THE HUNTING CAMP
Long before daybreak the Indians broke up their camp. The women of
Mene-Seela’s lodge were as usual among the first that were ready for
departure, and I found the old man himself sitting by the embers of the
decayed fire, over which he was warming his withered fingers, as the
morning was very chilly and damp. The preparations for moving were
even more confused and disorderly than usual. While some families were
leaving the ground the lodges of others were still standing untouched.
At this old Mene-Seela grew impatient, and walking out to the middle of
the village stood with his robe wrapped close around him, and harangued
the people in a loud, sharp voice. Now, he said, when they were on an
enemy’s hunting-grounds, was not the time to behave like children;
they ought to be more active and united than ever. His speech had some
effect. The delinquents took down their lodges and loaded their pack
horses; and when the sun rose, the last of the men, women, and children
had left the deserted camp.
This movement was made merely for the purpose of finding a better and
safer position. So we advanced only three or four miles up the little
stream, before each family assumed its relative place in the great
ring of the village, and all around the squaws were actively at work in
preparing the camp. But not a single warrior dismounted from his horse.
All the men that morning were mounted on inferior animals, leading their
best horses by a cord, or confiding them to the care of boys. In small
parties they began to leave the ground and ride rapidly away over the
plains to the westward. I had taken no food that morning, and not being
at all ambitious of further abstinence, I went into my host’s lodge,
which his squaws had erected with wonderful celerity, and sat down in
the center, as a gentle hint that I was hungry. A wooden bowl was soon
set before me, filled with the nutritious preparation of dried meat
called pemmican by the northern voyagers and wasna by the Dakota. Taking
a handful to break my fast upon, I left the lodge just in time to see
the last band of hunters disappear over the ridge of the neighboring
hill. I mounted Pauline and galloped in pursuit, riding rather by the
balance than by any muscular strength that remained to me. From the
top of the hill I could overlook a wide extent of desolate and unbroken
prairie, over which, far and near, little parties of naked horsemen were
rapidly passing. I soon came up to the nearest, and we had not ridden
a mile before all were united into one large and compact body. All
was haste and eagerness. Each hunter was whipping on his horse, as if
anxious to be the first to reach the game. In such movements among the
Indians this is always more or less the case; but it was especially
so in the present instance, because the head chief of the village was
absent, and there were but few “soldiers,” a sort of Indian police, who
among their other functions usually assumed the direction of a buffalo
hunt. No man turned to the right hand or to the left. We rode at a swift
canter straight forward, uphill and downhill, and through the stiff,
obstinate growth of the endless wild-sage bushes. For an hour and a half
the same red shoulders, the same long black hair rose and fell with
the motion of the horses before me. Very little was said, though once I
observed an old man severely reproving Raymond for having left his rifle
behind him, when there was some probability of encountering an enemy
before the day was over. As we galloped across a plain thickly set with
sagebushes, the foremost riders vanished suddenly from sight, as if
diving into the earth. The arid soil was cracked into a deep ravine.
Down we all went in succession and galloped in a line along the bottom,
until we found a point where, one by one, the horses could scramble out.
Soon after we came upon a wide shallow stream, and as we rode swiftly
over the hard sand-beds and through the thin sheets of rippling water,
many of the savage horsemen threw themselves to the ground, knelt on the
sand, snatched a hasty draught, and leaping back again to their seats,
galloped on again as before.
Meanwhile scouts kept in advance of the party; and now we began to see
them on the ridge of the hills, waving their robes in token that
buffalo were visible. These however proved to be nothing more than old
straggling bulls, feeding upon the neighboring plains, who would stare
for a moment at the hostile array and then gallop clumsily off. At
length we could discern several of these scouts making their signals
to us at once; no longer waving their robes boldly from the top of the
hill, but standing lower down, so that they could not be seen from the
plains beyond. Game worth pursuing had evidently been discovered. The
excited Indians now urged forward their tired horses even more rapidly
than before. Pauline, who was still sick and jaded, began to groan
heavily; and her yellow sides were darkened with sweat. As we were
crowding together over a lower intervening hill, I heard Reynal and
Raymond shouting to me from the left; and looking in that direction,
I saw them riding away behind a party of about twenty mean-looking
Indians. These were the relatives of Reynal’s squaw Margot, who, not
wishing to take part in the general hunt, were riding toward a distant
hollow, where they could discern a small band of buffalo which they
meant to appropriate to themselves. I answered to the call by ordering
Raymond to turn back and follow me. He reluctantly obeyed, though
Reynal, who had relied on his assistance in skinning, cutting up, and
carrying to camp the buffalo that he and his party should kill, loudly
protested and declared that we should see no sport if we went with the
rest of the Indians. Followed by Raymond I pursued the main body of
hunters, while Reynal in a great rage whipped his horse over the hill
after his ragamuffin relatives. The Indians, still about a hundred in
number, rode in a dense body at some distance in advance. They galloped
forward, and a cloud of dust was flying in the wind behind them. I could
not overtake them until they had stopped on the side of the hill where
the scouts were standing. Here, each hunter sprang in haste from the
tired animal which he had ridden, and leaped upon the fresh horse that
he had brought with him. There was not a saddle or a bridle in the whole
party. A piece of buffalo robe girthed over the horse’s back served in
the place of the one, and a cord of twisted hair lashed firmly round
his lower jaw answered for the other. Eagle feathers were dangling from
every mane and tail, as insignia of courage and speed. As for the rider,
he wore no other clothing than a light cincture at his waist, and a pair
of moccasins. He had a heavy whip, with a handle of solid elk-horn,
and a lash of knotted bull-hide, fastened to his wrist by an ornamental
band. His bow was in his hand, and his quiver of otter or panther skin
hung at his shoulder. Thus equipped, some thirty of the hunters galloped
away toward the left, in order to make a circuit under cover of the
hills, that the buffalo might be assailed on both sides at once.
