CHAPTER XXIII.
STRANGE MESS-MATES—THE JOURNEY TO THE AGENCIES—GENERAL SHERIDAN’S VISIT—“SPOTTED TAIL”—THE STORY OF HIS DEAD DAUGHTER’S BONES—“WHITE THUNDER”—“RED CLOUD”—“DULL KNIFE”—“BIG WOLF”—THE NECKLACE OF HUMAN FINGERS—THE MEDICINE MAN AND THE ELECTRIC BATTERY—“WASHINGTON”—“FRIDAY”—INDIAN BROTHERS—“SORREL HORSE”—“THREE BEARS”—“YOUNG MAN AFRAID OF HIS HORSES”—“ROCKY BEAR”—“RED CLOUD’S” LETTER—INDIAN DANCES—THE BAD LANDS—HOW THE CHEYENNES FIRST GOT HORSES.
Camp Robinson was situated in the extreme northwestern corner of the State of Nebraska, close to the line of Dakota and that of Wyoming; aside from being the focus of military activity, there was little in the way of attraction; the scenery in the vicinity is picturesque, without any special features. There were great numbers of Indians of the Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapahoe tribes, to whose ranks accessions were made daily by those surrendering, but reference to them will be postponed for the present. The white members of our mess were General Crook, General Mackenzie, Colonel J. W. Mason, Lieutenant William P. Clarke, Lieutenant Hayden Delaney, Lieutenant Walter S. Schuyler, Major George M. Randall, and myself. Neither Mackenzie nor Mason could, strictly speaking, be called a member of the mess, but as they generally “dropped in,” and as a plate was regularly placed for each, there is no direct violation of the unities in including them. Randall was still full of his recent perilous adventure with the Crows, and we often were successful in drawing him out about his experiences in the Civil War, in which he had borne a most gallant part and of which he could, when disposed, relate many interesting episodes. Schuyler had made a tour through Russia and Finland, and observed not a little of the usages and peculiarities of the people of thosecountries. Mr. Strahorn, who was often with us, had wandered about in many curious spots of our own territory, and was brimful of anecdote of quaint types of human nature encountered far away from the centres of civilization. Crook and Mackenzie and Mason would sometimes indulge in reminiscences to which all eagerly listened, and it is easy to see that such a mess would of itself have been a place of no ordinary interest; but for me the greatest attraction was to be found in the constant presence of distinguished Indian chiefs whose names had become part and parcel of the history of our border. General Sheridan had paid one hurried visit and remained a day, but being better known to American readers, there is no use in speaking of him and his work during the war.
There were two cooks, Phillips and Boswell, the former of whom had shared the trials and tribulations of the terrible march down from the head of Heart River, and seemed resolved to make hay while the sun shone; he could make anything but pie—in that he failed miserably. I think it was Oliver Wendell Holmes who once wrote an essay to demonstrate that the isothermal line of perpetual pumpkin pie was the line of highest civilization and culture. The converse of the proposition would seem to be equally true: pie, of any kind, cannot be made except under the most æsthetic surroundings; amid the chilling restraints of savagery and barbarism, pie is simply an impossibility. It did not make much difference what he prepared, Boswell was sure of an appreciative discussion of its merits by a mess which was always hungry, and which always had guests who were still hungrier and still more appreciative.
Taking our aboriginal guests in order of rank, the chief, of course, was “Spotted Tail.” This is, unfortunately, not the age of monument-building in America; if ever the day shall come when loyal and intelligent friendship for the American people shall receive due recognition, the strong, melancholy features of “Siutiega-leska,” or “Spotted Tail,” cast in enduring bronze, will overlook the broad area of Dakota and Nebraska, which his genius did so much to save to civilization. In youth a warrior of distinction, in middle age a leader among his people, he became, ere time had sprinkled his locks with snow, the benefactor of two races. A diplomatist able to hold his own with the astutest agents the Great Father could depute to conferwith him, “Spotted Tail” recognized the inevitable destruction of his kinsmen if they persisted in war and turned their backs upon overtures of peace. He exerted himself, and generally with success, to obtain the best terms possible from the Government in all conferences held with its representatives, but he was equally earnest in his determination to restrain the members of his own band, and all others whom he could control, from going out upon the war-path. If any persisted in going, they went to stay; he would not allow them to return.
