The Otoes, once occupying the region at the mouth of the Platte, were a very brave and interesting tribe. When first known to the whites, in the early part of the century, the chief of the nation was I-e-tan, a man of great courage, excellent judgment, and crafty, as are always the most intelligent of the North American savages. His leading attributes were penetration of character, close observation of everything that occurred, and a determination to carry out his ideas, which were remarkable in their development. An old regular army officer, long since dead, who knew I-e- tan well and spoke his language, said that he had known him to form estimates of men, judicious, if not accurate, from half an hour's acquaintance, and without understanding a word that was spoken. But beneath his calm exterior there burned a lava of impetuous passions, which, when strongly moved, burst forth with a fierce and blind violence.

I-e-tan had the advantage of a fine and commanding figure, so remarkable, indeed, that once at a dinner, on a public occasion, at Jefferson Barracks, his health was drunk, with a complimentary allusion to the lines from Shakespeare:

A combination and a form indeed,
Where every god did seem to set his seal
To give the world assurance of a man.

In a deep carousal which took place one night in the village, in 1822, his brother, a fine fellow, named Blue-eyes (that colour being rare[42] among the Indians), had the misfortune to bite off a small piece of I-e-tan's nose. So soon as he became sensible of this irreparable injury, to which, as an Indian, he was, perhaps, even more sensitive than a white man, I-e- tan burned with a mortal resentment. He retired, telling his brother that he would kill him. He got a rifle, returned, and deliberately shot him through the heart. He had found Blue-eyes leaning with folded arms against a pillar of his lodge, and thus, with a heroic stoicism, which has been rightly attributed as a characteristic of the race, without a murmur, or the quiver of a muscle, he submitted to his cruel fate.

Then was I-e-tan seized with a violent remorse, and exhibited the redeeming traits of repentance and inconsolable grief, and of greatness, in the very constancy of the absorbing sentiment. He retired from all intercourse with his race, abstaining wholly from drink, for which he had a propensity, and, as if under a vow, he went naked for nearly two years. He also meditated suicide, and was probably only prevented from committing it by the influence of a white friend. He sought honourable death in desperate encounters with all the enemies he could find, and in this period acquired his name, or title, from a very destructive attack he made upon a party of another tribe. He lived a year or two with the Pawnees, acquiring perfectly their difficult language, and attaining a great influence over them, which he never lost. After several years of such penance, I-e-tan revisited the villages of his nation, and, in 1830, on the death of La Criniere, his elder brother, succeeded him as principal chief.

I-e-tan married many of the finest girls of his own and neighbouring tribes, but never had any children. Latterly one of his wives presented him with a male child, which was born with teeth. I-e-tan pronounced it a special interposition of the Great Spirit, of which this extraordinary sign was proof.

I-e-tan was the last chief who could so far resist the ruinous influence of the increasing communication of his tribe with the villanous, the worse than barbarous, whites of the extreme frontier as to keep the young men under a tolerable control, but his death proved a signal for license and disorder.

Intemperance was the great fault in I-e-tan's character, and the cause of his greatest misfortune and crime. It led to his violent death. The circumstances of this tragedy are worthy of record, if only that they develop some strong traits of aboriginal character. They are as follows: In April, 1837, accompanied by his two youngest wives, at a trading-house at the mouth of the Platte, he indulged in one of his most violent fits of drunkenness, and in this condition, on a dark and inclement night, drove his wives out of doors. Two men of his tribe, who witnessed these circumstances, persuaded the women to fly in their company. One of these men had formerly been dangerously stabbed by I-e-tan. Actuated by hatred, calculating the chief's power was on the decline, and depending on the strength of their connections, which were influential, the seducers became tired of living out in hunting-camps and elsewhere, and determined to return to the village and face it out. Such cases of elopement are not very frequent; but after a much longer absence the parties generally become silently reconciled, if necessary, through the arrangement of friends. I-e-tan said, however, that it was not only a personal insult and injury, but an evidence of defiance of his power, and that he would live or die the chief of the Otoes. His enemies had prepared their friends for resistance, and I-e-tan armed himself for the conflict. He sought and found the young men in the skirts of the village, near some trees where their supporters were concealed. I-e-tan addressed the man whom he had formerly wounded: "Stand aside! I do not wish to kill you; I have perhaps injured you enough." The fellow immediately fled. He then fired upon the other, and missed him. As the white man was about to return the fire, he was shot down by a nephew of I-e-tan's from a great distance. I-e-tan then drew a pistol, jumped astride his fallen enemy, and was about to blow out his brains, when the interpreter, Dorian, hoping even then to stop bloodshed, struck up his pistol, which was discharged in the air, and seized him around the body and arms. At this instant the wounded man, writhing in the agony of death, discharged his rifle at random. The ball shattered Dorian's arm and broke both of I-e-tan's, but the latter, being then unloosened, sprang and stamped upon the body, and called upon his sister, an old woman, to beat out his brains. This she did with an axe, with which she had come running with his friends and nephews from the village. At this instant—Dorian being out of the way—a volley was fired at I-e-tan, and five balls penetrated his body. Then his nephews, coming too late to his support, took swift vengeance. They fired at his now flying enemies, and, although they were in motion, nearly two hundred yards distant, three of them fell dead.

I-e-tan was conveyed to his lodge in the village, where being surrounded by many relations and friends, he deplored the condition of the nation, and warned them against the dangers to which it was exposed. He assured them most positively that if he willed it, he could continue to live, but that many of the Otoes had become such dogs that he was weary of governing them, and that his arms being broken, he could no longer be a great warrior. He gave some messages for his friend, the agent, who was expected at the village, and then turning to a bystander, told him he had heard that day that he had a bottle of whiskey, and ordered him to bring it. This being done, he caused it to be poured down his throat, and when drunk he sang his death song and died.

The Pawnees were the next considerable tribe on the Salt Lake Trail, west of the Otoes. The Pawnee territory, as late as sixty years ago, extended from the Niobrara, south to the Arkansas. This territory embraced a large portion of what is now Kansas and Nebraska, but it must not be supposed for a moment that they held undisputed possession of this territory. On their north a constant war was waged against them by the Dakotas, or Sioux, while on the south every tribe, comprising the Osages, the Comanches, the Arapahoes, and the Kiowas, were equally relentless in their hostility. In fact, as far back as their history and traditions date, the Pawnees were constantly on the defensive against the almost numberless hereditary enemies by which they were surrounded. No greater proof of their prowess is needed than the statement that during all the years of their continual warfare, they held possession of their vast and phenomenally rich hunting-grounds. In 1833, by treaty they surrendered to the United States all of their territory south of the Platte River. In 1858 they gave up their remaining territory, excepting a strip thirty miles long and fifteen miles wide upon the Loup Fork of the Platte. In 1874 they sold this last of their original possessions to the United States and were placed upon a Reservation in the Indian Territory.

In the traditions of the several bands it is related that the Pawnees originally came from the south.

The tribal mark of the Pawnee is a scalp-lock, nearly erect, having the appearance of a horn. In order to keep it in its upright position, it was filled with vermilion or some other pigment. It is claimed by those who have made a special study of this tribe that the name Pawnee is derived from pa-rik-i, a horn.

Lewis and Clarke found them above the mouth of the Cheyenne River. Both these early explorers state in their Itinerary that the Pawnee women were very handsome. At that date they were very friendly toward the United States, and remained so for a great many years. Seventeen or eighteen years afterward they became fearfully hostile. This remarkable change in their attitude toward the government has been attributed to the action of the Northwestern Fur Company, which spared no efforts to divert the trade of the Pawnee region from the Missouri Fur Company. Their first outbreak was in 1823, when they made a raid upon some boats of the last-mentioned company, killing and wounding a number of their men. In consequence of this overt act, an expedition under Colonel Leavenworth, in conjunction with six hundred friendly Dakotas, was organized at Council Bluffs, and sent against them. In August of that same year a treaty of peace was made with them, but nine years afterward Catlin found them so hostile that it was dangerous to attempt any intercourse with them.[43]

All of the early French writers have much to say of the Pawnees, but there is not space in this book to quote the many interesting facts contained in their writings. Their number in the early years of the century, according to various authors, differs materially, one enumerating them as high as twenty-five thousand, another as low as six thousand. In 1838 the tribe suffered terribly from smallpox, which it is alleged was communicated to it by Dakota women they had taken as prisoners. The mortality among the grown persons was not very great, but that of the children was enormous. In 1879, according to the official census of the Indian Bureau, the tribe had been reduced to one thousand four hundred and forty.