The rest impatiently waited until time enough had elapsed for their
companions to reach the required position. Then riding upward in a body,
we gained the ridge of the hill, and for the first time came in sight of
the buffalo on the plain beyond.
They were a band of cows, four or five hundred in number, who were
crowded together near the bank of a wide stream that was soaking
across the sand-beds of the valley. This was a large circular basin,
sun-scorched and broken, scantily covered with herbage and encompassed
with high barren hills, from an opening in which we could see our allies
galloping out upon the plain. The wind blew from that direction. The
buffalo were aware of their approach, and had begun to move, though very
slowly and in a compact mass. I have no further recollection of seeing
the game until we were in the midst of them, for as we descended the
hill other objects engrossed my attention. Numerous old bulls were
scattered over the plain, and ungallantly deserting their charge at our
approach, began to wade and plunge through the treacherous quick-sands
or the stream, and gallop away toward the hills. One old veteran was
struggling behind all the rest with one of his forelegs, which had
been broken by some accident, dangling about uselessly at his side. His
appearance, as he went shambling along on three legs, was so ludicrous
that I could not help pausing for a moment to look at him. As I came
near, he would try to rush upon me, nearly throwing himself down at
every awkward attempt. Looking up, I saw the whole body of Indians full
a hundred yards in advance. I lashed Pauline in pursuit and reached
them just in time, for as we mingled among them, each hunter, as if by
a common impulse, violently struck his horse, each horse sprang forward
convulsively, and scattering in the charge in order to assail the entire
herd at once, we all rushed headlong upon the buffalo. We were among
them in an instant. Amid the trampling and the yells I could see their
dark figures running hither and thither through clouds of dust, and the
horsemen darting in pursuit. While we were charging on one side, our
companions had attacked the bewildered and panic-stricken herd on
the other. The uproar and confusion lasted but for a moment. The dust
cleared away, and the buffalo could be seen scattering as from a common
center, flying over the plain singly, or in long files and small compact
bodies, while behind each followed the Indians, lashing their horses to
furious speed, forcing them close upon their prey, and yelling as they
launched arrow after arrow into their sides. The large black carcasses
were strewn thickly over the ground. Here and there wounded buffalo were
standing, their bleeding sides feathered with arrows; and as I rode past
them their eyes would glare, they would bristle like gigantic cats, and
feebly attempt to rush up and gore my horse.
I left camp that morning with a philosophic resolution. Neither I nor
my horse were at that time fit for such sport, and I had determined to
remain a quiet spectator; but amid the rush of horses and buffalo, the
uproar and the dust, I found it impossible to sit still; and as four or
five buffalo ran past me in a line, I drove Pauline in pursuit. We went
plunging close at their heels through the water and the quick-sands,
and clambering the bank, chased them through the wild-sage bushes that
covered the rising ground beyond. But neither her native spirit nor the
blows of the knotted bull-hide could supply the place of poor Pauline’s
exhausted strength. We could not gain an inch upon the poor fugitives.
At last, however, they came full upon a ravine too wide to leap over;
and as this compelled them to turn abruptly to the left, I contrived to
get within ten or twelve yards of the hindmost. At this she faced about,
bristled angrily, and made a show of charging. I shot at her with
a large holster pistol, and hit her somewhere in the neck. Down she
tumbled into the ravine, whither her companions had descended before
her. I saw their dark backs appearing and disappearing as they galloped
along the bottom; then, one by one, they came scrambling out on the
other side and ran off as before, the wounded animal following with
unabated speed.