There was a story current in army circles that years and years ago a young daughter of “Spotted Tail” had fallen in love with an officer just out of West Point, and had died of a broken heart. In her last hours she asked of her father the pledge that he would always remain the friend of the Americans—a pledge given with affectionate earnestness, and observed with all the fidelity of a noble nature. I have often seen the grave of this young maiden at Fort Laramie—a long pine box, resting high in air upon a scaffold adorned with the tails of the ponies upon which her gentle soul had made the lonesome journey to the Land of the Great Hereafter. I may as well tell here a romance about her poor bones, which insatiate Science did not permit to rest in peace. Long after her obsequies, when “Spotted Tail’s” people had been moved eastward to the White Earth country, and while the conflict with the hostiles was at its bitterest, the garrison of Fort Laramie was sent into the field, new troops taking their places. There was a new commanding officer, a new surgeon, and a new hospital steward; the last was young, bright, ambitious, and desirous of becoming an expert in anatomy. The Devil saw his opportunity for doing mischief; he whispered in the young man’s ear: “If you want an articulated skeleton, what’s the matter with those bones? Make your own articulated skeleton.” Turn where he would, the Devil followed him; the word “bones” sounded constantly in his ears, and, close his eyes or open them, there stood the scaffold upon which, wrapped in costly painted buffalo robes and all the gorgeous decoration of bead-work, porcupine quill, and wampum that savage affection could supply, reposed the mortal remains of the Dakota maiden.... A dark night, a ladder, a rope, and a bag—the bones were lying upon the steward’s table, cleaned, polished, and almost adjusted, and if there was one happy manin the United States Army it was the hospital steward of Fort Laramie.
How fleeting is all human joy! A little cloud of dust arose above the hills to the northeast in the direction of the Raw-Hide; it grew bigger and bigger and never ceased until, in front of the commanding officer’s quarters, it revealed the figures of “Spotted Tail,” the head chief of the Sioux, and a dozen of his warriors. The great chief had come, he said, for the bones of his child; he was getting old, and his heart felt cold when it turned to the loved one who slept so far from the graves of her people. The way was long, but his ponies were fresh, and to help out the ride of the morrow he would start back with the rising of the moon that night. Consternation! Panic! Dismay! Use any term you please to describe the sensation when the steward confessed to the surgeon, and the surgeon to the commanding officer, the perilous predicament in which they were placed. The commanding officer was polite and diplomatic. He urged upon “Spotted Tail” that the requirements of hospitality could not permit of his withdrawal until the next day; neither was it proper that the bones of the daughter of so distinguished a chief should be carried off in a bundle uncoffined. He would have a coffin made, and when that should be ready the remains could be placed in it without a moment’s delay or a particle of trouble. Once again, a ladder, a rope, and the silence of night—and the secret of the robbery was secure. When the story reached our camp on Goose Creek, Terry’s Crow Indian messengers were relating to Crook the incidents of the Custer massacre.
I thought then with horror, and I still think, what might have been the consequences had “Spotted Tail” discovered the abstraction of those bones? Neither North nor South Dakota, Wyoming nor Montana might now be on the map, and their senators might not be known in Congress; and, perhaps, those who so ably represent the flourishing States of Kansas, Nebraska and Colorado might have some difficulty in finding all of their constituents. The Northern Pacific Railroad might not yet have been built, and thousands who to-day own happy homes on fertile plains would still be toiling aimlessly and hopelessly in the over-populated States of the Atlantic seaboard.
We found “Spotted Tail” a man of great dignity, but at all moments easy and affable in manner; not hard to please, sharpas a brier, and extremely witty. He understood enough English to get along at table, and we picked up enough Dakota to know that when he asked for “ahúyape,” he meant bread; “wosúnna” was butter; “wáka-maza,” corn; that “bellô” was the name for potatoes, “tollô” for beef, “pazúta-sápa” for coffee, “witká” for eggs; that white sugar became in his vocabulary “chahúmpiska,” salt was transformed into “minni-squia”; and that our mushrooms and black pepper resolved themselves into the jaw-breaking words: “yamanuminnigawpi” and “numcatchy-numcapa,” respectively. He was addicted to one habit, not strictly according to our canons, of which we never succeeded in breaking him: if he didn’t like a piece of meat, or if he had been served with a greater abundance than he needed of anything, he lifted what he didn’t want back upon the platter. His conversational powers were of a high order, his views carefully formed, clearly expressed. My personal relations with him were extremely friendly, and I feel free to say that “Spotted Tail” was one of the great men of this country, bar none, red, white, black, or yellow. When “Crow Dog” murdered him, the Dakota nation had good reason to mourn the loss of a noble son.
