[Illustration: Geronimo and His Band Returning from a Raid in Mexico
_Leaving their reservation under such leaders as Geronimo, the
Apache Indians, in the period 1882-86, used to take refuge in
the Sierra Madre Mountains, and from this stronghold raid the
settlements in Mexico and Arizona._
_Illustration from_
BORDER TROUBLES
_by_ William M. Edwardy
_Originally published in_
HARPER’S WEEKLY, _August 18, 1888_]
“Bring him to me!” commanded Waumdisapa. “I will know his errand.”
To all this Oma paid little heed. What to her was any living
creatures now that she was utterly bereaved?
But the wail of a child pierced her heart and she sprang up, listened
intently, just as a smiling young white man, carrying a bundle in his
arms, entered the door and nodding carelessly to the chief, said in
Sioux, “Here’s a little chap I found in the snow last night. I reckon
it belongs here.”
The frenzied mother leaped toward him and snatched the babe from his
arms. Her cry of joy was sweet to hear, and as she cuddled the baby
close, the hunter’s brown face grew very tender—though he laughed.
“I reckon that youngster’s gone to the right spot, chief. I thought
he belonged to your band.”
Then Waumdisapa shook him by the hand and commanded him to sit. “Go
shelter the white man’s horse,” he said, to his people, “and let
a feast be cried, for the lost child is found. This warm-hearted
stranger has brought the dead to life, and we are all glad.”
The hunter laughed in some dismay, and put away the food which the
women began to press upon him. “I must go, chief. My people wait. I
do not deserve this fuss.”
“I will send a messenger to say you are here. They shall also come to
our feast.”
“They may kill your messenger for we are at war.”
The chief considered. “Write large on a piece of paper. Say that we
are at war no more. This deed has made us friends. You are one of
us—we will honor you. We cannot let you go. See the mother’s joy? She
wishes to thank you!”
It was true. Oma, holding her child in her arms, was kneeling before
the young hunter, her face upturned in gratitude. She caught his hand
and kissed it, pressing it to her cheek.
“You are a good man. You have a brave warm heart. You have restored
my child. I love you. I will love all white people hereafter. Stay
and feast with us for I am very happy.”
Flushed with embarrassment the young man shrank away. “Don’t do that!
I have done very little. Any white man would have acted the same.”
But the people of the snow would not have it so. Smilingly they laid
hands upon him and would not let him go. “No, you must remain and
dance with us. We will send for your companions—we will write a new
treaty of peace. Our gratitude shall make us brothers.”
Like a flower that springs up in the wet grass after a rain the
mother’s head lifted and her face shone with joy. The child was
untouched of frost, not even a toe had been pinched, and he fell
asleep again as soon as he was fed. Then Oma laid him down and came
to flutter about his rescuer with gestures of timid worship. She
smiled with such radiance that the young man wondered at the change
in her, and her ecstasy awoke his pity. Then the chief said:
“See! Oma is a widow. She already loves you. Stay with us and take
her to wife.”
Then the youth grew more uneasy than ever and with hesitation said:
“No, chief, I can’t do that—far away among the white villagers is a
girl who is to be my wife. I cannot marry anyone else. I have made a
vow.”
The gentle old chief did not persist, but the women perceived how
Oma’s gratitude grew and one of them took the hunter by the sleeve
and while Oma stood before him in confusion said: “See! You have made
her very happy. She desires to show you how much she owes to you—stay
and be happy.”
He shook them off, but in no unkindly way. “No,” he repeated. “I must
go,” and stepped toward the door of the lodge, strangely moved by the
passion of this primitive scene. These grateful women moved him but
he looked not back.
Waumdisapa followed him. “Friend, tell me your name.”
“Your people call me ‘Blazing Hand,’” returned the young man.
“Hah!” shouted the chief in surprise. “Blazing Hand! you are much
admired among my men. You are swift to shoot.”
Blazing Hand! The name ran from lip to lip, for they had all heard of
this reckless and remorseless young outlaw. More eagerly than ever
they crowded to see him—but the chief after a moment regained his
calm dignity of manner. “Blazing Hand, you have befriended my people
before. Now we are doubly anxious to have you remain with us....”
