tomahawks over their heads. I urged my horse to his best speed, for I felt that if they should overtake me, nothing could save me! My
friend, White Elk, here, was one of that war- party.
“I saw that I had a fair lead and the best horse, and was gaining upon them, when about two miles out I met some more of the party who had lingered behind the rest. I was sur- rounded!
“I turned toward the north, to a deep gulch that I knew I should find there, and I led my horse along a narrow and slippery ridge to a deep hole. Here I took up my position. I guarded the pass with my bow and arrows, and they could not reach me unless they should fol- low the ridge in single file. I knew that they would not storm my position, for that is not the Indian way of fighting, but I supposed that they would try to tire me out. They yelled and hooted, and shot many bullets and arrows over my head to terrify me into surrender, but I re- mained motionless and silent.
“Night came, with a full round moon. All was light as day except the place where I stood, half frozen and not daring to move. The bot- tom of the gulch was as black as a well and almost as cold. The wolves howled all around me in the stillness.
At last I heard the footsteps of horses re- treating, and then no other sound. Still I dared not come out. I must have slept, for it was dawn when I seemed to hear faintly the yelling of warriors, and then I heard my own name.
“‘Zuyamani, tokiya nunka huwo?’ (Where are you, Zuyamani?) they shouted. A party of my friends had come out to meet me and had followed our trail. I was scarcely able to walk when I came out, but they filled the pipe and held it up to me, as is done in recognition of distinguished service. They escorted me into the post, singing war songs and songs of brave deeds, and there I delivered up his letters to the Chief Soldier.”
Again the drum was struck and the old men cheered Zuyamani, who added:
“I think that Poor Dog was right, for the Great Father never gave me any credit, nor did he ever reward me for what I had done. Yet I have not been without honor, for my own people have not forgotten me, even though I went upon the white man’s errand.”
VII
THE GRAVE OF THE DOG
The full moon was just clear of the high mountain ranges. Surrounded by a
ring of bluish haze, it looked almost as if it were frozen against the impalpable blue- black of the reckless midwinter sky.
The game scout moved slowly homeward, well wrapped in his long buffalo robe, which was securely belted to his strong loins; his quiver tightly tied to his shoulders so as not to impede his progress. It was enough to carry upon his feet two strong snow-shoes; for the snow was deep and its crust too thin to bear his weight.
As he emerged from the lowlands into the upper regions, he loomed up a gigantic figure against the clear, moonlit horizon. His pic- turesque foxskin cap with all its trimmings was incrusted with frost from the breath of his nos- trils, and his lagging footfall sounded crisply. The distance he had that day covered was enough for any human endurance; yet he was neither faint nor hungry; but his feet were frozen into the psay, the snow-shoes, so that he could not run faster than an easy slip and slide.
At last he reached the much-coveted point– the crown of the last ascent; and when he smelled fire and the savory odor of the jerked buffalo meat, it well-nigh caused him to waver! But he must not fail to follow the custom of untold ages, and give the game scout’s wolf call before enter- ing camp.
Accordingly he paused upon the highest point of the ridge and uttered a cry to which the hungry cry of a real wolf would have seemed but a coyote’s yelp in comparison! Then it was that the rest of the buffalo hunters knew that their game scout was returning with welcome news; for the unsuccessful scout enters the camp silently.
A second time he gave the call to assure his hearers that their ears did not deceive them. The gray wolves received the news with perfect un- derstanding. It meant food! “Woo-o-o-o!
woo-o-o-o!” came from all directions, especially from the opposite ridge. Thus the ghostly, cold, weird night was enlivened with the music from many wild throats.
Down the gradual slope the scout hastened; his footfall was the only sound that broke the stillness after the answers to his call had ceased. As he crossed a little ridge an immense wolf suddenly confronted him, and instead of retreat- ing, calmly sat up and gazed steadfastly into his face.
“Welcome, welcome, friend!” the hunter spoke as he passed.
In the meantime, the hunters at the temporary camp were aroused to a high pitch of excitement. Some turned their buffalo robes and put them on in such a way as to convert themselves into make-believe bison, and began to tread the snow, while others were singing the buffalo song, that their spirits might be charmed and allured within the circle of the camp-fires. The scout, too, was singing his buffalo bull song in a guttural, lowing chant as he neared the hunting camp. Within arrow-shot he paused again, while the usual cere- monies were enacted for his reception. This done, he was seated with the leaders in a chosen place.
“It was a long run,” he said, “but there were no difficulties. I found the first herd directly north of here. The second herd, a great one, is northeast, near Shell Lake. The snow is deep. The buffalo can only follow their leader in their retreat.”
“Hi, hi, hi!” the hunters exclaimed solemnly in token of gratitude, raising their hands heaven- ward and then pointing them toward the ground.
“Ho, kola! one more round of the buffalo- pipe, then we shall retire, to rise before daybreak for the hunt,” advised one of the leaders. Si- lently they partook in turn of the long-stemmed pipe, and one by one, with a dignified “Ho!” departed to their teepees.
The scout betook himself to his little old buf- falo teepee, which he used for winter hunting expeditions. His faithful Shunka, who had been all this time its only occupant, met him at the entrance as dogs alone know how to welcome a lifelong friend. As his master entered he stretched himself in his old-time way, from the tip of his tail to that of his tongue, and finished by curling both ends upward.
“Ho, mita shunka, eat this; for you must be hungry!” So saying, the scout laid before his canine friend the last piece of his dried buf- falo meat. It was the sweetest meal ever eaten by a dog, judging by his long smacking of his lips after he had swallowed it!
The hunting party was soon lost in heavy slumber. Not a sound could be heard save the gnawing of the ponies upon the cottonwood bark, which was provided for them instead of hay in the winter time.
All about Shell Lake the bison were gathered in great herds. The unmistakable signs of the sky had warned them of approaching bad
weather. The moon’s robe was girdled with the rainbow wampum of heaven. The very music of the snow under their feet had given them warning. On the north side of Shell Lake there were several deep gulches, which were the homes of every wanderer of the plains at such a time at this. When there was a change toward severe weather, all the four-footed people headed for this lake. Here was a heavy growth of reeds, rushes, and coarse grass, making good shelters, and also springs, which afforded water after the lake was frozen solid. Hence great numbers of the bison had gathered here.
When Wapashaw, the game scout, had rolled himself in his warm buffalo robe and was sound asleep, his faithful companion hunter, the great Esquimaux wolf dog, silently rose and again stretched himself, then stood quiet for a moment as if meditating. It was clear that he knew well what he had planned to do, but was considering how he should do it without arousing any sus- picion of his movements. This is a dog’s art, and the night tricks and marauding must always be the joy and secret of his life!
Softly he emerged from the lodge and gave a sweeping glance around to assure him that there were none to spy upon him. Suspiciously he sniffed the air, as if to ascertain whether there could be any danger to his sleeping master while he should be away.
His purpose was still a secret. It may be that it was not entirely a selfish one, or merely the satisfying of his inherited traits. Having fully convinced himself of the safety of the unguarded camp, he went forth into the biting cold. The moon was now well up on the prairies of the sky. There were no cloud hills in the blue field above to conceal her from view. Her brilliant light set on fire every snow gem upon the plains and hillsides about the hunters’ camp.
Up the long ascent he trotted in a northerly direction, yet not following his master’s trail. He was large and formidable in strength, com- bining the features of his wild brothers of the plains with those of the dogs who keep company with the red men. His jet-black hair and sharp ears and nose appeared to immense advantage against the spotless and jeweled snow, until pres- ently his own warm breath had coated him with heavy frost.