Turning back, I saw Raymond coming on his black mule to meet me; and as
we rode over the field together, we counted dozens of carcasses lying on
the plain, in the ravines and on the sandy bed of the stream. Far away
in the distance, horses and buffalo were still scouring along, with
little clouds of dust rising behind them; and over the sides of
the hills we could see long files of the frightened animals rapidly
ascending. The hunters began to return. The boys, who had held the
horses behind the hill, made their appearance, and the work of flaying
and cutting up began in earnest all over the field. I noticed my host
Kongra-Tonga beyond the stream, just alighting by the side of a cow
which he had killed. Riding up to him I found him in the act of drawing
out an arrow, which, with the exception of the notch at the end, had
entirely disappeared in the animal. I asked him to give it to me, and
I still retain it as a proof, though by no means the most striking one
that could be offered, of the force and dexterity with which the Indians
discharge their arrows.
The hides and meat were piled upon the horses, and the hunters began to
leave the ground. Raymond and I, too, getting tired of the scene, set
out for the village, riding straight across the intervening desert.
There was no path, and as far as I could see, no landmarks sufficient
to guide us; but Raymond seemed to have an instinctive perception of
the point on the horizon toward which we ought to direct our course.
Antelope were bounding on all sides, and as is always the case in the
presence of buffalo, they seemed to have lost their natural shyness and
timidity. Bands of them would run lightly up the rocky declivities,
and stand gazing down upon us from the summit. At length we could
distinguish the tall white rocks and the old pine trees that, as we well
remembered, were just above the site of the encampment. Still, we could
see nothing of the village itself until, ascending a grassy hill, we
found the circle of lodges, dingy with storms and smoke, standing on the
plain at our very feet.
I entered the lodge of my host. His squaw instantly brought me food
and water, and spread a buffalo robe for me to lie upon; and being much
fatigued, I lay down and fell asleep. In about an hour the entrance of
Kongra-Tonga, with his arms smeared with blood to the elbows, awoke me.
He sat down in his usual seat on the left side of the lodge. His squaw
gave him a vessel of water for washing, set before him a bowl of boiled
meat, and as he was eating pulled off his bloody moccasins and placed
fresh ones on his feet; then outstretching his limbs, my host composed
himself to sleep.
And now the hunters, two or three at a time, began to come rapidly in,
and each, consigning his horses to the squaws, entered his lodge with
the air of a man whose day’s work was done. The squaws flung down the
load from the burdened horses, and vast piles of meat and hides were
soon accumulated before every lodge. By this time it was darkening fast,
and the whole village was illumined by the glare of fires blazing all
around. All the squaws and children were gathered about the piles of
meat, exploring them in search of the daintiest portions. Some of these
they roasted on sticks before the fires, but often they dispensed with
this superfluous operation. Late into the night the fires were still
glowing upon the groups of feasters engaged in this savage banquet
around them.
Several hunters sat down by the fire in Kongra-Tonga’s lodge to talk
over the day’s exploits. Among the rest, Mene-Seela came in. Though he
must have seen full eighty winters, he had taken an active share in the
day’s sport. He boasted that he had killed two cows that morning, and
would have killed a third if the dust had not blinded him so that he had
to drop his bow and arrows and press both hands against his eyes to stop
the pain. The firelight fell upon his wrinkled face and shriveled figure
as he sat telling his story with such inimitable gesticulation that
every man in the lodge broke into a laugh.
Old Mene-Seela was one of the few Indians in the village with whom I
would have trusted myself alone without suspicion, and the only one from
whom I would have received a gift or a service without the certainty
that it proceeded from an interested motive. He was a great friend to
the whites. He liked to be in their society, and was very vain of the
favors he had received from them. He told me one afternoon, as we were
sitting together in his son’s lodge, that he considered the beaver and
the whites the wisest people on earth; indeed, he was convinced they
were the same; and an incident which had happened to him long before had
assured him of this. So he began the following story, and as the pipe
passed in turn to him, Reynal availed himself of these interruptions to
translate what had preceded. But the old man accompanied his words with
such admirable pantomime that translation was hardly necessary.
He said that when he was very young, and had never yet seen a white man,
he and three or four of his companions were out on a beaver hunt, and he
crawled into a large beaver lodge, to examine what was there. Sometimes
he was creeping on his hands and knees, sometimes he was obliged to
swim, and sometimes to lie flat on his face and drag himself along. In
this way he crawled a great distance underground. It was very dark, cold
and close, so that at last he was almost suffocated, and fell into a
swoon. When he began to recover, he could just distinguish the voices of
his companions outside, who had given him up for lost, and were singing
his death song. At first he could see nothing, but soon he discerned
something white before him, and at length plainly distinguished three
people, entirely white; one man and two women, sitting at the edge of
a black pool of water. He became alarmed and thought it high time to
retreat. Having succeeded, after great trouble, in reaching daylight
again, he went straight to the spot directly above the pool of water
where he had seen the three mysterious beings. Here he beat a hole with
his war club in the ground, and sat down to watch. In a moment the nose
of an old male beaver appeared at the opening. Mene-Seela instantly
seized him and dragged him up, when two other beavers, both females,
thrust out their heads, and these he served in the same way. “These,”
continued the old man, “must have been the three white people whom I saw
sitting at the edge of the water.”