The young man lifted the door-flap. “_Addios_,” he said, fixing his
eyes on Oma.
She plucked her child from its bed and ran toward him. “I have heard
your name. It shall remain in my ears while I live and I will teach
my child that he may say it after I am dead.”
Waumdisapa called to his scouts: “See that this man is guided
safely to his fellows. And let no one molest him. Henceforth we are
brothers. He and his may hunt and trap where they choose on Teton
land.”
The light was gray on the face of Oma as the stranger rode away—but
the voice of her babe comforted her. Her smile came back and she
said: “Perhaps the kind hunter will return. The face of Blazing Hand
will live forever in my heart.”
THE BLOOD LUST
THE BLOOD LUST
John Seger, having been detailed to run a mail route across the
country from Fort Reno to Camp Supply, selected his friend Little
Robe to be his guide. Little Robe was Cheyenne, a tall, grave and
rather taciturn man, much respected in his tribe. Just as they were
about to start he said to his employer, with gentle decision:
“I don’t know you—you don’t know me. I am Cheyenne, you are white
man. It is best that we take no weapons along. Each of us may carry a
knife, to use about the camp, but no guns.”
This struck Seger as a bit risky, but, realizing that his life was in
the red man’s hands anyway, he decided to accept. “Very well,” said
he. “If you don’t need a gun, I don’t.”
Driving a span of horses and carrying a meager camping outfit Seger
set forth hopefully. It was in the days of the Star Routers, and this
was a bogus line, but neither he nor Robe knew it. They were indeed
very much in earnest.
The weather was beautiful, and the prairies glorious. Larks were
whistling, plovers crying. “I never enjoyed a ride more in my
life,” said Seger, and, as for Little Robe, he proved a capital
companion. His talk was most instructive. He never once became
coarse or commonplace, and after the second day Seger trusted him
perfectly—though he went to his blanket the first night with some
apprehension.
He soon saw why Robe had been recommended to him. His knowledge of
the whole country was minute. Every stream suggested a story, every
hill discovered a memory. As he came to like his white companion, he
talked more and more freely of his life as a warrior, telling tales
quite as Seger would have done had he been able to speak of his part
in the Vicksburg campaign. To the chief, every enterprise of his
career was honorable. It’s all in the point of view.
He knew the heavens, too, and could lay his course almost as well by
night as by day, and Seger soon came to have a genuine admiration
as well as a feeling of affection for him. He was handy as a woman
around the camp kettle, and never betrayed weariness or anger or
doubt.
One night as they rode down to camp in the valley of a small stream
Robe looked about him with more than usual care, and a perceptible
shadow fell over his face. “I know this place,” he said, and Seger
could see that he was saddened by some recollection connected with it.
He said no more till after they had eaten their supper, and were
sitting beside the smouldering fire; then he began slowly to utter
his mind.
“Aye, friend, I know this place. It is filled with sad thoughts. I
camped here many years ago. I was a young warrior then and reckless,
but my wife was with me, and my little daughter.” His lips took on
a sweetness almost feminine as he paused. “She was very lovely, my
child. She had lived five years and she could swim like an otter. She
used to paddle about in this little pool. Several days I camped here
debating whether to go on into the south country or not. You see,
friend, I was in need of horses and in those days it was the custom
for the young warriors of my tribe to make raids among the peaked
hats, whom you call Mexicans, in order to drive off their horses.
This was considered brave and honorable, and I was eager to go and
enrich myself.
“My wife did not wish me to take this journey. She wept when I told
her my plan. ‘Do not go,’ she said, ‘stay with me!’ Then I began to
consider taking her and my little daughter with me—for I did not like
to be separated from them even for a day. My child was so pretty, her
cheeks were so round and her eyes so bright. She had little dimpled
hands, and when she put her arms about my neck my heart was like wax.”
The old warrior’s voice trembled as he reached this point in his
story, and for a long time he could not go on. At last he regained
composure. “It was foolish to make the raid—it was very wrong to take
my little girl, but I could not leave her behind. Therefore one day
with my wife and daughter and my three brothers, I set out into the
southwest, resolute to win some ponies.