After a time Shunka struck into his master’s trail and followed it all the way, only taking a short cut here and there when by dog instinct he knew that a man must go around such a point to get to his destination. He met many travelers during the night, but none had dared to approach him, though some few followed at a distance, as if to discover his purpose.
At last he reached Shell Lake, and there be- held a great gathering of the herds! They stood in groups, like enormous rocks, no longer black, but white with frost. Every one of them emitted a white steam, quickly frozen into a fine snow in the air.
Shunka sat upon his haunches and gazed.
“Wough, this is it!” he said to himself. He had kept still when the game scout gave the wolf call, though the camp was in an uproar, and from the adjacent hills the wild hunters were equally joyous, because they understood the meaning of the unwonted noise. Yet his curios- ity was not fully satisfied, and he had set out to discover the truth, and it may be to protect or serve his master in case of danger.
At daybreak the great dog meekly entered his master’s rude teepee, and found him already pre- paring for the prospective hunt. He was filling his inside moccasins full of buffalo hair to serve as stockings, over which he put on his large buf- falo moccasins with the hair inside, and adjusted his warm leggings. He then adjusted his snow- shoes and filled his quiver full of good arrows. The dog quietly lay down in a warm place, mak- ing himself as small as possible, as if to escape observation, and calmly watched his master.
“Ho, ho, ho, kola! Enakanee, enakanee!” shouted the game herald. “It is always best to get the game early; then their spirits can take flight with the coming of a new day!”
All had now donned their snow-shoes. There was no food left; therefore no delay to prepare breakfast.
“It is very propitious for our hunt,” one ex- claimed; “everything is in our favor. There is a good crust on the snow, and the promise of a good clear day!”
Soon all the hunters were running in single file upon the trail of the scout, each Indian closely followed by his trusty hunting dog. In less than two hours they stood just back of the low ridge which rounded the south side of Shell Lake. The narrow strip of land between its twin divisions was literally filled with the bison. In the gulches beyond, between the dark lines of timber, there were also scattered groups; but the hunters at once saw their advantage over the herd upon the peninsula.
“Hechetu, kola! This is well, friends!” ex- claimed the first to speak. “These can be forced to cross the slippery ice and the mire around the springs. This will help us to get more meat. Our people are hungry, and we must kill many in order to feed them!”
“Ho, ho, ho!” agreed all the hunters.
“And it is here that we can use our companion hunters best, for the shunkas will intimidate and bewilder the buffalo women,” said an old man.
“Ugh, he is always right! Our dogs must help us here. The meat will be theirs as well as ours,” another added.
“Tosh, kola! The game scout’s dog is the greatest shunka of them all! He has a mind near like that of a man. Let him lead the attack of his fellows, while we crawl up on the opposite side and surround the buffalo upon the slippery ice and in the deceitful mire,” spoke up a third. So it was agreed that the game scout and his Shunka should lead the attack of the dogs.
“Woo, woo, woo!” was the hoarse signal from the throat of the game scout; but his voice was drowned by the howling and barking of the savage dogs as they made their charge. In a moment all was confusion among the buffalo. Some started this way, others that, and the great mass swayed to and fro uncertainly. A few were ready to fight, but the snow was too deep for a countercharge upon the dogs, save on the ice just in front of them, where the wind had always full sweep. There all was slippery and shining! In their excitement and confusion the bison rushed upon this uncertain plain.
Their weight and the momentum of their rush carried them hopelessly far out, where they were again confused as to which way to go, and many were stuck in the mire which was concealed by the snow, except here and there an opening above a spring from which there issued a steaming vapor. The game scout and his valiant dog led on the force of canines with deafening war-cries, and one could see black heads here and there pop- ping from behind the embankments. As the herd finally swept toward the opposite shore, many dead were left behind. Pierced by the ar- rows of the hunters, they lay like black mounds upon the glassy plain.
It was a great hunt! “Once more the camp will be fed,” they thought, “and this good for- tune will help us to reach the spring alive!”
A chant of rejoicing rang out from the op- posite shore, while the game scout unsheathed his big knife and began the work which is ever the sequel of the hunt–to dress the game; al- though the survivors of the slaughter had scarcely disappeared behind the hills. The dogs had all run back to their respective masters, and this left the scout and his companion Shunka alone. Some were appointed to start a camp in a neighboring gulch among the trees, so that the hunters might bring their meat there and eat before setting out for the great camp on the Big River.
All were busily skinning and cutting up the meat into pieces convenient for carrying, when suddenly a hunter called the attention of those near him to an ominous change in the atmos- phere.
“There are signs of a blizzard! We must hurry into the near woods before it reaches us!” he shouted.
Some heard him; others did not. Those who saw or heard passed on the signal and hurried toward the wood, where others had already ar- ranged rude shelters and gathered piles of dry wood for fuel.
Around the several camp-fires the hunters sat or stood, while slices of savory meat were broiled and eaten with a relish by the half-starved men.
“Ho, kola! Eat this, friend!” said they to one another as one finished broiling a steak of the bison and offered it to his neighbor.
But the storm had now fairly enveloped them in whirling whiteness. “Woo, woo!” they
called to those who had not yet reached camp. One after another answered and emerged from the blinding pall of snow. At last none were missing save the game scout and his Shunka!
The hunters passed the time in eating and tell- ing stories until a late hour, occasionally giving a united shout to guide the lost one should he chance to pass near their camp.
“Fear not for our scout, friends!” finally ex- claimed a leader among them. “He is a brave and experienced man. He will find a safe rest- ing-place, and join us when the wind ceases to rage.” So they all wrapped themselves in their robes and lay down to sleep.
All that night and the following day it was impossible to give succor, and the hunters felt much concern for the absent. Late in the second night the great storm subsided.
“Ho, ho! Iyotanka! Rise up!” So the
first hunter to awaken aroused all the others.
As after every other storm, it was wonderfully still; so still that one could hear distinctly the pounding feet of the jack-rabbits coming down over the slopes to the willows for food. All dry vegetation was buried beneath the deep snow, and everywhere they saw this white-robed crea- ture of the prairie coming down to the woods.
Now the air was full of the wolf and coyote game call, and they were seen in great numbers upon the ice.
“See, see! the hungry wolves are dragging the carcasses away! Harken to the war cries of the scout’s Shunka! Hurry, hurry!” they urged one another in chorus.
Away they ran and out upon the lake; now upon the wind-swept ice, now upon the crusted snow; running when they could, sliding when they must. There was certainly a great concourse of the wolves, whirling in frantic circles, but con- tinually moving toward the farther end of the lake. They could hear distinctly the hoarse bark of the scout’s Shunka, and occasionally the muf- fled war-whoop of a man, as if it came from under the ice!
As they approached nearer the scene they could hear more distinctly the voice of their friend, but still as it were from underground. When they reached the spot to which the wolves had dragged two of the carcasses of the buffalo, Shunka was seen to stand by one of them, but at that moment he staggered and fell. The hunt- ers took out their knives and ripped up the frozen hide covering the abdominal cavity. It revealed a warm nest of hay and buffalo hair in which the scout lay, wrapped in his own robe!
He had placed his dog in one of the carcasses and himself in another for protection from the storm; but the dog was wiser than the man, for he kept his entrance open. The man lapped the hide over and it froze solidly, shutting him se- curely in. When the hungry wolves came
Shunka promptly extricated himself and held them off as long as he could; meanwhile, sliding and pulling, the wolves continued to drag over the slippery ice the body of the buffalo in which his master had taken refuge. The poor, faithful dog, with no care for his own safety, stood by his imprisoned master until the hunters came up. But it was too late, for he had received more than one mortal wound.