Mene-Seela was the grand depository of the legends and traditions of the
village. I succeeded, however, in getting from him only a few fragments.
Like all Indians, he was excessively superstitious, and continually saw
some reason for withholding his stories. “It is a bad thing,” he would
say, “to tell the tales in summer. Stay with us till next winter, and I
will tell you everything I know; but now our war parties are going out,
and our young men will be killed if I sit down to tell stories before
the frost begins.”
But to leave this digression. We remained encamped on this spot five
days, during three of which the hunters were at work incessantly, and
immense quantities of meat and hides were brought in. Great alarm,
however, prevailed in the village. All were on the alert. The young men
were ranging through the country as scouts, and the old men paid careful
attention to omens and prodigies, and especially to their dreams. In
order to convey to the enemy (who, if they were in the neighborhood,
must inevitably have known of our presence) the impression that we were
constantly on the watch, piles of sticks and stones were erected on all
the surrounding hills, in such a manner as to appear at a distance like
sentinels. Often, even to this hour, that scene will rise before my
mind like a visible reality: the tall white rocks; the old pine trees
on their summits; the sandy stream that ran along their bases and half
encircled the village; and the wild-sage bushes, with their dull
green hue and their medicinal odor, that covered all the neighboring
declivities. Hour after hour the squaws would pass and repass with their
vessels of water between the stream and the lodges. For the most part
no one was to be seen in the camp but women and children, two or three
super-annuated old men, and a few lazy and worthless young ones.
These, together with the dogs, now grown fat and good-natured with the
abundance in the camp, were its only tenants. Still it presented a busy
and bustling scene. In all quarters the meat, hung on cords of hide, was
drying in the sun, and around the lodges the squaws, young and old,
were laboring on the fresh hides that were stretched upon the ground,
scraping the hair from one side and the still adhering flesh from the
other, and rubbing into them the brains of the buffalo, in order to
render them soft and pliant.
In mercy to myself and my horse, I never went out with the hunters after
the first day. Of late, however, I had been gaining strength rapidly, as
was always the case upon every respite of my disorder. I was soon able
to walk with ease. Raymond and I would go out upon the neighboring
prairies to shoot antelope, or sometimes to assail straggling buffalo,
on foot, an attempt in which we met with rather indifferent success. To
kill a bull with a rifle-ball is a difficult art, in the secret of which
I was as yet very imperfectly initiated. As I came out of Kongra-Tonga’s
lodge one morning, Reynal called to me from the opposite side of the
village, and asked me over to breakfast. The breakfast was a substantial
one. It consisted of the rich, juicy hump-ribs of a fat cow; a repast
absolutely unrivaled. It was roasting before the fire, impaled upon a
stout stick, which Reynal took up and planted in the ground before his
lodge; when he, with Raymond and myself, taking our seats around it,
unsheathed our knives and assailed it with good will. It spite of all
medical experience, this solid fare, without bread or salt, seemed to
agree with me admirably.
“We shall have strangers here before night,” said Reynal.
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“I dreamed so. I am as good at dreaming as an Indian. There is the
Hail-Storm; he dreamed the same thing, and he and his crony, the Rabbit,
have gone out on discovery.”
I laughed at Reynal for his credulity, went over to my host’s lodge,
took down my rifle, walked out a mile or two on the prairie, saw an old
bull standing alone, crawled up a ravine, shot him and saw him escape.
Then, quite exhausted and rather ill-humored, I walked back to the
village. By a strange coincidence, Reynal’s prediction had been
verified; for the first persons whom I saw were the two trappers,
Rouleau and Saraphin, coming to meet me. These men, as the reader may
possibly recollect, had left our party about a fortnight before. They
had been trapping for a while among the Black Hills, and were now on
their way to the Rocky Mountains, intending in a day or two to set out
for the neighboring Medicine Bow. They were not the most elegant or
refined of companions, yet they made a very welcome addition to the
limited society of the village. For the rest of that day we lay smoking
and talking in Reynal’s lodge. This indeed was no better than a little
hut, made of hides stretched on poles, and entirely open in front.