“Spotted Tail” was several times accompanied by “White Thunder,” a handsome chief, most favorably disposed towards the whites, and of good mental calibre, but in no sense “Spotted Tail’s” equal. On other occasions we had both “Spotted Tail” and “Red Cloud” at dinner or lunch on the same day. This we tried to avoid as much as possible, as they were unfriendly to each other, and were not even on speaking terms. However, at our table, they always behaved in a gentlemanly manner, and no stranger would have suspected that anything was wrong. “Red Cloud” had shown a better disposition since the coming in of the Cheyennes, their avowed intentions having as much of an effect upon him as upon “Spotted Tail.” The delegation of Ogallalla warriors had done such good work during the campaign that General Crook had allowed the members of the other bands to give to the more deserving some of the ponies taken away from them and distributed among the other divisions of the Sioux. This developed a much better feeling all around, and “Red Cloud” had asked to be enlisted as a soldier, to show that he meant well.
He had also said that “Crazy Horse” could not travel in asfast as General Crook expected, partly on account of the soft state of the trails induced by a heavy January thaw, and partly because it would be necessary for him to hunt in order to get food for his women and children. If he, “Red Cloud,” were permitted to take out enough food to support the women and children on their way to the agency, it would deprive “Crazy Horse” of any excuse for delay, granting that he was disposed to be dilatory in his progress; he would go out to see the band of “Crazy Horse,” and tell them all to come in at once, and give to all the women and children who needed it the food for their support while coming down from the Black Hills. This proposition was approved, and “Red Cloud” started out and did good work, to which I will allude later on.
One day when the Cheyenne chief, “Dull Knife,” was at headquarters, I invited him to stay for luncheon.
“I should be glad to do so,” he replied, “but my daughters are with me.”
“Bring them in too,” was the reply from others of the mess, and “Spotted Tail,” who was present, seconded our solicitations; so we had the pleasure of the company, not only of old “Dull Knife,” whose life had been one of such bitterness and sorrow, but of his three daughters as well. They were fairly good-looking—the Cheyennes will compare favorably in appearance with any people I’ve seen—and were quite young; one of nine or ten, one of twelve, and the oldest not yet twenty—a young widow who, with the coquettishness of the sex, wore her skirts no lower than the knees to let the world see that in her grief for her husband, killed in our fight of November 25th, she had gashed and cut her limbs in accordance with the severest requirements of Cheyenne etiquette. Had she lost a child she would have cut off one of the joints of the little finger of her left hand.
Of the other Cheyennes, there were “Little Wolf,” one of the bravest in fights, where all were brave; and “Standing Elk,” cool and determined in action, wise in council, polite in demeanor, reserved in speech, and adhering in dress to the porcelain bead breastplates of the tribes of the plains. Last among this deputation was the medicine man, “High Wolf,” or “Tall Wolf,” or “Big Wolf ”; he had been proud to wear, as his pet decoration, a necklace of human fingers, which he knew hadfallen into my possession in the fight with Mackenzie. There was no affection lost between us, but he imagined that by getting upon good terms with me negotiations might be opened for a return of the ghastly relic. But I knew its value too well: there is no other in the world that I know of—that is, in any museum—although the accounts of explorations in the early days in the South Sea, among the Andamanese, and by Lewis and Clark, make mention of such things having been seen. While we were destroying the Cheyenne village, “Big Bat” found two of these necklaces, together with a buckskin bag containing twelve of the right hands of little babies of the Shoshone tribe, lately killed by the Cheyennes. The extra necklace was buried, the buckskin bag with its dreadful relics was given to our Shoshone allies, who wept and wailed over it all night, refusing to be comforted, and neglecting to assume the battle-names with which the Pawnees were signalizing their prowess. The necklace belonging to “High Wolf” contained eight fingers of Indian enemies slain by that ornament of society, and has since been deposited in the National Museum, Washington, D. C.