As soon as the scout got out, with a face more anxious for another than for himself, he ex- claimed:
“Where is Shunka, the bravest of his tribe?”
“Ho, kola, it is so, indeed; and here he lies,” replied one sadly.
His master knelt by his side, gently stroking the face of the dog.
“Ah, my friend; you go where all spirits live! The Great Mystery has a home for every living creature. May he permit our meeting there!”
At daybreak the scout carried him up to one of the pretty round hills overlooking the lake, and built up around him walls of loose stone. Red paints were scattered over the snow, in ac- cordance with Indian custom, and the farewell song was sung.
Since that day the place has been known to the Sioux as Shunkahanakapi–the Grave of the Dog.
PART TWO
THE WOMAN
I
WINONA, THE WOMAN-CHILD
Hush, hushaby, little woman!
Be brave and weep not!
The spirits sleep not;
‘Tis they who ordain
To woman, pain.
Hush, hushaby, little woman!
Now, all things bearing,
A new gift sharing
From those above–
To woman, love.
–Sioux Lullaby.
“Chinto, weyanna! Yes, indeed; she
is a real little woman,” declares the old grandmother, as she receives and crit-
ically examines the tiny bit of humanity.
There is no remark as to the color of its hair or eyes, both so black as almost to be blue, but the old woman scans sharply the delicate pro- file of the baby face.
“Ah, she has the nose of her ancestors! Lips thin as a leaf, and eyes bright as stars in mid- winter!” she exclaims, as she passes on the furry bundle to the other grandmother for her inspec- tion.
“Tokee! she is pretty enough to win a twinkle rom the evening star,” remarks that smiling personage.
“And what shall her name be?
“Winona, the First-born, of course. That is hers by right of birth.”
“Still, it may not fit her. One must prove herself worthy in order to retain that honorable name.”
“Ugh,” retorts the first grandmother, “she can at least bear it on probation!”
“Tosh, tosh,” the other assents.
Thus the unconscious little Winona has passed the first stage of the Indian’s christen- ing.
Presently she is folded into a soft white doe- skin, well lined with the loose down of cattails, and snugly laced into an upright oaken cradle, the front of which is a richly embroidered buck- skin bag, with porcupine quills and deers’ hoofs suspended from its profuse fringes. This gay cradle is strapped upon the second grand- mother’s back, and that dignitary walks off with the newcomer.
“You must come with me,” she says. “We shall go among the father and mother trees, and hear them speak with their thousand tongues, that you may know their language forever. I will hang the cradle of the woman-child upon Utuhu, the oak; and she shall hear the love-sighs of the pine maiden!”
In this fashion Winona is introduced to nature and becomes at once “nature-born,” in accord with the beliefs and practices of the wild red man.
“Here she is! Take her,” says the old woman on her return from the woods. She pre- sents the child to its mother, who is sitting in the shade of an elm-tree as quietly as if she had not just passed through woman’s severest or- deal in giving a daughter to the brave Cheton- ska!
“She has a winsome face, as meek and in- nocent as the face of an ermine,” graciously adds the grandmother.
The mother does not speak. Silently and al- most reverently she takes her new and first-born daughter into her arms. She gazes into its vel- vety little face of a dusky red tint, and uncon- sciously presses the closely swaddled form to her breast. She feels the mother-instinct seize upon her strongly for the first time. Here is a new life, a new hope, a possible link between herself and a new race!
Ah, a smile plays upon her lips, as she realizes that she has kissed her child! In its eyes and mouth she discerns clearly the features she has loved in the strong countenance of another, though in the little woman’s face they are soft- ened and retouched by the hand of the “Great Mystery.”
The baby girl is called Winona for some months, when the medicine-man is summoned and requested to name publicly the first-born daughter of Chetonska, the White Hawk; but not until he has received a present of a good pony with a finely painted buffalo-robe. It is usual to confer another name besides that of the “First-born,” which may be resumed later if the maiden proves worthy. The name Wi- nona implies much of honor. It means char- itable, kind, helpful; all that an eldest sister should be!
The herald goes around the ring of lodges announcing in singsong fashion the christening, and inviting everybody to a feast in honor of the event. A real American christening is al- ways a gala occasion, when much savage wealth is distributed among the poor and old people. Winona has only just walked, and this fact is also announced with additional gifts. A well- born child is ever before the tribal eye and in the tribal ear, as every little step in its progress toward manhood or womanhood–the first time of walking or swimming, first shot with bow and arrow (if a boy), first pair of moccasins made (if a girl)–is announced publicly with feasting and the giving of presents.
So Winona receives her individual name of Tatiyopa, or Her Door. It is symbolic, like most Indian names, and implies that the door of the bearer is hospitable and her home attrac- tive.
The two grandmothers, who have carried the little maiden upon their backs, now tell and sing to her by turns all the legends of their most noted female ancestors, from the twin sisters of the old story, the maidens who married among the star people of the sky, down to their own mothers. All her lullabies are feminine, and designed to impress upon her tender mind the life and duties of her sex.
As soon as she is old enough to play with dolls she plays mother in all seriousness and gravity. She is dressed like a miniature woman (and her dolls are clad likewise), in garments of doeskin to her ankles, adorned with long fringes, embroidered with porcupine quills, and dyed with root dyes in various colors. Her lit- tle blanket or robe, with which she shyly drapes or screens her head and shoulders, is the skin of a buffalo calf or a deer, soft, white, embroi- dered on the smooth side, and often with the head and hoofs left on.
“You must never forget, my little daughter, that you are a woman like myself. Do always those things that you see me do,” her mother often admonishes her.
Even the language of the Sioux has its fem- inine dialect, and the tiny girl would be greatly abashed were it ever needful to correct her for using a masculine termination.
This mother makes for her little daughter a miniature copy of every rude tool that she uses in her taily tasks. There is a little scraper of elk-horn to scrape rawhides preparatory to tan- ning them, another scraper of a different shape for tanning, bone knives, and stone mallets for pounding choke-cherries and jerked meat.
While her mother is bending over a large buffalo-hide stretched and pinned upon the ground, standing upon it and scraping off the fleshy portion as nimbly as a carpenter shaves a board with his plane, Winona, at five years of age, stands upon a corner of the great hide and industriously scrapes away with her tiny instru- ment! When the mother stops to sharpen her tool, the little woman always sharpens hers also. Perhaps there is water to be fetched in bags made from the dried pericardium of an animal; the girl brings some in a smaller water-bag. When her mother goes for wood she carries one or two sticks on her back. She pitches her play teepee to form an exact copy of her mother’s. Her little belongings are nearly all practical, and her very play is real!
Thus, before she is ten years old, Winona be- gins to see life honestly and in earnest; to con- sider herself a factor in the life of her people–a link in the genealogy of her race. Yet her effort is not forced, her work not done from necessity; it is normal and a development of the play-in- stinct of the young creature. This sort of train- ing leads very early to a genuine desire to serve and to do for others. The little Winona loves to give and to please; to be generous and gra- cious. There is no thought of trafficking or economizing in labor and in love.
“Mother, I want to be like the beavers, the ants, and the spiders, because my grandmother says those are the people most worthy of imita- tion for their industry. She also tells me that I should watch the bee, the one that has so many daughters, and allows no young men to come around her daughters while they are at work making sweets,” exclaims the little maiden.