It was well carpeted with soft buffalo robes, and here we remained,
sheltered from the sun, surrounded by various domestic utensils of
Madame Margot’s household. All was quiet in the village. Though the
hunters had not gone out that day, they lay sleeping in their lodges,
and most of the women were silently engaged in their heavy tasks. A few
young men were playing a lazy game of ball in the center of the village;
and when they became tired, some girls supplied their place with a more
boisterous sport. At a little distance, among the lodges, some children
and half-grown squaws were playfully tossing up one of their number in
a buffalo robe, an exact counterpart of the ancient pastime from which
Sancho Panza suffered so much. Farther out on the prairie, a host of
little naked boys were roaming about, engaged in various rough games, or
pursuing birds and ground-squirrels with their bows and arrows; and
woe to the unhappy little animals that fell into their merciless,
torture-loving hands! A squaw from the next lodge, a notable active
housewife named Weah Washtay, or the Good Woman, brought us a large bowl
of wasna, and went into an ecstasy of delight when I presented her
with a green glass ring, such as I usually wore with a view to similar
occasions.
The sun went down and half the sky was growing fiery red, reflected on
the little stream as it wound away among the sagebushes. Some young
men left the village, and soon returned, driving in before them all
the horses, hundreds in number, and of every size, age, and color. The
hunters came out, and each securing those that belonged to him, examined
their condition, and tied them fast by long cords to stakes driven in
front of his lodge. It was half an hour before the bustle subsided
and tranquillity was restored again. By this time it was nearly dark.
Kettles were hung over the blazing fires, around which the squaws were
gathered with their children, laughing and talking merrily. A circle
of a different kind was formed in the center of the village. This was
composed of the old men and warriors of repute, who with their white
buffalo robes drawn close around their shoulders, sat together, and as
the pipe passed from hand to hand, their conversation had not a particle
of the gravity and reserve usually ascribed to Indians. I sat down with
them as usual. I had in my hand half a dozen squibs and serpents, which
I had made one day when encamped upon Laramie Creek, out of gunpowder
and charcoal, and the leaves of “Fremont’s Expedition,” rolled round a
stout lead pencil. I waited till I contrived to get hold of the large
piece of burning BOIS DE VACHE which the Indians kept by them on the
ground for lighting their pipes. With this I lighted all the fireworks
at once, and tossed them whizzing and sputtering into the air, over
the heads of the company. They all jumped up and ran off with yelps of
astonishment and consternation. After a moment or two, they ventured to
come back one by one, and some of the boldest, picking up the cases
of burnt paper that were scattered about, examined them with eager
curiosity to discover their mysterious secret. From that time forward I
enjoyed great repute as a “fire-medicine.”
The camp was filled with the low hum of cheerful voices. There were
other sounds, however, of a very different kind, for from a large lodge,
lighted up like a gigantic lantern by the blazing fire within, came a
chorus of dismal cries and wailings, long drawn out, like the howling of
wolves, and a woman, almost naked, was crouching close outside, crying
violently, and gashing her legs with a knife till they were covered with
blood. Just a year before, a young man belonging to this family had gone
out with a war party and had been slain by the enemy, and his relatives
were thus lamenting his loss. Still other sounds might be heard; loud
earnest cries often repeated from amid the gloom, at a distance beyond
the village. They proceeded from some young men who, being about to set
out in a few days on a warlike expedition, were standing at the top of a
hill, calling on the Great Spirit to aid them in their enterprise. While
I was listening, Rouleau, with a laugh on his careless face, called to
me and directed my attention to another quarter. In front of the lodge
where Weah Washtay lived another squaw was standing, angrily scolding an
old yellow dog, who lay on the ground with his nose resting between
his paws, and his eyes turned sleepily up to her face, as if he were
pretending to give respectful attention, but resolved to fall asleep as
soon as it was all over.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” said the old woman. “I have fed
you well, and taken care of you ever since you were small and blind, and
could only crawl about and squeal a little, instead of howling as you do
now. When you grew old, I said you were a good dog. You were strong and
gentle when the load was put on your back, and you never ran among the
feet of the horses when we were all traveling together over the prairie.
But you had a bad heart! Whenever a rabbit jumped out of the bushes, you
were always the first to run after him and lead away all the other dogs
behind you. You ought to have known that it was very dangerous to act
so. When you had got far out on the prairie, and no one was near to help
you, perhaps a wolf would jump out of the ravine; and then what could
you do? You would certainly have been killed, for no dog can fight well
with a load on his back. Only three days ago you ran off in that way,
and turned over the bag of wooden pins with which I used to fasten up
the front of the lodge. Look up there, and you will see that it is all
flapping open. And now to-night you have stolen a great piece of fat
meat which was roasting before the fire for my children. I tell you, you
have a bad heart, and you must die!”
So saying, the squaw went into the lodge, and coming out with a large
stone mallet, killed the unfortunate dog at one blow. This speech
is worthy of notice as illustrating a curious characteristic of the
Indians: the ascribing intelligence and a power of understanding speech
to the inferior animals, to whom, indeed, according to many of their
traditions, they are linked in close affinity, and they even claim the
honor of a lineal descent from bears, wolves, deer, or tortoises.
