Step by step the Indians were pushed out of the land that was theirs
by just right. The white man made treaties with them, but did not keep
them, and on every hand the strong force of advancing civilization
drove them toward the land of the setting sun. Any attempt at
resistance by the Indians was usually met by conquest and the most
relentless punishment. “There is not one white man who loves an
Indian,” said Sitting Bull, the warlike chief of the Ogollalas, “and
not a true Indian but hates a white man.”
[Illustration: A CROW CHIEF OFFERING A CHALLENGE]
In the year 1803 the government of France sold to the United States
the vast tract of land then known as the country of Louisiana. This
included the region in which now lie the states of Louisiana, Arkansas,
Missouri, Kansas, Minnesota, Montana, Iowa, Nebraska, South Dakota,
North Dakota, Wyoming, two parts of Idaho, and Colorado and the
territory of Oklahoma.
At the time this vast tract of land was acquired by our government
almost nothing was known of it. Few white men had ever travelled the
trackless plains or scaled the frowning ranges of mountains that barred
the way across the continent, and in its great unknown land there lived
many tribes of Indians who had never looked upon the face of a white
man. The government sent explorers to find out about the strange, new
possessions, and, hard upon their trails, followed the advancing tide
of civilization. And every step of the settlers’ advance was bitterly
contested by the savages, who fought with desperate fierceness.
New factors entered into this warfare with the savage tribes. This
territory, unlike the forest lands, was flat and barren and stretched
thousands of miles across the middle of the United States from the
Missouri River to California, with here and there a huge range of
mountains running north and south, guarded on either side by long lines
of foot-hills. In rare instances there were stretches of forest, but
generally there was nothing but flat plains covered with a tall rough
grass, and many other parts were alkali plains so dry that they were
totally unfit for human habitation.
[Illustration]
In his battles with the red foe the white man had up to this time
been used to the cover of the thicket and the forest. Now with little
natural protection he was called upon to advance against some of the
most crafty and bloodthirsty of the Indians.
[Illustration: A BLACKFOOT CHIEF]
These Indians comprised several nations divided into tribes. They were
a wild, untamed race and, unlike the forest Indians, had horses which
they managed with great skill in battle and in the hunt.
A Western Indian on foot was out of his element, but the moment he laid
his hand upon his horse his face became handsome and he sped gracefully
away--a different being. No imagination can ever truly picture the
beauty and wildness of the scenes in this romantic country. In the
chase and on the war-path these Indians were gorgeous pictures of
barbaric splendor and manly development.
First of all the tribes ranked the Crows and Blackfeet and their
dress was extremely picturesque. They were skilled hunters and fierce
warriors. These two tribes were deadly enemies and almost continued
warfare was in progress between them. Often the chiefs of different
tribes were sworn enemies, and if they chanced to meet a fierce combat
ensued.
Once a noted chief of the Blackfoot tribe met a famous chief of the
Crows on the banks of the Missouri River. They were on opposite sides
of the stream, at a point where the current was divided by a sand bar
or small island. Uttering his shrill war-cry, the Blackfoot waded into
the river on his horse and the Crow answered the challenge, rushing
down the steep embankment into the swiftly flowing water. At almost the
same instant the two horsemen emerged at the opposite ends of the small
island. Here they drew up their steeds and made the sign of peace. The
Blackfoot was the first to speak. “What has the Crow squaw to say?” he
said. At this insult the Crow replied, singing the praises of his race
and taunting the Blackfoot warrior with all the hatred typical of the
Indian for his enemy.
“I am done,” he said at last. “What has the dog of the prairie to say?”
Infuriated beyond control, the Crow set an arrow to his bow and sent it
with deadly aim toward the naked bosom of his foe. Sudden and unlooked
for as was this attack the Blackfoot’s quick eye had seen the movement.
He jerked the rein of his horse and made him rear his forward legs into
the air. Then leaning over the neck of his horse he returned the shot,
which was a signal for a perfect rain of arrows, many of which found
their mark. The quivers of both Indians were soon empty, and then began
a fierce combat with the lance. The Crow quickly dismounted to avoid
a thrust from the angry Blackfoot’s ready spear, and just in time it
was, for with a yell of savage triumph the Blackfoot drove his lance
right through the body of his enemy’s pony. Then he quickly wheeled
his horse and bore down upon the unmounted Crow, who met him with a
thrust that killed his horse. Down went the Blackfoot entangled in his
own trappings. His predicament was desperate. He deftly took his knife
between his thumb and forefinger and threw it with deadly accuracy at
the advancing Crow. In a second it buried itself to the handle in his
breast.
Mortally wounded, the Crow chief halted for a moment, then summoning
all his strength, he drew the knife from his breast and threw it at
the Blackfoot crying, “A scalp of the mighty Crows shall never dry in
the wigwams of the Blackfeet.” With this parting word he threw himself
into the swift moving river and was lost to view. Only the bloody water
marked the place.