“Truly their industry helps us much, for we often take from their hoard,” remarks the mother.
“That is not right, is it mother, if they do not wish to share with us?” asks Winona. “But I think the bee is stingy if she has so much and will not share with any one else! When I grow up, I shall help the poor! I shall have a big teepee and invite old people often, for when people get old they seem to be always hungry, and I think we ought to feed them.”
“My little daughter will please me and her father if she proves to be industrious and skillful with her needle and in all woman’s work. Then she can have a fine teepee and make it all cheer- ful within. The indolent woman has a small teepee, and it is very smoky. All her children will have sore eyes, and her husband will soon become ill-tempered,” declares the mother, in all seriousness.
“And, daughter, there is something more than this needed to make a cheerful home. You must have a good heart, be patient, and speak but little. Every creature that talks too much is sure to make trouble,” she concludes, wisely.
One day this careful mother has completed a beautiful little teepee of the skin of a buffalo calf, worked with red porcupine quills in a row of rings just below the smoke-flaps and on each side of the front opening. In the center of each ring is a tassel of red and white horse-hair. The tip of each smoke-flap is decorated with the same material, and the doorflap also.
Within there are neatly arranged raw-hide boxes for housekeeping, and square bags of soft buckskin adorned with blue and white beads. On either side of the fireplace are spread the tanned skins of a buffalo calf and a deer; but there is no bear, wolf, or wildcat skin, for on these the foot of a woman must never tread! They are for men, and symbolical of manly vir- tues. There are dolls of all sizes, and a play travois leans against the white wall of the minia- ture lodge. Even the pet pup is called in to complete the fanciful home of the little woman.
“Now, my daughter,” says the mother, “you must keep your lodge in order!”
Here the little woman is allowed to invite other little women, her playmates. This is where the grandmothers hold sway, chaperoning their young charges, who must never be long out of their sight. The little visitors bring their work-bags of various skins, artistically made and trimmed. These contain moccasins and other garments for their dolls, on which they love to occupy themselves.
The brightly-painted rawhide boxes are re- served for food, and in these the girls bring va- rious prepared meats and other delicacies. This is perhaps the most agreeable part of the play to the chaperon, who is treated as an honored guest at the feast!
Winona seldom plays with boys, even her own brothers and cousins, and after she reaches twelve or fourteen years of age she scarcely speaks to them. Modesty is a virtue which is deeply impressed upon her from early childhood, and the bashfully drooping head, the averted look, the voice low and seldom heard, these are graces much esteemed in a maiden.
She is taught to pay great attention to the care of her long, glossy locks, combing, plaiting, and perfuming them with sweet-scented leaves steeped in oil. Her personal appearance is well understood to be a matter of real moment, and rich dress and ornaments are highly prized. Fortunately they never go out of fashion, and once owned are permanent possessions, unless parted with as ceremonial gifts on some great occasion of mourning or festivity.
When she reaches a marriageable age her father allows her to give a feast to all the other girls of her immediate clan, and this “Feast of Virgins” may only be attended by those of spot- less reputation. To have given or attended a number of them is regarded as a choice honor.
Tatiyopa, by the time she is fifteen, has al- ready a name for skill in needlework, and gen- erosity in distributing the articles of her own making. She is now generally called Winona– the charitable and kind! She believes that it is woman’s work to make and keep a home that will be worthy of the bravest, and hospitable to all, and in this simple faith she enters upon the realities of her womanhood.
II
WINONA, THE CHILD-WOMAN
Braver than the bravest,
You sought honors at death’s door; Could you not remember
One who weeps at home–
Could you not remember me?
Braver than the bravest,
You sought honors more than love; Dear, I weep, yet I am not a coward;
My heart weeps for thee–
My heart weeps when I remember thee! –Sioux Love Song.
The sky is blue overhead, peeping
through window-like openings in a
roof of green leaves. Right between a great pine and a birch tree their soft doeskin shawls are spread, and there sit two Sioux maid- ens amid their fineries–variously colored por- cupine quills for embroidery laid upon sheets of thin birch-bark, and moccasin tops worked in colors like autumn leaves. It is Winona and her friend Miniyata.
They have arrived at the period during which the young girl is carefully secluded from her brothers and cousins and future lovers, and re- tires, as it were, into the nunnery of the woods, behind a veil of thick foliage. Thus she is expected to develop fully her womanly qualities. In meditation and solitude, entirely alone or with a chosen companion of her own sex and age, she gains a secret strength, as she studies the art of womanhood from nature herself.
Winona has the robust beauty of the wild lily of the prairie, pure and strong in her deep colors of yellow and scarlet against the savage plain and horizon, basking in the open sun like a child, yet soft and woman-like, with droop- ing head when observed. Both girls are beau- tifully robed in loose gowns of soft doeskin, girded about the waist with the usual very wide leather belt.
“Come, let us practice our sacred dance,” says one to the other. Each crowns her glossy head with a wreath of wild flowers, and they dance with slow steps around the white birch, singing meanwhile the sacred songs.
Now upon the lake that stretches blue to the eastward there appears a distant canoe, a mere speck, no bigger than a bird far off against the shining sky.
“See the lifting of the paddles!” exclaims Winona.
” Like the leaping of a trout upon the water!” suggests Miniyata.
“I hope they will not discover us, yet I would like to know who they are,” remarks the other, innocently.
The birch canoe approaches swiftly, with two young men plying the light cedar paddles.
The girls now settle down to their needle- work, quite as if they had never laughed or danced or woven garlands, bending over their embroidery in perfect silence. Surely they would not wish to attract attention, for the two sturdy young warriors have already landed.
They pick up the canoe and lay it well up on the bank, out of sight. Then one procures a strong pole. They lift a buck deer from the canoe–not a mark upon it, save for the bullet wound; the deer looks as if it were sleeping! They tie the hind legs together and the fore legs also and carry it between them on the pole.
Quickly and cleverly they do all this; and now they start forward and come unexpectedly upon the maidens’ retreat! They pause for an instant in mute apology, but the girls smile their forgiveness, and the youths hurry on toward the village.
Winona has now attended her first maidens’ feast and is considered eligible to marriage. She may receive young men, but not in public or in a social way, for such was not the custom of the Sioux. When he speaks, she need not answer him unless she chooses.
The Indian woman in her quiet way preserves the dignity of the home. From our standpoint the white man is a law-breaker! The “Great Mystery,” we say, does not adorn the woman above the man. His law is spreading horns, or flowing mane, or gorgeous plumage for the male; the female he made plain, but comely, modest and gentle. She is the foundation of man’s dignity and honor. Upon her rests the life of the home and of the family. I have often thought that there is much in this philos- ophy of an untutored people. Had her husband remained long enough in one place, the Indian woman, I believe, would have developed no mean civilization and culture of her own.
It was no disgrace to the chief’s daughter in the old days to work with her hands. Indeed, their standard of worth was the willingness to work, but not for the sake of accumulation, only in order to give. Winona has learned to pre- pare skins, to remove the hair and tan the skin of a deer so that it may be made into moccasins within three days. She has a bone tool for each stage of the conversion of the stiff raw-hide into velvety leather. She has been taught the art of painting tents and raw-hide cases, and the manufacture of garments of all kinds.
Generosity is a trait that is highly developed in the Sioux woman. She makes many mocca- sins and other articles of clothing for her male relatives, or for any who are not well provided. She loves to see her brother the best dressed among the young men, and the moccasins espe- cially of a young brave are the pride of his woman-kind.