One eminent author, Mr. John B. Dunbar, very correctly says:

     The causes of this continual decrease are several. The most
     constantly acting influence has been the deadly warfare with
     surrounding tribes. Probably not a year in this century has
     been without losses from this source, though only occasionally
     have they been marked with considerable disasters. In 1832
     the Ski-di band suffered a severe defeat on the Arkansas from
     the Comanches. In 1847 a Dakota war-party, numbering over
     seven hundred, attacked a village occupied by two hundred and
     sixteen Pawnees, and succeeded in killing eighty-three.
     In 1854 a party of one hundred and thirteen were cut off by
     an overwhelming body of Cheyennes and Kiowas, and killed
     almost to a man. In 1873 a hunting party of about four
     hundred, two hundred and thirteen of whom were men, on the
     Republican, while in the act of killing a herd of buffalo,
     were attacked by nearly six hundred Dakota warriors, and
     eighty-six were killed. But the usual policy of their
     enemies has been to cut off individuals, or small scattered
     parties, while engaged in the chase or in tilling isolated
     corn patches. Losses of this kind, trifling when taken
     singly, have in the aggregate borne heavily on the tribe.
     It would seem that such losses, annually recurring, should
     have taught them to be more on their guard. But let it be
     remembered that the struggle has not been in one direction,
     against one enemy. The Dakotas, Crows, Kiowas, Cheyennes,
     Arapahoes, Comanches, Osages, and Kansans have faithfully
     aided each other, though undesignedly in the main, in this
     crusade of extermination against the Pawnees. It has been,
     in the most emphatic sense, a struggle of the one against
     the many. With the possible exception of the Dakotas, there
     is much reason to believe that the animosity of these tribes
     has been acerbated by the galling tradition of disastrous
     defeats which Pawnee prowess had inflicted upon themselves
     in past generations. To them the last seventy years have
     been a carnival of revenge. 

The Pawnees once were a great people. They had everything that heart could wish. Their corn and buffalo gave them food, clothing, and shelter. They were very light-hearted and contented when at peace; in war they were cunning, fierce, and generally successful. Their very name was a terror to their enemies.

When the Pawnees of the Platte were sorely afflicted with smallpox, and when they were visited by their agent, he depicts in his report the most horrible scenes. The poor wretches were utterly ignorant of any remedy or alleviation. Some sank themselves to the mouth in the river, and awaited death which was thus hastened. The living could not always protect the dying and dead from the wolves. Their chief, Capote Bleu, once exclaimed to an American officer: "Oh my father, how many glorious battles we might have fought, and not lost so many men!"

The Pawnees were probably the most degraded, in point of morals, of all the Western tribes; they were held in such contempt by the other tribes that none would make treaties with them. They were populous at one time, and were the most inveterate enemies of the whites, killing them wherever they met.

The Pawnees in reality comprised five bands, which constituted the entire nation: The Grand Pawnee Band; the Republican Pawnee Band; Pawnee Loups, or Wolf Pawnees; Pawnee Picts, or Tattooed Pawnees; and Black Pawnees. Each land was independent and under its own chief, but for mutual defence, or in other cases of urgent necessity, they united in one body, and in the early days on the plains could raise from thirty to forty thousand warriors.

They were, perhaps, the most cruel of all Indian nations. They evinced a demoniacal delight in inflicting the most exquisite tortures upon their captives. They were impure, both in their ordinary conversation and in their daily conduct. Still, they had some redeeming qualities. The recognition of the claims of their relations might be emulated by our higher civilization; so impressed upon their natures was the duty to those who were related to them, that their language contains a proverb: "Ca-si- ri pi-rus, he wi-ti ti-ruk-ta-pi-di-hu-ru—Why, even the worms, they love each other—much more should men." They were also very hospitable, very sociable, and fond of telling stories. They really had a literature of stories and songs, which, if they could be gathered in their entirety, would make a large volume.

     One form of sacrifice formerly practised in the tribe, or
     rather in one band—for the other bands emphatically
     disclaimed any share in the barbarous rite—stood apart in
     unhappy prominence. This was the offering of human sacrifices
     (their captives); not burning them as an expression of
     embittered revenge, but sacrificing them as a religious
     ordinance. What the origin of this terrible practice was the
     Pawnees could never definitely explain. The rite was of long
     standing evidently. The sacrifice was made to the morning
     star, "O-pir-i-kut," which, with the Ski-di, especially,
     was an object of superstitious veneration. It was always
     about corn-planting time, and the design of the bloody ordeal
     was to conciliate that being and secure a good crop; hence it
     has been supposed that the morning star was regarded by them
     as presiding over agriculture, but it was not so. They
     sacrificed to that star simply because they feared it,
     imagining that it exerted a malign influence if not well
     disposed. The sacrifice, however, was not an annual one;
     it was only made when special occurrences were interpreted
     as calling for it. The victim was usually a girl, or young
     woman, taken from their enemies. The more beautiful the
     unfortunate was, the more acceptable the offering. When it
     had been determined in a council of the band to make the
     sacrifice, the person was selected, if possible, some months
     beforehand, and placed in charge of the medicine-men, who
     treated her with the utmost kindness. She was fed plentifully
     that she might become fleshy, and kept in entire ignorance
     of her impending doom. During this time she was made to eat
     alone, lest having by chance eaten with any one of the band,
     she would by the law of hospitality become that person's guest,
     and he be bound to protect her. On the morning of the day
     finally fixed for the ordeal, she was led from lodge to lodge
     throughout the village, begging wood and paint, not knowing
     that these articles were for her own immolation. Whenever a
     stick of wood or portion of red or black paint was given her,
     it was taken by the medicine-men attending, and sent to the
     spot selected for the final rite. A sufficient quantity of
     these materials having been collected, the ceremony was begun
     by a solemn conclave of all the medicine-men. Smoking the
     great medicine pipe, displaying the contents of the medicine
     bundle, dancing, praying, etc., were repeated at different
     stages of the proceedings. A framework of two posts, about
     four and a half feet apart, was set in the ground, and to
     them two horizontal crosspieces, at a height of two and seven
     feet, were firmly fastened. Between the posts a slow fire
     was built. At nightfall the victim was disrobed and the
     torture began. After the sickening sight had continued long
     enough, an old man, previously appointed, discharged an arrow
     at the heart of the unfortunate, and freed her from further
     torture. The medicine-men forthwith cut open the chest, took
     out the heart, and burned it. The smoke rising from the fire
     in which it was burning was supposed to possess wonderful
     virtues, and implements of war, hunting, and agriculture were
     passed through it to insure success in their use. The flesh
     was hacked from the body, buried in the corn patches, thrown
     to the dogs, or disposed of in any way that caprice might
     direct. The skeleton was allowed to remain in position till,
     loosened by decay, it fell to the ground.[44] 

The last time this sacrifice was made, according to official reports, was sixty years ago (April, 1838). Dunbar relates this last reported sacrifice as follows:

     The winter previous to the date given, the Ski-di, soon after
     starting on their hunt, had a successful fight with a band of
     Ogallalla Sioux, killed several men and took over twenty
     children. Fearing that the Sioux, according to their tactics,
     would retaliate by coming upon them in overwhelming force,
     they returned for safety to their village before taking
     a sufficient number of buffalo. With little to eat, they
     lived miserably, lost many of their ponies from scarcity of
     forage, and, worst of all, one of the captives proved to have
     the smallpox, which rapidly spread through the band, and in
     the spring was communicated to the rest of the tribe.
     All these accumulated misfortunes the Ski-di attributed to
     the anger of the morning star, and accordingly they resolved
     to propitiate its favour by a repetition of the sacrifice,
     though in direct violation of a stipulation made two years
     before that the sacrifice should not occur again. 

     In connection with its abolition, the oft-told story of
     Pit-a-le-shar-u is recalled. Sa-re-cer-ish, second chief of
     the Cau-i band, was a man of unusually humane disposition,
     and had strenuously endeavoured to secure the suppression of
     the practice. In the spring of 1817 the Ski-di arranged to
     sacrifice a Comanche girl. After Sa-re-cer-ish had essayed
     in vain to dissuade them, Pit-a-le-shar-u, a young man about
     twenty years of age, of almost giant stature, and already
     famed as a great brave, conceived the bold design of rescuing
     her. On the day set for the rite he actually cut the girl
     loose, after she had been tied to the stakes, placed her upon
     a horse that he had in readiness, and hurried her away across
     the prairies till they were come within a day's journey of
     her people's village. There, after giving necessary
     directions as to her course, he dismissed her, himself
     returning to the Pawnees. The suddenness and intrepidity of
     his movements, and his known prowess, were no doubt all that
     saved him from death at the moment of the rescue and after
     his return. Twice afterward he presumed to interfere.
     In one instance, soon after the foregoing, he assisted in
     securing by purchase the ransom of a Spanish boy, who had
     been set apart for sacrifice. Several years later, about
     1831, he aided in the attempted rescue of a girl.
     The resistance on this occasion was so determined that even
     after the girl had been bought and was mounted upon a horse
     behind Major Daugherty, at that time general agent, to be
     taken from the Ski-di village, she was shot by one of the
     medicine-men. The magnanimous conduct of Sa-re-cer-ish and
     Pit-a-le-shar-u in this matter stands almost unexampled in
     Indian annals. 