There was an old, broken-down electrical apparatus in the post hospital, which had long ago been condemned as unserviceable, but which we managed to repair so that it would send a pretty severe shock through the person holding the poles. The Indian boys and girls looked upon this as wonderful “medicine,” and hung in groups about the headquarters, from reveille till retreat, hoping to see the machine at work—not at work upon themselves exactly, but upon some “fresh fish” which they had enticed there from among the later surrenders. Many and many a time, generally about the lunch hour, a semicircle would form outside the door, waiting for the appearance of some one connected with the headquarters, who would be promptly nudged by one of the more experienced boys, as a sign that there was fun in sight. The novice couldn’t exactly comprehend what it all meant when he saw at the bottom of a pail of water a shining half-dollar which was to be his if he could only reach it while holding that innocent-looking cylinder in one hand. There was any amount of diversion for everybody; the crop of shorn lambs increased rapidly, each boy thinking that the recollection of his own sorrows could be effaced in no better way than by contemplating those of the newer arrivals; and so from guard mount toparade the wonder grew as to what was the mysterious machine which kept people from seizing the piece of silver.
We were becoming more generous, or more confident, by this time, and doubled the value of the money prize, and issued a challenge to the “medicine men” to try their powers. Several of them did so, only to be baffled and disgraced. No matter what “medicine” they made use of, no matter what “medicine song” they chanted, our “medicine song” was more potent: never were the strains of “Pat Malloy” warbled to a nobler purpose, and ere long it began to be bruited about from “tepi” to “tepi”—from “Sharp Nose’s” hearth-fire to “White Thunder’s,” and farther down the vale to where the blue smoke from “Little Wolf’s” cottonwood logs curled lazily skyward—that “Wichakpa-yamani” (“Three Stars,” the Sioux name for General Crook) had a “Mini-hoa” (Ink Man-Adjutant General) whose “medicine song” would nullify anything that Cheyenne or Arapahoe or Dakota could invent; and naturally enough, this brought “High Wolf,” the great doctor of the Cheyennes, to the fore. The squaws nagged him into accepting the gauntlet thrown down so boldly. Excitement ran high when word was passed around that “High Wolf” was going to test the power of the battery. There was a most liberal attendance of spectators, and both whites and reds knew that the ordeal was to be one of exceptional importance. “High Wolf” had with him a good deal of “medicine,” but he asked a few moments’ delay, as he had to make some more. I watched him closely to guard against trickery, but detected nothing to cause me any apprehension: he plucked one or two lengths of grass just peeping above the ground, rolled them in the palms of his hands, and then put them into his mouth, wherein he had previously placed a small stone, glanced up at the sun, and then at the cardinal points, all the while humming, half distinctly, his “medicine song,” in which two sympathizing friends were joining, and then was ready for the fray.
I was not asleep by any means, but putting in all the muscle I could command in revolving the handle of the battery, and so fully absorbed in my work, that I almost forgot to summon “Pat Malloy” to my aid. “High Wolf” took one of the poles, and of course felt no shock; he looked first at the glittering dollar in the bottom of the bucket, and next at the extra prize—five dollars, if I remember correctly—contributed by the officers standingby; and in another second his brawny left arm was plunged up to the elbow in the crystal fluid. Not being an adept in such matters, I am not prepared to say exactly how many hundred thousand volts he got in the back of the neck, but he certainly had a more thorough experience with electricity than any aborigine, living or dead, and, worst of all, he couldn’t let go. He was strong as a mule and kicked like a Texas congressman, smashing the poor, rickety battery all to pieces, which was a sad loss to us. He was neither conquered nor humiliated, and boldly announced his readiness to repeat the trial, a proposal we could not in honor decline. The battery was patched up as well as we knew how, and we allowed him to try again; this time, as the crafty rascal knew would be the case, the wheezy machine furnished no great current, and he fished out the dollar, although moisture gathered in beads around his neck, and his fingers were doubled upon his wrists. He got the rest of the money, according to promise, and the decision of the onlookers was that the whole business must be adjudged a “draw.” “High Wolf” was a powerful “medicine man” as of yore, and he alone of all the Indians at Red Cloud could compete with the white man’s “medicine box” whose wheels went whir-r-r-whir-r-r-r.