Her own person is neatly attired, but ordi- narily with great simplicity. Her doeskin gown has wide, flowing sleeves; the neck is low, but not so low as is the evening dress of so- ciety.
Her moccasins are plain; her leggins close- fitting and not as high as her brother’s. She parts her smooth, jet-black hair in the middle and plaits it in two. In the old days she used to do it in one plait wound around with wam- pum. Her ornaments, sparingly worn, are
beads, elks’ teeth, and a touch of red paint. No feathers are worn by the woman, unless in a sacred dance.
She is supposed to be always occupied with some feminine pursuit or engaged in some social affair, which also is strictly feminine as a rule. Even her language is peculiar to her sex, some words being used by women only, while others have a feminine termination.
There is an etiquette of sitting and standing, which is strictly observed. The woman must never raise her knees or cross her feet when seated. She seats herself on the ground side- wise, with both feet under her.
Notwithstanding her modesty and undemon- strative ways, there is no lack of mirth and relaxation for Winona among her girl compan- ions.
In summer, swimming and playing in the water is a favorite amusement. She even imi- tates with the soles of her feet the peculiar, resonant sound that the beaver makes with her large, flat tail upon the surface of the water. She is a graceful swimmer, keeping the feet together and waving them backward and for- ward like the tail of a fish.
Nearly all her games are different from those of the men. She has a sport of wand-throwing which develops fine muscles of the shoulder and back. The wands are about eight feet long, and taper gradually from an inch and a half to half an inch in diameter. Some of them are artistically made, with heads of bone and horn, so that it is remarkable to what a distance they may be made to slide over the ground. In the feminine game of ball, which is something like “shinny,” the ball is driven with curved sticks between two goals. It is played with from two or three to a hundred on a side, and a game be- tween two bands or villages is a picturesque event.
A common indoor diversion is the “deer’s foot” game, played with six deer hoofs on a string, ending in a bone or steel awl. The ob- ject is to throw it in such a way as to catch one or more hoofs on the point of the awl, a feat which requires no little dexterity. Another is played with marked plum-stones in a bowl, which are thrown like dice and count according to the side that is turned uppermost.
Winona’s wooing is a typical one. As with any other people, love-making is more or less in vogue at all times of the year, but more espe- cially at midsummer, during the characteristic reunions and festivities of that season. The young men go about usually in pairs, and the maidens do likewise. They may meet by chance at any time of day, in the woods or at the spring, but oftenest seek to do so after dark, just outside the teepee. The girl has her com- panion, and he has his, for the sake of propriety or protection. The conversation is carried on in a whisper, so that even these chaperons do not hear.
At the sound of the drum on summer even- ings, dances are begun within the circular rows of teepees, but without the circle the young men promenade in pairs. Each provides himself with the plaintive flute and plays the simple cadences of his people, while his person is com- pletely covered with his fine robe, so that he cannot be recognized by the passerby. At every pause in the melody he gives his yodel-like love-call, to which the girls respond with their musical, sing-song laughter.
Matosapa has loved Winona since the time he saw her at the lakeside in her parlor among the pines. But he has not had much opportu- nity to speak until on such a night, after the dances are over. There is no outside fire; but a dim light from within the skin teepees sheds a mellow glow over the camp, mingling with the light of a young moon. Thus these lovers go about like ghosts. Matosapa has already circled the teepees with his inseparable brother- friend, Brave Elk.
“Friend, do me an honor to-night!” he ex- claims, at last. “Open this first door for me, since this will be the first time I shall speak to a woman!”
“Ah,” suggests Brave Elk, “I hope you have selected a girl whose grandmother has no cross dogs!”
“The prize that is won at great risk is usually valued most,” replies Matosapa.
“Ho, kola! I shall touch the door-flap as softly as the swallow alights upon her nest. But I warn you, do not let your heart beat too loudly, for the old woman’s ears are still good!”
So, joking and laughing, they proceed toward a large buffalo tent with a horse’s tail suspended from the highest pole to indicate the rank of the owner. They have ceased to blow the flute some paces back, and walk noiselessly as a pan- ther in quest of a doe.
Brave Elk opens the door. Matosapa enters the tent. As was the wont of the Sioux, the well-born maid has a little teepee within a tee- pee–a private apartment of her own. He
passes the sleeping family to this inner shrine. There he gently wakens Winona with proper apologies. This is not unusual or strange to her innocence, for it was the custom of the peo- ple. He sits at the door, while his friend waits outside, and tells his love in a whisper. To this she does not reply at once; even if she loves him, it is proper that she should be silent. The lover does not know whether he is favorably received or not, upon this his first visit. He must now seek her outside upon every favorable occasion. No gifts are offered at this stage of the affair; the trafficking in ponies and “buy- ing” a wife is entirely a modern custom.
Matosapa has improved every opportunity, until Winona has at last shyly admitted her will- ingness to listen. For a whole year he has been compelled at intervals to repeat the story of his love. Through the autumn hunting of the buffalo and the long, cold winter he often pre- sents her kinsfolk with his game.
At the next midsummer the parents on both sides are made acquainted with the betrothal, and they at once begin preparations for the com- ing wedding. Provisions and delicacies of all kinds are laid aside for a feast. Matosapa’s sisters and his girl cousins are told of the ap- proaching event, and they too prepare for it, since it is their duty to dress or adorn the bride with garments made by their own hands.
With the Sioux of the old days, the great natural crises of human life, marriage and birth, were considered sacred and hedged about with great privacy. Therefore the union is publicly celebrated after and not before its consum- mation. Suddenly the young couple disappear. They go out into the wilderness together, and spend some days or weeks away from the camp. This is their honeymoon, away from all curious or prying eyes. In due time they quietly return, he to his home and she to hers, and now at last the marriage is announced and invitations are given to the feast.
The bride is ceremoniously delivered to her husband’s people, together with presents of rich clothing collected from all her clan, which she afterward distributes among her new relations. Winona is carried in a travois handsomely dec- orated, and is received with equal ceremony. For several days following she is dressed and painted by the female relatives of the groom, each in her turn, while in both clans the wedding feast is celebrated.
To illustrate womanly nobility of nature, let me tell the story of Dowanhotaninwin, Her- Singing-Heard. The maiden was deprived of both father and mother when scarcely ten years old, by an attack of the Sacs and Foxes while they were on a hunting expedition. Left alone with her grandmother, she was carefully reared and trained by this sage of the wild life.
Nature had given her more than her share of attractiveness, and she was womanly and win- ning as she was handsome. Yet she remained unmarried for nearly thirty years–a most un- usual thing among us; and although she had worthy suitors in every branch of the Sioux na- tion, she quietly refused every offer.
Certain warriors who had distinguished them- selves against the particular tribe who had made her an orphan, persistently sought her hand in marriage, but failed utterly.
One summer the Sioux and the Sacs and Foxes were brought together under a flag of truce by the Commissioners of the Great White Father, for the purpose of making a treaty with them. During the short period of friendly in- tercourse and social dance and feast, a noble warrior of the enemy’s tribe courted Dowan- hotaninwin.
Several of her old lovers were vying with one another to win her at the same time, that she might have inter-tribal celebration of her wed- ding.
Behold! the maiden accepted the foe of her childhood–one of those who had cruelly de- prived her of her parents!
By night she fled to the Sac and Fox camp with her lover. It seemed at first an insult to the Sioux, and there was almost an outbreak among the young men of the tribe, who were barely restrained by their respect for the Com- missioners of the Great Father.