“After the first two days we traveled at night and camped in a
concealed place during the day. Slowly we stole forward, until at
last we came near a small village of The Peaked Hats, where some fine
horses and mules were reported to be had by advancing with boldness
and skill.
“My own ponies were poor and weak and as I saw the horses about this
village I became very eager to own some of them. Especially did I
desire a fine sorrel mare. It was not easy to get her, for these
people had been many times raided by the Comanches and were very
careful to round up their best animals at night and put them into a
high corral. Nevertheless, I told my brothers to be ready and that
I myself would adventure to the gate, open it, and drive forth our
prizes.
“My wife begged me to give up my plan. She wept and clung to my arm.
‘It will lead to evil, I feel it,’ she said. ‘You will be killed.’
But I had given my word. I could not fail of it. ‘Take my wife,’ I
said sternly to my younger brother. ‘Take her and the little one and
ride northward toward that black butte. I will meet you there at
daybreak,’ I said.
“My wife took our little daughter in her arms, and my brother led
them away. I could hear my wife moaning as she rode into the dark
night——”
Again the deep voice faltered, as the memory of this parting wail
came back to him, but he soon resumed quietly: “Slowly I crept
forward. I reached the corral, but could not find the gate. It was
on the side nearest the village and as I crept round feeling of the
poles, the dogs began to bark. I kept on, however, and at last found
and tore down the bars. Entering the corral, I began to lash the
horses with my lariat. As the sorrel was about to pass me I caught
her and leaped upon her back. In a few moments I was driving the
whole herd like a whirlwind across the plain.
“My brother joined me and we tried to turn the herd northward, but
the leaders gave me great trouble. At last some of them escaped and
returned to the village. We heard shouting, we were pursued. Roping
and tying some of the best of the ponies we could overtake, we drove
them before us toward the butte, well pleased with our capture.
“We traveled hard, overtaking my brother and my wife and baby girl,
but thereafter we were unable to make speed on account of the child
and its mother, and on account of the horses, two of which were fine
but very stubborn. I could not consent to set them loose though I
knew I was endangering my dear ones by delay. It was very foolish and
I was made to suffer for my folly.
“The Mexicans must have had other horses hidden and ready saddled,
for they came swiftly on our trail and before long they began to
shoot. Almost the first shot they fired struck my wife in the back,
and passing entirely through her body wounded my little daughter. I
turned then and began to shoot in return and my pursuers fell back.
We abandoned all the horses but two and when my wife told me of her
hurt I took my little girl in my arms and rode fast for a place of
concealment. My wife was badly crippled and got upon another horse,
and followed me closely.
“That day we spent in swiftest flight—using every precaution to
conceal our trail. I did not know how sadly mangled my child was, but
she moaned with pain and that nearly broke my heart, and yet I dared
not stop. I realized how crazy I had been to bring her into this
land, but my repentance came too late. At every stream I gave her
water to drink and bathed her wound, but it was of no avail—she died
in my arms—”
The warrior stopped abruptly. His lips quivered and his eyes were dim
with memories too sad for speech. For some minutes he sat in silence,
the tears rolling down his browned and wrinkled cheeks. At last he
brokenly resumed.
“Friend, we buried her there in that lonely land and kept on our way.
But thereafter I could not sleep. When I closed my eyes I could see
my baby’s little round face and feel her soft arms about my neck, and
my heart was full of bitterness. I longed for revenge. My blood cried
out for the death of the man whose bullet had taken her life. Each
night in our homeward way my heart burned hot in my bosom, flaming
with hate. It was like a live ember in my flesh.
“My woman who knew what was in my mind begged me not to return to the
south—but I shut my ears to her pleading. I assembled my clan round
me. I called upon those who wished to help me revenge the death of my
daughter to join me. Many stepped forth and at last with a band of
brave young men I swept back and fell like a whirlwind on that town.