As it grew late, and the crowded population began to disappear, I too
walked across the village to the lodge of my host, Kongra-Tonga. As I
entered I saw him, by the flickering blaze of the fire in the center,
reclining half asleep in his usual place. His couch was by no means an
uncomfortable one. It consisted of soft buffalo robes laid together on
the ground, and a pillow made of whitened deerskin stuffed with feathers
and ornamented with beads. At his back was a light framework of poles
and slender reeds, against which he could lean with ease when in a
sitting posture; and at the top of it, just above his head, his bow
and quiver were hanging. His squaw, a laughing, broad-faced woman,
apparently had not yet completed her domestic arrangements, for she was
bustling about the lodge, pulling over the utensils and the bales of
dried meats that were ranged carefully round it. Unhappily, she and
her partner were not the only tenants of the dwelling, for half a dozen
children were scattered about, sleeping in every imaginable posture. My
saddle was in its place at the head of the lodge and a buffalo robe
was spread on the ground before it. Wrapping myself in my blanket I lay
down, but had I not been extremely fatigued the noise in the next lodge
would have prevented my sleeping. There was the monotonous thumping of
the Indian drum, mixed with occasional sharp yells, and a chorus chanted
by twenty voices. A grand scene of gambling was going forward with all
the appropriate formalities. The players were staking on the chance
issue of the game their ornaments, their horses, and as the excitement
rose, their garments, and even their weapons, for desperate gambling
is not confined to the hells of Paris. The men of the plains and the
forests no less resort to it as a violent but grateful relief to
the tedious monotony of their lives, which alternate between fierce
excitement and listless inaction. I fell asleep with the dull notes
of the drum still sounding on my ear, but these furious orgies lasted
without intermission till daylight. I was soon awakened by one of the
children crawling over me, while another larger one was tugging at
my blanket and nestling himself in a very disagreeable proximity. I
immediately repelled these advances by punching the heads of these
miniature savages with a short stick which I always kept by me for the
purpose; and as sleeping half the day and eating much more than is good
for them makes them extremely restless, this operation usually had to be
repeated four or five times in the course of the night. My host himself
was the author of another most formidable annoyance. All these
Indians, and he among the rest, think themselves bound to the constant
performance of certain acts as the condition on which their success in
life depends, whether in war, love, hunting, or any other employment.
These “medicines,” as they are called in that country, which are usually
communicated in dreams, are often absurd enough. Some Indians will
strike the butt of the pipe against the ground every time they smoke;
others will insist that everything they say shall be interpreted by
contraries; and Shaw once met an old man who conceived that all would be
lost unless he compelled every white man he met to drink a bowl of cold
water. My host was particularly unfortunate in his allotment. The Great
Spirit had told him in a dream that he must sing a certain song in the
middle of every night; and regularly at about twelve o’clock his dismal
monotonous chanting would awaken me, and I would see him seated bolt
upright on his couch, going through his dolorous performances with a
most business-like air. There were other voices of the night still more
inharmonious. Twice or thrice, between sunset and dawn, all the dogs
in the village, and there were hundreds of them, would bay and yelp in
chorus; a most horrible clamor, resembling no sound that I have ever
heard, except perhaps the frightful howling of wolves that we used
sometimes to hear long afterward when descending the Arkansas on the
trail of General Kearny’s army. The canine uproar is, if possible, more
discordant than that of the wolves. Heard at a distance, slowly rising
on the night, it has a strange unearthly effect, and would fearfully
haunt the dreams of a nervous man; but when you are sleeping in the
midst of it the din is outrageous. One long loud howl from the next
lodge perhaps begins it, and voice after voice takes up the sound till
it passes around the whole circumference of the village, and the air is
filled with confused and discordant cries, at once fierce and mournful.
It lasts but for a moment and then dies away into silence.
Morning came, and Kongra-Tonga, mounting his horse, rode out with the
hunters. It may not be amiss to glance at him for an instant in his
domestic character of husband and father. Both he and his squaw, like
most other Indians, were very fond of their children, whom they indulged
to excess, and never punished, except in extreme cases when they
would throw a bowl of cold water over them. Their offspring became
sufficiently undutiful and disobedient under this system of education,
which tends not a little to foster that wild idea of liberty and utter
intolerance of restraint which lie at the very foundation of the Indian
character. It would be hard to find a fonder father than Kongra-Tonga.