The Pawnees were essentially a religious people, if one may be allowed to use the term in connection with a tribe whose morals were at such a low ebb. They worshipped Ti-ra-wa, who is in and of everything. Differing from many tribes, who adore material things, the Pawnees simply regarded certain localities as sacred—they became so only because they were blessed by the Divine presence. Ti-ra-wa was not personified; he was as intangible as the God of the Christian. The sacred nature of the Pawnee deity extended to all animal nature —the fish that swim in the rivers, the birds that fly in the air, and all the beasts which roam over the prairie were believed by the Pawnee to possess intelligence, knowledge, and power far beyond that of man. They were not, however, considered as gods; their miraculous attributes were given to them by their ruler, whose servants they were, and who often made them the medium of his communications to man. They were his messengers, his angels, and their powers were always used for good. Prayers were made to them in time of need, but rather pleading for their intercession with Ti-ra-wa than directly to them. All important undertakings were preceded by a prayer for help, and success in their undertakings was acknowledged by grateful offerings to the ruler. The victorious warrior frequently sacrificed the scalp torn from the head of his enemy, which was burned with much elaborate mummery by the medicine- men, and he who brought back from a raid many horses always gave one to the chief medicine-man as a thank-offering to Ti-ra-wa.

The Pawnees entertained feelings of reverence and humility only toward their god; they really did not love him, but looked to him for help at all times. The young braves were particularly exhorted to humble themselves before Ti-ra-wa, to pray to him, and to look to One Above, to ask help from him.

During Monroe's administration, a very influential and physically powerful Indian named Two Axe, chief counsellor of the Pawnee Loups, went to pay a visit to the "Great Father," the President of the United States. Two Axe was over six feet high and well proportioned, of athletic build, and as straight as an arrow. He had been delegated to go to Washington by his tribe to make a treaty with the government.

Having been introduced to the President, the latter made known to him, through the interpreter, the substance of a proposal. The keen-witted Indian, perceiving that the treaty taught "all Turkey" to the white man, and "all Crow" to his tribe, sat patiently during the reading of the document. When it was finished, he rose with all his native dignity, and in a vein of true Indian eloquence, in which he was unsurpassed, declared that the treaty had been conceived in injustice and born in duplicity; that many treaties had been signed by Indians of their "Great Father's" concoction, wherein they had bartered away the graves of their ancestors for a few worthless trinkets, and afterward their hearts cried out for their folly; that such Indians were fools and women. He expressed very freely his opinion of the President and the whites generally, and concluded by declaring that he would sign no paper which would ever cause his own breast or those of his people to sorrow.

Accordingly, Two Axe broke up the council abruptly, and returned to his home without making any treaty with his "Great Father" at all.

The folk-lore stories and songs of the Pawnees are full of pathos, humour, and thrilling incidents. The legend of the Dun Horse is comparable in its enchantment to the stories of Aladdin and his wonderful lamp.

     Many years ago there lived in the Pawnee tribe an old woman
     and her grandson, a boy about sixteen years old. These people
     had no relations, and were very poor. Indeed, they were so
     miserably poor that they were despised by the rest of the
     tribe. They had nothing of their own, and always, after the
     village started to move the camp from one place to another,
     these two would stay behind the rest, to look over the old
     ground and pick up anything that the other Indians had thrown
     away as worn out or useless. In this way they would sometimes
     get pieces of robes, worn-out moccasins with holes in them,
     and bits of meat. 

     Now it happened one day, after the tribe had moved away from
     the camp, that this old woman and her boy were following
     along the trail behind the rest, when they came to a miserable,
     old, worn-out horse, which they supposed had been abandoned
     by some Indians. He was thin and exhausted, was blind of one
     eye, had a sore back, and one of his fore legs was very much
     swollen. In fact, he was so worthless that none of the
     Pawnees had been willing to take the trouble to try to drive
     him along with them. But when the old woman and her boy came
     along, the boy said: "Come now, we will take this old horse,
     for we can make him carry our pack." So the old woman put
     her pack on the horse and drove him along, but he limped and
     could only go very slowly. 

     The tribe moved up on the North Platte, until they came to
     Court-house Rock. The two poor Indians followed them, and
     camped with the others. One day while they were here,
     the young men who had been sent out for buffalo came hurrying
     into camp and told the chiefs that a large herd of buffalo
     were near, and that among them was a spotted calf. 

     The head chief of the Pawnees had a very beautiful daughter,
     and when he heard about the spotted calf, he ordered his old
     crier to go about through the village, and call out that the
     man who should kill the spotted calf should have his daughter
     for wife. For a spotted robe is "Ti-war-uks-ti" (Big Medicine). 

     The buffalo were feeding about four miles from the village,
     and the chiefs decided that the charge should be made from
     there. In this way the man who had the fastest horse would
     be the most likely to kill the calf. Then all the warriors
     and men picked out their best and fastest horses, and made
     ready to start. Among those who prepared for the charge was
     the poor boy, on the old dun horse. But when they saw him,
     all the rich young braves on their fast horses pointed at him
     and said: "Oh, see; there is the horse that is going to catch
     the spotted calf"; and they laughed at him so that the poor
     boy was ashamed, and rode off to one side of the crowd, where
     he could not hear their jokes and laughter. 

     When he had ridden off some little way, the horse stopped,
     and turned his head around and spoke to the boy. He said:
     "Take me down to the creek, and plaster me all over with mud.
     Cover my head, and neck, and body, and legs." When the boy
     heard the horse speak, he was afraid; but he did as he was
     told. Then the horse said: "Now mount, but do not ride back
     to the warriors who laugh at you because you have such a poor
     horse. Stay right here, until the word is given to charge."
     So the boy stayed there. 

     And presently all the fine horses were drawn up in line and
     pranced about, and were so eager to go that their riders could
     hardly hold them in. At last the old crier gave the word,
     "Loo-ah" (go). Then the Pawnees all leaned forward on their
     horses and yelled, and away they went. Suddenly, away off to
     the right, was seen the old dun horse. He did not seem to
     run. He seemed to sail along like a bird. He passed all the
     fastest horses, and in a moment he was among the buffalo.
     First he picked out the spotted calf, and charging up
     alongside of it, straight flew the arrow. The calf fell.
     The boy drew another arrow and killed a fat cow that was
     running by. Then he dismounted and began to skin the spotted
     calf before any of the other warriors came up. But when
     the rider got off the old dun horse, how changed he was!
     He pranced about and could hardly stand still near the dead
     buffalo. His back was all right again; his legs were well
     and fine; and both his eyes were clear and bright. 

     The boy skinned the calf and cow that he had killed, and then
     he packed the meat on the horse and put the spotted robe on
     top of the load, and started back to camp on foot, leading
     the dun horse. But even with his heavy load the horse pranced
     all the while, and was scared at everything he saw. On the
     way to camp, one of the rich young chiefs of the tribe rode
     up to the boy, and offered him twelve good horses for the
     spotted robe, so that he could marry the head chief's daughter,
     but the boy laughed at him and would not sell the robe. 

     Now, while the boy walked to the camp leading the dun horse,
     most of the warriors rode back, and one of those that came
     first to the village went to the old woman and said to her:
     "Your grandson has killed the spotted calf." And the old
     woman said: "Why do you come to tell me this? You ought
     to be ashamed to make fun of my boy because he is poor."
     The warrior rode away, saying, "What I have told you is true."
     After a while another brave rode up to the old woman, and
     said to her: "Your grandson has killed the spotted calf."
     Then the old woman began to cry, she felt so badly because
     every one made fun of her boy because he was poor. 

     Pretty soon the boy came along, leading the horse up to the
     lodge where he and his grandmother lived. It was a little
     lodge, just big enough for two, and was made of old pieces
     of skin that the old woman had picked up, and was tied
     together with strings of rawhide and sinew. It was the
     meanest and worst lodge in the village. When the old woman
     saw her boy leading the dun horse with a load of meat and
     the robes on it, she was very much surprised. The boy said
     to her: "Here, I have brought you plenty of meat to eat, and
     here is a robe that you may have for yourself. Take the meat
     off the horse." Then the old woman laughed, for her heart
     was glad. But when she went to take the meat from the horse's
     back, he snorted and jumped about, and acted like a wild horse.
     The old woman looked at him and wondered, and could hardly
     believe that it was the same horse. So the boy had to take
     off the meat, for the horse would not let the old woman come
     near him. 