But her aged grandfather explained the mat- ter publicly in this fashion:
“Young men, hear ye! Your hearts are
strong; let them not be troubled by the act of a young woman of your tribe! This has been her secret wish since she became a woman. She deprecates all tribal warfare. Her young heart never forgot its early sorrow; yet she has never blamed the Sacs and Foxes or held them re- sponsible for the deed. She blames rather the customs of war among us. She believes in the formation of a blood brotherhood strong enough to prevent all this cruel and useless enmity. This was her high purpose, and to this end she re- served her hand. Forgive her, forgive her, I pray!”
In the morning there was a great commotion. The herald of the Sacs and Foxes entered the Sioux camp, attired in ceremonial garb and bearing in one hand an American flag and in the other a peace-pipe. He made the rounds singing a peace song, and delivering to all an invitation to attend the wedding feast of Dowanhotaninwin and their chief’s son. Thus all was well. The simplicity, high purpose, and bravery of the girl won the hearts of the two tribes, and as long as she lived she was able to keep the peace be- tween them.
III
SNANA’S FAWN
The Little Missouri was in her spring fullness, and the hills among which
she found her way to the Great Muddy were profusely adorned with colors, much like those worn by the wild red man upon a holiday! Looking toward the sunrise, one saw mysteri- ous, deep shadows and bright prominences, while on the opposite side there was really an extravagant array of variegated hues. Between the gorgeous buttes and rainbow-tinted ridges there were narrow plains, broken here and there by dry creeks or gulches, and these again were clothed scantily with poplars and sad-colored bull-berry bushes, while the bare spots were pur- ple with the wild Dakota crocuses.
Upon the lowest of a series of natural ter- races there stood on this May morning a young Sioux girl, whose graceful movements were not unlike those of a doe which chanced to be lurk- ing in a neighboring gulch. On the upper plains, not far away, were her young companions, all busily employed with the wewoptay, as it was called–the sharp-pointed stick with which the Sioux women dig wild turnips. They were
gayly gossiping together, or each humming a love-song as she worked, only Snana stood some- what apart from the rest; in fact, concealed by the crest of the ridge.
She had paused in her digging and stood fac- ing the sun-kissed buttes. Above them in the clear blue sky the father sun was traveling up- ward as in haste, while to her receptive spirit there appealed an awful, unknown force, the silent speech of the Great Mystery, to which it seemed to her the whole world must be listen- ing!
“O Great Mystery! the father of earthly things is coming to quicken us into life. Have pity on me, I pray thee! May I some day be- come the mother of a great and brave race of warriors!” So the maiden prayed silently.
It was now full-born day. The sun shone hot upon the bare ground, and the drops stood upon Snana’s forehead as she plied her long pole. There was a cool spring in the dry creek bed near by, well hidden by a clump of choke- cherry bushes, and she turned thither to cool her thirsty throat. In the depths of the ravine her eye caught a familiar footprint–the track of a doe with the young fawn beside it. The hunting instinct arose within.
“It will be a great feat if I can find and take from her the babe. The little tawny skin shall be beautifully dressed by my mother. The legs and the nose shall be embossed with porcupine quills. It will be my work-bag,” she said to herself.
As she stole forward on the fresh trail she scanned every nook, every clump of bushes. There was a sudden rustle from within a grove of wild plum trees, thickly festooned with grape and clematis, and the doe mother bounded away as carelessly as if she were never to return.
Ah, a mother’s ruse! Snana entered the thorny enclosure, which was almost a rude tee- pee, and, tucked away in the furthermost corner, lay something with a trout-like, speckled, tawny coat. She bent over it. The fawn was appar- ently sleeping. Presently its eyes moved a bit, and a shiver passed through its subtle body.
“Thou shalt not die; thy skin shall not be- come my work-bag!” unconsciously the maiden spoke. The mother sympathy had taken hold on her mind. She picked the fawn up tenderly, bound its legs, and put it on her back to carry like an Indian babe in the folds of her robe.
“I cannot leave you alone, Tachinchala. Your mother is not here. Our hunters will soon return by this road, and your mother has left behind her two plain tracks leading to this thicket,” she murmured.
The wild creature struggled vigorously for a minute, and then became quiet. Its graceful head protruded from the elkskin robe just over Snana’s shoulder. She was slowly climbing the slope with her burden, when suddenly like an apparition the doe-mother stood before her. The fawn called loudly when it was first seized, and the mother was not too far away to hear. Now she called frantically for her child, at the same time stamping with her delicate fore-feet.
“Yes, sister, you are right; she is yours; but you cannot save her to-day! The hunters will soon be here. Let me keep her for you; I will return her to you safely. And hear me, O sis- ter of the woods, that some day I may become the mother of a noble race of warriors and of fine women, as handsome as you are!”
At this moment the quick eyes of the Indian girl detected something strange in the doe’s actions. She glanced in every direction and be- hold! a grizzly bear was cautiously approach- ing the group from a considerable distance.
“Run, run, sister! I shall save your child if I can,” she cried, and flew for the nearest scrub oak on the edge of the bank. Up the tree she scrambled, with the fawn still securely bound to her back. The grizzly came on with teeth ex- posed, and the doe-mother in her flight came between him and the tree, giving a series of indignant snorts as she ran, and so distracted Mato from his object of attack; but only for a few seconds–then on he came!
“Desist, O brave Mato! It does not become a great medicine-man to attack a helpless woman with a burden upon her back!”
Snana spoke as if the huge brute could un- derstand her, and indeed the Indians hold that wild animals understand intuitively when ap- pealed to by human beings in distress. Yet he replied only with a hoarse growl, as rising upon his hind legs he shook the little tree vigorously.
“Ye, ye, heyupi ye!” Snana called loudly to her companion turnip-diggers. Her cry soon brought all the women into sight upon a near-by ridge, and they immediately gave a general alarm. Mato saw them, but appeared not at all concerned and was still intent upon dislodg- ing the girl, who clung frantically to her perch.
Presently there appeared upon the little knoll several warriors, mounted and uttering the usual war-whoop, as if they were about to swoop down upon a human enemy. This touched the dignity of Mato, and he immediately prepared to accept the challenge. Every Indian was alive to the possibilities of the occasion, for it is well known that Mato, or grizzly bear, alone among animals is given the rank of a warrior, so that whoever conquers him may wear an eagle feather.
“Woo! woo!” the warriors shouted, as
they maneuvered to draw him into the open plain.
He answered with hoarse growls, threatening a rider who had ventured too near. But arrows were many and well-aimed, and in a few minutes the great and warlike Mato lay dead at the foot of the tree.
The men ran forward and counted their coups on him, just as when an enemy is fallen. Then they looked at one another and placed their hands over their mouths as the young girl de- scended the tree with a fawn bound upon her back.
“So that was the bait!” they cried. “And will you not make a feast with that fawn for us who came to your rescue? “
“The fawn is young and tender, and we have not eaten meat for two days. It will be a gen- erous thing to do,” added her father, who was among them.
“Ye-e-e!” she cried out in distress. “Do not ask it! I have seen this fawn’s mother. I have promised to keep her child safe. See! I have saved its life, even when my own was in danger.”
“Ho, ho, wakan ye lo! (Yes, yes, ’tis holy or mysterious),” they exclaimed approvingly.
It was no small trouble for Snana to keep her trust. As may well be supposed, all the dogs of the teepee village must be watched and kept at a distance. Neither was it easy to feed the little captive; but in gaining its confidence the girl was an adept. The fawn soon followed her everywhere, and called to her when hungry exactly as she had called to her own mother.