There was one urchin in particular, rather less than two feet high, to
whom he was exceedingly attached; and sometimes spreading a buffalo robe
in the lodge, he would seat himself upon it, place his small favorite
upright before him, and chant in a low tone some of the words used as an
accompaniment to the war dance. The little fellow, who could just manage
to balance himself by stretching out both arms, would lift his feet and
turn slowly round and round in time to his father’s music, while my host
would laugh with delight, and look smiling up into my face to see if
I were admiring this precocious performance of his offspring. In his
capacity of husband he was somewhat less exemplary. The squaw who lived
in the lodge with him had been his partner for many years. She took
good care of his children and his household concerns. He liked her well
enough, and as far as I could see they never quarreled; but all his
warmer affections were reserved for younger and more recent favorites.
Of these he had at present only one, who lived in a lodge apart from his
own. One day while in his camp he became displeased with her, pushed her
out, threw after her her ornaments, dresses, and everything she had,
and told her to go home to her father. Having consummated this summary
divorce, for which he could show good reasons, he came back, seated
himself in his usual place, and began to smoke with an air of utmost
tranquillity and self-satisfaction.
I was sitting in the lodge with him on that very afternoon, when I felt
some curiosity to learn the history of the numerous scars that appeared
on his naked body. Of some of them, however, I did not venture to
inquire, for I already understood their origin. Each of his arms was
marked as if deeply gashed with a knife at regular intervals, and there
were other scars also, of a different character, on his back and on
either breast. They were the traces of those formidable tortures
which these Indians, in common with a few other tribes, inflict upon
themselves at certain seasons; in part, it may be, to gain the glory of
courage and endurance, but chiefly as an act of self-sacrifice to secure
the favor of the Great Spirit. The scars upon the breast and back were
produced by running through the flesh strong splints of wood, to which
ponderous buffalo-skulls are fastened by cords of hide, and the wretch
runs forward with all his strength, assisted by two companions, who take
hold of each arm, until the flesh tears apart and the heavy loads
are left behind. Others of Kongra-Tonga’s scars were the result of
accidents; but he had many which he received in war. He was one of the
most noted warriors in the village. In the course of his life he had
slain as he boasted to me, fourteen men, and though, like other Indians,
he was a great braggart and utterly regardless of truth, yet in this
statement common report bore him out. Being much flattered by my
inquiries he told me tale after tale, true or false, of his warlike
exploits; and there was one among the rest illustrating the worst
features of the Indian character too well for me to omit. Pointing out
of the opening of the lodge toward the Medicine-Bow Mountain, not many
miles distant he said that he was there a few summers ago with a war
party of his young men. Here they found two Snake Indians, hunting. They
shot one of them with arrows and chased the other up the side of the
mountain till they surrounded him on a level place, and Kongra-Tonga
himself, jumping forward among the trees, seized him by the arm. Two of
his young men then ran up and held him fast while he scalped him alive.
Then they built a great fire, and cutting the tendons of their captive’s
wrists and feet, threw him in, and held him down with long poles
until he was burnt to death. He garnished his story with a great many
descriptive particulars much too revolting to mention. His features were
remarkably mild and open, without the fierceness of expression common
among these Indians; and as he detailed these devilish cruelties, he
looked up into my face with the same air of earnest simplicity which a
little child would wear in relating to its mother some anecdote of its
youthful experience.
Old Mene-Seela’s lodge could offer another illustration of the ferocity
of Indian warfare. A bright-eyed, active little boy was living there.
He had belonged to a village of the Gros-Ventre Blackfeet, a small but
bloody and treacherous band, in close alliance with the Arapahoes. About
a year before, Kongra-Tonga and a party of warriors had found about
twenty lodges of these Indians upon the plains a little to the eastward
of our present camp; and surrounding them in the night, they butchered
men, women, and children without mercy, preserving only this little
boy alive. He was adopted into the old man’s family, and was now fast
becoming identified with the Ogallalla children, among whom he mingled
on equal terms. There was also a Crow warrior in the village, a man of
gigantic stature and most symmetrical proportions. Having been taken
prisoner many years before and adopted by a squaw in place of a son whom
she had lost, he had forgotten his old national antipathies, and was now
both in act and inclination an Ogallalla.
It will be remembered that the scheme of the grand warlike combination
against the Snake and Crow Indians originated in this village; and
though this plan had fallen to the ground, the embers of the martial
ardor continued to glow brightly. Eleven young men had prepared
themselves to go out against the enemy. The fourth day of our stay in
this camp was fixed upon for their departure. At the head of this party
was a well-built active little Indian, called the White Shield, whom I
had always noticed for the great neatness of his dress and appearance.
His lodge too, though not a large one, was the best in the village,
his squaw was one of the prettiest girls, and altogether his dwelling
presented a complete model of an Ogallalla domestic establishment. I
was often a visitor there, for the White Shield being rather partial
to white men, used to invite me to continual feasts at all hours of the
day. Once when the substantial part of the entertainment was concluded,
and he and I were seated cross-legged on a buffalo robe smoking together
very amicably, he took down his warlike equipments, which were
hanging around the lodge, and displayed them with great pride and
self-importance. Among the rest was a most superb headdress of feathers.