     That night the horse again spoke to the boy, and said:
     "Wa-ti-hes Chah-ra-rat-wa-ta." To-morrow the Sioux are
     coming in a large war-party. They will attack the village,
     and you will have a great battle. Now, when the Sioux are
     drawn up in line of battle, and are all ready to fight, you
     jump on me, and ride as hard as you can, right into the
     middle of the Sioux, and up to their head chief, their
     greatest warrior, and count coup on him, and kill him, and
     then ride back. Do this four times, and count coup on four
     of the bravest Sioux, and kill them, but don't go again.
     If you go the fifth time, maybe you will be killed, or else
     you will lose me. "La-ku-ta-chix" (remember). The boy promised. 

     The next day it happened as the horse had said, and the Sioux
     came down and formed in line of battle. Then the boy took
     his bow and arrows, and jumped on the dun horse, and charged
     into the midst of them. And when the Sioux saw that he was
     going to strike their head chief, they all shot their arrows
     at him, and the arrows flew so thickly across each other that
     they darkened the sky, but none of them hit the boy, and he
     counted coup on the chief and killed him, and then rode back.
     After that he charged again among the Sioux, where they were
     gathered the thickest, and counted coup on their bravest
     warrior and killed him. And then twice more, until he had
     gone four times as the horse had told him. 

     But the Sioux and the Pawnees kept on fighting, and the boy
     stood around and watched the battle. At last he said to
     himself, "I have been four times and have killed four Sioux;
     why may I not go again?" So he jumped on the dun horse and
     charged again. But when he got among the Sioux, one Sioux
     warrior drew an arrow and shot. The arrow struck the dun
     horse behind the fore legs and pierced him through. And the
     horse fell down dead. But the boy jumped off and fought his
     way through the Sioux and ran away as fast as he could to the
     Pawnees. Now, as soon as the horse was killed, the Sioux
     said to each other, "This horse was like a man. He was brave.
     He was not like a horse." And they took their knives and
     hatchets and hacked the dun horse and gashed his flesh, and
     cut him into small pieces. 

     The Pawnees and Sioux fought all day long, but toward night
     the Sioux broke and fled. 

     The boy felt very badly that he had lost his horse, and after
     the fight was over he went out from the village to where it
     had taken place to mourn for his horse. He went to the spot
     where the horse lay, and gathered up all the pieces of flesh
     which the Sioux had cut off, and the legs and hoofs, and put
     them all together in a pile. Then he went off to the top of
     a hill near by and sat down and drew his robe over his head,
     and began to mourn for his horse. 

     As he sat there, he heard a great wind storm coming up, and
     it passed over him with a loud rushing sound, and after the
     wind came a rain. The boy looked down from where he sat to
     the pile of flesh and bones, which was all that was left of
     the horse, and he could just see it through the rain.
     And the rain passed by, and his heart was very heavy and he
     kept on mourning. 

     And pretty soon came another rushing wind, and after it a rain;
     and as he looked through the driving rain toward the spot
     where the pieces lay, he thought that they seemed to come
     together and take shape, and that the pile looked like a horse
     lying down, but he could not see very well for the thick rain. 

     After this came a third storm like the others; and now when
     he looked toward the horse he thought he saw its tail move
     from side to side two or three times, and that it lifted its
     head from the ground. The boy was afraid and wanted to run
     away, but he stayed. And as he waited, there came another
     storm. And while the rain fell, looking through the rain,
     the boy saw the horse raise himself up on his fore legs and
     look about. Then the dun horse stood up. 

     The boy left the place where he had been sitting on the
     hilltop, and went down to him. When the boy had come near to
     him the horse spoke and said, "You have seen how it has been
     this day; and from this you will know how it will be after
     this. But Ti-ra-wa has been good, and he let me come to life
     back to you. After this do what I tell you; not any more,
     not any less." Then the horse said, "Now lead me far off,
     far away from the camp, behind that big hill, and leave me
     there to-night, and in the morning come for me"; and the boy
     did as he was told. 

     And when he went for the horse in the morning, he found with
     him a beautiful white gelding, much more handsome than any
     horse in the tribe. That night the dun horse told the boy to
     take him again to the place behind the big hill and to come
     for him the next morning; and when the boy went for him again,
     he found a beautiful black gelding. And so for ten nights he
     left the horse among the hills, and each morning he found
     a different-coloured horse, a bay, a roan, a gray, a blue,
     a spotted horse, and all of them finer than any horses that
     the Pawnees had ever had in the tribe before. 

     Now the boy was rich, and he married the beautiful daughter
     of the head chief, and when he became older he was made head
     chief himself. He had many children by his beautiful wife,
     and one day, when his oldest boy died, he wrapped him in his
     spotted calf robe and buried him in it. He always took good
     care of his old grandmother, and kept her in his own lodge
     until she died. The dun horse was never ridden except at
     feasts and when they were going to have a doctors' dance,
     but he was always led about with the chief wherever he went.
     The horse lived in the village for many years, until he became
     very old, and at last he died. 

A little more than half a century ago the many bands of the great Sioux nation[45] hardly knew anything of the civilization of the whites in any part of the continent; none of their chiefs had ever visited the capital of the nation, or, for that matter, any American settlement. They knew nothing of the English language. The few whites they had ever met were those employed by the great fur companies. They regarded them to be a wise sort of a people, a little inferior, however, to themselves, living in lodges like their own and subsisting on the buffalo and other wild game constituting the food of the Indians.

When that relatively great exodus from the States commenced, beginning with the Mormon hegira, closely followed by emigrants on their way to Oregon, this tide, with its great number of oxen, wagons, and other means of transportation, at first so astonished the Sioux, who had never believed for a moment that the world contained so many white men, that they were completely dumbfounded. When, however, they saw the wanton slaughter of buffalo by this army of men, their amazement turned to hatred and a desire for revenge, and then commenced that series of wars and skirmishes, with their attendant horrible massacres, ending with the battle of Wounded Knee.

In the summer of 1846 there was a pall of sorrow and disaster hovering over all of the bands of the western Dakotas; the year previous they had met with great reverses. Many large war-parties had been sent out from the various villages, the majority of which were either badly whipped or entirely cut off. The few warriors who returned to their homes were heartbroken and discouraged; so that the whole nation was in mourning.

Among these war-parties, ten of the Sioux warriors made a raid into the Snake country. They were led by the son of a prominent Ogallalla chief, called the Whirlwind. When they reached the Laramie Plains they were met by a superior number of their enemies, and every warrior killed to a man. The Snakes having accomplished this, they became greatly alarmed at what they had done, dreading the revenge of the Dakotas, which they knew would be inevitable; so, desiring to signify their wish for peace, they sent the scalp of one of their victims, with a small piece of tobacco attached, to his relations. The Snakes induced one of the Indian traders to act as their messenger on this mission of peace, and the scalp was hung up in a room at Fort Laramie, but Whirlwind, the father of the dead warrior who had led the unfortunate band, was inexorable. He hated the Snakes with his whole soul, and long before the scalp had arrived he had consummated his preparations for revenge. He despatched runners loaded with presents of tobacco and other trinkets to all the Dakotas within three hundred miles of his village. They were to propose a grand combination for the purpose of war, and to determine upon a place and time for the meeting of the warriors. Ever ready for war, as is the normal attitude of the average North American savage, the Whirlwind's plan was readily acceded to, and a camp on the Platte, known as Labonte's, was the point designated as the rendezvous. At that place their war-like ceremonies were to be celebrated with great dignity and solemnity; a thousand warriors, it is declared, were to be sent out into the enemy's country; but the thing ended in smoke. True, a great many Indians gathered there, but they went on a big buffalo hunt instead of fighting the Snakes.

The Sioux are noted for their individual bravery, and whole chapters might be written of their prowess, but the following incident will suffice to show the character of their daring. In 1846 a celebrated warrior performed a notable exploit at the Pawnee village on the Loup Fork of the Platte. He arrived there all alone, late one dark night, and climbing up the outside of one of the lodges, quietly gazed for a few moments, through the round hole for the escape of smoke at the top, at the unsuspecting inmates sleeping peacefully under their buffalo-robes around the expiring fire. Dropping himself lightly through the opening, he noiselessly unsheathed his knife, and, stirring the embers, stood for a moment as if selecting his victims, then one by one he stabbed and scalped them. Just as he had wrenched the reeking locks from the last victim, a child suddenly sat up and began to scream violently, upon which the warrior rushed out of the door of the lodge uttering the terrible Sioux war-cry. Then shouting his own name in triumph and defiance, he darted out upon the dark prairie, leaving the whole village behind him in a tumult with the howling of a hundred dogs, the screams of the women, and the yells of the enraged Pawnee braves.

The folk-lore and tales of the Sioux, though not so numerous, perhaps, as among the more sociable Pawnees, are full of interest and the superstitions of the tribe.