The Arapahoes were well represented. Their principal men were of fine mental calibre, and in all that galaxy of gallant soldiers, white and copper-colored, whom I met during those years, none stands out more clearly in my recollection than “Sharp Nose.” He was the inspiration of the battle-field. He reminded me of a blacksmith: he struck with a sledge-hammer, but intelligently, at the right spot and right moment. He handled men with rare judgment and coolness, and was as modest as he was brave. He never spoke of his own deeds, but was an excellent talker on general topics, and could not, as a matter of course, refrain from mention, at times, of active work in which he had had a share. “Washington,” his boon companion and councillor, was a handsome chief who had assumed this name in token of his desire to “walk in the new road.” He had been taken on a trip East, and had been so impressed with all the wonders seen, that he devoted most of his time to missionary work among his people, telling them that they could only hope for advancement by becoming good friends of these progressive white men and adopting their ways.
“Friday Fitzpatrick” had been lost when a mere child, during a fight which arose between the Arapahoes and Blackfeet, at a time when they were both on the Cimarron, engaged in trading with the Apaches, New Mexico Pueblos, Kiowas, Utes, Pawnees, and Comanches, some distance to the south of where the foundry and smelter chimneys of the busy city of Pueblo, Colorado, now blacken the air. The lost Indian boy fell into the hands of Mr. Fitzpatrick, a trader of St. Louis, who had him educated by the Jesuits, an order which had also given the rudiments of learning to Ouray, the head chief of the Utes. “Friday” was intelligent and shrewd, speaking English fluently, but his morals were decidedly shady. I used to talk to him by the hour, and never failed to extract pages of most interesting information concerning savage ideas, manners, and customs. He explained the Indian custom of conferring names each time a warrior had distinguished himself in battle, and gave each of the four agnomens with which he personally had been honored—the last being a title corresponding in English to “The Man Who Sits in the Corner and Keeps His Mouth Shut.”
“Six Feathers,” “White Horse,” and “Black Coal” were also able men to whom the Arapahoes looked up; the first was as firm a friend of the whites as was “Washington”—he became General Crook’s “brother”; others of our mess were equally fortunate. Being an Arapahoe’s “brother” possessed many advantages—for the Arapahoe. You were expected to keep him in tobacco, something of a drain upon your pocket-book, although Indians did not smoke to such an extent as white men and very rarely used chewing-tobacco. If your newly-acquired relation won any money on a horse-race, the understanding was that he should come around to see you and divide his winnings; but all the Indian “brothers” I’ve ever known have bet on the wrong plug, and you have to help them through when they go broke. “White Horse” was a grim sort of a wag. One day, I had him and some others of the Arapahoes aiding me in the compilation of a vocabulary of their language, of which the English traveller, Burton, had made the groundless statement that it was so harsh, meagre, and difficult that to express their ideas the Arapahoes were compelled to stand by a camp-fire and talk the “sign language.” I am in a position to say that the Arapahoe language is full of guttural sounds, and in that senseis difficult of acquisition, but it is a copious, well-constructed dialect, inferior to none of the aboriginal tongues of North America. We had been hard at work for several hours, and all were tired. “To eat,” said “White Horse,” “is so and so; but to eat something good, and hot, and sweet, right now, right here in this room, is so and so and so, and you can tell your good cook to bring it.” It was brought at once.
I have not introduced the lesser figures in this picture: men like “American Horse,” “Young Man Afraid,” “Blue Horse,” “Rocky Bear,” and others who have since become, and were even in those days, leaders among the Dakotas. My canvas would become too crowded. It must do to say that each of these was full of native intelligence, wise in his way, and worthy of being encouraged in his progress along the new and toilsome path of civilization. But I must make room for a few words about “Three Bears” (“Mato-yamani”), a warrior fierce in battle and humane to the vanquished. I remember his coming into my tent one dismally cold night, while we lay on the Belle Fourche, on the outskirts of the Black Hills, after wiping out “Dull Knife’s” village. “Three Bears’s” eyes were moist, and he shook his head mournfully as he said, “Cheyenne pappoose heap hung’y.”