After several days, when her fright at the encounter with the bear had somewhat worn off, Snana took her pet into the woods and back to the very spot in which she had found it. In the furthest corner of the wild plum grove she laid it down, gently stroked its soft forehead, and smoothed the leaflike ears. The little thing closed its eyes. Once more the Sioux girl bent over and laid her cheek against the fawn’s head; then reluctantly she moved away, hoping and yet dreading that the mother would return. She crouched under a clump of bushes near by, and gave the doe call. It was a reckless thing for her to do, for such a call might bring upon her a mountain lion or ever-watchful silver- tip; but Snana did not think of that.
In a few minutes she heard the light patter of hoofs, and caught a glimpse of a doe running straight toward the fawn’s hiding-place. When she stole near enough to see, the doe and the fawn were examining one another carefully, as if fearing some treachery. At last both were apparently satisfied. The doe caressed her nat- ural child, and the little one accepted the milk she offered.
In the Sioux maiden’s mind there was tur- moil. A close attachment to the little wild creature had already taken root there, contend- ing with the sense of justice that was strong within her. Now womanly sympathy for the mother was in control, and now a desire to possess and protect her helpless pet.
“I can take care of her against all hunters, both animal and human. They are ever ready to seize the helpless fawn for food. Her life will be often exposed. You cannot save her from disaster. O, Takcha, my sister, let me still keep her for you!” she finally appealed to the poor doe, who was nervously watching the intruder, and apparently thinking how she might best escape with the fawn.
Just at this moment there came a low call from the wood. It was a doe call; but the wild mother and her new friend both knew that it was not the call of a real doe.
“It is a Sioux hunter!” whispered the girl. “You must go, my sister! Be off; I will take your child to safety!”
While she was yet speaking, the doe seemed to realize the danger. She stopped only an instant to lick fondly the tawny coat of the little one, who had just finished her dinner; then she bounded away.
As Snana emerged from the bushes with her charge, a young hunter met her face to face, and stared at her curiously. He was not of her father’s camp, but a stranger.
“Ugh, you have my game.”
“Tosh!” she replied coquettishly.
It was so often said among the Indians that the doe was wont to put on human form to mis- lead the hunter, that it looked strange to see a woman with a fawn, and the young man could not forbear to gaze upon Snana.
“You are not the real mother in maiden’s guise? Tell me truly if you are of human blood,” he demanded rudely.
“I am a Sioux maiden! Do you not know my father?” she replied.
“Ah, but who is your father? What is his name?” he insisted, nervously fingering his arrows.
“Do not be a coward! Surely you should know a maid of your own race,” she replied re- proachfully.
“Ah, you know the tricks of the doe! What is thy name?”
“Hast thou forgotten the etiquette of thy people, and wouldst compel me to pronounce my own name? I refuse; thou art jesting!” she retorted with a smile.
“Thou dost give the tricky answers of a doe. I cannot wait; I must act before I lose my nat- ural mind. But already I am yours. Whatever purpose you may have in thus charming a poor hunter, be merciful,” and, throwing aside his quiver, he sat down.
The maiden stole a glance at his face, and then another. He was handsome. Softly she reentered the thicket and laid down the little fawn.
“Promise me never to hunt here again!” she said earnestly, as she came forth without her pretty burden, and he exacted another prom- ise in return. Thus Snana lost her fawn, and found a lover.
IV
SHE-WHO-HAS-A-SOUL
It was a long time ago, nearly two hundred years ago, that some of our people were
living upon the shores of the Great Lake, Lake Superior. The chief of this band was called Tatankaota, Many Buffaloes.
One day the young son of Tatankaota led a war-party against the Ojibways, who occupied the country east of us, toward the rising sun.
When they had gone a day’s journey in the direction of Sault Ste. Marie, in our language Skesketatanka, the warriors took up their posi- tion on the lake shore, at a point which the Ojibways were accustomed to pass in their canoes.
Long they gazed, and scanned the surface of the water, watching for the coming of the foe. The sun had risen above the dark pines, over the great ridge of woodland across the bay. It was the awakening of all living things. The birds were singing, and shining fishes leaped out of the water as if at play. At last, far off, there came the warning cry of the loon to stir their expectant ears.
“Warriors, look close to the horizon! This brother of ours does not lie. The enemy
comes!” exclaimed their leader.
Presently upon the sparkling face of the water there appeared a moving canoe. There was but one, and it was coming directly toward them.
“Hahatonwan! Hahatonwan! (The Ojib-
ways! the Ojibways!)” they exclaimed with one voice, and, grasping their weapons, they hastily concealed themselves in the bushes.
“Spare none–take no captives!” ordered the chief’s son.
Nearer and nearer approached the strange canoe. The glistening blades of its paddles flashed as it were the signal of good news, or a welcome challenge. All impatiently waited until it should come within arrow-shot.
“Surely it is an Ojibway canoe,” one mur- mured. “Yet look! the stroke is ungainly!” Now, among all the tribes only the Ojibway’s art is perfect in paddling a birch canoe. This was a powerful stroke, but harsh and un- steady.
“See! there are no feathers on this man’s head!” exclaimed the son of the chief. “Hold, warriors, he wears a woman’s dress, and I see no weapon. No courage is needed to take his life, therefore let it be spared! I command that only coups (or blows) be counted on him, and he shall tell us whence he comes, and on what errand.”
The signal was given; the warriors sprang to their feet, and like wolves they sped from the forest, out upon the white, sandy beach and straight into the sparkling waters of the lake, giving the shrill war-cry, the warning of death!
The solitary oarsman made no outcry–he offered no defense! Kneeling calmly in the prow of the little vessel, he merely ceased pad- dling and seemed to await with patience the deadly blow of the tomahawk.
The son of Tatankaota was foremost in the charge, but suddenly an impulse seized him to stop his warriors, lest one in the heat of excite- ment should do a mischief to the stranger. The canoe with its occupant was now very near, and it could be seen that the expression of his face was very gentle and even benignant. None could doubt his utter harmlessness; and the chief’s son afterward declared that at this mo- ment he felt a premonition of some event, but whether good or evil he could not tell.
No blows were struck–no coups counted. The young man bade his warriors take up the canoe and carry it to the shore; and although they murmured somewhat among themselves, they did as he commanded them. They seized the light bark and bore it dripping to a hill covered with tall pines, and overlooking the waters of the Great Lake.
Then the warriors lifted their war-clubs over their heads and sang, standing around the canoe in which the black-robed stranger was still kneeling. Looking at him closely, they per- ceived that he was of a peculiar complexion, pale and inclined to red. He wore a necklace of beads, from which hung a cross bearing the form of a man. His garments were strange, and most like the robes of woman. All of these things perplexed them greatly.
Presently the Black Robe told them by signs, in response to their inquiries, that he came from the rising sun, even beyond the Great Salt Water, and he seemed to say that he formerly came from the sky. Upon this the warriors believed that he must be a prophet or mysterious man.
Their leader directed them to take up again the canoe with the man in it, and appointed the warriors to carry it by turns until they should reach his father’s village. This was done ac- cording to the ancient custom, as a mark of re- spect and honor. They took it up forthwith, and traveled with all convenient speed along the lake shore, through forests and across streams to a place called the Maiden’s Retreat, a short distance from the village.
Thence the chief’s son sent a messenger to announce to his father that he was bringing home a stranger, and to ask whether or not he should be allowed to enter the village. “His appearance,” declared the scout, “is unlike that of any man we have ever seen, and his ways are mysterious!”