Many years ago, in a camp of delighted trappers, one of the chiefs of the Brule Sioux related the following story of his own experience when only a young brave in the councils of his nation:—

     When I was a youthful warrior, I used to delight in war, and
     very seldom did a party go out on the war-path without me.
     My scars (which the old fellow showed on his body) prove to
     you that I am speaking the truth, and that I was always to be
     found in the thickest of the fight. We hardly ever came back
     to our village without a dozen or more scalps torn from the
     heads of our enemies. Sometimes, too, we returned like fools,
     without a single scalp, and then were ashamed to present
     ourselves at the dances. 

     Once we were out after the Crows, and our spies were far in
     advance of the main body of warriors. We were hurrying on,
     expecting soon to meet the enemy, when we saw the spy, whom
     we had sent ahead, come back without any bows or arrows;
     his scalp was torn off and his face was covered with blood. 

     When questioned about his strange appearance, he replied that
     the enemy were aware of the approach of our band, and were
     lying in ambush for us in great numbers. He suddenly came
     upon their runners, who robbed him of his arms, tore off
     his scalp, and left him for dead. He stated that he remained
     quietly where he had fallen until night came on, and when
     the breeze came down from the mountains it gave him strength
     to come to us and warn us of the enemy's nearness and great
     numbers. 

     Believing his story to be true, we turned tail and made our
     way back to our village empty-handed, to be laughed at. 

     Three moons passed, and we again started for the country of
     our enemies. The warrior who had lost his scalp having
     recovered, and being again with us, he was sent out as a spy.
     He soon returned with the scalps of two of the enemy dangling
     from his spear-point. He did not stop to tell of his
     adventures, but hurried us on to meet the foe, and following
     him eagerly, we soon came to where they were, and after a hard
     fight came out victorious. 

     Among those who were killed was a warrior whose scalp was
     missing. Who did this? asked one of the other, but no one
     answered. At last our spy laughingly said, "Behind that hill
     over there," pointing with his spear to a large mountain,
     "there is a fountain that sings a melody fit for the ears of
     great warriors; let's go to it and drink." 

     Following his footsteps, he led us to a beautiful spring
     whose water was as shining as silver, and which fell in
     beautiful song over the rocks in its bed, and all around
     the charming spot were large old cottonwoods, which threw
     a grateful shade over the fountain, making it clear and
     always cool. 

     "Drink freely, warriors," said the spy; then hiding himself
     for a moment he returned among us, having with him all his
     arms and the robe he wore when he had first left us on his
     mission to hunt the enemy, so many moons before. 

     We gazed at him in astonishment, when, seeing our amazement,
     he said:— 

     "Brother warriors, you wondered at my misfortune and hard luck
     when we last visited the Crow country; you wondered at my
     sorrowful condition among the killed just now, but you will be
     more astonished to know that I now stand among you having what
     I had lost. Would you also like to know how I procured the
     scalps of two of the enemy? 

     "Three times has the full moon turned her face upon us Sioux
     since at this very spot I met an enemy. We rushed at each
     other for the attack, when he cried:— 

     "Are we not both braves? Why should we fight? When our
     warriors meet in the heat of the battle, then we may join
     them—until then let us have a truce. 

     "To this I answered, Says the Crow peace? 

     "This said, we shook hands and sat down by the fountain.
     To amuse my enemy I proposed a game of 'hand.'[46]
     He accepted my challenge, and we first played for an arrow
     against an arrow, then bow for bow, robe for robe, and scalp
     for scalp. I was out of luck and lost everything. I handed
     to him all the things, but with a promise from him that
     I should have another chance when we met again. 

     "We did meet again. The Great Spirit smiled upon me and
     I won back everything. Then I said, Crow, scalp for scalp.
     He accepted the challenge and we played. He lost, and I with
     my winnings arose to leave. 

     "Sioux warrior, said he, meet me in the fight that we may try
     the game of arms. 

     "That pleases me, I replied; will the Crow name the place? 

     "A valley lies beyond this hill, said he; there my people
     await their enemies; let me hope to see you with them. 

     "To that place I led you, said our spy. We fought and
     conquered. My opponent was among the killed. Need I tell
     you who took the scalp?" 

There is an affluent of the Cheyenne River called by the Sioux "Weur-sena- wakpa." The stream rises at the base of a lofty mountain of the same name. This mountain is held in great veneration by the Sioux nation, and a member of that tribe rarely went into the neighbourhood without making an offering to it.

The legend concerning its mystery is one of the beautiful myths of the Sioux.

Many ages ago, when the Sioux lived to the north and the Shoshone or Snake tribe of Indians lived in the region of the mountains, planting their villages and hunting all over the country for game, the whole region was a series of lakes and creeks; only the highlands bordering them were left for the deer and buffalo to graze. Then the creeks and rivers slowly rose, and the land of the Shoshones was greatly reduced by the encroachment of the water. Years passed on, and the tribe, attracted by some more suitable region, went away, or were driven off by the hostile bands, especially the Scarred-Arms (the Cheyennes[47]).

In the course of a great many years the Sioux and the Scarred-Arms always fought with each other with varying success, whenever they met; sometimes one tribe, sometimes the other, was victorious.

Once a band of the Sioux entered into the very heart of the country of the Scarred-Arms, and while on their return to their own country, fell into an ambush of the enemy, and only six out of the whole party escaped to convey the terrible news to their village.

These six, hotly pursued by the Scarred-Arms, sought refuge in the mountains. They found there a hidden passage leading into a recess in the mountain's side, which they hurriedly entered. They were delighted with it, for it had a gravelly floor, with a spring of pure, sweet, cool water gushing out of the side of its rocky wall. There, believing they might remain secure from their enemy, they proposed to rest for a short time and recuperate themselves; for they were nearly exhausted by their efforts to escape from the bloody scalping-knives of the Scarred-Arms. They kindled a fire, around which the six warriors huddled, telling each other, as is the savage wont, of their numerous hairbreadth escapes and single combats with the common enemy; also trying to devise some means of eluding the Scarred- Arms, who they knew to be still searching for them.

While they were thus discussing the probabilities of the affair, they were startled by a strange noise, like the rustling of leaves, in a dark corner of the cave; but they were more frightened when they suddenly saw the dim form of a person moving about in the subdued light. The figure advanced toward them, and they discovered it to be that of a feeble old woman, who said as she approached them:—

"Children, you have been against the Scarred-Arms, you have fought them, and of a large party you alone are left alive. I know it all.

"You come here into my lodge to escape from your pursuers, and the sound of your voices and the heat of your council fire has disturbed my rest and waked me from a long trance. By your eager looks you would know my strange story. Many ages have gone by (for days, moons, seasons, and ages are painted before me as they pass) since the Shoshones, who lived where now live the Scarred-Arms, visited the lodges of the Sioux and made the prairie drink the blood of slaughtered warriors. I was their captive, and, with scalps of the slain, I was taken from the graves of my people. The Shoshones brought me to this country, when yet the buffalo grazed upon the hills and mountains; for the valleys and plains were the home of the waters.

"Living with the Shoshones, I was not happy. I thought of my people; of all those dear to me; and I prayed to the Good Spirit that I might again behold them ere my passage to the death-land. I fled, hoping to reach the home of my birth; but age had enfeebled me; and being pursued, I sought refuge in this cave. Here, having passed a night and a day in earnest communion with the 'Big Medicine,' a strange feeling came upon me. I slumbered in a dreamy state from then until now. But your looks again ask, who are the Shoshones? what became of them? and from whence are the Scarred-Arms?

"The Sioux will soon know the Shoshones, and bring from their lodges many scalps and medicine-dogs. Divided into two tribes, that nation long since sought homes in other lands. One crossed the Snow-hills, toward the sun- setting; the Sioux shall visit them and avenge the blood and wrongs of ages. The other journeyed far toward the sun of winter, and now live to the leftward of the places where Hispanola builds his earth-lodge.[48]

"Then came the Scarred-Arms from a far-off country, a land of much snow and cold. Pleased with the great numbers of buffalo and other game that they found here, they stopped for the chase, and by many generations of possession have claimed these regions for their own; but they are not theirs. The Great Spirit gave this country to the Sioux, and they shall inhabit the land of their daughter's captivity.

"Why are you waiting here? Go and avenge the blood of your comrades upon the Scarred-Arms. They even now light their camp-fire by the stream at the mountain's base. Fear not; their scalps are yours. Then return to my people, that ye may come and receive your inheritance.

"Haste ye, that I may die; and oh! War-ka-tun-ga! Inasmuch as thou hast answered the prayer of thy handmaid, and shown to me the faces of my people, take me from hence."

The awe-struck warriors withdrew. They found the enemy encamped at the foot of the mountain, as they had been told by the mysterious woman. They attacked them, and were victorious. Thirty-five scalps were the reward of their bravery.