“Sorrel Horse” (“Shunca-luta”) was a “medicine man,” a ventriloquist, and a magician. The women and children stood in awe of an uncanny wretch who boasted that, if they doubted his power, they might let him cut off a lock of their hair, and inside of three days they should die. After my electrical duel with “High Wolf,” “Sorrel Horse” manifested an inclination to show me what he could do. He lay down on the floor, put the hot bowl of a pipe in his mouth, and alternately inhaled the smoke or caused it to issue from the stem. Pretty soon he went into a trance, and deep groans and grunts were emitted from the abdominal region. When he came to, he assured us that that was the voice of a spirit which he kept within him. He shuffled a pack of cards, and handing it to General Mackenzie, bade him take out any one he wanted and he would tell the name; Mackenzie did as he desired, and “Sorrel Horse” promptly fixed his fingers in diamond-shape and called out “Squaw,” for the queen of diamonds, and similarly for the seven of clubs, and others as fast as drawn. He again lay down on the floor, and openedhis shirt so that his ribs were exposed; he took a small piece of tobacco, and pretended to swallow it. To all appearances, he became deathly sick: his countenance turned of an ashen hue, perspiration stood on his brow, the same lugubrious grunts issued from his stomach and throat, and I was for a moment or two in alarm about his condition; but he soon recovered consciousness, if he had ever lost it, and triumphantly drew the moist leaf of tobacco from beneath his ribs. He had been a great traveller in his day, and there was but little of the Missouri or Yellowstone drainage that he was not familiar with. I have known him to journey afoot from Red Cloud to Spotted Tail Agency, a distance of forty-three measured miles, between two in the morning and noon of the same day, bearing despatches. The Apaches, Mojaves, and other tribes of the Southwest are far better runners than the horse Indians of the plains, but I have known few of them who could excel “Sorrel Horse” in this respect.
Nothing was to be done at this time except wait for news from “Red Cloud” and “Crazy Horse.” The Cheyennes were impatient to go out to war, but it was war against “Crazy Horse” and not the white man. However, the promise had been sent by General Crook to “Crazy Horse” that if he started in good faith and kept moving straight in to the agency, he should be allowed every reasonable facility for bringing all his people without molestation. “Red Cloud” sent word regularly of the march made each day: one of the half-breeds with him, a man who prided himself upon his educational attainments, wrote the letters to Lieutenant Clarke, who, with Major Randall, was in charge of the Indian scouts. The following will serve as an example:
A Pril 16th 1877.Sir My Dear I have met some indians on road and thare say the indians on bear lodge creek on 16th april and I thought let you know it. And I think 1 will let you know better after I get to the camp so I sent the young man with this letter he have been to the camp before his name is arme blown offRed Cloud.
A Pril 16th 1877.
Sir My Dear I have met some indians on road and thare say the indians on bear lodge creek on 16th april and I thought let you know it. And I think 1 will let you know better after I get to the camp so I sent the young man with this letter he have been to the camp before his name is arme blown off
Red Cloud.
When “Red Cloud” and his party reached “Crazy Horse” they found the statements made by the latter Indian were strictly correct. The thousands of square miles of country burned over during the preceding season were still gaunt and bare, and “Crazy Horse” was compelled to march with his famished poniesover a region as destitute as the Sahara. The rations taken out for the women and children were well bestowed; there was no food in the village, and some of the more imprudent ate themselves sick, and I may add that one of “Crazy Horse’s” men sent on in advance to Camp Robinson surfeited himself and died.
While Red Cloud was absent there were several small brushes with petty bands of prowling hostiles. Lieutenants Lemly, Cumings, and Hardie, of the Third Cavalry, did spirited work near Deadwood and Fort Fetterman respectively, and a battalion of the same regiment, under Major Vroom, was kept patrolling the eastern side of the Hills.
Time did not hang heavy upon our hands at Robinson: there were rides and walks about the post for those who took pleasure in them; sometimes a party would go as far as Crow Butte, with its weird, romantic story of former struggles between the Absaroka and the Dakota; sometimes into the pine-mantled bluffs overlooking the garrison, where, two years later, the brave Cheyennes, feeling that the Government had broken faith with them, were again on the war-path, fighting to the death. There were visits to the Indian villages, where the courteous welcome received from the owners of the lodges barely made amends for the vicious attacks by half-rabid curs upon the horses’ heels. The prismatic splendors of the rainbow had been borrowed to give beauty to the raiment or lend dignity to the countenances of Indians of both sexes, who moved in a steady stream to the trader’s store to buy all there was to sell. Many of the squaws wore bodices and skirts of the finest antelope skin, thickly incrusted with vari-colored beads or glistening with the nacreous brilliancy of the tusks of elk; in all these glories of personal adornment they were well matched by the warriors, upon whose heads were strikingly picturesque war-bonnets with eagle feathers studding them from crown to ground. These were to be worn only on gala occasions, but each day was a festal one at that time for all these people. Almost as soon as the sun proclaimed the hour of noon groups of dancers made their way to the open ground in front of the commanding general’s quarters, and there favored the whites with a never-ending series of “Omaha” dances and “Spoon” dances, “Squaw” dances and “War” dances, which were wonderfully interesting and often beautiful to look upon, but open to the objection that the unwary Caucasian who venturedtoo near the charmed circle was in danger of being seized by stout-armed viragoes, and compelled to prance about with them until his comrades had contributed a ransom of two dollars.