Taking this from its case, he put it on and stood before me, as if
conscious of the gallant air which it gave to his dark face and his
vigorous, graceful figure. He told me that upon it were the feathers of
three war-eagles, equal in value to the same number of good horses. He
took up also a shield gayly painted and hung with feathers. The effect
of these barbaric ornaments was admirable, for they were arranged with
no little skill and taste. His quiver was made of the spotted skin of a
small panther, such as are common among the Black Hills, from which the
tail and distended claws were still allowed to hang. The White Shield
concluded his entertainment in a manner characteristic of an Indian. He
begged of me a little powder and ball, for he had a gun as well as bow
and arrows; but this I was obliged to refuse, because I had scarcely
enough for my own use. Making him, however, a parting present of a paper
of vermilion, I left him apparently quite contented.
Unhappily on the next morning the White Shield took cold and was
attacked with a violent inflammation of the throat. Immediately he
seemed to lose all spirit, and though before no warrior in the village
had borne himself more proudly, he now moped about from lodge to lodge
with a forlorn and dejected air. At length he came and sat down, close
wrapped in his robe, before the lodge of Reynal, but when he found that
neither he nor I knew how to relieve him, he arose and stalked over to
one of the medicine-men of the village. This old imposter thumped him
for some time with both fists, howled and yelped over him, and beat a
drum close to his ear to expel the evil spirit that had taken possession
of him. This vigorous treatment failing of the desired effect, the White
Shield withdrew to his own lodge, where he lay disconsolate for some
hours. Making his appearance once more in the afternoon, he again took
his seat on the ground before Reynal’s lodge, holding his throat with
his hand. For some time he sat perfectly silent with his eyes fixed
mournfully on the ground. At last he began to speak in a low tone:
“I am a brave man,” he said; “all the young men think me a great
warrior, and ten of them are ready to go with me to the war. I will go
and show them the enemy. Last summer the Snakes killed my brother. I
cannot live unless I revenge his death. To-morrow we will set out and I
will take their scalps.”
The White Shield, as he expressed this resolution, seemed to have lost
all the accustomed fire and spirit of his look, and hung his head as if
in a fit of despondency.
As I was sitting that evening at one of the fires, I saw him arrayed in
his splendid war dress, his cheeks painted with vermilion, leading his
favorite war horse to the front of his lodge. He mounted and rode round
the village, singing his war song in a loud hoarse voice amid the
shrill acclamations of the women. Then dismounting, he remained for some
minutes prostrate upon the ground, as if in an act of supplication.
On the following morning I looked in vain for the departure of the
warriors. All was quiet in the village until late in the forenoon, when
the White Shield, issuing from his lodge, came and seated himself in his
old place before us. Reynal asked him why he had not gone out to find
the enemy.
“I cannot go,” answered the White Shield in a dejected voice. “I have
given my war arrows to the Meneaska.”
“You have only given him two of your arrows,” said Reynal. “If you ask
him, he will give them back again.”
For some time the White Shield said nothing. At last he spoke in a
gloomy tone:
“One of my young men has had bad dreams. The spirits of the dead came
and threw stones at him in his sleep.”
If such a dream had actually taken place it might have broken up this
or any other war party, but both Reynal and I were convinced at the time
that it was a mere fabrication to excuse his remaining at home.
The White Shield was a warrior of noted prowess. Very probably, he would
have received a mortal wound without a show of pain, and endured without
flinching the worst tortures that an enemy could inflict upon him. The
whole power of an Indian’s nature would be summoned to encounter such
a trial; every influence of his education from childhood would have
prepared him for it; the cause of his suffering would have been visibly
and palpably before him, and his spirit would rise to set his enemy at
defiance, and gain the highest glory of a warrior by meeting death with
fortitude. But when he feels himself attacked by a mysterious evil,
before whose insidious assaults his manhood is wasted, and his strength
drained away, when he can see no enemy to resist and defy, the boldest
warrior falls prostrate at once. He believes that a bad spirit has
taken possession of him, or that he is the victim of some charm. When
suffering from a protracted disorder, an Indian will often abandon
himself to his supposed destiny, pine away and die, the victim of his
own imagination. The same effect will often follow from a series of
calamities, or a long run of ill success, and the sufferer has been
known to ride into the midst of an enemy’s camp, or attack a grizzly
bear single-handed, to get rid of a life which he supposed to lie under
the doom of misfortune.
Thus after all his fasting, dreaming, and calling upon the Great Spirit,
the White Shield’s war party was pitifully broken up.