On arriving at their village, their strange adventures excited the astonishment of all the warriors, chiefs, and medicine-men. They planned an expedition against the Scarred-Arms, having been nerved up to a pitch of extraordinary bravery by the story of the old woman of the cave. Thus their enemies were eventually driven from the country, and the Sioux came into possession of their own.

The thankful warriors went to the cave en masse, to do reverence to the memory of the strange medicine-woman who had told them so many wonderful things. They found, upon their arrival there, only a small niche in the side of the mountain, and a sparkling little stream. Both the cave and the woman had disappeared.

For years after this strange occurrence the Sioux warriors visited the land of the Shoshones for scalps, and, as they passed the mountain where the old woman had been seen, they always offered something to the spirit of the place, and stopped to quench their thirst at the sparkling little stream.

On White River there is a bluff against which the full force of the stream has dashed for ages, until it has formed a precipice several hundred feet high. It is called by the Indians The Place of the Death Song. There is a legend which says that at one time the bands of the Ogallallas and Brules lived upon this river, immediately opposite the precipice. While residing there one of the braves of the Ogallallas offered to the father of a beautiful squaw six horses for her, according to the savage custom of thus purchasing a wife. The offer was immediately accepted by the father of the young girl, for he was very poor and needed the animals to use on the impending annual hunt after buffalo.

When the maiden heard that she was to become the wife of the Ogallalla, she burst into tears, and so obstinate was her resistance that the marriage was deferred for some days because of her inconsolable grief.

The cause of her unwillingness to become the bride of the Ogallalla was that she was in love with a young warrior of her own village, and she would not, as Indian maidens generally do, love at her sire's mere bidding.

Her father was determined, however, that his child should be governed by the customs of the tribe, and was only waiting for her sorrow to subside a little before he turned her over to the Indian he had chosen for her.

During this probation, however, the girl contrived to meet the warrior whom she had promised to marry, and they determined to elope. They accordingly fled to a remote village, where they hoped to live undisturbed.

They were pursued by the relentless father, both were captured, and the young warrior's life was forfeited by the laws of the tribe, for his presumption in stealing the maiden, while she was most unmercifully whipped and confined in her father's lodge. The Ogallalla had already paid the price agreed upon for the maiden, and the horses were then picketed among those of the irate father.

Early the next morning, after the death of her lover, the girl rose from her bed of buffalo-robes, and dressing herself in her best clothes, left the lodge. Not one of the villagers thought it at all strange that she should thus array herself, for they knew it was to be her wedding-day, and as she walked through the village, many a young warrior looked upon her with feelings of envy toward the Indian who was then to make her his bride.

She wandered toward the river, crossed it, and ascended the high peak on the opposite side. She then seated herself at the edge of the fearful precipice, and looked calmly down from its giddy height.

She soon became the cynosure of all eyes in the village, not only because of her remarkable beauty, but of her charmingly formed person, so plainly exposed to the view of all.

Presently the captivated gazers were surprised to hear her begin to sing in a mournful chant, and the strange words of her plaintive melody were wafted through the clear mountain air so that all could catch every word. They listened:—

"Why should I stay? he is gone. Light of my eyes; joy of my soul; show me my dwelling! 'Tis not here; 'tis far away in the Spirit Land. Thither he is gone. Why should I stay? Let me go!" "She sings her death song," exclaimed all who were watching and listening to her from their places in the village.

"She will throw herself from the precipice," said her father. And immediately a dozen warriors rushed toward the top of the cliff to rescue her from the terrible fate which she had chosen, and the leader of them all was the Ogallalla who was to have her for his bride.

She saw them coming, and as soon as they started she began again:—

"Spirit of death, set me free! Heart, thou art desolate. Farewell, O sun. Vain are the plains of the earth, its flowers, and purling streams. I loved you all once—but now no longer love. Thee I woo, kind Death! Wa-shu- pa calls me hence. In life we were one. We'll bask together in the Spirit Land. Short is my pass to thee. Wa-shu-pa, I come!"

Concluding her song, she threw herself forward, just as the foremost warriors arrived at the summit, in time to catch at her robe as she pitched down, leaving the garment in their hands; in another instant she was a mangled mass at the base of the cruel mountain.

In the winter of 1835 Ash Hollow was the scene of a fierce and bloody battle between the Pawnees and Sioux, hereditary enemies. The affray commenced very early in the morning, and continued until nearly dark. It was a closely fought battle. Every inch of ground was hotly contested. The arrows fell in showers, bullets whistled the death song of many a warrior on both sides, and the yells of the combating savages filled the wintry air. At length all the ammunition was completely exhausted on both sides, but still the battle raged. War-clubs, tomahawks, and scalping-knives rattled in the deadly personal conflict, and terrible war-whoops resounded, as now one side then the other gained some slight advantage.

As darkness drew over the scene, the Pawnees abandoned the field to the victorious Sioux, leaving more than sixty of their best warriors dead on the bloody sod. But the Sioux had not escaped a terrible loss. Forty-five of their bravest fighters were lying dead, and the defeated party of Pawnees were pursued but a very little distance when the chase was abandoned and they returned to their village at the forks of the Platte.

It is alleged that this disaster so humiliated the Pawnees that they at once abandoned their town. They moved down the Platte more than four hundred miles, and at the same time also abandoned their town on the Republican Fork of the Kansas River, and rarely ever ventured up the river as far as the scene of their great defeat, unless in very large parties.

For twenty years afterward the evidences of the terrible battle could be seen in the bleached bones scattered all over the vicinity of the conflict.

Many of the Indian tribes of the Great Plains and the Rocky Mountains have a tradition of a flood, but as they differ only in the matter of detail, a single one is presented here, that of the Sioux. It was told around the camp-fire, on General Carr's expedition against the hostile bands of that nation, in 1869, when Colonel W. F. Cody (Buffalo Bill) was chief of scouts.

One day some of the men brought into camp a large bone, which the surgeons pronounced to be the femur, or thigh-bone of a man. Some Indian prisoners, who had been captured a short time before, were sent for and asked to give their opinion of this find. As soon as they saw it, they, too, said it was the thigh-bone of a man.

Its peculiarity was its unusual size; in circumference it was as large as a man's body. The general asked the Indians how they knew it was the thigh- bone of a man. They replied that a great many years ago, living on the plains, there was a race of men who were so big that it was said they were tall enough to run alongside of a buffalo, pick him up, put him under one of their arms, and tear off a whole quarter of his meat and eat it as they walked on. These large men became so powerful in their own estimation that they defied the Great Spirit. This angered the Great Spirit, and he made the rain come. It kept on raining until the rivers and creeks were full of water and flooded over their banks. The Indians were compelled to move out of the valleys and go up on the divides and small hills; but they were not allowed to remain there long. The water kept rising and rising until it covered the divides and little hills; so the Indians kept moving up, higher and higher, until they reached the top peaks of the Rocky Mountains, but the water still rose until it covered the highest points, and all these big people were drowned. After they were all dead, it ceased raining; the water began to recede, and finally returned to the original channels of the rivers and creeks. Then the Great Spirit made a race of people of the size that we are to-day; people whom he could handle and who would not defy him.

The word "medicine" in all of the tribes in some sense is a misnomer;[49] it really signifies dreamer, or prophet, and is synonymous with the word "prophet" in the Old Testament. The Indian form of government may be characterized as a theocracy, and the medicine-man is the high priest. His dreams and his prophecies are held sacred by the people. Should what he tells them turn out to be untrue, the fault lies with themselves, and he claims that his instructions have been disregarded. If by accident his dreams are exactly verified, the confidence of the tribe in their medicine- man surpasses all belief. The medicine lodge is their tabernacle of the wilderness—the habitation of the Great Spirit, the sacred ark of their faith.

The tribe of Indians known as the Crows[50] are entitled to the very marked distinction of being the most manly in their conduct in its relation to the whites. The integrity of their friendship has been tested on many occasions, and they have never proved false to their protestations. Their chiefs declare that a Crow was never known to kill a white man excepting in self-defence.

As has been the fate of the North American savage since that dark December day when the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock, the Crows have been driven year after year from one of the most beautiful natural regions on the continent. Not only have the whites been the usurpers, but both the Sioux and the Cheyennes have been instrumental in confining them to a constantly decreasing area, until now the remnant of a once great nation is the ward of the government, and located on a limited reservation.

To prove that Ab-sa-ra-ka, as the tribe designated their beautiful hunting- grounds, was rightly named, it is only necessary to quote a conversation which took place at a council held at Fort Philip Kearny, in July, 1866, when the following question was asked of Black-Horse, the Wolf-That-Lies- Down, Red-Arm, and Dull-Knife:—

"Why do the Sioux and Cheyennes claim the land which belongs to the Crows?" To which these chiefs answered:—

"The Sioux helped us. We stole the hunting-grounds of the Crows because they were the best. The white man is along the great waters, and we wanted more room. We fight the Crows because they will not take half and give us peace with the other half."

