_An Old Warrior.—Indian Dogs.—A Night Scene._
About midnight I awoke; it was intensely cold, so I rose up and picked
my way over prostrated forms to the fire. An old Indian was seated by
it; his hair was snowy white, and hung in long locks upon his shoulders.
There were several scars traced upon his face, and even by that faint
light, the marks of deep wounds were visible upon his breast. His robe
had fallen from his shoulders, leaving bare the withered wreck, of
what must once have been an Herculean frame. I did not know him, nor
could he have ranked among their chiefs. His cheek was resting in the
palm of his hand; his eyes were intently fixed upon the burning brands
which flickered up a dying, broken blaze. In his right hand he held
a small piece of wood, with which he raked together the coals, though
seemingly unconscious of what he was doing. In front of him lay an
uncouth-looking tomahawk, made of wood, and across it his otter-skin
pouch, and stone pipe: the symbols of war and peace thrown together, in
a manner which seemed to denote that to their owner, the day of strife
was past. His look was fixed upon the brands, but his mind, busied in
its own wanderings, took no note of the things before his eyes. Could
he be meditating upon the probable results of the coming of the white
men among them? Could he be sitting there buried in his own musings, and
prophet-like, looking through the dim vista of futurity? Could he see his
own chivalric race, gradually withering at the approach of the whites,
and the descendants of those, whose hearts now beat as free as the
eagle’s, crawling over the earth, a stigma to their name, and a curse to
themselves? I could not prevent these thoughts from stealing over me, as
I sat opposite to him, gazing upon his face, so noble and dignified, even
in its ruin. Upon my first approach, he had not observed me, but after a
short time, he raised his head, and perceiving me, reached out his hand,
while a friendly smile played over his face. Then pointing to his scars,
he endeavoured by signs to narrate to me an account of the different war
expeditions, in which these had been received. Each wound had a tale of
its own, and each scar told of a different battle. After spending some
time in telling his story, he lighted his pipe, and first drawing a few
puffs he passed it to me with the usual word of politeness, (Loovah.)[H]
I puffed for a few moments, and returned it to him, he then inhaled a
few draughts of the smoke, and again reached it to me, and I, after again
smoking, reached it to him. This operation of smoking and passing it to
each other, continued until the pipe was empty; then knocking the ashes
from its bowl, he raised himself upon his feet, and taking up his pouch
and tomahawk, drew his buffalo robe over his head, and left the lodge.
Upon being deserted by my companion, I looked around upon the muffled
forms, thickly strewed over the clay floor, with that strange feeling of
loneliness, which is experienced by a person, the only being awake, among
a hundred sleeping forms, and which is peculiarly strong in a place where
every individual is a stranger, perhaps an enemy. The lodge was about
sixty feet in diameter, and seen by the flickering, uncertain light of
the fire, it had a wild appearance. The stern, silent countenances of the
sleeping warriors, as they reclined with their backs resting against the
pillars which supported the lodge, reminded me of the eastern tale, in
which a whole city of living beings, were converted into statues. Their
features were at rest, they were not now the mirrors which reflected the
passions of their hearts. Even those passions were slumbering, but still,
their heavy lines were left, with an enduring mark upon their brows. If
those stone-like faces wore so savage a character, when nature had thrown
her own calm over them, how truly fearful must they have been in the day
of battle, when every frenzied feeling was at its height, and every demon
passion was ruling with relentless sway. As to those who were lying upon
the floor, their sleep was death like—it seemed dreamless.
[H] This is a word more frequently used than any other in the language.
As far as I was able to learn, it had no particular meaning, but
signified—almost any thing.—In fact it comprises about half of the
language.
The gaunt Indian dogs were prowling stealthily through the building.
They knew that their hour of freedom had come, and with every leaping
blaze of the embers, I could see them scattered throughout the lodge.
There must have been nearly fifty of them in full motion, yet there
was not a sound to be heard. They wound their way through the sleeping
Indians, with the cautious and practised step of veteran burglars—too
well acquainted with the wakeful habits of their masters, not to be
silent in their doings; and too much in the habit of stealing, to be
able to resist the temptation to plunder. Occasionally they paused, and
cast a doubting look upon me, as I sat watching their movements. They
however came to the conclusion that I was a stranger, and from my short
stay, was not aware that it was the custom of every Indian, to bestow a
bountiful share of wholesome kicks, upon every dog that came in his path,
as a punishment for the thefts which he had already committed, and as
payment in advance for his future transgressions. While I was watching
their movements I was startled by a loud whine, which seemed to proceed
from the roof of the lodge. At that sound there was a general scamper
towards the mouth of the lodge, for they were certain, that the cry would
awaken the savages, and that flight was their only safety. I had turned
at the moment of the noise, to ascertain the cause of it. At the top of
the lodge, and about ten feet from the ground, was a large dog, suspended
by his teeth to a flitch of bacon, which had been hung up to the rafters
to keep it in safety. Upon coming into the lodge, the animal had espied
this, and mounting upon a high pile formed by our baggage, had sprung out
at it, as it hung. He had been successful in his leap, and had buried his
teeth in the meat. But this accomplished, he could do nothing more—he was
dangling full ten feet from the ground; his only supporters were his
jaws, which were fastened into the end of the bacon. He dared not let
loose his hold, and he was equally certain he could not maintain it. In
this predicament, he raised his voice, in a long, low, plaintive howl.
Scarce had the sound escaped him, before a dozen clubs were clattering
against his ribs, and as many clamorous voices raised in the hue and cry
against him. With a loud yell, relaxing his jaws, he landed upon the head
of an old Indian, who was dozing beneath, in defiance of the howls of the
dog, and the clamour of his foes. The animal did not pause, but gaining
his feet, scampered across the building, and made his escape amidst a
shower of missiles of all descriptions.