Neither were we altogether ignorant of the strange wonders of the “Bad Lands,” which began near by, and are, or were, filled with the skeletons of mammoth saurians and other monsters of vanished seas. “Old Paul”—I don’t think he ever had any other name—the driver of General Mackenzie’s ambulance, had much to relate about these marvellous animal cemeteries. “Loo-o-tin-int,” he would say, “it’s the dog-gonedest country I ever seed—reg’lar bone-yard. (Waugh! Tobacco juice.) Wa’al, I got lots o’ things out thar—thighs ’n jaw-bones ’n sich—them’s no account, th’ groun’s chock full o’them. (Waugh! Tobacco juice.) But, pew-trified tar’pin ’n snappin’ torkle—why, them’s wallerble. Onct I got a bone full o’ pew-trified marrer; looks like glass; guess I’ll send it to a mew-see-um.” (Waugh! Tobacco juice.)
The slopes of the hills seemed to be covered with Indian boys, ponies, and dogs. The small boy and the big dog are two of the principal features of every Indian village or Indian cavalcade; to these must be added the bulbous-eyed pappoose, in its bead-covered cradle slung to the saddle of its mother’s pony, and wrapped so tightly in folds of cloth and buckskin that its optics stick out like door-knobs. The Indian boy is far ahead of his white contemporary in healthy vigor and manly beauty. Looking at the subject as a boy would, I don’t know of an existence with more happiness to the square inch than that of the young redskin from eight to twelve years old. With no one to reproach him because face or hands are unclean, to scowl because his scanty allowance of clothing has run to tatters, and no long-winded lessons in geography or the Constitution of the United States, his existence is one uninterrupted gleam of sunshine. The Indian youngster knows every bird’s nest for miles around, every good place for bathing, every nice pile of sand or earth to roll in. With a pony to ride—and he has a pony from the time he is four years old; and a bow—or, better luck still, a rifle—for shooting: he sees little in the schools of civilization to excite his envy. On ration days, when the doomed beeves are turned over to each band, what bliss to compare to that of charging after the frenzied steers and shooting them down on the dead run? Whenthe winter sun shone brightly, these martial scions would sometimes forget their dignity long enough to dismount and engage in a game of shinny with their gayly-attired sisters, who rarely failed to bring out all the muscle that was in them.
It would be impossible to give more than the vaguest shadow of the occurrences of that period without filling a volume. Indian life was not only before us and on all sides of us, but we had also insensibly and unconsciously become part of it. Our eyes looked upon their pantomimic dances—our ears were regaled with their songs, or listened to the myths and traditions handed down from the old men. “Spotted Tail” said that he could not remember the time when the Sioux did not have horses, but he had often heard his father say that inhisyouth they still had dogs to haul their“travois,”as their kinsmen, the Assiniboines, to the north still do.
“Friday” said that when he was a very small child, the Arapahoes still employed big dogs to haul their property, and that old women and men marched in front laden with paunches filled with water, with which to sprinkle the parched tongues of the animals every couple of hundred yards.
“Fire Crow,” a Cheyenne, here interposed, and said that the Cheyennes claimed to have been the first Northern Indians to use horses, and thereupon related the following story: “A young Cheyenne maiden wandered away from home, and could not be found. Her friends followed her trail, going south until they came to the shore of a large lake into which the foot-prints led. While the Indians were bewailing the supposed sad fate of their lost relative, she suddenly returned, bringing with her a fine young stallion, the first the Cheyennes had ever seen. She told her friends that she was married to a white man living near by, and that she would go back to obtain a mare, which she did. From this pair sprung all the animals which the Cheyennes, Sioux, and Arapahoes now have.”