“When I left it, only a heap of ashes could be seen. Of all who
inhabited that village not one escaped me—not one.” Then with a face
of bronze and with biblical brevity of phrase he concluded: “_After
that I slept._”
THE REMORSE OF WAUMDISAPA
THE REMORSE OF WAUMDISAPA[2]
There was dissension in the camp of Waumdisapa. Mattowan, his cousin,
jealous of his chief’s great fame, was conspiring to degrade and
destroy him.
Waumdisapa, called “King of the Plains” by those border men who
knew him best, was famed throughout the valley of the Platte.
Grave, dignified, serious of face and commanding of figure, he rose
intellectually above all his people as his splendid body towered in
the dance, a natural leader of men. His people were still living
their own life, happy in their own lands, free to come and go,
sweeping from north to south as the bison moved, needing nothing of
the white man but his buffalo guns and his ammunition. It was in
these days that women emptied the flour of their rations upon the
grass in order to use the cloth of the sack, careless of the food
of the paleface which was considered enervating and destructive to
warriors and hunters.
Yet even in those days Waumdisapa was friendly with the traders, and
like the famous Sitting Bull of the north, was only anxious to keep
his people from corrupting contact with the whites, jealous to hold
his lands and resolute to maintain his tribal traditions. His was the
true chief’s heart—all his great influence was used to maintain peace
and order. He carried no weapon—save the knife with which he shaved
his tobacco and cut his meat, and on his arm dangled the beaded
bag in which the sacred pipe of friendship and meditation lay, and
wherever he walked turmoil ceased.
For these reasons he was greatly beloved by his people. No one
feared him—not even the children of the captive Ute woman who served
Iapa—and yet he had gained his preëminence by virtue of great deeds
as well as by strong and peaceful thoughts. He was a moving orator
also—polished and graceful of utterance, conciliatory and placating
at all times. Often he turned aside the venomous hand of revenge and
cooled the hot heart of war. In tribal policies he was always on the
side of justice.
Mattowan was a brave warrior, too, a man respected for his
horsemanship, his skill with death-dealing weapons, and
distinguished, too, for his tempestuous eloquence—but he was also
feared. His hand was quick against even his brothers in council. He
could not tolerate restraint. Checked now and again by Waumdisapa, he
had darkened with anger, and in his heart a desire for revenge was
smoldering like a hidden fire in the hollow of a great tree.
He was ambitious. “Why should Waumdisapa be chief? Am I not of equal
stature, of equal fame as a warrior?” So he argued among his friends,
spreading disaffection. “Waumdisapa is growing old,” he sneered. “He
talks for peace, for submission to the white man. His heart is no
longer that of a warrior. He sits much in his tepee. It is time that
he were put away.”
When the chief heard these words he was very sad and very angry. He
called a council at once to consider what should be done with the
traitor and the whole tribe trembled with excitement and awe. What
did it mean when the two most valiant men of the tribe stood face to
face like angry panthers?
When the head men were assembled Waumdisapa, courteous, grave and
self-contained, placed Mattowan at his left and old Mato, the
hereditary chief, upon his right, and took his seat with serene
countenance. Outside the council tepee the women sat upon the
ground—silent, attentive, drawn closer to the speakers than they were
accustomed to approach. The children, even the girl babies, crouched
beside their mothers—their desire for play swallowed up in a dim
sense of some impending disaster. No feast was being prepared, smiles
were few and furtive. No one knew what was about to take place, but a
foreboding of trouble chilled them.
The chief lighted his pipe and passed it to Mato who put it to
his lips, drew a deep whiff and passed it to his neighbor. So it
went slowly from man to man while Waumdisapa sat, in silence, with
downcast eyes, awaiting its return.
As the pipe came to Mattowan he, the traitor, passed it by with a
gesture of contempt.
The chief received it again with a steady hand, but from his lowered
eye-lids a sudden flame shot. Handing the pipe to Mato he rose, and
looking benignantly, yet sadly, round the circle, began very quietly:
“Brothers, the Lakotans are a great people, just and generous to
their foes, faithful to the laws of their tribe. I am your chief. You
all know how I became so. Some of you knew my father—he was a great
warrior——”
“Aye, so he was,” said Mato.
“He was a wise and good man also,” continued Waumdisapa.
“Aye, aye,” chorused several of the old men.