It is claimed that the Crows sprang from the Gros Ventres of the Missouri, whose language they speak. The Gros Ventres were a very weak tribe, or band, who had, by incessant wars with the surrounding tribes, become reduced to a very insignificant number of warriors. It is alleged, according to their tradition, that the Crows became a separate nation nearly two hundred years ago, because the tribe was becoming too numerous.

In the early years of the century the head chief of the Crows was A-ra-poo- ash. The celebrated Jim Beckwourth[51] had already become a leader among the Crows, and shortly after the death of A-ra-poo-ash was unanimously chosen in his place.

The Blackfeet were always very persistent and unrelenting enemies of the Crows, and some of the most bloody combats recorded in savage warfare occurred between these two tribes.

Once, while in the Crow village, a party of Blackfeet, numbering thirty or forty, came stealing through the Crow country, killing every straggler, and carrying off every horse they could lay their hands on. The Crow warriors immediately started after them and pressed them so closely that they could not escape. The Blackfeet then threw up a semicircular breastwork of logs at the foot of a precipice, and awaited the approach of their enemies. Logs and sticks were piled up four or five feet in front of them, which thoroughly protected them. The Crows might have swept over this breastwork and exterminated the Blackfeet; but though outnumbering them, they did not dream of storming the little fortification. Such a proceeding would have been altogether repugnant to the savage notion of warfare. Whooping and yelling, and jumping from side to side like devils incarnate, they poured a shower of bullets and arrows upon the logs, yet not a Blackfoot was hurt; but several of the Crows, in spite of their antics, were shot down. In that ridiculous manner the fight continued for an hour or two. Now and then a Crow warrior, in an ecstasy of valour and vainglory, would scream forth his war-song, declare himself the bravest and greatest of all Indians, grasp his hatchet, strike it wildly upon the breastwork, and then, as he retreated to his companions, fall dead, riddled with arrows; yet no combined attack was made, the Blackfeet remaining secure in their intrenchment. At last Jim Beckwourth lost patience:—

"You are all a set of fools and old women," cried he; "come with me, if any of you are brave enough, and I'll show you how to fight."

Beckwourth instantly threw off his trapper's suit of buckskin, stripping himself naked as were the Indians themselves. Throwing his rifle on the ground, he grasped a small hatchet, and running over the prairie to the right, hidden by a hollow from the eyes of the Blackfeet, he climbed up the rocks and reached the top of the precipice behind them. Forty or fifty young warriors followed him. By the cries and whoops that arose from below, Beckwourth knew that the Blackfeet were just beneath him; then running forward, he leaped from the rock right in the midst of the surprised savages. As he fell, he caught one of the Blackfeet by his long, loose hair, and dragging him toward him, buried his hatchet in his brain. Then grasping another by the belt at his waist, he struck him a stunning blow, and gaining his feet, shouted the Crow war-cry. He swung his hatchet so fiercely around him that the astonished Blackfeet crowded back and gave him room. He might, had he chosen, have leaped over the breastwork and escaped; but this was not necessary, for with devilish yells the remainder of the Crow warriors came dropping in quick succession over the rock, and rallied around him.

The convulsive struggle within the breastwork was frightful; for a few moments the Blackfeet fought and yelled like pent-up tigers; but the butchery was complete, and the mangled bodies lay piled together under the precipice. Not a Blackfoot made his escape.

In 1833 a band of Blackfeet, superior in numbers to the Crows, most unmercifully whipped them. On their return to their village one night in August, shortly after the fight, there was a grand display of meteoric showers, and although the Crow warriors were ready to face death in any form, the wonderful celestial display appalled them. They regarded it as the wrath of the Great Spirit showered visibly upon them. In their terrible fright, they, of course, looked to their chief for some explanation of it. But as Beckwourth himself was as much struck with the wonderful occurrence, he was equally at a loss with his untutored followers to account for the remarkable spectacle.

Evidently, he knew, he must augur some result from it, though his own dejected spirit did not prompt him to deduce a very encouraging one. He thought of all the impostures that are practised upon the credulous, and his imagination suggested some brilliant figures to his mind. He thought at first of declaring to them that the Great Spirit was pleased with the expedition, and was lighting the band on its way with spirit lamps; or that the meteors were the spirits of departed braves, coming to assist their worldly brothers in another impending fight; but he was not sanguine enough of possible results to indulge in any attractive oratory. He merely informed his warriors that he had not time to consult his medicine, but that as soon as he could he would interpret the miracle in full.

When his band of warriors arrived at the village, he found all of the people's minds still agitated with fear at the late phenomenon. Every one was talking of it with wonder and amazement, and the chief's opinion was demanded at once; they were expecting it, and wanted to know what the consequences were to be. Admonished by his recent defeat, Beckwourth now had no trouble in reading the stars. He told his warriors that they had evidently offended the Great Spirit; that it was because of his wrath they had suffered defeat in their excursion to the Blackfeet country, and returned with the loss of twenty-three warriors. He then told them that a sacrifice must be made to appease the wrath of the Great Spirit, and he recommended that a solemn council be convened and a national oblation be offered up.

Beckwourth knew that he was doing an absurd thing, but the superstition of the people demanded it, and he must cater to their desires because it was popular.

The camp where the Crows then were was a mourning-camp, in which, according to their religion, "medicine" would have no effect. The camp was, therefore, moved to another place, about ten miles distant, in order to properly offer up the sacrifice.

All the leading men and braves assembled in council, and Beckwourth, as their great medicine-man, was consulted as to what kind of an offering should be made which would effect its purpose of appeasing the wrath that was consuming the tribe.

Beckwourth retired for a while from the council, telling the chiefs he must consult his medicine. Returning in a short time, he ordered them to bring out the great medicine kettle, which was of brass, capable of holding ten gallons, and was worth ten buffalo-robes. It was then ordered to be polished until it shone as bright as the sun's face. That being done, Beckwourth ordered the warriors to throw in all the most costly and highly prized trinkets, or whatever they cherished most dearly. It was soon filled with the band's choicest treasures. Keepsakes, fancy-work, in which months of patient toil had been expended, knick-knacks, jewels, and rings so highly regarded that the costliest gems of emperors seemed poor in comparison. All these were thrown into the kettle willingly, along with a bountiful contribution of fingers[52] until it could hold no more. Then weights were attached to it, when it was carried to an air-hole in the ice where the river was very deep, and there sunk with becoming ceremony, young maidens habited in the best apparel bearing the burden.

The great sacrifice completed, the minds of the people were relieved, and the result of the next war-party was anxiously looked forward to, to learn if the oblation was accepted by the Great Spirit. The crying and lamentations continued, however, unabated, so much to the derangement of Beckwourth's nervous system that if he could, he would have gladly retired from the village to seek some less dolorous companionship.

The incantations seemed to have had a good effect, for on another expedition shortly afterward the war-party returned with lots of scalps and thirteen hundred horses, which they had stolen from the Blackfeet.[53]

The Crows enjoyed a practical joke as well as their more humorous white brethren, as the following incident will attest.

In the summer of 1842 a war-party of about two hundred Crows invaded the Sioux country by way of Laramie Pass, penetrating as far as Fort Platte and beyond, in pursuit of the enemy.

A few miles above the fort, they stopped a lone Frenchman, an employee of one of the fur companies, who was rather new to the region, and also green in everything that pertains to Indian methods. They began by signs to inquire the trail of the Sioux (the sign for that tribe being a transverse pass of the right front finger across the throat), which the poor Frenchman interpreted as their intention to cut his. He immediately began to bellow like a calf, accompanying himself with an industrious number of crosses, and a most earnest prayer to the Virgin to graciously save him from his impending fate.

The savages, noticing his strange conduct, and regarding it as an evidence of fear, were disposed to have a little fun at his expense. Then mounting him upon one of their spare horses, they tied his hands and feet, and led him to one of the trading-posts of the American Fur Company, as a prisoner.

The gates of the fort were, of course, closed, but the Crows demanded immediate admittance, declaring they wanted to trade. What goods were wanted by them? was asked by the officer in charge; to which the leader of the savages replied, tobacco.

"What have you got to trade for it?" was then asked.

"A white man," was the answer.

"A white man?" asked the surprised commander. "What do you want for him?"

"Oh! he is not worth much. A plug of tobacco is his full value!" was the response by nearly all the warriors.

The commandant, seeing through the savage joke, and on recognizing the unfortunate Frenchman, told the Indians they might possibly find a market for him at the other fort. He did not want to purchase.

The savages paraded around the walls of the post for a few minutes, and with a salutation of terrible war-whoops, dashed off for Fort Platte.