When the chief heard these words, he imme- diately called his council-men together to decide what was to be done, for he feared by admitting the mysterious stranger to bring some disaster upon his people. Finally he went out with his wisest men to meet his son’s war-party. They looked with astonishment upon the Black Robe.
“Dispatch him! Dispatch him! Show him no mercy!” cried some of the council-men.
“Let him go on his way unharmed. Trouble him not,” advised others.
“It is well known that the evil spirits some- times take the form of a man or animal. From his strange appearance I judge this to be such a one. He should be put to death, lest some harm befall our people,” an old man urged.
By this time several of the women of the village had reached the spot. Among them was She-who-has-a-Soul, the chief’s youngest daugh- ter, who tradition says was a maiden of much beauty, and of a generous heart. The stranger was evidently footsore from much travel and
weakened by fasting. When she saw that the poor man clasped his hands and looked skyward as he uttered words in an unknown tongue, she pleaded with her father that a stranger who has entered their midst unchallenged may claim the hospitality of the people, according to the an- cient custom.
“Father, he is weary and in want of food. Hold him no longer! Delay your council until he is refreshed!” These were the words of She-who-has-a-Soul, and her father could not refuse her prayer. The Black Robe was re- leased, and the Sioux maiden led him to her father’s teepee.
Now the warriors had been surprised and in- deed displeased to find him dressed after the fashion of a woman, and they looked upon him with suspicion. But from the moment that she first beheld him, the heart of the maiden had turned toward this strange and seemingly un- fortunate man. It appeared to her that great reverence and meekness were in his face, and with it all she was struck by his utter fearless- ness, his apparent unconsciousness of danger.
The chief’s daughter, having gained her father’s permission, invited the Black Robe to his great buffalo-skin tent, and spreading a fine robe, she gently asked him to be seated. With the aid of her mother, she prepared wild rice sweetened with maple sugar and some broiled venison for his repast. The youthful warriors were astonished to observe these attentions, but the maiden heeded them not. She anointed the blistered feet of the holy man with perfumed otter oil, and put upon him a pair of moccasins beautifully worked by her own hands.
It was only an act of charity on her part, but the young men were displeased, and again urged that the stranger should at once be turned away. Some even suggested harsher measures; but they were overruled by the chief, softened by the persuasions of a well-beloved daughter.
During the few days that the Black Robe remained in the Sioux village he preached ear- nestly to the maiden, for she had been permitted to converse with him by signs, that she might try to ascertain what manner of man he was. He told her of the coming of a “Great
Prophet” from the sky, and of his words that he had left with the people. The cross with the figure of a man he explained as his totem which he had told them to carry. He also said that those who love him are commanded to go among strange peoples to tell the news, and that all who believe must be marked with holy water and accept the totem.
He asked by signs if She-who-has-a-Soul be- lieved the story. To this she replied:
“It is a sweet story–a likely legend! I do believe!”
Then the good father took out a small cross, and having pressed it to his heart and crossed his forehead and breast, he gave it to her. Finally he dipped his finger in water and touched the forehead of the maiden, repeating mean- while some words in an unknown tongue.
The mother was troubled, for she feared that the stranger was trying to bewitch her daugh- ter, but the chief decided thus:
“This is a praying-man, and he is not of our people; his customs are different, but they are not evil. Warriors, take him back to the spot where you saw him first! It is my desire, and the good custom of our tribe requires that you free him without injury!”
Accordingly they formed a large party, and carried the Black Robe in his canoe back to the shore of the Great Lake, to the place where they had met him, and he was allowed to depart thence whithersoever he would. He took his leave with signs of gratitude for their hospi- tality, and especially for the kindness of the beautiful Sioux maiden. She seemed to have understood his mission better than any one else, and as long as she lived she kept his queer trinket–as it seemed to the others–and per- formed the strange acts that he had taught her.
Furthermore, it was through the pleadings of She-who-has-a-Soul that the chief Tatankaota advised his people in after days to befriend the white strangers, and though many of the other chiefs opposed him in this, his counsels pre- vailed. Hence it was that both the French and English received much kindness from our peo- ple, mainly through the influence of this one woman!
Such was the first coming of the white man among us, as it is told in our traditions. Other praying-men came later, and many of the Sioux allowed themselves to be baptized. True, there have been Indian wars, but not without reason; and it is pleasant to remember that the Sioux were hospitable to the first white “praying- man,” and that it was a tender-hearted maiden of my people who first took in her hands the cross of the new religion.
V
THE PEACE-MAKER
One of the most remarkable women of
her day and nation was Eyatonkawee, She-whose-Voice-is-heard-afar. It is
matter of history among the Wakpaykootay band of Sioux, the Dwellers among the Leaves, that when Eyatonkawee was a very young
woman she was once victorious in a hand-to- hand combat with the enemy in the woods of Minnesota, where her people were hunting the deer. At such times they often met with stray parties of Sacs and Foxes from the prairies of Iowa and Illinois.
Now, the custom was among our people that the doer of a notable warlike deed was held in highest honor, and these deeds were kept con- stantly in memory by being recited in public, before many witnesses. The greatest exploit was that one involving most personal courage and physical address, and he whose record was adjudged best might claim certain privileges, not the least of which was the right to interfere in any quarrel and separate the combatants. The peace-maker might resort to force, if need be, and no one dared to utter a protest who could not say that he had himself achieved an equal fame.
There was a man called Tamahay, known to Minnesota history as the “One-eyed Sioux,” who was a notable character on the frontier in the early part of the nineteenth century. He was very reckless, and could boast of many a perilous adventure. He was the only Sioux who, in the War of 1812, fought for the Americans, while all the rest of his people sided with the British, mainly through the influence of the Eng- lish traders among them at that time. This same “One-eyed Sioux” became a warm friend of Lieutenant Pike, who discovered the sources of the Mississippi, and for whom Pike’s Peak is named. Some say that the Indian took his friend’s name, for Tamahay in English means Pike or Pickerel.
Unfortunately, in later life this brave man became a drunkard, and after the Americans took possession of his country almost any one of them would supply him with liquor in recog- nition of his notable services as a scout and soldier. Thus he was at times no less dangerous in camp than in battle.
Now, Eyatonkawee, being a young widow, had married the son of a lesser chief in Tama- hay’s band, and was living among strangers. Moreover, she was yet young and modest.
One day this bashful matron heard loud war- whoops and the screams of women. Looking forth, she saw the people fleeing hither and thither, while Tamahay, half intoxicated, rushed from his teepee painted for war, armed with tomahawk and scalping-knife, and approached another warrior as if to slay him. At this sight her heart became strong, and she quickly sprang between them with her woman’s knife in her hand.
“It was a Sac warrior of like proportions and bravery with your own, who, having slain several of the Sioux, thus approached me with uplifted tomahawk!” she exclaimed in a clear voice, and went on to recite her victory on that famous day so that the terrified people paused to hear.
Tamahay was greatly astonished, but he was not too drunk to realize that he must give way at once, or be subject to the humiliation of a blow from the woman-warrior who challenged him thus. The whole camp was listening; and being unable, in spite of his giant frame and well-known record, to cite a greater deed than hers, he retreated with as good a grace as pos- sible. Thus Eyatonkawee recounted her brave deed for the first time, in order to save a man’s life. From that day her name was great as a peace-maker–greater even than when she had first defended so gallantly her babe and home!
Many years afterward, when she had at- tained middle age, this woman averted a serious danger from her people.
Chief Little Crow the elder was dead, and as he had two wives of two different bands, the succession was disputed among the half-brothers