When they reached Fort Platte, having tumbled two platforms of their dead enemies on the trail,[54] they told the same story to the commanding officer, who felt disposed to humour their joke and accordingly gave the tobacco to the savages. Upon this they turned over the Frenchman, nearly frightened to death, and rode away in pursuit of the Sioux.

Many years ago a missionary went among the Crows. He was admitted to an audience of the leading men, and commenced, through an interpreter, to tell them the story how sin first came into the world, and how all men had become bad, whether white or red. Then he proceeded to explain the principles of Christianity, telling the savages that he had come among them to do them good, to show them how to be happy, and declaring that unless they listened to him and worshipped the Good Spirit as he instructed them, they could never reach that happy country into which good people alone found admittance after death.

A venerable chief then arose and said: "My white brother is a stranger to us. He talks evil of us, and he talks evil of his own people. He does this because he is ignorant. He thinks my people, like his, are wicked. Thus far he is wrong. Who were they who killed the very good man of whom he tells us? None of them were red men! The red man will die for his friends—he will not kill them! Let my paleface brother talk to the white man. His own people—they are very bad. He says he would do us good! He does us no good to chide us and say we are bad. True, we are bad—and were we as bad as the palefaces, it would become us to listen to him. Would my brother do us good? Then let him tell us how to make powder and we will believe in the sincerity of his profession—but let him not belie us by saying we are bad, like the palefaces!"

The Crows also have their legends of enchantment, as have other tribes.

Once upon a time a party of Crow Indians were out hunting the buffalo, and they had with them a blind man. As he was a great hindrance to them, they put up a teepee on the bank of the Stinking Water for him, and told him to remain there until they returned.

They left him something to eat and built a fire for him. Then they drove a stake in the ground and stretched a lariat to the Stinking Water so that he could drink, and they also stretched another lariat to the timber, and told him to follow that and he could get wood. Thus they left him, and shortly after their departure another party of Crows came along, and they, too, had a blind man with them; so they concluded to follow the example of the first party, and leave him to keep the first blind man company.

The two blind men sat down and spent their time in telling stories; but the two hunting-parties were detained, and the two blind men ran out of provisions, and became very hungry. They sat at their fire and wondered what they should do for something to eat. Finally they could stand it no longer, and one of them suggested that they go down to the river and catch a fish to eat.

"No," said the other; "Sak-a-war-te (the Great Spirit of the Crows) told our people to hunt the buffalo, and it would make him very angry for us to catch and eat fish"; but hunger getting the better of him, he consented.

They went down to the water, and it was not long before they caught a large fish. They came back to their teepee, made a fire, and proceeded to cook their fish. They were sitting on either side of the fire talking, and when the fish was done, Sak-a-war-te came quietly in and took the fish out of the pot over the fire. Soon they discovered that their fish was gone, and then they began to accuse each other of having taken it. From words they came to blows, and while they were fighting, Sak-a-war-te was standing there and laughing at them. At last he spoke to them and told them to stop fighting—that he, Sak-a-war-te, had taken the fish to try them.

He then said that they were bad Indians; they had broken his commands to his people, which was to kill only the buffalo. But he said he would try them again. He told them to go to the Stinking Water, and take some mud and rub it on their eyes, then to wash it off and they would see. Then he told them they must obey him and go hunt the buffalo. Then he left them.

They did as he told them to do, and in a short time they could see. Then they sat down and talked over matters; but their hunger increasing and the hunting-parties not returning, they at last were compelled to go down to the river and catch another fish.

They had no sooner landed a fish than they both lost their sight again. In remorse they sat by their fire once more, and again Sak-a-war-te came to them, and told them what bad Indians they had been, but said he would try them once more. So he told them a second time to go down to the river, to take mud and apply it to their eyes, then wash it off, and when they had received their sight, they should never again take fish, for if they did they would become blind and never again recover their sight. They must hunt only the buffalo. They did as the Great Spirit had told them to do, and immediately received their sight once more. Then they went and made them bows and arrows, as Sak-a-war-te had said they should, and while they were thus employed, their friends returned from the hunt and gave them food. The hunters were very much surprised to find that the men had recovered their sight, and when they were told how it was accomplished, all said they would ever after be good Indians and hunt only the buffalo.

The Blackfeet Indians are divided into three tribes, and each tribe again divided into Blackfeet, Bloods, and Piegans. This confederation, while distinct, is regarded as a nation, and one of the stipulations was that there should never be any clashing between them; but notwithstanding this there have been many bloody fights.

According to tradition, they once lived much farther east and north, near the Saskatchewan country. Two or three hundred years ago they were driven from there by hostile tribes, and they slowly moved to the Rocky Mountains, where they have remained.

Their country, like that of the Crows, is a magnificent region —a perfect paradise for a people who subsisted wholly on wild game. Such subsistence was a necessity, too, for their mountainous range belongs to that arid portion of our mid-continent area where, without irrigation, it is doomed to a hopeless bondage of sterility. Millions of buffalo and antelope roamed the plains, and in the forest-fringed valleys and on the pine-clad divides, elk, deer, and mountain sheep flocked in immense numbers.

The characteristics of the Blackfeet were bravery, hardiness, and a ferocity that made them formidable enemies to the other tribes with which they were constantly at war. Particularly were they the everlasting foes of the Crows, from whom they stole horses by the wholesale; but very frequently the tables were turned, and the Crows retaliated, robbing the Blackfeet of thousands.

They were probably the best hunters of all the plains' tribes, and in the early days before their contact with the whites their weapons were of the most primitive character. They used merely bows with stone-pointed arrows, and they resorted to the most ingenious methods in order to capture the buffalo, which was their principal food. In fact, they subsisted almost entirely upon that great ruminant.

One of their plans to catch the huge beasts was known as the "pis-kun," literally meaning deep blood-kettle. It was really an immense corral, generally constructed just below a steep precipice, and its sides and ends enclosed by logs, stone, or brush—anything that came handy and answered the purpose. On the prairie above the precipice, wings extended out on either side, in shape of an open triangle. Into this the buffalo were carefully driven, and in their fright precipitated themselves over the brink.

The proceedings were always conducted with much ceremony, and involved a good deal of savage mummery. The sun, which was one of their deities, must be propitiated. The evening previous to the attempt to drive a herd of buffalo into the pis-kun, one of the medicine-men of the band commenced by praying to the sun for the success of the undertaking. He was the one to make the buffalo come, and early in the morning he got out his robes and started on his mission, after warning his wives that they must not show themselves, even by looking out of the door of the lodge, until he came back from his mission, but that they must constantly burn sweet grass as an offering to the god of the day.

He must necessarily fast when engaged in this duty, and when he was ready to make his appearance on the prairie the warriors all followed him, hiding themselves behind the temporary fence that bounded the pis-kun. He then dressed himself in a bonnet which was made of the head of a buffalo, and with a robe of the same animal thrown around him slowly approached the peacefully grazing herd.

Arriving in the immediate vicinity, the buffalo, attracted by the apparition, looked up. The medicine-man walked then very deliberately toward the opening of the pis-kun. Generally the buffalo began to follow him, and as he saw that they did so he increased his pace, the animals, whose curiosity was aroused, at the same time doing the same.

When the herd was securely within the corral, the hidden Indians suddenly rose from their places, yelling as only savages can, at the same instant shaking their robes, and the stampeded animals rushed headlong to their death over the precipice. Hundreds were instantly killed, while others were so dreadfully disabled as to make them an easy prey. Then commenced an indiscriminate skinning and cutting up, the chiefs and most noted warriors receiving the choicest meat.

As has been the fate of nearly all the Indian tribes west of the Missouri River, the smallpox made fearful inroads among the Blackfeet. It first appeared in 1845, and the tribe was decimated. In fact, it is said that the disease almost swept the plains of Indians. In 1757-1758, it again visited them, but was not so virulent as at its first appearance. The measles carried off thousands in 1864; and again, in 1869, the smallpox broke out in the Blackfeet villages. In 1883-1884, strange as it may appear, twenty-five per cent of the Piegan band actually died from hunger! The cause of this terrible disaster was that the buffalo had been driven from the Blackfoot country, or rather exterminated, and the tribe, which had ever wholly depended upon that animal for their subsistence, in a short time was reduced to a state of absolute starvation.

Like the buffalo, the once powerful Blackfeet are nearly all gone. The few left are living on a small reservation, and are somewhat self-sustaining. What a sad commentary! Fifty years ago the Blackfeet numbered over forty thousand warriors, and their name was a terror to the white man who had the temerity to travel through their country.

The Blackfoot account of creation is not a very definite one; portions of it are too vulgar for refined ears, but in it is to be found a story of a once great flood, which seems to be common to the cosmogony of all tribes.